The Artist Colony

by Joanna FitzPatrick

  To her distress the road curved eastward after several hundred yards when she wanted to go north. Albert jumped out of the basket and she carried the bicycle to the other side of River Beach and up the wooden staircase. It seemed to get heavier with every step she climbed.

  When she finally reached Camino Real, the road was blanketed in a fog. She put Albert back in the basket and, imagining she was near the finish line, let loose a second spurt of adrenaline and plunged into the gray vapor.

  She almost missed the cottage’s picket fence and was just dismounting when she heard an anxious voice calling out, “Sarah? Is that you?”

  A yellow lantern appeared in the fog and then she heard quick footsteps. Albert started barking and she had to grab his collar to stop him from leaping out of the basket.

  A white collar and then Robert Pierce’s handsome face shone in the yellow haze.

  “Sarah, thank god, I found you.”

  “I didn’t know I was lost!” she said, out of breath but very happy to have won the race and to see a friendly face, though surprised it was Robert’s. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was going to meet some friends at La Playa and I thought I’d invite you to join us. I found your neighbor Miss McCann standing on your porch. She was worried that something awful had happened to you. I said I’d go out looking for you.”

  He frowned at the muddy red two-wheeler. “Where did this come from?”

  “I found it in the woods and rode it back,” she said proudly. “Or I should say, my super-hunting dog found it.” She patted Albert on the head. He waved his tail and jumped out of the basket and, after sniffing Robert’s shoes, went under his favorite tree to relieve himself.

  “I don’t know how you did it. These tires are almost shot,” said Robert, shining the lantern down on the bicycle wheels.

  Sarah was too exhausted to immediately deal with the implication of finding Ada’s bike near Whalers Cove, and wanting to celebrate her successful outing, she said, “If that invitation is still open, I could sure use a hot toddy right now.”

  “Atta girl. Where do you want me to put the bike?”

  Sarah suggested the studio and Robert was reaching for the handlebars when Albert growled and she had to quiet him down.

  “Sorry,” she said to Robert. “He’s just being protective.”

  “Good man,” said Robert. “A pretty girl like you needs protection.”

  Under the studio’s electric light, Robert studied the half-deflated tires.

  “Do you know anything about bikes?” she asked.

  “Just how to ride. My photography teacher, Johan Hagemeyer, lets me use his bike when I stay at his cabin. But you don’t need to know about bikes to know this one needs fixing.”

  “Sirena told me you were his protégé. I knew him briefly when I worked at a gallery in New York that showed his work. I really liked what I saw. Very modern.”

  “Small world,” he said, seemingly unimpressed, his attention on testing the brake levers. “If you’d let me, I’d like to take this back to Johan’s and tighten the brakes and put some air in the tires.” He propped it up on its kickstand.

  “That’s very kind of you to offer,” said Sarah.

  “I must admit that I have a hidden motive.” A wide smile crossed his face.

  “Oh?”

  “Johan tells me the Del Monte forest has stunning views along its bike paths. I haven’t had a chance to see for myself, but he says there are some great locations for taking photographs. In return for fixing the bike, how about riding with me this Sunday?”

  “That’s hard to refuse,” said Sarah, flattered.

  “Then it’s a date.” He took hold of the handlebars. “I’ll put this in the car and bring it back Sunday morning in tip-top shape for our ride.”

  “Wait.” It didn’t feel right giving up her sister’s bike just after she’d found it. “I can’t explain everything right now, but this bike means a lot to me. It might be my sister’s.”

  He saw her hand tightening on the handlebar. “Trust me, Sarah. I’ll take very good care of it. I promise. You can’t ride it like this.”

  When Sarah let go, it felt as if she were letting go of her sister’s hand and she immediately put her hand back on the handlebar. “Sorry, Robert, but would you mind tuning it up on Sunday before our picnic?

  He released the handle. “Sure. I understand. There are things of my brother’s that I still haven’t been able to get rid of.”

  “I visited Point Lobos today,” said Sarah steering the conversation away from her sister.

