by Dianne Day
“Braxton.” He winked. “Don’t mind if I do.”
We sat in the parlor, and I wished for the first time in ages that I had someone to bring in coffee or tea. Hettie’s parlor is quite formal, due to the fact that before she was widowed and became a lighthouse keeper she had lived in a rather fine house. She had brought that lifestyle and some of its furnishings with her: colored glass lamps dripping crystal pendants, brocaded upholstery, lacy antimacassars, oriental rugs, a silver tea service, and more. Braxton Furnival seemed quite at home in these surroundings. So much so that I wondered if he had been there before.
I asked, “Are you acquainted with Mrs. Henrietta Houck, the lighthouse keeper, by any chance?”
He smiled. His face was so cleanly shaven that it shone as if polished. “No, I am not. I thought you were the lighthouse keeper. In addition to your typewriting service, of course.”
“I am, but only temporarily. Mrs. Houck will return in six months.”
“Oh, yes. So you said; I remember now. But after her return you’ll be staying on in Pacific Grove?”
“That depends on a number of things,” I said vaguely, then changed the subject. “I’ve done some of your letters and envelopes. I have them here rather than at the office. If you want to take them with you …?” I deliberately skirted the subject most on my mind, which was the sketch of Jane Doe that I’d left under his knocker.
He introduced it himself, pulling the folded paper from an inside pocket. With a snap he unfurled it. “Nope. I came about this—you left it on my front door. I’m not sure when, because I do my coming and going from the side door. Anyhow, I found it this morning and thought I’d best come right along.”
“It was only yesterday. Do you know her?” I asked, with an effort to appear casual, whereas actually my heart had begun to beat too rapidly.
Braxton turned the sketch over and studied it; he was farsighted and held it at arm’s length, frowning slightly. “I might. Then again, I might not. Is it a good likeness?”
“I am not sure. The woman is dead.” I closely observed his reaction, which was minute, only a twitching of the tiny muscles about the eyes. “She was pulled from the bay about ten days ago, with only half her face. The fish had eaten the rest. That sketch is a postmortem extrapolation.”
He grimaced, and for a moment there was censure in his expression—which did not surprise me in the least. I had been deliberately rather grisly. “You’re the artist? You drew this?” he asked.
“No. I caused it to be drawn by a friend.”
“On whose authority?” He sounded suddenly sharp.
“On my own authority.”
Oddly enough, this bold reply seemed to satisfy him. The set of his shoulders relaxed and he smiled, showing even teeth that seemed very white against his tanned skin. “May I assume that you are not working with the police?”
I inclined my head, which cost me; pain flashed behind my eyes while I replied in the affirmative.
“Then on whose behalf,” he persisted, “are you making an attempt to identify this woman? She cannot mean anything to you, or you would know her identity yourself. Are you an agent, Miss Jones?”
“No,” I said. But what an interesting idea! “How do you mean, an agent?”
Braxton’s eyes narrowed. “You’re an unusual sort of woman, Fremont. The sort, I think, they would choose.”
My head throbbed dangerously. Stress, I supposed, must make it do that. “They? I’m sorry, Braxton, but I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
“Pinkerton’s,” he said.
“The detective agency? I’ve heard of Pinkerton’s, of course. Do they employ females?” I was genuinely interested. For the moment I forgot poor Jane Doe.
“Yep.” Braxton stretched his long legs out, crossing his booted feet at the ankles.
“I suppose,” I mused, “they must have an office in San Francisco, or perhaps Oakland, since one hears they do a good deal of work for the railroads. I confess it never occurred to me they would have women detectives, but I do think it is a splendid idea.” I gave Braxton a brilliant smile.
He waved the sketch at me. “Far as this woman goes—d’you think I could take a look at what’s left of her? Without the police knowing?”
In spite of the fact that I have little use for the police myself, I get rather suspicious when someone else tries to avoid them. Perverse of me, I know, but there it is. I decided that an attitude of complicity might elicit some information, so I said, “I quite sympathize. I am not overfond of the police either.”
“Oh?” His eyes flashed interest. They were gray, and flashed silver, like his excellent hair.
