“What do you want me to do?”
“I need you to escort Sarah around San Francisco. She’s traveled all the way from Tennessee, and I think it only fair that she see the city.”
Lotario snorted. “Why do I feel like I’m being shoved off to the side?”
“You can feel however you like, but you’re the only one I’d trust this to. There have been reporters lurking around the house, and I’m sure they’ll hound her for an interview the moment she steps outside.”
Lotario arched a thin brow.
“You are more than adept at dodging reporters,” Riot said, stroking his ego.
“Well, there is that.”
“Besides, I’m sure you won’t want to be anywhere near Bel when she finds out you told me everything.”
Lotario casually glanced at his nails. “I can hardly be blamed for being tricked by a scoundrel such as yourself.”
Riot had not been the only one bluffing. “In that case, tell me the rest of the story.”
27
End of the Trail
Laughter flowed under the sun. It was a reassuring sound to Isobel. The Falcon’s ghost hunt had only lasted until the words ‘food’ and ‘hungry’ were uttered. Then they had headed straight for Mrs. Gunn’s Home Cooking, a restaurant made up of three railcars tacked together into an L-shape that hugged a patio. With baskets in hand, the group set out across the dunes, laid down a blanket, and promptly stuffed themselves to bursting.
Isobel was no exception. Later she walked arm in arm with Margaret across the wind-swept sand. She could see the top story of the brick building, but she didn’t feel exposed. Although her captors knew she was a woman, they wouldn’t look twice at someone from a local club known for its social gatherings.
“…truth is, I don’t know what I want to do with myself. I win every woman’s race, but it’s not as if a woman can be a professional bicyclist.” Margaret gave a sigh.
“I don’t think there’s much future in that for men either,” Isobel pointed out. Her voice was casual, with the kind of closeness that came with new friends exploring each other. But even as they walked arm in arm, Isobel searched the dunes for signs of life. Unfortunately, the wind had a way of wiping the sands clean, leaving only rippling marks.
“How about college?” she asked.
“My father is very ill. It’s only because of a nurse that I’m able to escape at all. Besides,” Margaret wrinkled her nose, “I’m not one for book learning. I like to use my hands.”
That was clear as day. “What do you like to build?” Isobel asked.
Margaret started in surprise. “How did you know?”
“Your hands are rough,” Isobel explained. “Your palms, and the area between thumb and index finger are thick with callouses from holding a hammer. I noticed faint stains when I shook your hand—an attempt to remove the varnish that I smelled on you when we first met.”
“Oh.” Margaret studied her hand. It seemed obvious now. “It’s not a very womanly pastime, but my father has a small shed of tools where he used to tinker before he became ill. I mostly build birdhouses, dollhouses, and smaller types of furniture.” There was sadness in her voice. “I really want to build houses.”
“You could at least design them. Women have graduated from the University of California with an engineering degree.”
“I don’t think anyone would hire a woman architect.”
Isobel raised a shoulder. “You never know until you try.”
“I suppose it couldn’t hurt. It would at least be interesting.” Margaret smiled ruefully. “I know I’ll never marry.” Her eyes flickered sideways with a question. “What about you?”
“And let a man ruin all my fun?” Isobel clucked her tongue, and Margaret laughed. As far as anyone was concerned, Charlotte Bonnie was an independent single journalist with no plans to settle down. The guise warmed Isobel’s heart; it made it easier to forget her months with Kingston.
“What are you up to anyway? I didn’t buy that sun-bathing story for a hair’s breadth.”
Isobel leaned in conspiratorially. “Do you know where the Beach Ghost was hiding?”
“Not precisely,” Margaret admitted. “The reporter said he found the prints a half mile south of the bend in the Park and Ocean line, then followed it for a mile, but the Ghost doubled back and such. But that was years ago. I’m sure the tunnel has caved in by now. I tried to build a smaller version, but the sand was impossible.”
Isobel arched a brow. That was definitely close enough to the brick building, and not far from the Falcon’s clubhouse. She ran her eyes over the horizon. The distant patch of acacia, stunted and windblown, pricked her instincts. Roots offered stability.
