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

by S. L. Hawke

  Now, after a letter written by a friend of his, and a terse telegram, A.J. had arrived with the Shaolin, who pretended to be a servant sent ahead to prepare for his arrival, and unexpectedly, an injured boy Marshal as a companion. The son A.J. had mentioned in his letter (complete with a rendering) was left behind, like a pair of old shoes. Emma tried not to see A.J. as anything other than another man, trying to find his way in a complex world. She was relieved at this turn of her thoughts, convincing herself that she disliked him already with, oddly, some relief.

  Jack immediately took notice of Emma. His look was one of piercing alarm and anger at her appearance by the horses. The family hadn’t expected Jack to arrive a day early. He appeared in the stables with his horse, road weary and filthy, as if he had encountered some sort of struggle. His lip was split and the young man that he had dragged in on his saddle had been shot.

  Sophia was inside the hotel, cooking. Where were Uriah and Beth? They were close to each other, like Margaret and A.J. had been, yet the two kept their distance from Cynthia as much as they could. Especially after Beth’s marriage to Supervisor John Towne, Cynthia and Sophia could barely see their sister unless John was away on business or distracted by Jonathan, Cynthia’s husband.

  Emma shivered at the thought of the County Supervisor. It was seeing him on horseback that fateful day, listening to him talk about Liam and her lives as if they were garbage that needed to be cleaned up and disposed of, that finalized her feelings of revenge. I will get it, someday, Emma vowed silently to herself.

  Yesterday John Towne had tried to buy her land, the same land Liam, when he was alive had owned. He claimed the railroad would seize it now that the house was in ruins. The anger he displayed at finding out Emma’s property was already in full cooperation with the Southern Pacific Railway almost made him give away his role in the ranch burning. Luckily, gold silenced all. A British Lord offered Towne a small compensation for the property’s access to Rodeo Creek on John’s land. No more was said on the matter. A gate barring access to the MacAree property was installed.

  Her routine as a stable boy was easy to do and as anxious as she was for the young Marshal to get proper medical care, she could not show it or betray her identity. But the Shaolin monk whom she knew as Wing Lam, who helped her with the underground tunnels that ran between the Chinatowns, reassured her that he would see to Andrew’s care. Like Wen, Cynthia’s female doctor, he was also an acupuncturist. Emma carefully handed Lam a gold coin secured with her royal seal to make sure Lam could have all he needed.

  Lam spoke to Jack in person briefly in this regard, garnering only a nod. How odd, Emma saw, no protestations. She studied A.J. intently while trying to look as if she were waiting for further tasks. As if sensing the true nature of her gaze, Jack caught her watching him with green eyes sharp as shards of glass.

  Emma left the travelers, leading the men’s horses into the livery stable. To keep her mind off the young Marshal’s injuries, she worked at watering, brushing down the mare and gelding, then cleaning off the dusty saddles. The gelding was so dehydrated he started to gulp. Emma had to calm him and dribble water mixed with a small amount of oak cake slowly into his trough, so that he would not develop colic.

  A tall shadow with a wide-brimmed hat and long coat filled the corner of the stall. Emma started. This sudden, silent appearance was strange for a white man. He learned more than just manners during his time in Japan, she thought. She quieted the growing hope in her mind, along with other ideas, especially the conversation where Cynthia was convinced A.J. could help Emma find justice.

  “She likes fresh oats.” His voice was melodious, soft, and held a certain power to it. Emma found herself trembling slightly as she faced him. The horse turned towards her as if to bite, but Emma held up a sorghum cake. Jack (Ay Jay — Emma truly felt it suited him more) moved quickly forward in anticipation of the equine bite, then withdrew as he watched her tame his mare. The mare breathed in her scent, ate the treat, nickered approval and turned back to her oats. Emma hoped he was impressed with her skill at preventing bad horse behavior.

  Now they regarded one another.

  A.J. was very tall, like Margaret. His eyes changed with the light from light brown to moss green. They were large, with lashes Emma envied. He was handsome, with a square chin and straight, well-formed nose with small nostrils. There were dark etchings beneath his eyes, partly from age, possibly from an old sickness. His hair was hard to see under his hat but ragged, dark, loose edges flowed over his dirty collar.

