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

by S. L. Hawke

  “Why wasn’t I part of this?” I gestured to what had just happened. They didn’t trust me to get this job done. My head began to pound.

  “Bringing down a known Confederate Rebel Encampment isn’t enough for you?” Andrew said with some humor. It broke the tension. I nodded.

  “Point made. But why would Confederates make a deal with non-whites?” I threw my hat onto my saddlebags under the window and rubbed my temples.

  “You know that saying about dealing with the devil and robbing Peter to pay Paul?”

  “So, the South uses what they can to win. I get that. But it’s a matter of trust and deals.”

  “True.” Andrew got up and went over to a basin. He poured water into it, then began to undo his collar and cuffs. He put the collar on the table and rolled up his sleeves. “The Chinese are using the Confederates’ assumptions to get the trade they need, and the Californios are using a different set of assumptions to regain the control they have lost.” Andrew started to wash his face and neck. His actions looked good. I’d follow, later.

  “So you’re saying that the gunpowder shipments from China actually bring in other items—” “

  “Opium mostly, and of course…women.” Andrew dunked his entire head in the basin. I waited until he finished with his vigorous head rub. “The Confederates assume the Chinese are idiots and are being taken for a ride and that they are getting the better end of the deal. Trust me, that is how most of the business gets done around here, assumptions that the Chinese know their ‘place’ and our arrogant position that we are at the top of the heap.”

  Suddenly it hit me. Andrew had grown up around trips to Asia. His mother was one fine educator. He smiled at me, seeing now that I understood a very strong fact. Andrew had mastered the ability to hide behind his youth, much like Fergus, to get what he could done. For a moment bitterness welled up in me. Time was running out for my life, and all I had accomplished was to hide from my memories. The one thing that mattered, my son Hiru, was out of my reach. The only comfort was that Andrew’s mother would take great pains and care with him and teach him to survive where I had essentially failed. A great sigh left me.

  “And the Spanish?” I stood up, taking off my outer shirt and noticing the dirt we tracked in by not being shoeless.

  “Californios.” Andrew now used an old flour sack as a towel. He looked a shade lighter and the basin he just washed in was now dark brown.

  “They prefer the use of the word Spanish.” Now I was in my territory of knowledge. “They use the hatred of our culture as a mask. This I know, and have seen. But after a while, it backfires. Still, most likely the Confederates will see the Dons as greedy, appeal to it, and in the end will suffer betrayal.” This last part I said to myself but Andrew’s fine ears heard it.

  “Meaning the Dons or the Confederacy?”

  “The Dons. Or their younger descendants. Whoever is dealing with the Confederates is after the same thing. Gold or even better, opium and gunpowder, to effectively—”

  “Start a revolution?” Andrew shook his head. “Shit, of course.” Andrew moved his lower jaw to one side. “They get gold or shipment from the Chinese stockpile in hopes to overthrow local government, by bribes or forgery, the same government who is currently diverted by the rebel activities of its own citizens!” Andrew looked positively excited by this news even though this realization was dour. “What you are saying is that we are right in the idea that the Chinese just want to be left alone to establish, effectively, an extension of their own interests into our lands, gaining REAL economic hold over the region while us hothead white people squabble amongst ourselves and the indigenous. But what we’ve forgotten, in our arrogance, since California IS a state and we did sign a treaty, is that the Spanish are hoping to hold on to or regain the goldmines, the quicksilver, and the lands.” Andrew’s narrative was like firecrackers. He found a clean shirt and put it on. “Still, it is a comfort to know that they are too busy fighting us to pay attention to the Chinese, who can turn ANYTHING into golden opportunity just by having an exemplary work ethic.”

  “Or organized serfdom.” Asian cultures abounded with class systems to use the lower populations to gain ends for the powerful warlords. It was a highly successful system that had a millennia of perfection behind it. “Overwhelm the area with sheer numbers of your countrymen, get the upper class helpless by effectively being indispensable to their community’s economy — hell we tried to do that with California, but thought guns worked better than domestic service.”

  Andrew started laughing, quietly, the kind of laugh of a man who has figured out the simple solution to a complex game.

