Ghosts in the Gulch: An Evergreen Cemetery Mystery (Evergreen Cemetery Mysteries Book 1)

by S. L. Hawke

  Yes, Emma, and you are mine, Ian decided. He took his time wrapping the mink shawl around her fragrant body, its curves, soft, yet muscled. He found the back of her head with his hand and held it. She did not resist him as he delved into her warm, fruit sweetened mouth. He wanted more.

  He would have taken her if that swollen buffoon Schwann had not yelled at him to keep his distance. He gazed into her burning amber eyes and knew that she was completely his. After they had parted, Emma’s taste haunted him.

  Ian visited the whorehouse where he made the blended exotic ones, mostly fruit of a visiting Chinee laborer with gold, or a Latino rancho lord, smear their lips with coconut oil and eat fruit. He would close his eyes and take them, thinking only of her. But they were not her, they never would be.

  Each time after he visited the whorehouse, Ian wanted Emma beneath him even more and his anger at that pathetic whiny bastard of a Scot, Liam MacAree who even dared to be called husband to Emma, grew.

  After Ian had rescued her from the ruffians at the Beach Head, Ian had hoped that the next time they met there was some recognition of that kiss. There was. She blushed, as if they had committed adultery, Ian thought with deep pleasure. He enjoyed her little game of hiding from him each visit and for visits onward. But, soon it became apparent that he would never see her.

  Ian felt like a man driven to madness by starvation. Nothing seemed to satisfy this hunger, so he decided to do what was right and rescue Emma again.

  The night of the Summer Ball, Ian tried to warm her passions, show her his skill as a husband, skill that petulant, ridiculous man she had wed could never have. He was certain his actions had an effect. He almost could feel her body yield to him as cornered her in the alcove. There, he tried again to kiss her.

  In the end, she would not show herself for the rest of the evening. Later in the week, he gave a street urchin a gold piece for a lace kerchief Emma had handed to the child after he tried to pinch her purse. He watched her tender gesture of prevention and soft chastisement of the urchin. His love was complete. He vowed then that this would be the last time she would flee his embrace.

  She would beg for him. Even white women begged for him if he held them just right, touched them in certain places. White women were just ashamed of their feelings, as they had been taught, Ian learned. After all, weren’t all the worst whores white women?

  When news reached Ian of the burning and destruction of his own plantation, followed by the ransacking of its silos by the Confederate Army because they were starving from the lack of supplies, Ian laid aside his obsession with Emma to work for the greater cause of winning the War for the Southern Cross.

  This was when Ian understood that God had a plan for him and had answered his prayers. It was Liam, the husband of Emma that could help them all, with his engineering know how, but he called the Confederate Nation fools. The only prosperity they had, Liam said with disdain and disgust, was founded on the backs of the poor. That wasn’t wealth, that was slavery, Liam argued loudly. The United States was not a monarchy, he declared, and they didn’t need to build a new nation on the backs of those who could not speak for themselves. Ian truly hated Liam MacAree then.

  The argument grew until Ian simply reacted. His pistol went off right into Liam’s chest. It was truly by the will of God. He had killed Liam. Ian was far away in mind from what he was doing.

  It was John Towne who had saved him on the day of Liam’s death. John Towne had bribed the doctor in town to write up a coroner’s jury report as such: “Accidental discharge of pistol while attempting a repair, for a Mister Ian McKenna, a man of local business and good standing. While visiting Mr. MacAree on matters of engineering and mechanics, Mr. Ian McKenna had asked Mr. MacAree to repair a pistol, worn and overused in the tireless business of keeping our town safe. A round had jammed the chamber and suddenly discharged while Mr. MacAree, a man unfamiliar with arms and their peculiarities suffered a fatal discharge of a bullet to the heart.”

  Now Emma was widowed. Ian would be the next husband. And with that, all her fortune and all her maritime connections would give the War effort a chance. He would be able to get back what was his. Emma, the plantation, his title. There were his, had always been his, especially Emma, since the day on the beachhead.

  No one questioned John Towne. He was a County Supervisor. Cleverly, Ian thought, John Towne intimated that the MacAree burning had occurred because of its proximity to Branciforte Villa, a known gathering place of bandits.

