The Artist Colony

by Joanna FitzPatrick

  “I live in France, Mr. Peabody,” she said, defensively. “I haven’t seen my sister since January. She never mentioned a fiancé in her letters. I guess she was planning to surprise me. She’s like that.”

  “She didn’t tell me either,” added Rosie, “and we were very good friends. Had they been engaged very long?”

  He threw up his hands. “Ladies, I have no idea about such matters. All they said was that they were getting married and wanted a nuptial agreement drawn up immediately. I said it would be an imposition because of the upcoming Fourth of July holiday.”

  “When was that meeting?” asked Sarah, trying to take in the full implications of what he was telling her without appearing even more dumbfounded.

  Mr. Peabody opened his appointment book and flipped back several pages. “Ah! Here it is. July second at four o’clock, near closing hours. Your sister had expected me to write the document while they waited. Obviously she was unaware of what she was asking. I suggested we meet again the following week to sign the agreement, but her fiancé said they would be away and would schedule another meeting when they returned.”

  “May we see a copy?” asked Rosie.

  “No.”

  “No?” exclaimed Sarah. “Why not? You said you were free to discuss—”

  “There isn’t one. I never drafted it. When I returned to my office after the holidays prepared to draw up the papers, Miss Honeysuckle informed me that Miss Davenport was deceased.”

  “Are you certain you don’t remember his name? Or at least what he looked like?” asked Rosie, seemingly concerned over Mr. Peabody’s mental capacity if he met the fiancé less than a month ago.

  “As I said, Miss Honeysuckle is the one to ask. I do remember she was quite taken by the fellow.”

  “When will she be back?” asked Sarah.

  “Wednesday.” He folded his hands and looked at Sarah suspiciously. “I must say, Miss Cunningham, I am curious to know why you didn’t know about the nuptial agreement when you were the reason for it.”

  “I was?”

  “She was?”

  Sarah and Rosie said in unison.

  “Yes. Her fiancé was to inherit nothing from your sister if she was to die before him. Her estate was to go to you. Most of my male clients are very interested in their wives’ assets, especially one of such proportion as your sister’s, but he didn’t seem to care.

  “And Miss Davenport did appear to have her senses about her. She was a bit overeager about her betrothal, but women are like that. That’s why her suicide was—”

  “My sister did not kill herself, Mr. Peabody,” interrupted Sarah.

  “What?” he said, his pince-nez falling off his nose. “Then pray tell, what did happen to her?”

  “My sister was murdered. And, if you agree to represent me, I will ask you to petition the District Attorney’s office to reopen the inquest based on new evidence.”

  “Oh. I see.” Mr. Peabody said without offering an argument. He looked over at the ticking timer. Rosie reached out for Sarah’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

  The lawyer stiffly leaned forward from his swivel chair. “If you’re asking me to represent you in a legal case of this magnitude, Miss Cunningham, I must advise you that the District Attorney would only consider reopening an inquest if there were substantially new, reliable evidence and, most important,” he raised his forefinger, “if there was a suspect or suspects who had a serious motive and no verifiable alibi. Otherwise, you’re wasting your money and my time. Do you have any suspects?”

  “Yes, I do,” said Sarah, with much more confidence than she felt. Rosie squinted at Sarah but said nothing.

  “And who might that be?” he said, unscrewing the top of his pen.

  “I can’t say. I need more time to prove my theory before I accuse anyone.”

  “Theories do not hold up in court, Miss Cunningham.” He screwed the top back on and put it down. “May I suggest you use your time more wisely by first searching for the will rather than investigating your murder theories.” He reached down and brought up a straw basket. “Now, ladies, it’s time for my lunch.” He reached his hand toward the clock.

  “I haven’t finished,” said Sarah.

  He sighed and reclined back in his chair. “Miss Cunningham, I am not a philanthropist. Time is money.”

  “You needn’t worry about that, Mr. Peabody. I will pay you for your valuable time and I see that you are already counting the minutes with your timer.”

  He shifted his eyes over to Rosie who gave him an encouraging smile.