  “Meanwhile, the Californios are using our destabilized government as a wedge, hoping it will topple if they lend some support, say inciting fear among the citizens covertly, distracting the authorities long enough to allow them to come in during the eventual chaos and seize control of properties vacated by frightened citizens—”

  “Or with gold, buy back lands that were poorly ‘deeded’ so that they have legal footing every which way. Hold on to land, you have the power.” I rubbed the back of my neck. Dirt came off. “From the Dons’ perspective, land grants give you power and the larger you are—”

  “The larger the country they represent —you think they might even want to be an independent nation from Mexico?”

  “Why not? The Dons have the same ‘warlord’ philosophy.”

  “There’s something we could learn from all this.” Andrew chewed his lower lip but I could see his eyes light up. “You’re thinkin’ we should use their assumptions of us.”

  Us. Yes, in the end I was one of the white culture. For so long, I had felt an alien in my own skin. It was time to end that.

  “Big, white, stupid, loud, disorganized—” Andrew continued with a nod, “as a way to accomplish OUR goals.”

  I smiled, halfway, but I did smile. “A large, independent, solid nation of industry, commerce, and hopefully a player on that world political stage, proving that countries can really be a world force without a monarchy behind it?” I liked this thought. It was what we Scots had always believed. It also served a future. A United one.

  Andrew was grinning at me like I just got his lesson right. I was panicking. I was no spy, but I could be patriotic. “Mr. Lincoln understands this, I reckon” was all I could manage to say on this matter. Andrew grinned and chuckled, patting me on the shoulder.

  The door flew open, making us both jump.

  “Gentlemen! I’ve been looking all over for you! The Mine Manager has just invited us all to dinner with his daughters!” Fergus cried.

  *******

  “Really, Mr. Sloan, how can you suggest I do such a thing?” Mrs. Mine Manager, whose name I did not remember, tittered too loudly, trying too hard to be a coquette. French swearing filtered in from the kitchen. The smile disappeared from the Missus’ over-powdered face. She turned to her sweating husband, who pulled at his own tuxedo vest and said harshly: “I told you this savage cook of yours was a mistake!”

  “I’m sure you and the young ladies would enjoy an outing. But I should warn you, young people should be supervised or they get ideas in their heads,” I added with a half-smile, gesturing towards the earnest laughter and teasing going on at the far end of the table. A few vacant seats in between the ‘older generation’ and the ‘children’ made us almost separate parties sharing a common place.

  Mrs. Mine Manager, three times her husband’s girth, smiled warmly at me and then caressed the top of my hand with her fan. Her husband looked away, disgusted. I withdrew my hand to my lap, taking my napkin with me so as not to look too flustered by her attempt to flirt.

  “I apologize for this atrocious French food. Gilly here wanted a French cook, against my objections. They are such untutored, unrefined savages. “

  My attention naturally went directly to the food. Beef, cut up into cubes, had been cooked with butter and deep red wine. Carrots and potatoes and rhubarb of all things rounde
d out this dish. This was followed by tender lettuces, including some I had seen growing wild along the road, but they were coated with a salty and sweet vinegar that made even the most skeptical of fresh greens want to fill one’s gullet like a starving horse. Sprinkled among this garden were hazelnuts and blue cheese and spring onions. Then there was ICE, with something called glace du crème. The Manager noticed my appreciation of the cold, palate-cleansing dessert.

  “We found an ice cave when we were sinking another shaft. I had it tunneled in and put a door on it. We keep all our perishables for the store and the house in there. In the summer it can get as high as 120 degrees on the plain. The ice cave keeps the food fresh. As a result the workers are healthy.”

  The wife made a dismissive sound and turned away from her husband.

  There was duck, infused with herbs and honey, served with small tiny potatoes and rosemary. The creamy, yet salty cheese from sheep held well with the fresh blackberries. Of course, it would not be a French meal without wine. I held my glass, cut crystal by the look of it, to the table’s center candle and saw the ruby red color distinctive of Spanish grapes. With the glass rim to my nose, the fragrance was musky and strong, a bit past its prime, or it did not travel well. Again, the French from the kitchen brought up a memory.