  This distraction gave the Knights unrestricted access to the wharf. They disembarked quickly, bought supplies and looked for a place to set up operations.

  Ian recommended they seek the safety of the mountains. Using his slave trading experience with old French plantation owners from Haiti, Ian knew how to hold the greasers hostage. He appealed to their sense of entitlement, promised them havoc and a chance to take back their lands, knowing full well that in the end The Confederates or the Knights, would rule over them.

  In the evenings, Ian sometimes rode with the Reverend, a grave digging zealot who was useful in inspiring new members to get on their horses, put white linen hoods over their faces, and herd the groups of Asian workers used by the foundries and factories up the River, back towards town, terrifying them to climb into their filthy canoes and go across the bay to the Chinese camp there. Knights in White Linen, the Reverend called them, in the name of Christ our Lord.

  The pain in Ian’s belly from an old gunshot began to ache in earnest. While in search of exotic half breed whores in Chinatown, Ian found solace in opium, carefully, so he did not lose all of his wits, but enough to dull the pain of both wounds. He took a swig from a small blue bottle in his vest pocket.

  “Mr. McKenna, the house-“

  An explosion knocked him senseless.

  Ian woke, but Emma was gone, with her servants, as if she were never there at all. He was stupid to think she would have been here alone. What a fool he was. Now all he could do was salvage the remaining gun shells and superiorly smooth pipe barrels Liam had in his workshop. Poole would need them to build rifles. The shells would be used to attack the next stage from Wells Fargo.

  The Workshop was completely empty.

  “FUCK!” John Towne exclaimed. “Did you do this??” He yelled and ran out to Ian. “It’s not here.” Ian also glared at the empty workshop.

  “I was certain we would find at least something we could copy.” Ian took off his hat.

  “Relax, Ian. The Mason, Henry Harris?” John Towne looked out of the door at the nearby fragrant smoldering debris. He gestured to one of his men to throw water on the still burning pile.

  “What about him?” Ian looked around him as again he took out the small Chinese bottle. He took yet another tiny swig, then returned the bottle gently into his vest pocket.

  “I think he worked close enough with MacAree to figure out his steel pipe designs. And I have some influence.”

  McKenna sneered at John Towne. Emma pretended to rake nearby as she listened further to their conversation. “Let’s just say the widow I am after is a lot more attainable than the widow of MacAree. You should give up this…” John Towne gestured with one large hand at the surrounding ravaged property. “-dream of power and status. She’s Royal and you are nothing but a poor Highlander.”

  McKenna grabbed John Towne’s jacket lapels and pushed him away. Then he took his rifle and pointed it dead center on John Towne’s chest.

  “I owned several thousand acres of cotton in Alabama. And the slaves to work it. I don’t plan to give up any coin, no matter what that logging son of bitch president says.” McKenna lifted his rifle. “Besides, it was MacAree’s blasting formula that worked. Better than any we have made. He also found gold here. I intend to find that as well. “

  “Good luck with that. Sweet’s up at the top of the hill and they shared the rights.” John Towne adjusted his jacket. “You had best be careful not to make too many enemies here. We need these greasers, at least until
we get our shipments out to Texas. Then we will have more money than a rational man can even dream about.”

  “We need to win the War first. With Russian money we could win,” McKenna snarled, surveying the ruins like an angry starving dog. “Money from the Sandwich Islands-,“ McKenna took out a small lace kerchief. He fingered it tenderly, then stuck his face upon it. Emma tried not to gasp. Don Arana made frantic gestures for her to lift and carry wood to the waiting cart, his payment, but Emma was too horrified to see her handkerchief, one she had given to a young child in the streets last year, in McKenna’s hand.

  “You like your whores exotically perfumed, I see.” John Towne chuckled. McKenna turned but he did not smile.

  “And you like yours bound, bleeding, and gagged.” McKenna smiled, slowly, showing perfectly white teeth. “We all have our….tastes. At least I don’t visit public brothels, not with so much exoticness sprinkled about, and no one cares about my preferences. Yours, however, might make for interesting reading, Supervisor…” Then pocketing Emma’s kerchief, he said with a grin, “I’m sure the Knights of our Illustrious Golden Circle will also withdraw their generous support for your community efforts.” Here McKenna turned. Emma could see he was fingering a gun on his hip. John Towne stepped a foot back, holding something small in his left hand. “The estate of a young jeweler is a complex miasma of financial problems when he dies, leaving a young son to inherit.”

