The Artist Colony

by Joanna FitzPatrick

He gave out a short moan like a wounded animal. He tried to give it back to her, his cheeks moist.

  “You keep it. Ada would’ve wanted you to have it.”

  Her own eyes welled up and she went over to the window to give them each a private moment with their grief.

  When she returned and sat down, she saw that he was gripping Ada’s ring. His knuckles white.

  There was an insistent wrap at the door. Then another, louder. “Sarah, are you in there?”

  She cursed. It was Robert looking for her.

  The knob jiggled, but Alain had fortunately locked the door. Sarah put her finger to her lips. They waited a few minutes until it was quiet again. The banging at the door had stopped. Then she whispered, “Come to Ada’s cottage tomorrow where we can talk.”

  “I can be there around nine o’clock.”

  “I’ve got to go,” said Sarah. “Tomorrow you’ll know everything and then you’ll have to believe me.”

  MONDAY, AUGUST 4

  —23—

  Standing at the stove, waiting for the water to boil, Sarah’s troubled thoughts turned back to the night before.

  After she left Alain, she found an ill-tempered Robert waiting for her in the living room. Only a few guests remained. She’d wanted to tell him about what she’d learned from Alain, but he was furious with her for asking for his help and then disappearing. “I made a fool of myself searching for you.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t think you would miss me. You seemed very occupied with Louise.”

  He ignored her sarcasm. “Where were you? Did you talk to Delacroix?”

  “Yes, but I’d rather not talk about it.”

  On the ride back to the cottage, no woolen navy jacket was offered, no soft blankets placed over her knees. When they pulled up to the Sketch Box, he didn’t get out or even say good night.

  She sat down in the banquette and, sipping her brewed coffee, watched the sky transition from gray to blue. Robert was right to be angry with her. After all, she’d asked for his help and then saw Alain on her own. She hoped he would give her a chance to apologize.

  Albert finished his breakfast and jumped up next to her. Seated on his haunches, he kept his keen eyes on her, his head tilted as if asking a question. Sarah scratched behind his floppy brown ears. “You’re right, Albert. Why am I worried about Robert when I should be taking you for a walk?”

  She finished her coffee and Albert ran to get his leash.

  Even after a long walk on the beach, Albert didn’t like being pulled away from his friends, but Sarah needed to get back before nine. She left Albert with Rosie, thinking he might bark at Alain, and she didn’t want to broadcast their meeting.

  Biding her time in the studio, she sat on a stool and was making some sketches when she heard three hard knocks on the alley door. She let Alain in and locked the new deadbolt behind him.

  “I needed to take precautions,” she said when he looked questioningly at the shiny new lock. “There was a break-in a few nights ago.”

  He looked around the studio. “Where’s Albert? He’s usually a pretty good watchdog.”

  “He certainly is. He’s the one who chased away the burglar.”

  Alain was disappointed when she told him that she’d left Albert at Rosie’s. He looked at Ada’s paintings covering the wall and turned back to Sarah. “And speaking of ‘sorry,’ I want to apologize about last night. I wasn’t myself. Since Ada died I’ve been drinking a bit too much.”

  She accepted his apology and they went through the studio into the kitchen where the inquest folder lay on the table.

  She felt her own grief reflected in Alain’s haggard face. He raked his long, silky hair behind his ears, then walked over to the kitchen sink and looked out at the seascape through the open window.

  “Ada loved this view. Painted it all hours of the day. Loved the incoming fogbanks. ‘Never the same lighting,’ she’d say.” He turned toward her and she saw Ada’s gold band hanging from a short chain around his neck.

  “Don’t you find it sad to stay here?” he asked, rubbing the band. “I feel like I’m trespassing on her spirit.”

  “Sometimes. But I also feel she’s here with me and it’s consoling.” She walked over to the stove. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Please.”