  “Go on then, I’m listening.”

  “My sister’s artwork was represented by Mr. Paul deVrais, an art dealer in Carmel,” said Sarah.

  “I’m very aware of Mr. deVrais and his standing in our community.”

  “Mr. deVrais told me his lawyer, Mr. L.G. Hubbard, will be contacting me about taking possession of my sister’s artwork stored at her cottage.”

  “Didn’t you just tell me that no one would contest the will?”

  “I did. And I assure you he has no legitimate right to my sister’s artwork.” Sarah reached into her satchel, took out the termination letter and Ada’s contract with deVrais and handed the documents over to him.

  The clock ticked as Mr. Peabody put back on his pince-nez, read, scribbled on his legal pad, and read again.

  Minutes later he looked up and said, “Did Mr. deVrais receive this letter?”

  “He claims he didn’t, but my sister’s lawyer did send it to him and we have a certification from the post office that deVrais signed. I also have a witness who received a letter from Ada stating that Mr. deVrais was threatening to take her to court after she terminated their contract.”

  Peabody put down his pen. “All very interesting, Miss Cunningham, but if there is no will, the estate must be settled in the probate court. And Mr. deVrais is not one to give up easily. If this goes to probate, he’ll fight you all the way.”

  She thought of the long days and probably weeks in court and the cancelling of her exhibition in five weeks if she didn’t get back in time. “I will bring you the will,” she said firmly.

  “Excellent. The wisest course of action. And until then I’ll make sure L.G. holds off serving you with any papers. We’re playing golf tomorrow at the Del Monte Club.” He hovered his finger over the timer. “Now, ladies, I would very much like to have my lunch.”

  “There is one more thing,” said Sarah. “Mr. Pritchard at Wells Bank asked that I have my lawyer contact him. He said there was some confusion over my sister’s depository account. Can you look into that, also? That is, of course, if you are going to represent me.”

  He scribbled a few more notes and screwed the top back on his pen. He crossed his hands and said, “I must admit your case does intrigue me, Miss Cunningham. You ladies should get on your way, so I can get to work on it.”

  “You mean you’ll take me on?”

  “Didn’t I just say that? I’ll have Miss Honeysuckle draw up a client agreement and if you call her in the next few days she’ll schedule our next appointment. I’ll expect a retainer from you at our next meeting.”

  He hit the bell, the ticker stopped, and he turned his attention to the lunch basket.

  When they walked out into the open air, they both sighed in relief, and after basking a bit in their successful meeting, Sarah said she needed to renew Ada’s telephone service. Rosie pointed out the Pacific Telephone building down the street. They made plans to meet in front of the Customs House overlooking the wharf.

  Pacific Telephone was housed in an imposing brick building. All customer business was transacted in a spacious room on the first floor. The executive offices were upstairs. There was a poster on the wall advertising employment opportunities for “Happy Girl” telephone exchange operators.

  A perky young receptionist greeted Sarah at the front desk. She listened to Sarah’s request, asked her to sit down, and said a clerk would be with her right away.

/>   Several other young female employees were seated at a row of typewriters in the middle of the room.

  Sarah had a friend in New York who was employed as a Happy Girl. She would meet Sarah for cocktails after work still wearing her uniform, but Sarah found it a bit off-putting to be in a roomful of Happy Girls. They were all neatly dressed in white button-down silk shirts tucked into tight mid-calf skirts and they wore stockings and hi-heeled shoes. The only spark of individuality in their uniforms were the multi-colored cravats tied around their bare necks that might lead one to think that they were actually having fun.

  The long telephone exchange was attached to the wall on one side of the room. The Happy Girl phone operators wore the same attire, but they also wore headphones and spoke into black conche-like shells strapped around their necks. Their polite voices chirped “What number please?” as they skillfully plugged in and pulled out the jumble of cords in front of them.

  Sarah wondered how they could possibly keep from crossing the wires and connecting their customers to the wrong person. A male supervisor paced up and down the aisle watching over the girls to make sure those mistakes didn’t happen.

