The Artist Colony

by Joanna FitzPatrick

  Embarrassed, she turned away to take out her drawing pad and pencil. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to make a few quick studies of the mist-covered boats to take back to Paris where I can put them on canvas in my studio.”

  Robert leaned back on the bench and watched her sketch. “Paris? Are you leaving soon?” he asked with a tone of undisguised disappointment.

  “I do hope so, but I have unfinished business here.” She put down her pencil. “I can’t leave until I reopen my sister’s inquest.”

  “Reopen the inquest? Can you do that? I thought the case was closed after the verdict of suicide.”

  She returned to her drawing. “I thought so too until Rosie told me that if I can find enough evidence to prove Ada didn’t commit suicide, the District Attorney will listen to my appeal. I think I’ve almost gathered enough evidence, but I still need a suspect and a motive.”

  “Sarah, don’t you think you should stop this foolishness?” said Robert sternly.

  She closed her drawing pad and turned to him. “It’s not foolishness, Robert. If you’d known my sister, you would know the inquest verdict was wrong.”

  “But even if you found your killer, it wouldn’t bring your sister back. Trust me, I know what you’re going through, but the sooner you stop blaming yourself for what happened—”

  “That’s not what this is about, Robert!” she said with a burst of anger and stood up. “I know I can’t bring Ada back. But someone killed her and I can’t let them get away with it.”

  She picked up the pad that had fallen on the ground and shoved it in her knapsack. Up until now it had been a perfect day with Robert. Why did Ada have to come up? Always Ada.

  The loud thud of a fishing boat hitting the wharf made them both jump.

  “We should get back.” He checked his wristwatch. “The next bus is leaving in fifteen minutes.”

  He stood up, took her hands, and pulled her up from the bench. But their eyes did not meet this time and he didn’t hold her in his arms. She wished she hadn’t been so outspoken. She was so enjoying their flirtation.

  There was a cold silence between them as they walked to the bus stop. Robert tied their bicycles to the rack on the back. The bus was crowded and they had to squeeze together on the bench.

  The bus reached the top of Carmel Hill and while it crawled slowly down Ocean Avenue, Robert put his arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Sarah. You have every right to investigate your sister’s death. It’s just that I don’t want you to get hurt. If you’re right and someone did kill your sister and you find out who that was, your life could be at risk. If you’re willing to forgive me for what I said, I’d like to help you any way I can.”

  “Really, Robert?”

  “It was wrong of me to compare your sister’s death to my brother’s. Your situation is quite different. I had no reason to doubt his suicide. So tell me how I can help you.”

  “Come with me tonight to see Pirates of Penzance at the Forest Theater.” The truth was, though she’d never admit it to anyone, she was afraid to confront Alain Delacroix alone with what she knew. Having Robert nearby, as Rosie had suggested, would make her feel safer and a bit braver.

  He gave her a puzzled look. “I don’t see how I can help you by taking you to a play, though I’d certainly be happy to do so. The lead actress is a friend of mine—I think you two met at the Tea House.”

  Remembering the gorgeous Louise Brooks, Sarah suddenly wished she could rescind the invitation. “Yes, I met her,” she said flatly.

  “So why the play? It seems an odd place to find a possible suspect? Who is it?”

  “I’d rather not mention any names until I have more information, but it’s one of the performers.”

  “All right.” He lightly squeezed her shoulder. “But please don’t keep me in suspense too long, Mademoiselle Sleuth.” Sarah wasn’t amused by him making a joke of her investigation, but she forced a smile.

  “We can go to the cast party afterward, too. Rosie got me an invitation.”

  “Do you know where the party will be?” he asked, as they stepped off the bus at Ocean Avenue.

  She shook her head no.

  “I’ll ask Louise,” he said.

  Great, thought Sarah. Not only do I have to confront Alain Delalcroix, but I’ll also have to worry about Robert being distracted by a gorgeous woman when I might need his help.

