I could think of one thing: If Quincannon had not found the Velasquez treasure, perhaps someone else had, recently. Perhaps that person was now trying to keep the fact from becoming public, so he would not have to turn the artifacts over to Sofia Manuela, the heir. That was the logical explanation, but it didn't feel right to me.
Feelings. I smiled wryly, and I went about the house, turning out lights and preparing for bed. Mama was always having feelings. She'd give me a dark look-the kind that indicated there were horrors standing in the wings just waiting to go onstage-and say, “I have a feeling.…” And then she'd present the latest dire possibility. I'd scoff at her premonitions, but more often than not they'd be right. And now I was having feelings, too. Perhaps, I thought, I was more my mother's child than I realized.
FIVE
The next morning I went to my office at the museum to wait for the Express Mail package from the San Francisco library. As soon as I got there I checked to see if the first installment of Quincannon's report was still in my desk drawer where I'd locked it two days before. There was no reason it shouldn't have been there, but I felt a quick sense of relief at the sight of its cracked leather cover.
It was now a little after nine, and around me I could hear the museum coming alive. We don't open to the public until ten, but already the staff was arriving, and preparations for the day were under way. Camilla, the volunteer who tends the gardens, was watering the azalea bushes in the little courtyard outside my office window. The phones had begun to ring, and I heard the voice of Susana Ibarra-who had volunteered to handle them in my secretary's absence-answering in cheerful tones. Doors slammed, voices called out greetings, and from the cart that sat outside my door came the smell of freshly brewing coffee. My stomach gave a hopeful growl, and I wondered if anyone had thought to buy doughnuts or sweetrolls this morning.
I was about to go out and investigate when Susana appeared in the doorway. She is an extremely pretty girl with black hair that flows nearly to her waist, and she habitually wears short, brightly colored dresses that accentuate her good legs and tiny waist. Susana, whose first job at the museum had been as my secretary, had turned into an excellent public relations director and all-around trouble-shooter. I alternately took pride in her newly developed skill at dealing diplomatically with people and became nervous at her ambitiousness. At one time, in fact, I'd suspected her of having designs on my job; as it turned out, they were only directed at my then-boyfriend, Carlos Bautista.
Today Susana's silk dress was a warm tangerine color, and a matching band held her hair back from her forehead. Her long fingernails also matched; I noticed that right away because she had her hands pressed to her breastbone in a peculiarly breathless gesture. I was about to ask her if she was in danger of choking and if so, should I summon someone who knew the Heimlich maneuver, when I saw the ring.
Such a ring would have been hard to miss even if Susana had not been so intent on displaying it. It was a diamond, one huge square-cut stone surrounded by at least a dozen smaller ones. Por Dios, I thought, she must feel as if she's carrying a baseball around! That stone has to be at least three carats.
Susana said, “It's three point seven-five carats.”
I said, “Oh.”
“Of course, the small diamonds bring the total to around five.”
“That's pretty impressive.”
Susana frowned, dropping her hands to her sides. “What's wrong, Elena?” she asked. “Aren't you glad for me?” There was no gloating or cattiness in her voice; when Susana was happy, she genuinely wanted everybody to share in it.
“Of course I am!” I got up, went around the desk, and hugged her, then examined and exclaimed over the ring. Susana beamed and blushed, and let loose one of her piercing giggles. Then she went to get coffee for us to drink while she told me about her wedding plans.
I sat down in my desk chair, still a little stunned. Rudy had forewarned me about the ring, but I certainly hadn't expected anything of that size, and seeing it gave Susana's engagement to Carlos an overwhelming reality. Was I jealous? I wondered. No, not of her winning Carlos. He was my own discarded suitor; in fact, my standing him up one night was what had thrown him into Susana's arms. No, I wasn't jealous. I just wished this had come at a better time, when I could listen to her plans secure in the knowledge that somebody loved me, too.