“Why are you so curious about it?”
Isobel debated whether to lie or not. Lying, she decided, was generally a good idea. “I’m looking for my next story, but the city was stifling. I need fresh air,” she said with feeling, because at that moment it was true. They were walking farther from the others, whose laughter was dying in the sand hills. The slanted acacias grew closer, and a mark caught Isobel’s eye. A small, smooth impression of the ball of a foot.
“Are you only here for the day?”
“I’m not sure.” Isobel tore her eyes from the print, and looked to the ocean, to the shacks and railcars. “Are those more clubhouses?” Carville hadn’t existed when she’d been shipped off to Europe in disgrace five years before.
“The railcars have been turned into cottages for vacationers. You can let them for a few nights. Mostly, erm…”
“People use them for illicit dalliances?”
Margaret grinned with relief. “I was hoping you weren’t a prude.”
“A woman riding a bicycle in bloomers can’t be too proper.”
“True,” said Margaret. “But one never knows. We try to keep things tame when Minnie is with us. And don’t let Violet fool you. She’s the wildest of us all.”
Isobel laughed.
“You know, now that you’re a member, you can stay in our clubhouse. There’s even spare clothes in the trunk.”
“I just might, but—”
“Yes?”
Isobel chewed on her lower lip for effect. “I want to check on the availability of those cottages—in case.” The two women glanced at each other, and both fell to laughing.
Isobel paid her dues, received a neat little falcon pin that she proudly attached to her lapel, and parted ways with her new friends.
Every time she spent Lincoln Howe’s money, she thought of him. He was bound to turn up as either unidentified, or the unfortunate victim of a robbery.
So she hoped.
As she walked her bicycle along Ocean Boulevard, she wondered how many other detectives had been abducted by murderers, had found a corpse, and then lost it. The thought depressed her, and left her feeling that she had taken the coward’s way out of the situation.
With a sigh, she eyed the line of railcar cottages along the shore. A massive wall of fog roiled on the horizon, coming in like a slow tidal wave towards the little cottages. She never tired of watching the blanket of gray creeping ever closer, until it crashed on land and washed the city clean. By the time she reached the railcars, San Francisco had gone from sunlight to shivering mist. Isobel kicked down her stand, and shrugged on an overcoat.
She walked around back, eyed the water tower and numerous footprints, and then gazed east, towards the grove of acacia, but the stunted trees were lost to her now.
She returned to the main cottage, spotted a sign on the front ‘Cottages for Rent’ and knocked. A weather-worn woman answered the door. She wore scarves and enough jewelry to make a gypsy spiritualist envious. There was paint on her fingers.
Isobel shivered, letting her teeth chatter. “Do you have any cottages available for the night? I don’t much care to ride back in this cold.”
“Caught you by surprise, didn’t it? Always does to city folk and tourists. I can tell you’re not a tourist though.
You’re from the city. I can tell that by the coat. Outsiders never think to bring a coat when it’s sunny. But the weather has a mind of its own on the coast, doesn’t it? Another storm is coming.” The woman stopped to breathe.
Isobel thought not, but nodded politely. San Francisco was fussy about its rain. Before the woman could ramble on about the weather, she said, “I have money.”
“That’s all you need, dear. And you don’t have to worry about being alone in my cottages. I keep a ready shotgun. There’s only one other boarder, and he’s quiet enough. Winter is never very busy. Although it doesn’t make much sense, since summer can be just as cold—”
“Do you have a recommendation for a particular cottage?”
“Well, the green one is pleasant. Closest to the water tower and outhouse.”
“Are there any thieves about? I’m worried about my bicycle,” she said, as the woman led her to the converted railcar.
“I can’t guarantee a thing,” the woman said. “I’ve a shed you can lock. Never had much issue though. Clothes, knickknacks—they sometimes disappear, and I don’t mind folks using my water. We’re a community that looks after one another.”
“Nothing has gone missing of late?”