  After they pedaled back to the cottage, Robert placed his bike in the back of the Ford. He was starting to get in the driver’s seat when he looked up at Sarah and said, “This is none of my business, but now that you told me that your suspect is in the play tonight, I was wondering if it might be Alain Delacroix?”

  Sarah was surprised. “Why would you think that?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just a wild guess.”

  Sarah told him he was right and asked him not to tell anyone. When he didn’t start the Ford, she asked, “Is there something else you want to tell me?”

  “Look, I don’t know Delacroix personally, but he doesn’t have a great reputation in Hollywood. He’s known to not always be a gentleman because of his wild temper on and off film sets. Why do you suspect him?”

  She paused. “Alain was my sister’s fiancé. I want to talk to him tonight about why he didn’t appear at the inquest or make any effort to contact me.”

  “Whoa. Fiancé? He certainly doesn’t act like one when he’s working on a Hollywood set with his female co-stars. I’m glad you told me, Sarah, and I’m glad you asked me to come with you tonight. You shouldn’t see him on your own. If he knows you’re onto him, with that temper of his, he could be dangerous.”

  Robert told Sarah he’d be back at six to pick her up and drove off. She walked Ada’s bike down the alleyway and locked it in the studio.

  She had a couple of hours to get ready and took a deep soak in Ada’s claw-footed tub to clear her head and relax her strained muscles. She wasn’t that fit despite her bragging to Robert. And now that she was away from him, she wondered if he really could be helpful? But hadn’t he already helped by telling her about Alain’s salacious reputation in Hollywood?

  —22—

  It looked like the entire community of Monterey had come to see the play at Forest Theater. Robert had to park several blocks away and then they joined the queue of playgoers climbing up the steep hill. They passed through the ticket gate at the top of a hillside arena sheltered by lofty pines backlit by the shimmering blue Pacific.

  Several families were enjoying their picnics on the theater’s grounds. Robert took Sarah’s arm to support her as they descended the wooden stairs toward the stage. Tiers of rustic benches were already filled.

  Their seats were in the center, two rows back from the stage. Sirena was Rosie’s other guest. She was seated directly behind them.

  She rambled on about how excited she was to go to the cast party at the James House. “You know, Mr. James is a fabulously rich tycoon. He wanted a getaway where he could write novels, so he hired the famous architect Charles Greene to build his stone house on a cliff overhanging the ocean. I’ve only seen it from the beach below, but I bet it’s swanky inside.” Sirena shifted her eyes to Robert’s back and whispered, “Are you bringing him?”

  Sarah glanced at Robert. He was reading the theater program.

  “Why, do you mind?” whispered Sarah.

  “Not at all. Just curious. I thought he might be Louise’s date.”

  Just then, floodlights lit up the stage. The thrill of anticipation hushed the theater.

  The merriment of the chorus in the opening scene gave Sarah a moment to relax and enjoy the comic opera. Their seats were so close that she could see Rosie. She had the urge to wave at her, but she didn’t want to draw any more attention to herself. When she had chosen Ada’s metallic silver ensemble to wear, she hadn’t realized how much it would sparkle under the moonlight or how she resembled Joan of Arc armored for war.

  Alain Delacroix made his entrance dressed al
l in black as Frederic, the Pirate Apprentice. His imposing figure swaggered back and forth across the stage singing “Oh, False One You Have Deceiv’d Me” in a resonant tenor voice and the audience responded with a generous applause.

  Robert and Sarah stayed in their seats during intermission while Sirena left to get something to drink.

  When they were alone, Robert took Sarah’s hand in his. “I’m so glad you’re here with me,” he whispered in her ear. It had been a long time since anyone had said that to her, if ever, and she put her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.

  The second act was even more boisterous and silly than the first. The finale featured the entire cast along with the chorus and everyone stood up to clap and shout, “Bravo. Bravo.” The actors returned several times to take their bows and when they finally exited, Delacroix came out alone and strutted to the rim of the stage. He swept off his black plumed pirate hat and bowed.