  “That’s a coincidence. I was at Point Lobos today too. I took some photographs at Cypress Grove. A shame I didn’t see you there, but Point Lobos has many trails. Which one were you on?”

  “Whalers Cove.”

  “Why would you want to go to that smelly place? Certainly you don’t know any of those aliens.”

  “They’re not aliens,” said Sarah, shocked and disappointed he felt that way.

  “Well whatever you want to call them, you shouldn’t go there again on your own,” he said in a tone Sarah found off-putting. She didn’t like anyone telling her what to do. “You can never tell what they’re up to. The sooner we send them packing back to the jungle they came from, the safer we’ll all be.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way. I think they have as much right to live here as we do,” said Sarah.

  He turned away from her to untie the straps of Ada’s knapsack in the pannier.

  “Stop!” Her voice was louder than intended.

  He twisted back around and said, “What’s wrong? Don’t you want this off the bike?”

  “Sorry. It’s just that my drawing pad is in there and I’m rather sensitive about anyone touching it.”

  He raised his empty hands. “Sorry. I was just trying to help. Here, you do it.”

  She struggled with the straps. From behind her, he reached over and put his hands on hers to help. In spite of what he’d just said about the Japanese, she felt her body betraying her as it did the other night on the balcony at La Playa. She knew she should push him away but felt weak in the knees overtaken by her desire that was stronger than her will.

  The watchful little dog growled.

  “Albert. Where are your manners?” she said, crouching down and hushing him, glad to have an excuse to move away from Robert.

  He finished untying the knapsacks and was carrying them over to the work table when he saw the studies she’d made of Sirena’s eyes. She hadn’t meant to leave it out.

  “You’re a very good colorist. I like how you captured the light in Sirena’s cat-like eyes. I wish I could get that iridescent effect, but with black-and-white film I have to use special techniques in the darkroom and the results are never as natural as this.”

  He looked at the canvases leaning up against the wall. “Sirena mentioned that your sister was working on a series of portraits. Can I see them? I could use some new ideas for photographing my Hollywood models.”

  “I’d love to show them to you, but I’ve been unable to find them.” She suddenly felt very tired, not sure it was from the bike ride or just trying to fend off her strong feelings for Robert.

  He reached for her hand and put it up to his lips. “Now how about that hot toddy at La Playa?”

  She pulled her hand away. “Can I take a rain check? Today was pretty exhausting.”

  He shrugged. “Okay. It won’t be easy, but I’ll just have to wait until Sunday.”

  All this time Albert had been watching them. “It might be better if he stays at home when we go on our picnic. I don’t think I can handle the competition.”

  “He won’t like that, but you’re right.” she smiled down at Albert. “It won’t do having two dates at the same time.”

  At the alleyway door, Robert tossed his black curls off his forehead and gazed into her eyes. “Are you sure you won’t come? I’d love to dance with you again.” She felt herself leaning toward him, but managed to pul
l away before he kissed her. Missing his mark, he laughed and gave her a kiss on the forehead. “See you Sunday. I’ll come by earlier to fix the bike.”

  After he left, she locked the studio doors and before turning off the lights made a quick call to Rosie to let her know she’d made it back to the cottage and would come over tomorrow to tell her what she’d found.

  She brought Ada’s knapsack upstairs to her bedroom. Her loyal dog followed behind.

  Seated at the small desk, she took out the warped drawing pad and turned back the pages under the lamplight. The front pages were rippled and the pencil sketches were stained from being out in the elements, but in the middle of the pad, the pages were drier, the sketches precise. Jagged rocks. Abalone shells. Twisted tree trunks. And one detailed sketch of the schooner that she had also drawn at Whalers Cove that afternoon, but Sarah hadn’t seen the name of the schooner, Ocean Queen, painted on its black stern.

  Another page was filled with several studies of masculine facial features. Arched cheekbones. Square chins. Crooked hawkish noses.

  The last page made her gasp. Evil, hollow eyes stared out at her from a human skull. A black gaping hole for a nose and a mouth of jagged teeth. Below the skull were two crossbones and below the crossbones Ada had written in thick black letters: THE PIRATE.