“The police in San Francisco are sometimes not entirely honest,” I explained. “Last year a corrupt policeman did his best to have me accused of a crime. He did not succeed, fortunately.”
“And were you innocent or guilty?”
“Innocent, of course!”
“Of course.” His eyes roamed my face, lingering on my bruised cheek. But he did not mention it; to do so would have been rude in the extreme. His voice dropped and took on a suggestive tone. “Well, how about it? Shall we go take a look at this dead woman, see if I know her once I’ve seen her in as much flesh as she’s got left? That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“Indeed,” I said, rising slowly because my aching head was telling me to move with care. “I will just get my shawl.”
Braxton’s automobile was one of the new touring models, a natty Oldsmobile, dark green with brass trim. It quite put plain old black Max in the shade. All the jouncing, however, was not good for my head. I was most relieved when Braxton, following my directions, pulled up alongside Mapson’s Mortuary.
“I know the man,” Braxton said, assisting me from the passenger seat. For once such assistance was not just female foolishness—I needed it. “Know him through the business community,” he added. “I’ll handle this.”
I acquiesced willingly, even walking a few steps behind. I stood back, too, when the door was opened by a different person this time. Not Long and Tall Tom, but an altogether rounder, older man whose immediate recognition of my silver-haired companion suggested it was Mapson himself. They greeted each other heartily and after the usual ritual of handshaking and meaningless comments, Braxton said, “I’ve come to take a look at that Jane Doe you’re holding. Heard about her through the lady here, Miss Fremont Jones. She’s lighthouse keeper out to Point Pinos and discovered the body in the first place.”
I peered around Braxton’s shoulder, but Mapson hardly glanced at me. Instead he pulled a well-practiced, mournful face and held out his hands, palms up. “Wish I could help you but I can’t. The Jane Doe’s gone, and that idiot assistant of mine lost the paperwork. I don’t even know who she got released to.”
CHAPTER NINE
KEEPER’S LOG
January 22, 1907
Wind: NW, moderate, some gusting
Weather: Cool; heavy cloud cover; choppy seas with
whitecaps
Comments: Fishing boats in and out; freight steamer
down from S. F. grounded S of Santa Cruz at Capitola,
no injuries reported.
In spite of the bad weather I set out for Carmel on Monday at the earliest possible time. I was beginning to think that if I waited for it to clear I’d be waiting until spring. The previous day the weather was the worst I’d yet seen here: The wind flung rain and surf-spawned mist at the lighthouse with such force that often it was impossible to see through the glass, either in the watch room or from the lantern, and it howled around the tower like some demented ghost in one of Arthur Heyer’s stories.
When the rain stopped and the wind died in the early morning hours, around 3:00 A.M., the change was so abrupt that the very silence woke me. Naturally enough, I expected that the day would dawn to those glorious blue skies one sees after storms, so clear and clean they seem scrubbed. But no; when I went up to the watch room at six o’clock and
looked out, I was seriously disappointed. Not that I cannot enjoy Nature in all her guises, especially on Point Pinos, where every one of those guises has its own particular beauty—but it would have been so much more pleasant to do what I had to do in better weather.
“At least it is not raining,” I observed to myself and to Bessie, who put one of her ears back. Apparently the comment did not rate the attention of two ears. The horse was in fine fettle after being confined to quarters, so to speak, for two days straight. I was in similar fettle after being likewise confined, albeit by a half day less than the horse.
On Saturday, Braxton had returned me from Mapson’s to the lighthouse considerably worse for the experience. I did my best to keep my physical and emotional distress from him—physical in the form of a renewed headache so intense that persistent nausea accompanied it; emotional because the loss or disappearance or abduction of Jane Doe’s body filled me with such a variety of emotions that I doubt I could have named them all even had I been entirely well. Not for a minute did I believe the story Mapson had foisted on us: that some of Jane Doe’s relatives had arrived and taken her away for burial. Braxton, however, brightened right up and said, “That takes care of that, then!” And I thought: Hah!