  During the thunderous applause that followed, he looked out into the audience and spotted Sarah. The recognition between them was brief, but explicit. Robert must have felt it too, because he put his arm around Sarah and whispered, “You didn’t tell me that you actually knew him.”

  “I don’t. I met him last week at a garden party, but only briefly.”

  The stage went dark, the applause faded. “You’re shivering,” said Robert, as he helped her put on her coat and ushered her up the crowded aisle as the audience spilled out into the chilly, black night.

  Sarah offered Sirena a ride to the cast party and before they all piled into Robert’s Ford, Sirena insisted that Robert put the top down, despite the moist air. He looked at Sarah who nodded in agreement. He tucked a blanket around her and tossed one to Sirena in the rumble seat. Sarah tried to ignore it, but there was a chill between her two friends that had nothing to do with the weather. She somehow felt responsible for it.

  They followed a caravan of cars for several minutes as they drove down an unlit, bumpy road along the coast. Silent anticipation prevailed in the coupe until they saw flaming torches lighting up the front of a stone castle. “There it is!” called out Sirena from the backseat.

  They joined the other guests and walked down precarious, dimly lit flagstone steps until they came to a sharp turn that led to the carved-redwood entry door of the storybook castle.

  Sarah stepped into the high-ceilinged living room filled with massive mahogany furniture, plush Oriental rugs, and a roaring fire that could roast two pigs. This was far removed from the humble furnishings of her garret. Through wide-arched windows, she saw moonlit waves rise and fall in the Pacific.

  She was introduced to several people but after a short while the crowd of faces seemed overwhelming, and she felt the need to be alone. She saw a moment to escape and slipped outside through a side door onto a wide terrace bordered by an iron railing. The breaking surf flailed against the granite boulders below and the earth shook under her feet. Not exactly the peaceful moment she was hoping for.

  She heard Robert’s voice from the doorway, “Sarah! I’ve been looking for you. What are you doing out here?” He reached out for her hand and drew her back inside and over to the blazing fire. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” she lied.

  Rosie came over and started introducing them to more guests, mostly local writers and artists and the actors from the play. Then Louise Brooks came over, ignored Sarah and spoke privately to Robert.

  Sarah was moving away when Mary Austin stopped her and immediately started a tedious critique of the musical’s composers, W.S. Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan. After a while Mary paused. “Very overrated fluff. Don’t you agree, Sarah?”

  “What’s that?” Sarah replied, finding it increasingly difficult to pay attention.

  “Sarah, honey,” said Mary, “if you have something better to do than talk to me, I’ll say good night.”

  “I’m sorry, Mary. It’s just . . . have you seen Alain Delacroix?”

  “No, but I’d like to tell him he’s wasting his talent in such a silly, pompous play. I’m sure he only did it because Ted Kuster is his good friend—he’s the producer, you know and—”

  Sarah cut her off. “Can you tell me where the powder room is?” Mary pointed to a corridor on the far side of the room. Sarah excused herself, squeezed her way through the party, and closed the door behind her.

  The mirror was lit by a single flickering candle and her reflection in it was pale. She pulled back the silvery headscarf draped over her forehead, combed her fingers through her hair and painted her lips. Joan of Arc looked out at her and said sternly, You’ve got to go find him.

  As she stepped back into the hall, someone took her by the arm and pulled her into a dimly lit room. An overhead light was flipped on and Sarah stood face to face with Alain Delacroix.

  She saw no way out of the small servant’s quarters except the door that he was now leaning against. She was scared but managed to say, “What do you want?” in a surprisingly strong voice.

  “The Jeffers’s told me you’re investigating Ada’s suicide. I want to know why. Or are you just as crazy as your sister?”

  “Fine words coming from a grieving fiancé,” she retaliated.

  “Fiancé! How do you know that? Nobody knows that. Not even the Jeffers.”