  A.J. smelled of horse, dust, and travel, but not as pungent as most men. His stubble was a few days old at best. His leather coat was well worn, had seen travel, but was made well. He wore no spurs. His boots were new.

  He did not stare, but watched her as he eased forward and placed a large hand on the rump of the mare. Then, as if startled by something she did, he stared even harder at her. He took a deep breath as if he had figured out some sort of problem. Then he turned away to check the mare, but Emma could see he had a half smile on his face. She suddenly felt very exposed and backed away to get a water bucket.

  He knows, Emma thought with some fear and panic. How could he know? I fooled many men. How could he know? I covered my throat. How? She knew there was no time for A.J. to have spoken with Cynthia or Sophia. Margaret was too full of tears. Lam perhaps, but even so, Lam knew how dangerous it would be to reveal the secret. No, Emma saw that Jack Sloan was no man’s fool. She backed away and turned towards the water pump. “Make sure she has clean hay. Stable looks good, but keep her away from the others.” She could hear the smile in his voice, as if he were saying, no, TELLING her that he knew, and that at some point payment would be made to ensure the secret.

  Emma said nothing but nodded that she had heard him. She expected more, pulling a small hoof knife out of her belt, readying to defend herself from the fondling or other aggression men act out toward boys. He knew that she was not a boy. She steeled herself for a fight, turning around to face him.

  A.J. had left, silently. Emma was alone.

  She started to breathe again, startled that she had frozen up so much. She ran to where A.J. had gone and saw him remove his hat and use the boot brush at the head of the entrance to the kitchen stairs. Sophia had burst through the door and embraced him with one of her floury encompassing hugs.

  As if sensing he were being watched again, he turned and looked around him, briefly catching Emma peeping over the stalls at him. She quickly ducked, ashamed. After a full minute of confusion, she forced herself to rise. Taking a bucket of fresh water to the mare’s trough, she felt the mare bump her affectionately with her nose, then look at Emma in commiseration.

  “You and me both,” she whispered, patting the mare’s back.

  After closing the doors on the stalls and snuffing out the lamps in the stables, Emma hopped on Don Arana’s wood cart back to Rodriguez Creek.

  *******

  I could hear the clank of plates, smell something cooking that made my mouth water, and hear voices downstairs that rang with familiarity but felt strange, all at the same time. Descending the carpeted stairs of the hotel into the bustling center of commerce of Sophia’s and Henry’s business, reminded me that I was a stranger here and quite possibly would need to find a place of my own.

  That was when the itching started.

  There were several fleas on my wrist, and I found lice trying to get into my jacket shoulders from my sitting down on the cloth chairs. Jumping away as soon as I discovered the vermin, I saw a Chinese worker appear from the hallway who picked the lice off, removing them from my sight. My hands started to shake. I made fists of them and fled to the outdoors.

  There was no real fresh air, even outside. I was too tired to notice the smoke when we arrived yesterday. The heavy smell of human excrement seemed to move through the air like a specter. I turned and heard the sound of human spitting. A man emerged from the outhouse adjacent to the kitchen door. The fog came in, with its rich wet
sprinkle, and the ocean seemed to cleanse the air a bit. I contemplated going out to the stables to check on the horses, but the street was muddy and filthy from spilled troughs and animal urine. The livery barn would most certainly be more so. The young Latina had left for God knows where, as I had seen her jump on the back of a wagon that appeared to go in an easterly direction. Her face stayed with me, calmed me, and helped me find hope in all of this mess.

  Tomorrow I will look into her situation more, I told myself, as I watched the cold fog blanket the town. The dense moisture blunted the painful-sounding edge of harsh voices, cries of pain or pleasure I did not know, and gave the lamplighter as he extinguished the few lamps on the street at the center of the town an angelic quality, diffusing him with a pale halo. Odd though it seemed, a group of men on horseback appeared to head out towards the river where I had noticed a road begin towards the mountains. We had come upon it suddenly in my hurry to get Andrew to town. There was the makings of industry along that road, as we passed Chinese workers heading the opposite direction. Where were these men off to this late at night? The sound of their horses throbbed off into the distance.