Subsequently Braxton had taken me home. Whereupon Quincy, who seldom says much of anything unless prodded, took one look at me and gave me the dickens for going out. He insisted that I—in his words—“stay put for a while!” So I did; he spent the rest of Saturday afternoon and much of the evening in the watch room rather than coming and going—I think to be sure I didn’t cheat.
Sunday I was a good girl, even if I did not go to church: I honored the Sabbath (not to mention my head injury) with a day of rest. I watched the storm and read all of Arthur’s ghostly tales; the two went quite well together. I did not consider the reading of the tales as work, even though it is perfectly true that I can type faster and with fewer mistakes when I do not actually read while I am typing. Lack of absorbing reading material was the only fault I could find with Hettie’s well-ordered house, and one that could easily be remedied. A single idle day reminded me that I should obtain a card for the public library.
Just before supper last night, Quincy came into the kitchen with one hand behind his back. “You look a deal better, Fremont,” he said.
I turned from the stove, where I was stirring a cream sauce to which I intended to add some leftover chicken and peas, and said, “Thank you. I feel much better this evening than I have since it happened.”
Quincy ducked his head, cleared his throat, shuffled a bit, and then looked straight at me. “I found this,” he said, bringing the hidden hand from behind his back and thrusting it at me.
I dropped the spoon. “My leather bag!” I cried, grabbing it up. Quickly I looked inside. A useless activity—the bag is so capacious that looking into it is a good deal like peering into a cave. So I dumped the whole thing out onto the kitchen table.
“Found it in the woods,” Quincy said, scratching his ear and watching me prod through the collection, “not too far from where you said you was attacked.”
“Thank you!” I said fervently. My nose warned me that the cream sauce could not be left alone for long; I went back to the stove and removed it from the burner, then returned to pick up and snap open the little purple cloth pouch in which I keep coins and a few rolled-up bills. Looking into it, I thought: How very odd!
I laughed, sounding false to my own ears, but maybe Quincy could be fooled. “I guess the bandit picked the wrong person to rob,” I said with a shrug, “and when he saw what a paltry haul he’d gotten, he just threw it away.” I shook the purple pouch; it jingled obligingly. “The bandit took the currency but couldn’t be bothered with a few coins. And of course all this other stuff,” I made a sweeping gesture across the table, “is worthless to anyone except me.”
In fact there were several dollar bills still rolled up in the change pouch. Nothing whatever had been stolen from my bag; it had been flung to earth with all its contents intact.
“I reckon,” Quincy said.
I thanked him again, profusely, as I scraped things off the table into the bag: a small comb and brush; a couple of hair clips; a black grosgrain ribbon that had come unwound (black ribbons are what I most often use to tie back my hair); a box of honey pastilles with the picture of an extremely self-satisfied cat on it; tiny scissors in a green velvet case—they are supposed to be for embroidery but I use them on my nails—a few hairpins; some pencils; a couple of disreputable-looking handkerchiefs; a small notebook, the stub of a ticket from the last moving picture show I went to in San Francisco; etc. These items disappeared under Quincy’s fascinated gaze, and then he excused himself.
I tried to salvage the cream sauce, with some success, while my thoughts and fears boiled out of control. Only the sketches of Jane Doe were missing. For those sketches I had been viciously attacked; but the last laugh, so to speak, was on the bandito—he didn’t know about Phoebe, and Phoebe had more.
So now on Monday morning I took the turn from the Old Mission Road onto Carmel’s Ocean Avenue with the rig tipping on one wheel and Bessie at the gallop. Due to the inclement weather no one was about, and I did not have to slow down much until crossing San Carlos Street. I turned to the right on Lincoln, just before the Pine Inn. Phoebe’s cottage, Hibiscus House, was one down from the corner of Fifth and Lincoln; having been there once before, the day I’d brought her home, I located it again with no trouble.
But Phoebe was not at home. I knocked and knocked. I called and called. Bessie whuffled softly, upset, I supposed, by my nervous urgency. Animals, I have heard, are able to sense the moods of humans.