  “Remember Mr. Peabody? You came to his office with Ada and asked him to draw up a nuptial agreement.”

  He didn’t deny it. She felt her advantage and said, “You’re the one who has some explaining to do.”

  He sank down on the edge of the narrow bed and stared at the stone floor. She sat down in the only chair.

  He mumbled, “What do you want to know?”

  “For a start, where were you the night Ada died?”

  “Arriving at the Los Angeles train station. But why does it matter? I don’t need an alibi. The woman killed herself.”

  “Really?” said Sarah trying to hold back her anger. “Then please enlighten me as to why you think she would do that?”

  “I told you. She was crazy. You don’t need my word. There was an inquest and that was the verdict. What else am I supposed to think?”

  “Did you know she was pregnant?”

  He walked over to the arched window and looked out. “Yes, she told me.”

  “Weren’t you happy about it?”

  He twisted around. “Are you kidding? Happy? I was thrilled. I rushed out to buy her a wedding band and had it engraved.

  “I was starting production on a new film and had to get back to Hollywood. I wanted her to leave with me, but she insisted on staying an extra night. She said she needed the time alone to crate the portraits and send them out to her New York dealer.

  “When I went to meet her train she wasn’t on it. I tried to telephone her, but the line was disconnected. At first, I didn’t think much of it. If anything was wrong she’d have called me or sent a telegram. I figured she got delayed packing the portraits.

  “I was on my way to the train station to pick her up the following day when I got a call from my agent telling me Ada had drowned. It was a terrible blow. Then I heard there would be an inquest.”

  “Why didn’t you call Marshal Judd? Help him with the investigation? Or at least come back for the inquest.”

  “I wasn’t thinking straight. I kind of went off the deep end for several days. Then I spoke to my agent and he said I should wait until after the inquest to see if my suspicions were justified—that she had really killed herself.

  “And after I read the verdict in the L.A. Times, all I wanted to do was forget her. And here you are stirring up things that are better forgotten.”

  “You should’ve told the truth about your relationship with Ada to the marshal.”

  He sat back down on the bed. He glared at her. “The truth? You think I should’ve told the marshal the truth? That Ada chose death rather than become my wife and the mother of our child. Oh sure, the paparazzi would have loved to have served that on everyone’s breakfast
table.”

  “I see,” said Sarah, unmoved by his self-pity. “It wouldn’t have been good for your career.”

  “My career? You don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t care about that.” He lit a cigarette.

  “Did you ever consider for a moment that it wasn’t a suicide. That someone might have killed Ada?”

  “No. I’m afraid Ada’s only enemy was herself. She was too wrapped up in her art. Stressed about the new exhibition and how that critic Bye and his cronies might ruin her. Wearing that stupid pendant, like it was all the rage, and bragging that she could kill herself at any moment like some of her friends had already done if life got too difficult.”

  “You are pathetically wrong about Ada. She didn’t kill herself.” Sarah stood up. “Somebody killed her and made it look like a suicide.”

  He raised his voice. “What are you talking about? There was a suicide note.”

  “The suicide note is a fake!” She was fed up with his ridiculous insinuations. “How do I know it wasn’t you who faked it and signed her name to it, seeing that you’ve been hiding out and taking no responsibility for what happened?”

  “Christ almighty, woman. I loved Ada. Why would I kill her?” He snuffed out his cigarette.

  He was either a damn good actor or he was a deluded man. But hadn’t she also thought Ada killed herself when Champlin had said she’d attempted suicide before? She stopped to consider her options and took a few deep breaths. In spite of what Robert had told her about Alain, she didn’t think he killed Ada. His feelings were too raw to be false.

  She sat down beside him on the bed. Her anger spent. She took the gold band off her finger and put it in his hand. It gleamed like hope even in the dreary light.

  He held it between his fingers and looked at the engraving. “This was supposed to mark the beginning of our life together.” He closed his hand over it. “Where did you find it?”

  “It was in her pocket.”