  As she opened the cabinet to the right of the sink, he noticed a bottle of whiskey she hadn’t seen before. “I was told rum runners sail down the coast from Canada and deliver crates of that stuff at night to avoid the coast guard. The coast guard tries to enforce Prohibition laws at sea, but if Ada has a bottle of that in her cupboard, I don’t think the coast guard is doing its job.”

  Uninterested in the provenence of Ada’s whiskey, Sarah heated the coffee and asked, “How did you and Ada meet?”

  “It was a few years ago, in New York. I was working in a Broadway play. One night some friends invited me to a gallery opening. It happened to be your sister’s. Her career was just taking off and so was mine. We liked each other right away but we were both so occupied with our work that we only saw each other in short spurts.” His lips curved in a winsome smile. “But when we did the sparks were flying.” His joy was fleeting and she felt his grief return. Yet in that brief moment she could imagine how good it must have been between Ada and him.

  She handed him a mug of coffee and poured one for herself.

  “Later, I got an offer to go to Hollywood and star in a motion picture and I moved to California. We stayed in touch, and after she moved to Carmel she started to come down to Los Angeles on the train whenever she had time. I came up here occasionally, but it was a bit awkward. I was getting too well-known in Hollywood. I had to stay at the La Playa to avoid the paparazzi.”

  “Was that really necessary?”

  “We were being hounded by one guy in particular from Photoplay magazine. He was prowling around looking for juicy stories and if the journalists found out I was spending time here, with an equally famous artist, it would have made our lives miserable.” He scratched his beard. “I have enough trouble with the gossip in Hollywood about the affairs I’m not having.”

  “Is that why you didn’t tell the Jeffers?”

  “Yes. And in hindsight I wished we had. It’s been very awkward staying at their home without telling them the truth.”

  “I apologize if this sounds blunt, Alain, but you might have some information that will help me, or should I say help you and me, to find out who killed her.”

  “Okay. Go ahead.”

  “Did you come here for any other reason than to substitute for the original Pirate?”

  He scratched his beard. “The truth is I’ve had a bad time of it since Ada’s been gone. I’ve tried to blame her for what happened but it never made much sense—her killing herself. The Jeffers were good friends of Ada’s and I wanted to know if they knew any reason for her suicide without letting them know we were engaged. When they told me how pleased they were that you were investigating her death, I was stunned. And quite honestly, I was worried if you found out I was her fiancé you might suspect me.”

  She took out the suicide note from the inquest folder. “You should look at this.”

  Alain read it and looked up at her curiously. “They reached a verdict of suicide based on this letter Katherine Mansfield wrote to her husband?”

  “You know this quote?” asked Sarah, feeling a familial bond growing between them.

  “Sure, I know it. Ada and I spoke about it. She was furious that Katherine’s dying instructions were disregarded by her husband. John Murry went ahead and published everything. That’s why she asked me to agree to a nuptial agreement. You were the only one she trusted to be the executor of her estate and quite honestly, I didn’t think that was something I could handle or something I was interested in.” He smiled, shyly. “I think she liked that about me. I was more interested in her than her paintings.”

  Sarah brought out her cigarettes and passed one to Alain, who lit hers first and then his own.


  He got up and began quickly pacing back and forth across the kitchen floor as he did on the stage the night before, but there was far less room. Sarah asked him to sit back down, he was making her nervous.

  She laid out her other evidence: The garnet stone from the burned journal; finding Ada’s bicycle at Whalers Cove; Jeffers’s eyewitness account; the planted weights in Ada’s pockets; the cyanide-filled pendant that Ada would’ve swallowed if she had wanted to take her life, though Sarah would never use it as evidence.

  “What a fool I’ve been,” he said, “to ever think Ada would kill herself.” He looked up at her, his face wrenched in pain. He laid his head on his arms.

  Sarah waited a few minutes before she nudged him and he raised his head.

  She picked up her pencil and opened her drawing pad to a blank page. “I know this is painful for you, but I need you to tell me everything that happened those last days you were with Ada.”

