When I pulled up, several of the neighborhood kids were taking turns hopping up and down my front walk on a pogo stick. They scattered when I parked in the driveway—I have the reputation of an ogre—but I corralled Donny Hernandez and made him help me carry the little chest inside. Donny is the neighborhood fat kid, and he usually can be found wistfully watching the others, who never ask him to play. I don't waste any sympathy on him, however, because I suspect Donny will eventually have the last laugh; about a year before I'd found him perched in my pepper tree, reading, and after my initial concern for the heavily burdened branch subsided, I noted that his book was a thick paperback on creative investments. Someday, I am sure, Donny will return to the old neighborhood in a fancy car and show everybody that fat can be beautiful.
We set the chest in the living room, and I gave Donny a couple of quarters that would probably become the cornerstone of an impressive blue-chip portfolio. Then I threw open some windows, changed into jeans and a shirt, and returned to look over my new acquisition. It was really a good piece, highly representative of the style favored by the dons and their ladies, and I was sure Rudy Lopez would be delighted. He and I had worked hard to convince the museum's board of directors to okay the expenditures for the furniture. While the museum had originally been founded to educate Americans on the arts of Mexico, I'd recently decided to gradually shift that emphasis to the arts of Mexican-Americans, and the display of furnishings was one of several planned steps in that direction.
I ran my fingers over the rough-hewn wood of the chest, then lifted its humpbacked lid and looked inside. It was empty except for an old-fashioned, rusted hairpin. Then I tried the shallow drawer below the upper compartment. It was locked, and although it was fitted with a hammered-brass keyhole, I couldn't find any key. Of course that didn't matter for purposes of the museum's display, but it annoyed me all the same. I'd have to call the auction house on Monday and ask if perhaps the key had somehow gotten separated from the chest.
There was a knock on the screen door. I went over and peered through the mesh. Dave Kirk—lieutenant with the Santa Barbara police department and my current boyfriend—stood there. I felt a rush of pleasure and said, “Oh, you're back!”
As soon as Dave stepped inside, I could tell there was something wrong. He didn't kiss me or smile or ask me how I was. In fact, he didn't seem to want to look at me, and his brown eyes were troubled, the set of his mouth grim. When I'd first seen Dave, I'd thought him a nondescript, unreadable Anglo; his appearance was all brown and bland, and his manner—except when crossed, which I had managed to do within a few seconds of our meeting—was mild and low-key. But as our relationship had deepened and we'd become friends and then lovers, I'd learned to read him very well—every nuance of expression, every tone of voice. And what I was reading now was not encouraging.
“How was your trip?” I asked.
“Fine.”
“Can I get you a beer?”
“No, thanks.” He looked around the room, his eyes briefly stopping at the marriage coffer, but he didn't comment on it. “Listen, Elena,” he said after a few seconds, “I really can't stay. I just came over because there's something I have to tell you.”
A coldness began to settle on me. It had to be bad news, and I wasn't sure how much more of that I could take today. “Yes?” I said.
“You've probably wondered where I was the last four days.”
“The question has crossed my mind, yes.”
“I was up in Oregon—Rockaway. It's a small city on the coast.”
“Why did you go there?”
He hesitated, and then his jaw became even more set and he went on. “There was a job open. Chief of police. I went up to interview, and they hired me.”
“Oh. Well. Congratulations.” I was having difficulty taking the information in. Oregon. It seemed very far away. I'd only been there once, on a driving trip with my mother, when she'd insisted on stopping at every myrtlewood factory along Route One. I tried to remember anything else about the state but couldn't. “So, when do you start?” I asked.
“In two weeks. I called the department and gave notice before I drove back down here.”
Two weeks! So little time. “Oh,” I said. And then I waited. It was several seconds before I realized he hadn't said he was sorry he was moving away, or that he'd miss me, or that I should come up to visit. And when I looked into his chocolate brown eyes, I saw an uncharacteristic nervousness, coupled with a kind of resolve.