  Frightened, she called to Albert who jumped up into her lap.

  She hung Ada’s drawing pad on the easel to dry out, changed into her nightgown, and leaving on the light, nestled up to her silent companion warming her bed.

  As tired as she was sleep did not come easily. When she did close her eyes she saw floating pieces of a disassembled face. She struggled to assemble them, only to have the face shatter like cracked glass that woke her from her dream.

  Albert jumped off the bed and started barking and scratching on the closed bedroom door. For a few long seconds, fear strapped her to the bed as she listened to muffled sounds coming from somewhere downstairs. She looked around the room for a weapon to defend herself but came up empty-handed. She finally summoned her courage, opened the door, and followed Albert downstairs.

  He barked and scratched at the studio door in the kitchen. Her nerves shattered, it took several tries to turn the lock. When she finally got it open, a shaft of moonlight coming through the skylight lit the studio floor. It was strewn with paintings, like a hurricane had passed through. A human one.

  Albert ran to the alley door, barking. The extra padlock she’d hooked on the door clasp had been jimmied off and the door was banging in the wind. She wedged a chair against the splintered door to keep it closed and gathered up the canvases. Up in the storage loft, paintings had been pulled out of the shelves and left in heaps.

  What were they looking for? A professional art thief would’ve known to take the valuable pieces but none were missing. Nor was Ada’s bike.

  Too full of worries to go back to bed, she rewarded Albert’s bravery with a mutton bone she’d been keeping in the icebox and rewarded herself with a glass of Una’s wine. Seated at the banquette, she opened her drawing pad and did the only thing that would ease her mind—she sketched a plan of action: Install strong new lock on alley door. Change front door lock. Report the break-in to Marshal Judd??? And then crossed it out. There was no point in getting him involved. Nothing had been stolen and for now she was working on her own investigation into her sister’s murder. A murder that the marshal didn’t believe had even happened.

  THURSDAY, JULY 31

  —18—

  Sarah burst into Rosie’s kitchen. “The studio was broken into last night!”

  “What did you say?” Rosie said as she shut off the running water, her hands in a sink of sudsy dishes.

  “Someone broke into the studio last night,” said Sarah, stopping to breathe.

  Rosie turned around, water dripping onto the floor. “Blimey!” She dried her hands on her apron. “Are you all right? Was anything taken?”

  “I checked the studio inventory list. Nothing was missing. Except the portraits, of course, but they’re already missing. I think the thief was looking for something in particular and ransacked the studio to find it. It’s a miracle none of the pictures were damaged.”

  Rosie pressed her hand against her heart and sat down.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shock you,” said Sarah.

  “Never you mind. I’ll be okay. My heart can take more abuse than you think, and if not, I have this.” She held up a silver pillbox.

  Sarah brought her a glass of water and stood by while Rosie took her heart medicine. “Stop hovering over me, child. I’m fine. Now tell me everything.”

  Sarah sat across from Rosie and started from when she woke to Albert’s barking to finding the pictures on the floor to finding the alley door open, the extra padlock she’d put on it jimmied.

  “Mother of Jesus!” Rosie said, her hand still pressed to her heart. “I’m so relieved that you weren’t hurt, but where’s Albert?”

  “I left him to guard the studio. The alley door is splintered and won’t lock.”

  “I’ll ask our local carpenter to install a new lock today.”

  “He can do it that soon?”

  Rosie smiled. “Charlie’s a good friend of mine and once he knows the urgency, he’ll find the time. He can change the locks on the front door at the same time.”

  “Thank you, Rosie. I don’t know how I’d manage without you.”

  She patted Sarah’s knee. “You’d do just fine. But two people do shorten the road.”

  Sarah filled Rosie in on finding Ada’s bicycle in the woods near Whalers Cove and showed her the pirate sketch in Ada’s drawing pad. And how it all fit in with Mary Austin and the Jeffers telling her that Ada was having an affair with someone.