  “Miss Cunningham?” said a Happy Girl adjusting her cravat. Sarah nodded. “Please come with me.”

  When they sat down opposite each other at her desk the Happy Girl smiled at Sarah and asked, “And who was the previous subscriber?”

  Sarah adjusted her legs under the cold metal chair. “Miss Ada Belle Davenport. I am her sister.”

  The girl began to say something else, but the supervisor was watching her. She went through a metal box of labeled subscription cards, pulled out one, and studied it. “The last time I saw Miss Davenport she couldn’t have been more pleasant,” she said softly. “Such a cheerful disposition. And then just days later . . . I guess you never know, do you, what these famous people are really thinking?”

  “No, you don’t,” Sarah said, duplicating the girl’s grin.

  The girl looked down at the card again. “Miss Davenport was thrilled to be going on holiday. She said she’d be back in August and would reconnect her phone then.”

  Sarah’s heart quickened. This was the kind of real evidence she needed to build her case for the D.A. If Ada was about to kill herself why would she plan a holiday?

  The girl handed her a subscription form to fill out and was then called away by her supervisor. While Sarah filled out the form, she slipped Ada’s subscription card into her satchel.

  When the supervisor came over, Sarah was afraid she’d seen her take the card, but she only asked if Sarah would be home tomorrow afternoon for the service man to come and reconnect the line.

  “Yes. I can be there,” Sarah said, smiling. “Thank you. You’ve all been most helpful.”

  Mr. Kassajara was sitting beside Rosie on a bench outside the Custom House. He stood up and bowed. “I’m very happy to see you again, Miss Cunningham. When we first met, I didn’t get a chance to tell you how sorry I was about Miss Ada’s unexpected death. I will always remember her kindness toward me.”

  She thanked him and asked him how he knew her sister.

  “She sometimes painted on the wharf and we would talk. Always very respectful toward me and the other abalone divers.”

  He looked at his pocket watch, let out a deep sigh, and turned to Rosie. “It’s time to go to that meeting I told you about.” He bowed to the two women and hurried off before Sarah could ask him if he knew where she could find diving weights similar to the ones found in Ada’s pockets.

  “He seems to be carrying a heavy burden,” said Sarah. “Is he worried about his granddaughter?”

  “He often is, but today it’s for another reason. He has a meeting with Monterey’s town council. They want to put a quota on how many abalone and salmon the Japanese can catch in the bay.”

  “Can they do that?”

  “They’ll do anything to stop the Japanese from competing against them with their own fisheries. You’d think there would be enough fish in Monterey Bay for everyone but the council doesn’t feel that way. They think the Japanese are poaching their fish supply and the foreigners should be sent back to Japan. Our government has agreed to write new laws that will take away the legal rights of all Asian immigrants who have found a home on our shores.

  TUESDAY, JULY 29

  —16—

  Seated on his haunches, Albert studied Sarah with his attentive black-button eyes. When he didn’t get her attention, he jumped up on her lap and nuzzled his cold nose under her hand but she continued reading.

  Albert rolled over and finally Sarah stopped rereading Judd’s investigation file long enough to scratch his belly. “Okay, my friend, I get the hint. Let’s go for a walk and then I’ll treat you to a gourmet breakfast.”

  Sarah’s mind meandered as she strolled along Camino Real. Albert’s mind meandered too, sniffing every paw track and tree root as if he were Sherlock Holmes. That’s what I should be doing, she thought, “Leaving no stone unturned.” But she wasn’t a detective. She was a painter who made pictures. How could she solve her sister’s death with a paintbrush?

  As they circled back to the Sketch Box, Albert barked at the delivery boy standing on the porch. A parcel wrapped in brown paper was leaning against the wall. One peak under the wrapping and she knew it was A Bleak Morning.

  She hadn’t really expected deVrais to deliver it. Was it a bribe? Was he still hoping they could work out an “arrangement,” thinking if he showed good faith, she would let him represent Ada’s legacy after all? If so, he was going to be sorely disappointed.