By the time Susana returned with the coffee, I had composed my face into what I hoped was a pleased, anticipatory expression. Susana, for all her youth and self-absorption, is not insensitive, however, and she fussed over me a little, setting the coffee carefully on a napkin and going back to get a better sweetroll because the one she'd brought me was missing some of its sugary topping. Her solicitude only made me more determined not to let her realize how low I felt.
Finally she sat down across the desk from me, her hands clasped around her shapely knees, the ring positioned so it caught the light from the window behind me. “The wedding,” she said, “is to be on September fourth-my birthday.”
She would be all of eighteen, I thought. And Carlos was fifty-three. My preoccupation with my own feelings quickly evaporated and was replaced by a greater concern for Susana. How could such a marriage work, given the vast age difference? Carlos had seemed old to me….
“We do not wish to have a large wedding,” Susana went on. “I had that with my first marriage, in Bogota. I did not enjoy it.” She paused, then wrinkled her nose. “Of course, I did not enjoy the marriage, either.”
I smiled faintly. Tony Ibarra, Susana's first husband, had been a smirking, pretentious man who always reminded me of what used to be called a “lounge lizard.” By the time she had seen through him, he had proven himself to be much worse-an embezzler.
“So,” Susana said, “it will be a simple ceremony with only our close friends present. And I wish you to be my maid of honor!”
From the way she beamed at me, I knew she thought she was presenting me with a precious gift. I forced a smile and said, “Why, Susana, I'm honored.”
She brushed the words away with a gesture of her left hand that sent out a shower of sparkles. “I would have no one else. When I was starting over all alone in this country, you gave me a chance to prove myself. Not many would have done that-not after the way I aided my husband in his wickedness. I have never really expressed it, but I am very grateful, Elena.”
Touched, I searched for words, but Susana went on. “There is only one problem. I must ask you-do you easily become seasick?” I stared at her.
“The reason I ask is that the wedding is to be held on Carlos's yacht. We want something different from the usual type of ceremony.”
Something different in a wedding: It seemed to be the California dream. People got married on beaches and in redwood groves, in hot-air balloons and on ski lifts. The settings and ceremonies were ingenious, while the marriages that resulted were often drearily the same. And now Susana and Carlos would formalize their union on the high seas. A weariness settled over me, and suddenly I wished I could say I turned green at the slightest ripple. But I couldn't do that; I have the world's steadiest pair of sea legs, and Carlos knew that from the numerous hours we'd spent together on that same yacht. “No,” I said, “I don't get seasick.”
“Bueno!” Susana clapped her hands together. I realized we'd be treated to many dramatic hand gestures before she got used to that ring.
She reached for a pen and a legal pad that lay on my desk, then said, “Now we can go on with the planning. I think pink for your dress. Or perhaps yellow-something to express the joy of the occasion.”
I look like the devil in yellow, and I hate pink. “Fine,” I said. “You choose.”
“And roses for the bouquet. In colors to match the dress.”
Roses make me sneeze. “Whatever you think best. But what will you be wearing?”
“A long dress.” She paused. “Oh, you mean the color. Well, certainly not white. But ivory, perhaps. A color that is only a little tainted.” And then s
he giggled so loudly I winced.
If Susana was going to be a millionaire's wife, I thought, we'd have to work on that giggle. Perhaps I could train her…. But how? I'd ask Mama. She had spent years trying to turn Carlota and me into ladies and-at least with my sister-had been moderately successful.
I was about to ask about the food and the guest list when Rudy Lopez poked his head through the door. Today his shirt was a hideous bright orange. Perhaps I could train him, too….
“Elena,” he said, “there's an Express Mail package here for you.” He held up a thick brown envelope bearing a blue-and-orange label that went surprisingly well with his shirt.
I jumped up and went to take it from him. “Thanks. The reason I came in was to pick this up.”
Rudy looked disappointed. “Oh, I thought you might be here all day.”
“Why?”
“There are some invoices I need to go over with you. And Linda said something about needing your approval on the copy for the display of Chiapas textiles before she can send it to the typesetter.”
Susana added, “And I would like your advice on the fall advertising campaign. I am having a difficult time deciding which publications to use.”