  “Jack!” a man’s voice called. I turned to see who was calling for Jack when I saw my brother-in-law Jonathan, older, more worn, but Jonathan nonetheless. He was hailing me. “It’s time to face the womenfolk.”

  “Jon.” I held my hand out but Jon grabbed onto me and hugged me. His dark hair had tinged frost, like my own at its temples. “You grew up,” Jon said, then looked chagrinned.

  “I like to think I still have a tiny drop of youth in me.”

  “I always knew you’d make good. You should be proud of that Marshal’s star.” Jon reached inside his vest for a thin cigar. He offered me one, but I declined.

  “I’m not a Marshal. The young man, with my name, is the Marshal.” I moved out of the path of Jon’s cigar smoke. Jon looked at me with narrowed eyes.

  “Whatever you say.” He took a deep puff when I heard Sophia call us loudly with a pigwaller tone to her voice.

  “Ja---ack, Jo—naa-than, it’s time for din--ner!” Jon gave me a shake of his head and rolled his eyes as we made our way inside.

  Children were everywhere. Two ran around, despite Margaret’s and Cynthia’s attempts to get them to sit. The girl children were helping set plates of rolls, ham, a side of beef, and of all things, a blood pudding. I fought down a retching sensation.

  Andrew, leaning heavily on Margaret’s arm, came to the table. A man I did not recognize greeted him. It was Margaret’s husband, whom she wrote me about, but whom I had never met.

  “Sit, man, before it gets cold!” Henry gestured to me to sit at the center of the long dining room table. I could hear another voice in the kitchen, speaking Chinese, and the man who came out from the larger hotel kitchen was African. He consulted Sophia briefly, then disappeared. Suddenly, more food made its way towards the table. Jonathan had a young boy beside him, an apprentice, yet the fondness with which he heaped food on the young man’s plate suggested the boy was family. The older girl, subdued and plainly very sad for so young a woman, placed food down onto the table with precision and hung on Sophia’s every direction. But Cynthia scolded her to sit, again, with the same warmth as if she were her daughter. The young woman took her place beside my sister. Henry’s son John was working out in Watsonville as a blacksmith’s apprentice I learned and helped his father with wagon repair on Sundays. Sarah was away at a women’s college in Santa Clara, learning to be a school teacher. James and William and Margaret’s boy were thick as thieves at the table, giggling and fidgeting. Margaret’s daughter kept an eye on Sophia’s youngest, a shy girl of six. Margaret promptly gave me her youngest son, still a babe. My skills were rusty but I managed. He was triple chinned and asleep, thankfully.

  Suddenly I heard a hymnal in the din of the kitchen with the ding of plates, as the African cook worked at providing meals for the rest of the hotel.

  There was a moment when I thought about my mother.

  “Mother—” Holding the babe while Margaret heaped unknown food onto my plate made me uncomfortable. I felt stings of fleas on my legs. God knows what else, but I tried to ignore this, looking down at the babe in my arms. My sisters looked troubled at this attempt to speak about our mother.

  “Let’s talk about this after dinner,” Cynthia said quietly. I nodded, worried.

  The rest of the dinner seemed a fast blur. There was a plate of ham with pineapple on it. I ate that with relish, bringing giggles from the young ones. Mashed potatoes and parsnips had spring onions chopped in it, a dish from my boyhood, but I feared the grit I was tasting in it. The side of beef had been cooked in wine to mask the fact that it was not fresh. Bread was fresh and heavy, but had a few unidentified black specks baked within it. The blood pudding I did not touch. There was corn pudding made from the last of the winter store, and the fresh peas I gobbled up faster than I intended, also creating giggles from the young ones.

  Cheese topped everything, stringy and nutty. Margaret smiled as I consumed it, saying the cheese came from a local young man who learned the craft in Quebec. There were beans too, which carried a heavy bacon smell, but also looked as if they had seen too many times in the pan.

  There was venison with onions, which smelled of lingered game. But the biggest and most interesting food was the wild turkey. Stuffed with the last of the winter store of apples and oranges from Chile, I appreciated the tender fruit flavor that made its way into the meat. A dish of deep, spicy, thick greens, with green onions and a Latino spice chili, I found delightful.