  The art dealer had just given her the leverage she needed to disarm him. He wouldn’t contest her legitimacy to Ada’s estate if she could prove he was a forger and destroy his reputation as a reputable art dealer. As soon as the telephone was connected, she’d call an authenticator in San Francisco and have A Bleak Morning examined.

  After filling Albert’s doggie bowl with leftover beef from last night’s stew, she took a mug of coffee into Ada’s studio. Since she wasn’t getting anywhere using logic, why not do what Sherlock Holmes did when he couldn’t solve a mystery and activate the creative side of her brain to help her find Ada’s will and portraits?

  With that thought, she propped a blank canvas on the easel, and then arranged a vase of violet-blue lupines and yellow wildflowers she’d picked on her walk with Albert. She started to paint using the complementary pigments in the wildflowers to create an abstract painting. She was layering the brilliant oils when the front door cowbell clanged. Albert started barking and the Paris green on her brush splattered across the canvas.

  “Damn!”

  It was the service man from the telephone company. The line connection didn’t take long and she’d just gotten back to the canvas, excited to be working and liking the accidental spray of Paris green, when Sirena burst through the alley door. She was reminded of how irritated Ada would get when she would burst into her studio unannounced. “I’m not disturbing you, am I?” Sirena didn’t wait for an answer and walked over to the easel. She looked at Sarah’s palette board on the table next to it.

  Oblivious to Sarah’s frown, she then studied the brushwork on the canvas. “Love that green, but isn’t that the one that’s toxic to work with?”

  Sarah was losing patience. “Sirena, is there a reason for your visit? If not, I’d like to get back to work.”

  “I have a message from Rosie. She’d like you to come over at four o’clock for tea. She says there’s someone she wants you to meet.”

  Sarah sighed at the thought of yet another interruption. But maybe by four o’clock she’d have something to show for her first day back at work.

  Sirena was walking around aimlessly.

  “Is there something else?” Sarah asked.

  The girl shrugged. “No, just looking around.”

  “Then if you don’t mind I’d like to get back to work.”

  “I thought you might look at some samples of my artwork this aftern
oon. Remember, you promised.”

  Sirena’s plea reminded her of herself when she’d try to get Ada to pay attention to her work and said, “Sure. Give me a couple of hours to finish some ideas I want to get down on the canvas and then I’d love to take a look.”

  Sirena’s half-moon brows lifted. “Really?” she said, scrunching her small nose up like a kitten.

  “Yes, really.”

  Two hours later Sirena returned carrying a portfolio case under her arm. Sarah asked her to spread out her samples on the worktable.

  When Sarah saw the sophisticated technique used in the brushstrokes, the precise black calligraphy lines and the application of such well-conceived colors right down to the simple green blades of grass, she was speechless. How could this precise, disciplined work come from the hand of this impulsive, misbehaved girl-child?

  She finally said, “Sirena, these are beautiful. Van Gogh used a similar technique after studying the work of Japanese artists and it’s caught on in Paris though he died over thirty years ago. Where did you learn to do this?”

  “Oh,” said Sirena, with a shrug, “I just copy things.”

  She looked through Sirena’s work again and said, “I think you have an excellent chance of getting accepted into the Académie Julian. May I take a few samples back to Paris?”

  “You would do that for me?” said Sirena, raising her bushy brows in disbelief.

  “Of course I would.”

  “Swell,” said Sirena.

  The sunlight streaming down from the skylight shone on her violet eyes, which were the same pigments as the lupine wildflowers but iridescent. Sarah had just been trying to capture that color on her canvas. Impulsively, Sarah asked Sirena if she would model for her.

  “Okay,” said Sirena. “And I won’t even charge you my usual fee.”

  Sarah wanted to ask if she was still working for Robert, but didn’t want to spoil this new camaraderie between them. Maybe they could be friends.

  Sirena put her samples back into her portfolio and left through the alley door.

  Sarah was working on magnified impressions of the wildflowers when she noticed the time. She washed up quickly and a few minutes after four o’clock she was seated in Rosie’s parlor when Rosie came in from the kitchen.