I sighed and looked down at the envelope, feeling trapped by the demands of other people. I was needed here at the museum; I had to stop at the hospital and see Mama; and I'd promised Sam Ryder I'd bring the documents to Las Lomas and read them with him. Finally I said, “I can remain here until quarter to eleven. You may decide among yourselves who gets to see me first.”
Of course, the next hour was not long enough to solve everyone's problems, and I had to promise to call Susana at home that evening-both to discuss the ad campaign and make more plans for the wedding. Then, when I arrived at the hospital, I found Mama was not in her room; she was having a number of tests run, the nurse informed me, and it would be better if I came back in the late afternoon. Fuming, I drove to Las Lomas, only to find that Sam wasn't at home.
I stood on his front porch clutching the precious envelope and debating what to do for a moment. After making the long drive up here, I hated to turn around and go back to Santa Barbara. Besides, Sam might return at any moment. Would it be cheating on my promise that we'd read the documents together if I started without him? I wondered. Of course not; Sam wasn't a child; he'd understand my eagerness.
I considered sitting down on the porch steps, but the cement would be cold, and anyway, after my experience yesterday at the ruins, I felt uncomfortable about reading there, where all the town could see me. I was about to go sit in my car when I remembered the picnic table where we'd had dinner on Sunday night; it was reasonably isolated, screened by scraggly rosebushes.
I went around the house and sat down there in the weedy bower. Tearing the envelope open with eager fingers, I pulled out its contents and spread them on the table. What appeared to be Xeroxes of the personal correspondence and diaries I set aside for later. The notes made for the report of the Velasquez investigation were what I wanted, and I began to read them first.
PART VI
1894
ONE
At the Arlington stables Quincannon made arrangements to hire the claybank horse for several days. Then he returned to the hotel, changed into riding clothes, packed his warbag, and had a brief consultation with the manager, in which he said that he was going away for a few days on “grave government business” but that he might need accommodations again on his return. The manager assured him that the suite he had occupied would be held for him until further notice.
From the hotel he went to the telegraph office, where he sent a brief wire to Sabina telling her where he was going and that his investigation might require him to spend several more days in this area. He omitted any details; they would only have given her cause for concern.
He rode out of Santa Barbara to the north. When he reached Goleta he followed the old stagecoach road up into the foothills. A sea wind had sprung up at the lower elevations, but it died away as he climbed toward San Marcos Pass; the sun was warm on his back. The pungent smells of oak, madrone, pepper, filled his nostrils. In different circumstances he might have enjoyed the ride, the countryside. As it was, the murder of Luis Cordova fretted his mind-that, and the Spanish phrases on the paper scrap in his pocket.
Mas alia del sepulcro. Beyond the grave.
Donde Maria. Where Maria …
Half a mile above a sprawling cattle ranch, the road devolved into a bare-rock slope so steep the road-builders had had to chisel deep grooves into the stone in order to keep coaches and horses from slipping on both ascent and descent. There were two sets of ruts, one worn so deep from use that it was now virtually impassable. Quincannon took the claybank up the second set, a slow process that consumed considerable time. The sun was falling toward the sea when he finally crested the ridge and arrived at a way station called Summit House.
He stopped there long enough to water himself and his horse and to find out the locations of and distances between subsequent stage stops. Then he paid a toll of twenty-five cents for passage through a locked gate barring the road, not without reluctance-private toll roads annoyed him-and pressed on up a steep canyon to the summit. On the north side of the mountains was another station, Cold Spring Tavern. There was still an hour of daylight left when he reached it; but it was a long ride down into the Santa Ynez Valley to the next way station, and it would be foolish to travel unfamiliar mountain terrain after dark.