  “All right. If you think it’ll help.”

  “First off, did you see her portraits while you were here?”

  “Yes, the night before I left.”

  She wrote down 1–July 3: Alain last person to see portraits

  “I must confess at times I thought Ada loved her portraits more than me. She talked about them morning and night. Then the last night we were together, she put on that gorgeous silver-sequined gown. She said it was a dress rehearsal as she intended to wear it for the opening night of her gallery show in New York.

  “You were wearing it last night. You scared the hell out of me when I saw you from the stage. For a moment, I thought you were her.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “There’s no reason why you would’ve.” His face brightened as he told Sarah about his last evening with Ada. “We had much to celebrate. Our coming marriage. Our child. Her exhibition. I don’t know much about art, but those paintings were terrific. I knew they were going to be a big hit for her. Have you seen them?”

  “I wish. They’re not here,” said Sarah. “I think they might’ve been stolen.”

  “Do you think that’s why she was killed? For the portraits?”

  “That’s one possibility. But there might be another motive.”

  Sarah took a deep breath and chose her words carefully thinking of the letter Ada had left for her in the sketch box, especially the final paragraph . . . my past indiscretions might end up being the cause of my ruin.

  “I think Ada was involved with someone else before you. She had tried to end it. But he wouldn’t hear of it. He insisted on seeing her the night of the fourth. He might have been the one who killed her.”

  His eyes flashed. “Why didn’t she tell me? I would have understood. She didn’t have to meet him on her own. I would’ve taken care of him.”

  That’s probably why she didn’t tell you, thought Sarah, remembering what Robert had said about Alain’s bad temper.

  “Before you left on the fourth was Ada acting strange?”

  He scratched his beard again. “Not at first. After an early breakfast she said she wanted to write to you, tell you our wedding plans, and she went into the bedroom.”

  Sarah scribbled a second note. 2–Ada writes letter to me and hides it in her sketch box.

  “I stayed in the living room studying my role as Captain Hook in Peter Pan. As I said, we were going to begin production.”

  “Did anyone come by?”

  He thought a moment. “Why yes. Her assistant, Sirena. I was rather surprised to see her because Ada had told me she’d let her go after some kind of altercation with her and Paul deVrais.

  “She let herself in with a key while I was rehearsing in the living room. She was holding an envelope and went right in to see Ada. It was only a few seconds later that she came back out and left without speaking to me. She seemed to be in a great hurry.”

  Sarah felt a sharp pain in her heart remembering the moment when the joyous tone in Ada’s letter changed to dread. Gripping the pencil, she wrote 3–Sirena messenger of Ada’s fate!!!

  Alain noticed her distress and asked if he had said something that upset her. She told him it was nothing and asked him to continue.

  “Right after that, I felt Ada was trying to push me out the door. I figured she was just nervous about her own departure the next day and was worried about having enough time to send off the portraits to Crocker’s gallery. I left soon after.”

  “What time was that?”

  “It had to be around nine for me to get to Salinas in time to make my connection on the Daylight train to Los Angeles.”

  4—Alain leaves in morning. Ada packs portraits before meeting former lover.

  He lit another cigarette and blew smoke out the open kitchen window. He then turned and looked up at the ticking wall clock. He glanced at Sarah with a worried look.

  “I don’t think I should go back to Los Angeles today. You’re not safe here. Whoever killed Ada might come after you.”

  “I’ve considered that. But if Ada’s killer was spying on her, he knows who you are. If he should see us together, he might feel threatened and leave town before we have enough evidence to arrest him. You should take that train.”

  “I don’t know, Sarah.”

  “Don’t worry,” she attempted a smile. “Albert will let me know if I’m in danger.”

  He looked as unconvinced as she felt.

  “I’ll need you to come back and give your testimony when the inquest is reopened,” she added. “It won’t be pleasant. It’ll probably come out that Ada was pregnant and that you were the father. If the press finds out, it could damage your career. You might even be a suspect.”