  “Ah, my sensitive friend!” Pierre Luc Marie Croix placed the bottles in front of me while the ship swayed back and forth. Neither he nor I got seasick. It was a long voyage to Japan. “Viola—please!” Pierre had fled France’s wars, and there was a rumor that he cooked for the Emperor Napoleon.

  “This one is from Bordeaux and this one is from…close to Italy …” I guessed. Pierre could not be his real name, but we Americans called every Frenchman “Pierre”.

  “Vraiment! Mon ami, you are incroyable. Or as you English say…

  “Scottish. Scottish AMERICAN,” I emphasized. This week, Pierre had taught me the plus-parfait tense of French and how to tell a good wine from swill. And of course, the food. Ah! As much as I could eat, since most of the crew were throwing up and below deck, including the Captain.

  “Ah! Well, now what is this?” The wine was white.

  “Spain?” I did my best. Pierre laughed.

  “Incroyable…Languedoc.” And he kissed his fingertips then opened all of them, the French gesture for perfection. I showed my disappointment. Pierre slammed me in the shoulder. “Idiot! Languedoc is on the border!”

  Laughter diverted my attention to Fergus who, at the far end of the table, was telling some amusing stories of wild life in an area known as Blackfoot Territory. Andrew went along, pretending to smile, but I could see he was thinking of Estella. In fact he posted a letter to her before we came to dinner.

  The General was not present, hence the vacant seats, which surprised me. He was never one to turn down a meal. But perhaps because we had served a writ, he had expected all of us to be included in that uncomfortable situation. But the Mine Manager seemed to express relief at the Army’s presence and gave the General and his officers the top half of his house. Fergus should have been included in that quartering. Instead, he shared with us, pleading unusual hours as a Quartermaster and not wanting to burden the family with it.

  “It’s a pity the General couldn’t be here with us,” said the voice from the beautiful young woman across from me. Her name was Sally Towne. She was tall with blond hair, curled, and in need of a wash. She was enroute to San Juan Bautista after visiting her brother, John Towne, my new brother–in-law. Why did I not feel our stop here and hers were just coincidence?

  The dress she wore showed too much cleavage pushed up from her corseted tiny waist. Her dress was made from fabric so sheer it bordered on indecent. “I must say, are you related to Mrs. Eliza Sloan of Watsonville, and her son Uriah? My brother just married a widow who claims her as kin.” Sally had cold grey eyes with long lashes, and a fine nose.

  “Yes.” Here, I cleared my throat. “Mrs. Eliza Sloan is my mother.”

  She held herself, as many beautiful ruthless women do, with regality and confidence. I must say, or admit, Sally Towne did strike my fancy.

  Those large, darkly-lashed eyes were lavender-colored, and her fingers were long, clean, and white. Her mouth, though larger than what I was accustomed to, was surrounded by delicate, almost vermillion, lips. They were glistening from some sort of coating on them. Women in the islands often used coconut or kukui nut oil on their bodies, especially the lips. They anointed their nethers as well. My wife used sesame oil for the same purpose.

  The thoughts of Sally’s nethers made me again clear my throat. She knew she was every bit of a man’s hope, all very distracting. Reaching for my wine glass, I swallowed half of it in one gulp. Miles was right, I was vulnerable in this sexless state. I missed her terribly, but Miles had spoken of women’s wiles. Miles’ lessons showed me now that Sally was adept at such things.

  “Miss Towne, how do you manage to travel without the scandal of being seen as a harlot on your own?” the Missus hissed. Her thick, ring-encrusted fingers clutched the delicate crystal wine glass so ferociously, I thought it would break. Secretly I found myself hoping it would.

  “My brother made sure that my hired hands kept them to themselves.” She smiled slightly as she took a sip of her wine. “A rifle and a small pistol are wonderful reasons to leave certain things untouched.” Sally licked her lips slowly, causing the Mine Manager’s eyes to bulge out. I simply took another sip of the rich Spanish vintage. Sally continued even more softly, “My guards are Californios from a Rancho my brother is trying to acquire.”