He put up at Cold Spring Tavern for the night, paying two dollars for a plate of beans and “beef” (the meat tasted suspiciously goatish) and for the privilege of sharing a straw mattress with a variety of tiny crawling vermin. By the light of a kerosene lamp he recorded in his notebook the details of what had taken place in Santa Barbara. Then he studied the half-dozen letters he had taken from Luis Cordova's study and the hollow, conical piece of metal he had found near the body. The careful examination yielded no more information than the earlier, cursory one had. The letter gave him no definite idea of where the Velasquez artifacts had been secreted, nor any clue as to whether Luis or his mother had ever returned to the rancho to steal some or all of them. And while the piece of metal still seemed familiar to him, he was still unable to identify it or to say where he might have seen it before. Had Cordova's murderer lost it? Or had it belonged to Cordova himself?
At length, frustrated, he blew out the lamp and lay waiting for sleep. But his mind would not close down; and he was too stiff and sore from the fight with Evans and Witherspoon, and from his long ride, to force his body to relax. It was a long while before mind and body finally yielded.
When he awoke at dawn he was even stiffer, he itched all over, and his humor was as bleak as the sudden overcast that had settled above the mountains during the night. He washed in cold water, drank several cups of hot, bad coffee, disdained breakfast because he could smell it cooking, and set out again within the hour. The morning was raw, lashed by a chill wind that bit through his clothing, seemed to build a thin layer of ice on his skin. All at once the balmy spring weather of San Francisco and Santa Barbara had become a memory. It was as if he had been thrust backward in time, to the middle of winter. Cold enough to snow, he thought sourly. Bah.
He made his way down the north slopes into the Santa Ynez Valley. After fording a shallow river, he passed a third way station-Ballard's Adobe-and eventually came to the settlement of Los Olivos. There was a hotel in the settlement; he wondered if Felipe Velasquez and Barnaby O'Hare had stopped there for the night, or if they had ridden straight on to Rancho Rinconada de los Robles. In either case they had no doubt passed a better night than he had.
The road led him up Alamo Pintado Canyon, traversed rolling grasslands studded with fat cattle, then entered another canyon-Foxen Canyon, if he remembered correctly-where he soon encountered one of the stage line's Concord coaches bound from Santa Maria to Santa Barbara. Twenty minutes after that he came on the off-road, marked by a pair of giant laurels, that Velasq
uez had told him led to Rancho Rinconada de los Robles.
Several small ranches fanned out along this road, parcels of hilly cattle graze that had once been part of Don Esteban's vast holdings. Herds of white-faced cattle speckled the landscape; there were occasional flocks of sheep as well. He came on ranch wagons, buggies, cowhands on horseback-considerably more traffic, it seemed, than there had been on the stage road. It was well past noon when he topped a rise and saw, finally, a mile or so in the distance, the wooded hill on which the buildings of the Velasquez hacienda stood outlined against the dull gray sky. From here he could also see, at an angle to his right and perhaps a quarter mile this side of the hill, the ruins of the old pueblo and Padre Urbano's church, San Anselmo de las Lomas.
Quincannon rode toward the hacienda. But instead of proceeding there directly, he veered off on a grass-choked wagon track, obviously little used these days, that took him to the pueblo. It was much larger than he had expected. Once it had contained at least two dozen buildings-the church; a convento adjacent to it, where the padre had lived; dwellings for vaqueros and for laborers and their families; a garrison for the rancho's private militia; stables, workshops, and storehouses. Here and there was evidence of tanning vats, racks for drying cowhides, a blacksmith's forge, big adobe kilns for the baking of bread and the making of pottery. Beyond the church was an overgrown graveyard. And beyond the workshops an orchard of apple and pear trees stretched in thick profusion alongside a stream swollen from the winter rains.
But it was a ghost pueblo now, allowed to remain in ruin as a bitter monument to the siege of 1846 in which Don Esteban and so many others had lost their lives. A few of the buildings were still intact, but most showed the scars of battle and the ravages of time: fire-blackened beams, cannon-shattered walls, piles of crumbled adobe-brick and masonry. High grass and wind-tangles of brush and wild patches of prickly-pear cactus obscured and half concealed much of the ruins, so that the details of the pueblo's configuration were blurred and Quincannon was unable to visualize exactly how it had looked half a century ago.
Beyond the Grave jq-2 Page 17