  My stomach would decide its fate. I feared the outhouse I saw near the kitchen most of all. Andrew excused himself and, with Margaret and her husband’s help, assisted my namesake back to his room.

  2

  “So did you tell Jack about our new doobulvaysay?” Jon leaned back in his chair as his plate was cleared. He spoke to Henry.

  “Really, boys, at the table!” Sophia clucked as she stood up, turned away briefly, and then brought an enormous chocolate iced cake to the table. She began to slice huge pieces. They found their way onto plates. Somehow we managed to eat our way through the creamy, sweet, butter-filled cake that rivaled some of the desserts I had eaten in The City.

  “I used the French word for it.” Jon defended himself as he pushed his now empty cake plate away from his place. He lit a cigar. Doublée veh seh, French for WC or water closet.

  Lavatory or toilette would have been a more appropriate word, but the colloquialism of ‘water closet’ for a foreigner seemed appropriate.

  “Will you go outside with that?” Cynthia waved the smoke away with her hand as she gathered our plates. “Now take Jack to the parlor. We all will be joining shortly, so discuss whatever you men need to discuss, and do it now.” Elmer, sleeping son in hand, bade us goodnight after a hearty handshake.

  Cynthia had made up a basket of our leftover dinner and cake. Margaret hugged me hard, kissed my cheek and told me to come for a visit on my way to see our mother. I nodded my agreement and watched the family walk out into the night to the livery stables, feeling proud that my younger sister had found happiness.

  Obeying the commanding tone of Cynthia’s voice, Jon, undoing his vest buttons with relief, led the way out of the dining room into the rich hardwood hallway back to the carpeted and clean parlor. Books covered one wall, and a drink sideboard stood in a corner near dark green velvet drapes with sheer window coverings.

  The hotel was elegant for its small size and, as Sophia pointed out during our rushed and noisy dinner, many patrons stayed for weeks at a time. They stayed because Sophia treated them well, and many were unmarried men who did not want the loneliness of a homestead at the end of a day’s work.

  My stomach was lurching and hurting, but not as badly as I thought it would. Henry went over to a dark bottle and poured out three brandies. Jon handed me one of the crystal glasses and found a large upholstered chair to sit down upon with a groan. Henry took t
he Queen’s Windsor chair and propped his arms up. I also took a chair that didn’t have cloth on it and extended my legs.

  The fatigue from yesterday’s ride ran through my entire body. Grateful for the brandy, I drank, the fruit and the spice of it speaking of French Oak and age. My eyes closed in appreciation for its depth. My sister Sophia was quite the purveyor of good taste.

  “So what is so offensive about a double vee cee? That outhouse by the kitchen door looked more like a garbage chute than anything else.” I caught myself, not sure what these men would think. They hadn’t experienced a way of life free of dirt, vermin, or sickness like I had, however briefly. Sometimes I wondered if I had simply died and gone to a different life, in this case, a worse one.

  “Ah.” Jon put his glass on the armrest of his chair. “Well, care to explain, Henry?”

  “Don’t look at me!” Henry took a fast swig of his brandy and chomped down on the cigar. Then he removed it from his mouth and stared at it as if it were a foreign object.

  “Well, I don’t know, perhaps because it was your invention!” Jonathan looked as if he were trying very hard not to break into laughter. Henry’s eyes widened in embarrassment. “Tell the story, man!” Jon said as he lit his cigar again. Henry put his unlit one in a glass dish, an ash collector, on a small, tile-topped table between the three of us.

  “I put three rooms with chamber pot vessels inside the closets of some of the bedrooms on the upper floors, so that folk could do their business without leaving the hotel each time, especially three floors up. All you do, after your business is done, is pull a chain, which then drops a spout down into the chamber pot and rinses the bowl clean down a pipe. Gravity flushes its contents away into another larger hole.” Henry stared at the table as he said this, as if speaking of a grave and deeply disturbing piece of bad news. “ But I can only do this on the second and third floors mind you, and I had to make sure the ‘contents’ washed away, so I send it down into a tunnel that flows into the ocean.”