  “Don’t threaten me with my fiancée’s late husband’s fate.” John Towne stood his ground. “All I have to do is tell them who killed the inventor.”

  “It’s too late for that. It would smear your good name. You’d never be able to do business in this town again.” Here McKenna paused. Emma saw how cruel he truly was. “Remember Supervisor, fire can’t erase every trail. Not even one as small as the estate of that young white widow you are determined to wed.” McKenna turned, but did not put his back to John Towne. “There will be an accounting at the next meeting of the Town Fathers. Be sure to attend.” With a swirl of his coat, McKenna walked towards the remains of the workshop.

  John Towne swallowed and ground his teeth.

  So it’s true, Emma thought. The Knights ARE the men of this town. They are the ones harassing the people of color here. Are they also beating, raping, and pillaging both Californio and Asian work camps wearing white hoods? The citizens of the town are robbing each other, not ‘bandidos’.

  My father was right. Emma stood there, wondering how to get to the basement of the workshop. McKenna had gone inside, then came out the other way. He kicked a nearby empty water trough and swore.

  Emma grabbed the wheel barrow and walked over to the workshop, stopping to pick up small usable lumber, something Old Juan would resell to the other farmers at the local market. She saw that the workshop had no door, and with a deep breath, went inside, afraid to see the devastation of Liam’s life.

  Nothing was in there. All the equipment had been removed. Again, John Towne and McKenna began arguing. Their shouting at each other died down when Emma watched them as they both figured out that someone else had taken the contents.

  Emma could not figure out who would have done this. There had been very little time to take the equipment. She heard boot walk behind her, scurried between two tables, and hid.

  “It’s that goddamn effete! That greaser Lorenzana!” John Towne exclaimed. “Fucking little bastard.”

  “He dies.” McKenna began to stride away, but John Towne stopped him with grab to his arm. McKenna shook him off.

  “That little bastard knows every pathway across those mountains AND can decipher the Wells Fargo delivery code. I tell you, he can get us the schedule.”

  Wells Fargo? The Gold Stage? Emma strained forward to hear more. They spoke out loud because only Old Juan was far away. All the rest were either working for John Towne or McKenna. Then John Towne broke out laughing.

  “We are fools. We saw who took everything. We saw him leave, with all those laden ponies.” Then as if understanding came from the heavens, both men looked up the ridge.

  Emma grinned. Paul Sweet had had his revenge. She blessed the General in her heart and began to form a plan. It would take time, but as Liam was fond of saying: “Good things come to those who are patient.”

  I need to visit my aunt, Emma thought, as she suddenly found the iron box that contained Liam’s barrel designs and powder ratios. It rested beneath the counter of one of the work tables. She placed the box inside her shirt and left the workshop with her wheelbarrow.

  They came down the road from the estate unmolested, Old Don Arana singing about blooming night cacti and the fruits of the gods making whole the hearts of those that were broken.

  God help me, Eliza sighed. Again if it’s not too much trouble.

  *******

  Mrs. Eliza Sloan was too ill to do much other than tend her vegetable garden, but despite her lung cancer, she served tea to the Dowager Duchess Leonovna of Russia. Then, together, they worked the row of onions.

  The Dowager adjusted her French straw hat against the strong sun of California.

  “I must say, this happy accident of meeting you instead of my niece at the harbor has been such a treat. Alexei hated it when I did my own gardening. He’d say it was too much of a show of my peasant’s roots.” Duchess Leonovna sat back on her bustle and sighed with a smile.

  Eliza pulled at a weed with shaking fingers. “And what did you say to that?” she gasped.

  “I said, my dear, we were all peasants once. Our family just had enough of it.” She laughed, as did Eliza. They heard the loud cracking sound of a crate falling. A young man, hair cut close to his very round head, dropped a crate of artichokes on the ground.