  “The Californio population claims royal descent from the King. They have also said that the less prosperous ranchos were given unwanted kin.” The Missus was eying Miss Towne as if she were the maid caught stealing. “Perhaps he is intending to make some sort of more permanent association with the Dons?” Mrs. Mine Manager was intending another slight, by inferring marriage. For some, marriage to Californios was beneath them, unless there was an actual Royal connection. Very few Ranchos could claim this, but I could see from the way Sally smirked at the missus, she was too shrewd to be intimidated by inferences on poor social standing.

  “Forgive me, I’m not of a business mind, but I meant to use the word…” She looked up, but there was something in it that told me she was only pretending to have misused a word. “I meant, ‘seize’. Through legal means of course. Those greasers are always in debt, and my brother suffers no fools.” The derogatory term didn’t suit her. No one seemed to care, except me. What kind of hell hole was Santa Cruz?

  “Here. Here,” the Mine Manager agreed, but suffered a blow to the ribs from his wife’s elbow.

  “Of course, speaking of acquiring, it would seem your very beautiful sister has already acquired my brother. The wedding was quite quaint. A borrowed silk day dress, a pastor from the local church, and a homemade cake.” Here there was a pause. I steeled myself for one insult, perhaps directed to my family.

  “Her name is Beth Sloan Woolsey,” Sally said for the benefit of our hosts, “a widow with a young child. My brother could not turn a young woman away in such a state.” The remark created an expression of effrontery in the Missus.

  “I’m grateful your brother is so charitably inclined,” I stated, refolding the napkin in my lap.

  “From what we hear of your brother, Miss Towne, he has quite an eye for young and vulnerable.” The Missus slammed her wine glass down and met Sally’s eye. Sally was unruffled. I couldn’t help but admire her steel. Much like Miles, a lot like her, but without warmth, I sternly reminded myself. Still…

  “Beth Sloan, like her brother here, is quite remarkable. She caught John’s eye right away. I am sure they would have been, if not already are, expecting a child of their own, hence the hurry!” She giggled, trying to sound and infer scandal but no one bit. This was the West, I was learning, and pregnancy from sharing beds before marriage was not uncommon. “My brother also wishes to impress his dear new wife with a lovely large estate
,” Sally added quickly but batted her eyes in an almost mocking manner. Then she turned upon me. “What do you say to all of this, Mr. Sloan?”

  “Yes, Beth is my youngest sister,” I said quietly to Miss Towne. She again gave me a bright-eyed fake expression of surprise followed by a smile, but there was frost and cunning behind it. Silently I thanked Miles for her schooling. The room was extremely hot. Someone already knew of my whereabouts and would expect me in Santa Cruz earlier than planned. The wine glass was dirty as I raised it to my lips. Why hadn’t I noticed it before? I placed it back down on the table.

  “Mr. Sloan, I do hope we can travel home together? Will you be traveling on directly to Santa Cruz? Or will you be staying on here for a while? I didn’t know you had such a strong relationship with the Army.” The statement made me nervous. Why was this woman so interested, beyond the family connection, in my whereabouts? I reclined, and tried to appear flattered at her interest. My gut was roiling, a warning that this was not a good line of inquiry. As they taught us in the Belly of the Whale, the best lies have truth embedded within.

  So I answered in the only way I could, with the truth. “I plan on making my way towards Santa Cruz. Looking at land parcels on the way, perhaps to settle or buy.”

  Sally widened her eyes at me and nodded. “A man of means. Eliza, I mean, Beth, thought you might be. Is it true you married a Japanese princess?”

  There was silence at the table. My throat was very dry. All my reactions to this statement would determine my cover. I turned my wine glass by its base.

  “Why, Miss Towne, are you inquiring as to the state of my marriageability?” I looked sideways at her and settled more into my chair. The gasp from our hostess told me I’d hit the flirtatiousness mark. I leaned forward and looked at Sally, feeling like I was trying for a strike after feeling the fish’s bite. “Are you suggesting you might have a need for male company on the return journey to your brother’s home? The road, I hear, is routinely bothered by thieves, making refined ladies as you tempt fate.” At this point I leaned across the table and looked her in the eye. The lavender in them went to steel. For some reason I imagined her astride me, like Miles had been. This felt good.