  “I don’t care about that. I know that sounds hypocritical now, since it’s the reason I didn’t come back in the first place. But I’ll do anything I can to help put her killer in the electric chair. Whoever he is, he deserves nothing less.”

  He looked up at the kitchen clock again. Then he scribbled a number down on her drawing pad. “This is the telephone number at the Beverly Hills Hotel where I’m staying. I’ll give the hotel instructions to get hold of me on the film set if I’m not there when you call.”

  Sarah walked him through the studio to the alley door thinking it was better if he wasn’t seen leaving the cottage. “I’m very happy to have met the man my sister was going to marry.” Her sadness was palatable. “I only wish we’d met at your wedding.” She reached out her hand, but he embraced her in a loving hug.

  “Take care, Sarah. Call me if you need me and I’ll take the next train out of Los Angeles. I promise.”

  She snapped the deadbolt shut as soon as he left. She should have felt safe knowing there were now two men very concerned for her safety. But Robert might never talk to her again and she’d just let Alain go.

  —24—

  Feeling a strong urge to get out of the cottage and paint, Sarah tied a blank canvas to her sketch box and strapped the box on her back. She walked the red bicycle up to the top of Carmel Hill and coasted down on the main road to the Monterey Wharf. The fresh, salty air blended with the woodsy pines plus the speed of her swift descent gave her a much needed shot of pure bliss. If only it could last longer than a few seconds.

  As she walked out onto the wharf, the sunshine sparkled like diamonds on the crystal blue bay. Japanese abalone divers were diving off their black and white skiffs into icy water.

  Hansen’s students sat on stools or stood painting at their easels, their smocks billowing in the coastal breeze. Sarah scanned the group for Sirena, wanting to ask her about the letter she delivered to Ada, but she didn’t see her saffron coveralls. When she went down to the wharf hoping to find her at Hansen’s class and didn’t see her saffron coveralls, she felt an uneasiness as she looked out at the sea.

  As calm as the bay’s surface was today, Sarah was aware of the danger that lurked underneath. She felt the dark spirits waiting to yank her down under if she leaned too close.

  She brought out tubes of paint
and brushes and set up her sketch box on its tripod, propped a canvas on the easel and put her thumb up through the hole in the wooden palette to get a secure grip before blending any pigments.

  Many of the abalone divers wore dark woolen jumpsuits and had brass diving helmets over their heads with air hoses attached to their mouths. The other divers she had seen at Whalers Cove were easily recognizable in their white cotton outerwear offering little protection against the numbing water. Sarah raised her brush to the canvas.

  Hansen shouted encouragement, “Just paint. And don’t stop.” Responding to his command, Sarah threw her body into her paintbrush and covered the canvas with thick, short strokes, her head flitting back and forth from the diver to the canvas, as if she were watching a tennis match. This way she forgot everything but her canvas.

  The oldest diver was standing up in the helm of his boat supervising the others. Sarah set her painterly eye upon him, but her abstract conception made the details of his figure almost indistinguishable. She swept her palette knife back and forth on the canvas, piling up layers of pigmented oils with as much determination as the divers bringing up abalone from down under and tossing their catch into waiting fishnets before diving back down again and again.

  The communal whoops shouted by the divers every time they brought up an abalone from the sea cheered her on until she too felt satisfied with the results of her labors.

  She was putting away her brushes when Hansen came over. He stood shoulder to shoulder with her and looked at her painting. “I see you’ve found your subject. Mr. Kassajara and his diving crew are an excellent choice.”

  Sarah laughed. “You weren’t supposed to know it was Mr. Kassajara. I was being abstract.”

  He smiled. “And you are. Good work. I like the energy.”

  Hansen talked for a few minutes about the modernist movement in Paris and mentioned how it had affected his own work as a colorist. She asked if he knew why Sirena hadn’t come to class. Had he heard from her? No.

  He then asked Sarah if she’d ever seen Sirena’s paintings.