  “Oh Uriah, you found them!” Eliza tried to get up, but failed. The Duchess extended a hand to her. “Uriah is my youngest, my baby...” Eliza smiled. “My older boy, Andhra, will be here soon. Once I see him then I can truly rest. I miss him so.” Eliza had a spasm of pain and began to cough. Shaking, she reached inside her bodice, pulled out a small Chinese bottle, and took a deep sip. The Duchess helped Eliza put its top back on the bottle and place it in her bodice again with the deep and simple understanding of those who know another is dying. They looked at Uriah and the broken crate. “Those are artichokes, from Rome. I plan to try and cultivate them. They are delicious with butter and salt and wine.” Here Eliza giggled as if she were a young girl. The Duchess smiled sadly at her. “It’s the opium talking, I know, but I am grateful to have each day.”

  “Let us two old tree trunks lean against one another.” And with that the two women rose up from the furrow. “I take it from your lack of smiling young man that there is unpleasant news.” The Duchess brushed off her skirts and with a lift of her corseted bosom stared with expectation at him.

  “The MacAree Ranch burned down today.”

  “Oh no, oh poor Emma.” Eliza Sloan started to collapse. Uriah ran and helped her sit in a nearby wooden chair. “Emma, is she alright? The poor dear will need a place to stay.”

  “Allow me to handle that.” The Duchess waved a jeweled hand at Uriah. “Konstantin! Konstantin!” she called out onto the roadway. A very large man, with an equally large moustache, cantered forward on a great white pony. “It’s time we prepared the Estate for habitation.” The Duchess turned to Eliza and gave her a hug. “Now I insist that you get some rest or I will send my head of security to enforce it. As for you young man,” and here the Duchess rose to her full height, a mere five feet, “I expect you to court that lovely young girl down at the local shop.” With this dramatic statement, Konstantin brought with him a full wagon, dismounted his regal horse, and helped the Duchess into her dark, velvet-lined barouche and into her seat.

  “Young Uriah.” The Duchess waved her now gloved hand from her carriage. Uriah came up with a frown, his grey eyes peering suspiciously inside the dark, rich carriage.

  “A group of mounted Cossacks led by a small angry man will be following me. Take care not to be in
the road. Virofsky, my head of security, has a tendency to be a bit of a grump.” Then she gave Uriah a gold coin. “And this is for a new suit.”

  Uriah scowled at the Duchess, his grey eyes turning a bit warm. He handed her the coin back with the same hand.

  “You will forgive me, Dowager, if I don’t take your coin.” Uriah growled a bit. “The woman I want should take me on my own merits, a poor farmer with hard work, as my shield.”

  The Dowager Duchess patted his hand but said nothing. She banged her walking stick on the floor of the carriage. It lurched, then rolled ahead, followed by a heavily stacked and laden cart with a Chinese servant at the reins. The entire covered caravan rattled off down the road towards the headwaters of Soquel Creek.

  “Now that visit was absolutely lovely,” Eliza sighed. Her son opened the crate of old, moldy, green egg-sized vegetables that had come all the way from Italy. His mother regarded them with disinterest. “Oh dear, well, we have quite a bit of work to do.” She giggled again then lay back in her rocking chair and closed her eyes. Uriah took a quilt from the railing and placed it across her body with tender sadness, then picked up the entire crate and began to feed them to the pigs. He hesitated, then saved one from the sow and placed it on the windowsill of the kitchen as he went outside to wash up.

  The Knights of the Golden Circle had called a meeting and his employer, the Warden of the Jail, emphasized how important his attendance would be to his future.

  3

  Outside Santa Cruz Township, near the West Cliff archway.

  Jaime did exactly as Mrs. Guild had instructed him to do.

  “Send my servant Wen back to me as soon as your sister Jane says she feels pain,” Mrs. Guild, her blond curls framing her white face like an angel’s halo, had instructed Jaime as she straightened his clean white collar. Mrs. Guild had sent her Chinese servant, Wen, to Jaime with a basket of milk, bread and cheese every week for the last month. Sometimes Wen came with Juan Arana the younger, son of Woodsman Don Arana. Young Juan had a kind smile and though he looked as young as Jaime, didn’t seem like a boy. Juan didn’t have any stubble on his face and his hands seemed very careful, like Mrs. Guild’s. Jaime thought Juan was hiding something out of fear, just like the other ladies who were helping them.