The Bohemian Murders

by Dianne Day

  “Thank you.” She heaved a great sigh and addressed the ceiling again. “My publisher will hate it. He will say it is too sensational, and I will argue with him, and then he will make qualifications—he’ll say it’s too sensational to have been written by a woman. He will encourage me to apply a male pseudonym, like poor Charlotte Brontë did with Jane Eyre—That reminds me.” Suddenly, in one fluid motion Artemisia righted her posture. “Phoebe is rather a Jane Eyreish sort of person, isn’t she? I find I miss her a good deal. Surely she will come back on her own, don’t you think? Someone like Phoebe couldn’t really have any connection to this … this,” she made a dismissive motion with her hand, “Sabrina person, could she?”

  In the face of this flurry of questions I reflected that one finds prejudice in the most unexpected places. “You surprise me,” I said. “I thought you would be sympathetic to Sabrina’s plight, as well as Phoebe’s. What I think is that they have both met with foul play, probably at the hands of the same person. I think further that this person is someone powerful enough in this locale to suppress whatever he or she wants suppressed. And further still, I think this powerful person wants me to cease and desist from investigating, and has laid down certain threats in order that I should take the point.” I stood and hoisted my leather bag. “I had thought to tell Michael this, but as he is not here I suppose I will just tell you: I have taken the point. I have, if you like, been frightened off. Warned away. However one chooses to express it. Like Pilate’s wife, I wash my hands!”

  “You’re getting that mixed up with Caesar’s wife. It was Pilate who washed his hands. His wife, I think, had dreams. So did Caesar’s.”

  “I stand corrected. And speaking of women who have dreams, I shall finish the typing of your manuscript in another week, provided nothing untoward befalls. I hope that is satisfactory?” I began to move to the door.

  “Oh, yes. That will be fine. Fremont, what exactly did you mean about Misha having a habit of going away by himself?”

  “Just that he has always done it, for as long as I’ve known him, which is slightly more than two years. Don’t worry about him. He’ll come back eventually, and when he does he won’t tell you where he’s been, and you will want to strangle him but it won’t do the least bit of good.”

  She tipped her head to one side and smiled at me—a rather calculating smile—and she said, “You know him very well.”

  I smiled back. “I used to think I did, but I am not so sure anymore. He seems to have changed, Artemisia. You will probably be happy to know that you have had more effect on him than you seem to believe. And as for what I said earlier, about wanting him: Forget it, please. I am going back to San Francisco as soon as Hettie Houck returns to the lighthouse, which she has promised will be no later than the first of July. San Francisco is where I belong, not here; the only thing I want is to go home!”

  With that I made a rather grand exit, or so I intended, but the effect was spoiled when Artemisia came running after me.

  “Wait, Fremont!” she cried. “I forgot to tell you something.” One hand on Bessie’s bridle, I forced myself to turn around. “Yes?”

  “Misha—Michael, as you call him—wants you to take care of the Maxwell in his absence. He said to tell you he’s left it in Monterey by the wharf, where the boat is kept. The keys will be with this man.” The piece of paper she thrust at me was still warm—she had drawn it from her bosom.

  I stuck it quickly in my pocket, then climbed into the shay. “Thank you.”

  She shrugged and smiled again, more genuinely this time. “I guess that should tell me where I stand. He leaves you the car, and I get stuck with the damn cat.”

  “Well, you do already have a car,” said I, the paragon of reason, waving as I drove off.

  KEEPER’S LOG

  February 11, 1907

  Wind: SW, moderate

  Weather: Sunny after trace of morning fog

  Comments: No commercial activity on the bay, due to this being a Sunday.

  I waited impatiently for Quincy to come back from church. Yesterday I’d brought the Maxwell back from where Michael had left it near Fisherman’s Wharf, and now I was dying to go out for a spin. Poor Bessie—my affections had quite completely deserted the horse as soon as Max was mine again. And just to think: I was the person who had said to Michael some ten months ago that automobiles would never catch on because they do not have the personality of a horse!

  So I was fallible—the way things had been going lately, that was not exactly news to me.