“Well, my bucket disappeared,” the woman admitted. “But it was a battered old thing. I might have left it on the ground, and it blew off during the storm, or the ghosts that haunt the dunes took it.” The woman gave her an exaggerated wink.
The cottage consisted of two rooms. Simple but clean, with a decidedly bohemian decor. Paintings filled the wall space with an explosion of color. Isobel tilted her head at a bright blue and orange splattering. She didn’t quite know what to make of it. “Are these your own?” she asked.
“They are,” the woman said proudly. “And for sale.”
Isobel searched for a suitable compliment. “It certainly adds color.”
The woman beamed. “Not many appreciate that. It’s nice to have color with this never-ending fog. Speaking of that, you have striking eyes. The color reminds me a bit of the fog. What with your bone structure, you could be an artist’s model. There’s plenty of artists in Carville.”
“Maybe when the stress of the city has worn me down.” Isobel set down her bicycle basket. The cottage was perfect, and she said as much.
“I’ll light the stove for you. You’ll be warm as toast. There’s a diner that’s not far from here. Mrs. Gunn’s.”
Isobel thanked the woman, and excused herself to head over to the water tower. Animals, even hunted and terrified, always came to water, and they always left tracks.
Footprints crowded around the spigot, and the woman’s spare bucket, well dented, hung from a hook. She spotted the strange, heelless print that she had seen on the dunes, and followed it away from the water tower. It had not rained today, but the sand was still damp, holding the prints well.
Night would come quickly, and the thought of being stuck out on the dunes in the dark made her shudder. A lantern would be a risk. But if the girl had come here and taken a bucket, she might not be back tonight. Isobel was never one to wait anyway. She grabbed a hooded lantern from the cottage, and checked the cartridges in her revolver, before heading across the dunes.
Tracking, Riot had explained, is simply an exercise of observation and interpretation.
She studied the smooth half-prints. The spacing between prints was not very long. She might think it was an adult tiptoeing across the sand, but the footprints were too small, too narrow for an adult’s. Foot-binding was a popular custom with the Chinese, but binding the feet made for difficult walking. Isobel had once watched a woman with bound feet walk across the street. Her steps had been small, and careful, and she could not imagine that same woman attempting to traverse sand. Therefore, this was a child wearing slippers, and she’d very likely been running.
A girl on her own in a strange place wouldn’t stray far from the lights of civilization, but neither would she risk exposure. Armed with that knowledge, Isobel mentally divided the terrain into three parts, as if it were a nature painting. The foreground, the mid-distance, and the far ground, as Riot had taught her. As she walked, she swept her gaze left to right, and right to left, moving her search from far ground to foreground.
The footprints zigzagged back and forth, never cresting a hill, but winding through valleys. When she neared the acacia grove, she caught sight of a long wisp of black hair fluttering on a strand of grass. She followed the footprints inside the grove to where they stopped.
Isobel frowned at the smooth sand. It didn’t look brushed, only wind-blown, like everything on the dunes. A thirty-foot dune could disappear overnight in the Sahara of San Francisco.
As the fog caressed the branches, she made a circuit of the clearing, widening her search. Stillness thundered in her ears. Dusk was gone, and the sun was setting somewhere beyond the gray haze. She was loath to light a lantern. The thought made her stomach flip.
The cottages were obscured, but her keen sense of direction and the distant surf guided her. She returned to where the prints stopped, and looked up in the trees. There were no ready branches or roots to climb (unless the girl had the leaping ability of a tiger).
She squatted next to the prints, and narrowed her eyes. The prints were deeper than before and a little wider. The girl had doubled-back, she realized. She followed them back to the last large dune. The trail passed near a clump of grass on a hillside.
Isobel stepped near the tangle, and then on top of it. A piece of driftwood lay half-buried nearby. She stepped onto that too, and then took a step to another patch of grass. She could practically see the girl skipping from place to place. On the other side of the rise, the trail began anew. And then stopped. Again. It was like following a sparrow in near dark.