He said, “I know this is sudden, Elena, but I think it's the best move for both of us. You and I… well, it just hasn't been working out.”
I stared at him, a panicky, fluttery feeling in my stomach. “What?”
“I really think it's for the best,” he said. “And I also think it would be wise if we didn't see each other again before I leave.”
“It hasn't been working out,” I repeated flatly.
The tension in his jaw relaxed somewhat. “I'm glad you agree with me.”
Was he deliberately misinterpreting my comment? I wondered. Couldn't he see how stunned I was? What did he mean, anyway—not working out?
Dave went on, “I'll always remember the times we've had together. They've been good times. And I'll always remember you.”
I put a hand to my forehead, feeling dizzy and hot and cold at the same time. I wanted to shout, to protest, to insist this couldn't be happening. I wanted to demand explanations: What wasn't working out? How long had he felt this way? Was there someone else? But he sounded so definite. And I had my pride. I didn't want to let him see how much he was hurting me.
I said, “Yes, I feel the same way, Dave. And I certainly wish you luck with the new job.”
Relief flooded his face then, and he smiled—the warm, crinkly grin I'd always loved. Loved? No … yes … yes, dammit, I loved him! And he was just walking away and leaving me as if I were some casual date.
Tears rose to my eyes, and when Dave saw them, the smile faded. He put out a hand. “Elena, don't.”
I brushed at my lashes and looked away, a painting on the wall blurring to a meaningless swirl of colors. I would not let Dave see me cry, would not allow him to know how much pain he was causing me.
“Oh, Dave,” I said thickly, “you know I'm no good at saying good-bye. When I was a kid, we'd go to the airport and watch the planes take off, and I'd end up bawling my head off because a bunch of strangers were going away on them.”
He laughed, a lightness and freedom in the sound, and I knew he believed me. I was glad I'd lied to him, glad he couldn't know what pain was gathering inside of me.
“You'd better go now,” I said.
He stepped forward, took my hand, kissed me on the cheek. Then he turned and went through the screen door. On the front walk, he started to whistle tonelessly.
I backed up, weak-kneed. Sat in my old rocking chair. Waited until I heard his car pull away from the curb. And then I started to cry.
I couldn't understand it. Everything had been fine with us. We hardly ever argued. We'd been good together in bed. We'd laughed and done enjoyable things. My mother and Nick had forgiven him for being an Anglo; all my friends liked him. His friends and colleagues at the department liked me. I was learning to eat pancakes for breakfast; he'd come to appreciate Mexican art. So what on earth had gone wrong? Why did he think it wasn't working out?
I sat there gripping the arms of the rocker and crying. In a few minutes my pain over Dave got all mixed up with my worry about Mama, and I rocked and cried and hiccuped and mumbled both of their names. Soon I could feel my eyes becoming hot and swollen. Maldito! I tried to stop crying, and when I realized I couldn't, I got up, went into the bathroom, stripped off my clothes, and got into the shower. Under normal circumstances that would have calmed me, but today nothing was normal. But at least I was being ecological, mingling my tears with the city water supply.
After a while the hot water ran out, and so did my tears. I felt dull, shaky, and a little sleepy. As
I toweled off and put on my jeans and shirt, I realized I was also ravenously hungry.
In the kitchen, I took out peanut butter and spread it on a banana. After that I had a glass of milk and a cup of spiced apple yogurt. There were English muffins in the freezer; I toasted two of them and ate them with strawberry jam. I contemplated the jug of cheap white wine, but was afraid alcohol might make me cry again. Finally I ate half a cantaloupe and a handful of cashew nuts. Then I went back to the living room and sat down in the rocker.
Well, I told myself, you've behaved like un puerco gordo. Now if you can just get mad and throw something, you'll be on the road to recovery.
But I couldn't get mad. All I could do was huddle in the chair and feel very small and sad and alone. The sun had gone down, and the room was filled with shadows. I sat there until it was completely dark, and then I got up and turned on a light. And when I did, the marriage coffer caught my eye again.