  I smiled, thinking of how pleased Quincy had been when I suggested that, as I now had the Maxwell, he might as well drive Hettie’s rig to church. He’d driven off looking mighty sharp in his best suit, grinning from ear to ear, his usual laconic manner quite gone. “They will not know you,” I’d teased, “they will think a handsome stranger has come in your stead.”

  When Quincy still had not returned by one o’clock, I was worried, but not greatly. He was probably doing what I wanted to do: driving around in the beautiful weather. Perhaps he had a lady friend to impress—if so, he would surely do it today, he would sweep her off her feet. I certainly didn’t begrudge him a little time off. God knew he had taken the watches often enough for me.

  On watch today there was little to observe, aside from the grandeur of the scenery. People do not seem to do much recreational sailing on Monterey Bay. On Sundays when the fishing boats do not go out, the bay waters belong to the seals and fishes. It occurred to me as I went back down the spiral stairs from the watch room that I had not seen a whale for many days. Apparently the migration was over. If the whalers did not stop chasing every whale that came into sight, one of these days the migrations of whales would be over permanently. Already along the East Coast some types of whales pass by no more.

  I fastened the black shawl with a brooch at the throat so that it would not blow open, then taped a note on the lighthouse door: I WILL BE BACK SOON. F.J. The note was primarily for Quincy, which was why I kept it simple. I checked my pockets—yes, I had money in case anything happened, and a handkerchief if I needed it.

  “Well, Max,” I said as I climbed behind the wheel, “here we go again!” And we were off. I must say it was a great pleasure to drive again, and the requisite skill returned as if it had been only yesterday instead of months since Max was my companion and helper in the harrowing confusion of post-earthquake San Francisco.

  Some automobiles cannot make it up Carmel Hill, but I knew that this was not the case with Max, as Michael had done the trip frequently, a few times with me along. Nevertheless I did not intend to pose that steep challenge to the Maxwell today, and drove steadily if bumpily toward the Pacific Grove gate to the Seventeen Mile Drive. I drove through Del Monte Forest all the way to the Carmel gate just for fun, then turned around and went back again. On the way back I made the turns that took me to Braxton Furnival’s house—which had been my goal all along.

  I passed through the gates with their bogus coat of arms, and as I approached the looming lodge I was glad to see there were not a lot of cars about. I had not been quite sure what I would do if he were entertaining guests, whether I should have the nerve to crash the party or not. Probably not. I am not particularly fond or large social gatherings, though I stood in for my mother at enough of them with Father after she died. I doubt anyone would ever know how impatient I’d been with all that socializing—I am sure Father never did.

  Those occasions were my first exercise at dissembling, I thought as I stopped the Maxwell along one side of the driveway and unpinned the brooch so that I could leave the shabby shawl in the car. Standing on the running board I shook out my skirts. I am not overfond of clothes, and have not greatly minded the reduced state—not to mention quality—of my wardrobe, but for just a moment I thought with envy of Irma Fox and the fashionable traveling costume she’d worn when I first met her. Someday I should like to own a sporty duster—though I could do without those hats with the veils. I loathe hats almo
st as much as I do corsets.

  I was wearing my second-best dress, which was also secondhand, and therefore of a better fabric and cut than I could have afforded otherwise. Bright blue in color, the dress has a jabot of lace at the neck and more lace at the hem of the sleeves, and a full skirt that should have had beneath it more ruffled petticoats than the single one I was wearing. It was hardly as exciting a garment as Sabrina would have worn, but Braxton was bound to find it more interesting than the skirts and blouses he had heretofore always seen me wear.

  The role of seductress was a new one for me, so I was nervous as I lifted the heavy knocker and let it fall. I repeated the process, and tried not to fidget. Though I strained my ears, I could not hear footsteps or anything at all through that heavy door.

  At last it opened, and I looked into the face of a man I’d never seen before. A devilishly handsome face that made me wonder if the Californios had reclaimed their state overnight. He was young, not far from my own age, I would guess, with obsidian eyes and a riot of glistening black curls, ecru skin, and the long thin nose of an hidalgo’s Spanish heritage. He looked down that nose at me without a word of greeting.