  She could see the older woman’s mind considering the new evidence and she gave her time to think it out.

  “You’ve got some good evidence,” Rosie said finally, “but it’s still circumstantial. Was it Ada who hid her bike in the forest? And if so why? Or did someone else steal it and abandon it there to go back and get it later? Or did the person who murdered her hide it there after he killed her? And who was the nefarious stranger she was meeting at Point Lobos?”

  “I don’t know. But there is no doubt that this is Ada’s drawing pad.”

  “That’s not enough. We need to know who buried the bicycle in the woods,” said Rosie, warming to the topic. “And there is a way to find out.”

  “How?” asked Sarah, feeling deflated.

  “I read a story about how a murderer was identified by his fingerprints found on the glass of sherry he’d given his victim. I don’t know if Marshal Judd is aware of this newfangled fingerprint equipment, but let’s ask him to check for fingerprints on the bicycle.”

  Sarah paled. “I’m afraid it’s too late. The bicycle is now covered with my prints—and Robert’s.”

  “Robert? The gentleman I saw last night? It’s lucky he showed up. I was ready to form a search party.” Rosie knitted her brows and set her concerned blue eyes on Sarah. “Promise me you won’t go back to Whalers Cove on your own.”

  “But I have to go back, Rosie,” Sarah exclaimed. “I showed Ada’s photograph to one of the villagers and he’d seen her several times at the Cove. Now I need to find out if any of the villagers actually saw her that evening.”

  “Then ask Robert to go with you,” said Rosie. “He seems like a sensible man to have around in a dangerous situation. What does he do when he’s not looking for lost girls?”

  “Rosie, I wasn’t lost,” said Sarah with a bit of irritation, “and your knight-in-shining-armor shoots starlets in Hollywood.”

  Rosie frowned. “That’s disappointing. Where did you meet him?”

  “At the Mission Tea House. And then, by chance, I saw him again at La Playa. When he has time away from Hollywood, he stays at Johan Hagemeyer’s studio here in Carmel and works on his own pictorial photography. He’s Hagemeyer’s protégé.”

  “Then I gue
ss the fellow must be talented because Hagemeyer wouldn’t take him on otherwise,” said Rosie. “Too bad he’s wasting his talent in Hollywood.”

  “Rosie! He has to make a living, and I think he makes a very good one.”

  A buzzer went off. “Oh my, that’s my shepherd’s pie. I need to get it out of the oven before the potato topping burns to a crisp.”

  As soon as Rosie settled back down in her chair. Sarah said, “I telephoned Miss Honeysuckle. She said I could drop off the will this morning and she’d give it to Mr. Peabody.”

  “I’ll go with you. But first let’s stop at Charlie’s and make arrangements to have a new door and locks installed. Then after we drop off the will, we can get lunch at Pop’s on the wharf. Just thinking about his abalone chowder makes my mouth water.”

  “All right,” said Sarah. “I’ll go get the will and come back for you.”

  As she stepped outside, Sarah heard Albert barking in Ada’s studio. A lanky man hunched over in a flaming-orange jacket and stocking cap came running out of the alleyway. She called to him but he ignored her and made a sharp turn at the corner and was gone.

  Sarah rushed up the alleyway to see if he had broken into the studio but the chair she had jammed against the door was still holding it closed. She called out to Albert who was still barking in the studio and she ran around to the front door to let him out.

  After Sarah had quieted Albert down, Rosie said, “That man was dressed like one of those Portuguese fishermen you see down at the wharf.” She folded her arms and shook her head. “There are way too many peculiar things happening at Ada’s cottage. What with the portraits missing, the break-in, and now this fisherman lurking about.”

  “And don’t forget someone painting in Ada’s studio when I first got here,” said Sarah.

  While Sarah got the will and inquest files to give to Mr. Peabody, Albert held his leash in his mouth. She felt badly not taking him with her, but she needed him to continue watching the studio in case the fisherman came back. A lamb shank from Rosie’s shepherd’s pie was an acceptable bribe.