I went over and stroked it, thinking back to the auction. At the time I'd been worried about Mama, but I'd still enjoyed myself, with no inkling of the further misfortune that was about to befall me. I sniffled, wondering if I'd ever have a good time again—and quickly realized I was being melodramatic.
I opened the lid of the chest, took the rusty hairpin out, and threw it in the wastebasket. There was a lot of dust in the compartment, so I went to the kitchen for a rag and began to clean it out. As I was scrubbing along the rear of the space, the edge of the rag caught on something. I gave it a tug, and it tore. Poking with my fingernail, I removed the fragment of fabric and saw that there was a crack in the wood. Not only had the auction house neglected to tell prospective buyers that the key was missing, but they'd also omitted the fact that the chest had been damaged. I sighed in exasperation and probed with my fingers to see how bad the crack was.
But it wasn't a crack at all; its edges felt smooth, beveled. I pushed my fingernail into it. The nail tore to the quick and I swore, putting my finger in my mouth and tasting blood. After a few seconds, I got my nail clipper from my purse and trimmed the nail's ragged edge, then used the fold-out file portion of the clipper on the crack in the chest. I wiggled it back and forth a little, and then a narrow three-inch-long piece of wood came loose and clattered to the bottom of the compartment.
I dropped the nail clipper next to the wood fragment and pushed my fingers through the little opening. They encountered a cylindrical metal object. When I pulled it out, I saw it was a brass key.
How clever of the cabinetmaker, I thought, and also how typical of furniture of that era. I remembered reading somewhere that the dons had been big on secreting their treasures, tucking away even inconsequential things like this key in well-concealed hidey-holes. Maybe there was more treasure in the drawer.
The thought was a fanciful one, and I expected the drawer to be empty. But when I unlocked it and looked in at a flat brown-leather folder, I started in surprise. I set the key down and took the folder over to my desk to examine it in better light.
The cracked leather was rough-grained, probably cowhide, and the folder had been bound together by a now-frayed brown cord. I opened it and found a sheaf of papers. They were yellowed, on a once-fine vellum letterhead that read in ornate script, “Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, Flood Building, Market Street, San Francisco.” Below was what appeared to be a detective's report, dated April 1894. The hand in which it was written was angular and fine, incorporating all the whorls and flourishes popular before the turn of the century.
What a find! I thought. What a fascinating relic of the past! Dave would love this; I should call him—
And then I stopped, remembering I would never call Dave again. Gloom descended on me, threatening to destroy my pleasure in my discovery. To fend it off, I went back to my rocker and began reading.
Report of Investigator John F. Quincannon, in the Matter of Religious Artifacts Belonging to the Family of Don Esteban Velasquez
April 4. The offices of the above were visited by Felipe Velasquez, shortly past noon. Señor Velasquez recounted the facts surrounding his father's death during the Bear Flag Revolution, and stated that a cache of religious artifacts hidden during that time of strife had not been heretofore recovered by his family. However, he said, one artifact had at last been located. He requested aid in obtaining information as to the source of this particular artifact. It was his belief that an investigation might lead to the whereabouts of the remaining pieces.
It was like reading a mystery novel—only this had been written by the detective's own hand and had really happened. My pain over Dave's defection and my worry over Mama receded for the moment, and I quickly turned the page….
PART II
1894
ONE
QUINCANNON WAS ALONE in the offices having his lunch—bread, cheese, strong coffee—and reading a temperance tract, when Señor Felipe Velasquez paid his visit.
It was a rare early-spring day in San Francisco, cloudless and warm. Quincannon had opened the window behind his desk, the one that overlooked Market Street and bore the painted words CARPENTER AND QUINCANNON, PROFESSIONAL DETECTIVE SERVICES. A balmy breeze off the Bay freshened the air in the room, made it seem almost fragrant. The city sounds that drifted in had a quality of sharpness that permitted each to be clearly identified: the passing rumble of a cable car, the clatter of a dray wagon, the calls of vendors hawking fresh oysters and white bay shrimp in the market across the street, the booming horn of one of the fast coastal steamers as it drew into or away from the Embarcadero. The air and the sounds made Quincannon restless. It was much too fine a day to waste indoors. A day, instead, for a carriage ride to Ocean Beach, or a ferry trip to Marin County, or perhaps a stroll in Golden Gate Park—all in the company of an attractive woman. A day that stirred a man's blood and gave rise to amorous thoughts of the mildly indecent sort.