  “Good afternoon,” I said, smiling sweetly. “Is Mr. Furnival at home?”

  The molten black eyes blinked once and he said, “Yeah.”

  “My name is Fremont Jones. I was just out driving in my automobile and decided on the spur of the moment to pay Braxton a visit. May I come in?”

  “Yeah.” He stepped back, turned around, and yelled into the gloom, “Brax!” Then he turned back, scanned me up and down, and said, “I think he’s out on the terrace. You know where that is?”

  “Yes,” I said, gambling that I could find it from inside the house. But I did not have to go looking, because Braxton had heard the fellow shout and came on the run.

  “Ramon,” he said, “what—Oh, Fremont. Well hey, great to see you!”

  “I know it is very rude of me, Braxton, but I have the use of a friend’s car for a few weeks and so of course the first thing I did was to give myself a tour of the Seventeen Mile Drive, and I just couldn’t resist dropping in on you. I’m so glad to find you at home.”

  “That’s just fine, really fine.” He took my hand and gazed warmly at me, the smile lines around his eyes crinkling. He had the ability to make you think, when he focused on you like that, that the rest of the world was no longer of any importance to him.

  Oh my, I thought, I came to seduce and here I am being seduced. Well, at least this should be interesting.

  While still gazing into my eyes Braxton stretched out his other arm and made a come-hither motion with his hand. The handsome young hidalgo obeyed the motion, and Braxton said, “Fremont, allow me to introduce Ramon Reyes. Ramon works with me from time to time.”

  “How do you do.” I nodded to Ramon, as I could not very well shake hands—Braxton was still holding my right hand quite firmly.

  “Fremont,” Ramon acknowledged, sliding his eyes sideways and regarding me slyly. Half of his upper lip lifted, something between a smile and a sneer.

  “Miss Jones to you, Ramon,” said Braxton, cuffing him roughly but playfully on the shoulder. Why men have to hit each other as a form of communication I will never understand. At least he let go of me to do it, and I got my hand back.

  “I never stand on formality,” I said quickly, “I prefer Fremont. Truly.”

  “Miss Jones,” said Braxton, ignoring my words, “is a woman of many talents, as well as obvious beauty.”

  “Oh, certainly!” I said, with my version of a flirtatious little laugh.

  “Yeah, and I guess you wanna be alone with all those talents, not to mention the beauty. Right, Brax?” Ramon might look as if he had just sailed over from Castile, but he sounded like a cowboy straight out of Brooklyn, New York.

  Braxton did not verbally reply to this, but aimed an exaggerated wink at Ramon and said in an undertone to me, “Clever fella, ain’t he?”

  My stomach sank somewhere down around my toes and I wondered what I had gotten myself into—but there was no other way. I smiled and said, “I understand you were sitting on your terrace? I should very much like to see the view.”

  Braxton agreed that this was a fine idea, and offered his arm. We went through the baronial hall, which had crossbeams in the lofty ceiling and stairs, supported by more of those columns that resemble barely hewn tree trunks, winding around and around a square central core.

  I paused in the middle of the hall, bringing us both to a halt, and looked up. “What an interesting house you have,” I said. “It seems quite large for one person.”

  “I do a lot of entertaining.” He tugged me forward. “For business purposes, of course.”

  “Ah yes. You are trying to attract buyers for large tracts of Del Monte Forest land, if I remember the letter I typed for you correctly.”

  “Estates, that’s what we want to develop here.”

  “Like on Long Island, or in Newport?” I inquired.

  “That type of clientele, yes.” He pronounced it klee-on-tell.

  “Only the wealthiest people will do, I suppose,” I said as Braxton gestured for me to precede him through a doorway that led to a corridor with more doors on either side. While he gave me chapter and verse on selling land to the wealthy, I tried surreptitiously to get a glimpse through the open doors on either side with my peripheral vision. But alas, my eyes do not have the hyperacute capability of my ears. I can hear sounds that many people cannot, but my eyesight is only normal—I cannot see in the dark, and Grosse-Dark would indeed have been a fitting name for this house. My ears on this occasion were uninformative, but my nose performed well, picking up the scent of onions. I slewed a glance over that way and found a closed door that probably led to the kitchen.