Holding one hand on top of my still-sore head (as if that could do any good!) I ran around the cottage, peering in all the windows. It was only two rooms, empty of people but crammed full of other things. Behind the house I found a long sort of shed, roofed over but otherwise open to the elements: her sculpture studio. The works caught my attention and slowed me down, the better to look at them. There were several heads in clay, including one of Michael (Misha, Phoebe would say) just begun but already recognizable. One of Oscar Peterson in a melancholy mood. Also in clay, a small but full-length statue of a man I did not know—thank goodness, for he was entirely nude and embarrassingly well endowed! The largest and most impressive piece was a wood carving of a bird-woman: a woman turning into a bird, or vice versa. The expression on her face was fierce—I loved it. And the texture of her feathers invited my touch, I stroked the wood and fancied that it actually felt like feathers.
I walked back to the cottage slowly, pondering the prodigious talent in one small woman’s hands. On the outside, Phoebe Broom was as plain as the sound of her name, but on the inside she was as beautiful and as fierce as that bird-woman. And brave: I remembered how without flinching she had stayed alone with a decomposing body, her talented fingers producing a sketch in record time.
“I must have those sketches!” I said aloud, approaching the back door. Trying the knob, I found it unlocked. I pushed it open, stood on the threshold, and called out, “Phoebe? It’s Fremont. Are you home?”
Of course there was no answer—I hadn’t thought there would be. In no time at all I had persuaded myself that since this was Carmel, not Boston or even San Francisco, no one would mind if I went into an unlocked cottage when its owner was not at home. Certainly Phoebe wouldn’t care if I looked around for the sketches. When I had found them I would leave her a note, if she still hadn’t returned. I proceeded inside and began my search.
The main room was cluttered and gloomy. Phoebe was apparently an inveterate sketcher. Drawings of all sizes and shapes, on all kinds of paper from the thickest and most expensive to the veriest scrap, littered almost every surface. Checking over them all in the gloom strained my eyes; my head got the tender feeling that precedes an actual ache, and I decided I’d best have some light.
A simple kerosene lantern with a clear glass chimney sat on a bi
g round table that, by the look of things, served both for eating and work space. I went over to light this lamp, and at its base found a piece of paper that at first I took for another sketch. In fact there was a sketch on one side of the paper. But on the other side there was a note: Dear Everybody—I’ve gone away. Don’t know when I’ll be back. Love to all, Phoebe.
My hand, holding the note, began to tremble. I read it again, and then a third time. A prickly feeling started at the base of my skull and traveled down my spine. I have had this feeling before—it is a sign of danger. An intuition, if you will. Or even a premonition.
I bit my lip, took a deep breath, got hold of myself, and put the note back down exactly where I’d found it. Then I again set about looking for the sketches of Jane Doe, and this time I conducted a search that was as methodical as it was thorough. It took a long time; I examined the bedroom as well. When I finished I was certain: The sketches were not there. Like Jane Doe’s body, like Phoebe herself, they had vanished.
When Quincy was giving me the dickens, he’d said something I had since tried to put out of my mind: “A blow like that to the side of the head, specially from somebody comin’ atcha full tilt on horseback, could snap yer head right off yer neck, like a flower off its stalk!” Now, as I drove away from Phoebe’s cottage, those words came back to haunt me.
Clucking and flapping the reins, I took the rig into Del Monte Forest by the Carmel gate. Bessie tossed her head and pranced, testing her will against mine. She was unfamiliar with this road, it had begun to rain, and she wanted to go home. “We are going back to the lighthouse,” I called out over the noise of hooves and wheels, “but by another route!” The horse was not impressed, but my will prevailed and she settled into her smooth, trotting gait.
The rain was a fine mist, picked up by a burgeoning wind and sharpened into infinitesimal needles that fell like pinpricks upon the skin. The pine forest smelled primeval: rich, earthy, fertile, green. The road twisted near the shoreline cliffs, past Pescadero Point, Point George, Point Cypress, then plunged inland over tree-covered sand hills, but never far from the roaring surf. With Quincy’s words going around and around in my head—“snap yer head right off yer neck, like a flower off its stalk … flower off its stalk … off its stalk”—I suddenly felt dizzy, and a sinkhole opened in the pit of my stomach.