He wondered if Sabina was weakening.
She showed no outward signs of it. Their relationship was to be strictly business, she had said more than once. But she had consented to spend a social evening with him, also more than once, and there was a softness in the way she looked at him sometimes, a softness in her voice even when she rejected his mild advances. Perhaps she was weakening. Perhaps underneath her reserve, she felt toward him as he felt toward her and it was only a matter of time before she agreed to become his lover. Or his wife. He had been a firm bachelor all his life; he had considered marriage an unsuitable undertaking for an operative of the United States Secret Service, a position he had held for fourteen years, and he considered it an equally unsuitable one for a flycop, his new profession for the past five months. Still and all, if it was the only way to possess Sabina; warm, smiling Sabina …
Quincannon sighed, ate a wedge of cheese and sourdough, and forced his attention back to the temperance tract. It was another of those written and printed by Ebenezer Talbot, one of the founders of the True Christian Temperance Society. It bore the title “A Bibulous Evening with Satan” and was highly inflammatory in its denunciation of the evils of drink. Two weeks ago, when Sabina had found him reading a different one of Ebenezer's handiworks, “Drunkards and Curs: The Truth About Demon Rum,” she had said in surprise, “I must say, John, you're a man of excesses. For more than a year you saturated yourself with alcohol, and now you've joined a temperance union.” But this was not the case, as he had explained to her. The other founders of the True Christian Temperance Society had hired him to investigate Ebenezer Talbot, whom they suspected of having embezzled Society funds. Quincannon had subsequently confirmed these suspicions; he had also discovered—and three days ago obtained evidence to prove—that Ebenezer had used his ill-gotten funds to finance the manufacture and distribution of bootleg whiskey to miners in the Mother Lode. Quincannon no longer needed to read temperance tracts, but he found himself buying and reading them just the same—those written by other individuals as well as by the amazing Ebenezer Talbot. They proved to be amusing light reading, a pleasant c
hange from the volumes of poetry and short stories he customarily read for relaxation.
He was absorbed in the tract when the latch clicked and the door opened. He glanced up, expecting to see Sabina. The man who entered was slim, dark, gray-maned, with a neatly trimmed graying beard and the bearing of a Mexican aristocrat. He seemed uncomfortable in a black cutaway coat and matching trousers, as if charro garb would be more suited to his temperament; and in his left hand he carried a small carpetbag. His string tie was fastened with a turquoise clip in the shape of a bull's head; his sombrero was studded with silver conchas. The clothing and the turquoise and silver ornamentations suggested that this man, whoever he might be, was not a pauper.
Business at Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services had not been so good that Quincannon could afford to be blase toward a prospective client who was well-dressed and apparently well-heeled. In rapid movements he covered the remains of his lunch with his napkin, opened one of the desk drawers and dropped the temperance tract into it, got to his feet, and came around the desk to greet the visitor.
He was a big man, Quincannon, and his own gray-flecked beard was thick and on the bushy side, giving him the look of a competent and well-mannered freebooter; he towered above the small-statured Mexican. He said, “Welcome, sir. Come right in.”
“You are Señor John Quincannon?”
“I am. And you are … ?”
“Felipe Antonio Abregon y Velasquez.” He spoke English well, with a precision that hinted at culture and breeding, and with a vaguely supercilious inflection. “Your name was given to me by Señor Adams at the California Commercial Bank.”
Quincannon didn't know anyone named Adams at the California Commercial Bank. He said, “Yes, of course, Adams—we've been acquainted for years. Won't you have a seat, Señor Velasquez?”
Beyond the Grave Page 3