  A moment later I saw a bright blue and green rectangle that must have denoted an outside door. I turned rapidly, my skirts swirling, and put myself in Braxton’s path while I grabbed his arm impulsively. “I have the most wonderful idea! Before we go out, why don’t you give me a tour of your house? I’m sure it’s fascinating, and I’d so much love to see all the rooms. I expect you modeled it after those European hunting lodges, did you not? The ones that are used by royalty when they go shooting in the woods?”

  I had calculated that the word “royalty” would please Braxton and it did: He beamed and allowed as how he’d had something of the sort in mind. But then he said, “I’m afraid I can’t give you the tour right now, Fremont. The housekeeper hasn’t been here in three weeks—her mother took sick and she had to go look after the poor woman. So I haven’t had anybody to clean up after the last house party. Things are a mess!”

  “As if I’d mind something like that!” I leaned in toward him and allowed the side of my breast to rest for a moment against his arm. “Please?”

  I could feel him respond to my nearness. He began to glow like a smoldering coal, giving off heat. Yet he said, “Another time, Fremont. Another time.”

  I broke away, chiding playfully, “Good heavens, what a fussy old housewife you’ve turned out to be, Braxton Furnival. Who would have believed such a thing?” Then I plunged toward the outside door, glancing gaily back over my shoulder as if to say, You can’t catch me!

  But he was bigger than I, stronger, heavier, with longer arms and legs. He could catch me, and he did.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  KEEPER’S LOG

  February 14, 1907

  Wind: NW, mild to moderate, with gusts

  Weather: Fair and cold

  Comments: Swells and surf high but not heavy. U.S.

  Coast Guard training ship in and out of bay. Tank of whale oil to be off-loaded from tender for light station.

  As I wrote the date, February 14, into the logbook, I realized today was St. Valentine’s Day.

  “Hah!” I said in a derisive tone—but then I sat gazing out the watch room window, lost in a reverie and trying to remember when exactly it was that I had first realized those tanta
lizingly frilly, heart-shaped missives could never be for me. Valentines were incompatible with the lifestyle I had chosen. Fremont Jones neither receives nor sends Valentines—I had known that before I even was Fremont Jones, back when I was still called by my first name, Caroline. “What a pity,” I lamented, and for a while I did regret it.

  But before I could pity myself for long, it occurred to me that this year my heartless duplicity might earn me one of those heart-shaped missives. A fine irony, indeed, if it came to pass: Braxton Furnival might very well send me a Valentine. He seemed smitten enough.

  On Sunday, three days earlier, I had allowed him to kiss me on his terrace. I might have rather enjoyed it if I hadn’t suspected him of having murdered both Sabrina Howard and Phoebe, and doing God-knows-what with their bodies. In fact, I did allow myself to enjoy the kiss for the briefest of moments, just long enough for Braxton to know it, before I broke away.

  “Oh dear!” I’d cried, putting my hands to my cheeks in imitation of maidenly shock. “I’m afraid you misunderstand me, Mr. Furnival.” Then I’d asked to use the necessary; ordinarily I just say “bathroom” but I was trying to be delicate. Fleeing from the terrace as I made my request, I had assured him, “Just tell me where it is, I’ll find it!” And he, faced with a flustered female, did.

  As I’d hoped he might, he directed me upstairs. There was probably a bathroom downstairs, somewhere in the proximity of the kitchen, but that would be for the help. As I ran up the stairs I strained my hearing, in an effort to determine if Ramon were anywhere in the vicinity, but I could not hear anything above the noise of my own feet and skirts and beating heart.

  The stairs led to a gallery that ran around the square enclosure of the great hall; all the rooms appeared to open off this gallery. Counting doors I found the bathroom, opened and shut the door without going in, then continued stealthily on around the gallery. I felt horribly exposed, and edged along with my back skimming the wall, as far away from the railing as I could get.