Isobel backtracked, and stood in a valley so thick with fog that it might as well have been night. She felt exposed. Horribly so. She strained to listen past her hammering heart. Fear eventually triumphed, and Isobel darted for cover, scrambling over the crest of the dune. She drew her revolver, intending to aim for the head this time.
Lying on her stomach in the sand, she waited with the silence prickling her spine. Isobel glanced over her shoulder, into a swirl of gauzy air. She braced herself for a fight, but no one emerged.
Slowly, she edged up the dune, and peeked over it. She stared into the murk, and out of the corner of her eye, in that blur between reality and imagination—the half vision of intuition—she saw a darker spot. She did not look directly at it, but studied the surrounding shrubs. It seemed out of place—more of an arrangement than natural.
Isobel moved quickly to the side of the darker spot, grabbed the grass, and yanked the clump away, revealing a burrow. A swift form darted from the dark—a girl. And Isobel gave chase. With braids flying, the girl seemed a bird, flitting over the dunes. Hampered by split skirts and a bruised body, Isobel had no hope of keeping pace. On the crest of a dune, she launched herself at the small girl. A brush of hair touched her fingertips, and she clamped down tight, grabbing a braid.
As Isobel tumbled, the girl was wrenched backwards with her. The ground came fast. Isobel landed on her stomach, taking in a face full of sand. She raised her head in time to have a diminutive foot slam into her nose.
Isobel reeled back, her vision watered, and the braid slipped from her fingers. The girl scrambled forward, and Isobel lunged after, catching her ankle. A blade flashed silver. She caught the little hand before it could break flesh. With a surge of determination, Isobel pinned the girl’s arms to her side, and plucked her off her feet. Heels kicked furiously at Isobel’s knees, and the girl threw back her head, catching Isobel on the lip. And then came the teeth.
“God dammit, I’m trying to help you,” Isobel hissed. This didn’t reassure the girl. Her head slammed against Isobel’s chin, and an elbow hit her ribs. Isobel dropped the feral child to the ground, and promptly sat on her.
“Bong,” Isobel said in Cantonese. She hoped it meant ‘help�
��. Blood poured from her nose, but she dared not pinch it. The girl would go wild. She pulled Cantonese words from her mind. “Ngor bong nei.” I’m trying to help you.
The girl stilled, and a suspicious pair of black eyes looked up at her. The girl said something in Cantonese, and Isobel wished she had a larger vocabulary. Her mind drudged up more words, “Wai yan.” Bad men.
“Faan tung,” the girl spat.
Isobel had no idea what that meant, but the girl’s voice was hushed. She was well aware of the danger. Isobel bit a button off her cuff, and tore the sleeve back with her teeth, exposing her wrist. She held the raw, rope-burned flesh in front of the girl’s eyes. “Wai yan,” she repeated.
The girl’s gaze moved from her wrist to her eyes.
Isobel gestured at herself. “Help you.”
Reason replaced wild rage, and slowly, Isobel loosened her hold. She pinched a handkerchief to her nose, and when the girl did not fight, she climbed off, freeing her completely.
Quick as a snake, the girl reached for her dagger. Isobel let her keep it.
“I’m Charlotte Bonnie,” she said. Her voice came out a muffled, nasal mess.
The girl stared. Her lips were pressed tightly together. She was thin and underfed, and a scar cut across her cheek, just under her dark eye. Another slashed diagonally across her jaw. It was difficult to assess her age in the dark, but Isobel thought that she could not be more than ten.
In the fading light of dusk, the girl looked menacing, a seemingly impossible feat considering her size and the girlish braids. Maybe it was the knife.
“Fine, have it your way,” Isobel said, and staggered to her feet. “I thought you were in trouble, but you can clearly handle yourself against the ‘bad men’.”
Isobel turned to leave. She got halfway up the dune when the girl spoke.
“Dang dang.”
Isobel stopped, and turned.
“Nei tai,” the girl said, gesturing at the hole in the dune. Keeping an eye on the pint-sized fury, Isobel limped over and poked her head in the hole. It was dark, and with cold, shaking hands, she struck a match.
Record of Blood (Ravenwood Mysteries #3) Page 20