2 The Spook Lights Affair

by Marcia Muller

  “I heard a distinct fluttering sound while she appeared to be standing atop the parapet, and took it in that moment to be the skirts of her gown whipping in the wind. But in the glimpses I had just before her supposed leap, the skirts in the figure I saw weren’t whipping about—they were motionless except for that shimmery radiance. A physical impossibility given the wind. Therefore the figure with its arms bent out couldn’t have been Virginia, but rather some manufactured image of her. Once I understood that, it was a simple matter of adding the other pieces of evidence together to arrive at the truth.”

  “The lead sinker I found, for one.”

  “Yes. And the facts that Lucas Whiffing worked in a sporting goods emporium that sells kites, and was a kite flyer himself as Grace DeBrett confirmed to me. It would have been easy enough, I surmised, for a clever lad like him to build a kite made of canvas tacked onto a collapsible wooden frame—”

  “Hinged in the middle, no doubt,” John said, nodding.

  “And fashioned in the shape of a woman and coated with an oil-based phosphorescent paint to give it substance and radiance in the fog. An experienced kite-flyer could then slip through the grounds unseen with it hidden under his coat and conceal himself beneath the parapet. When Virginia arrived at a prearranged time, he waited for her to scramble over the wall, then opened the kite and held it in place above with the aid of heavy lead sinkers—just long enough to create the illusion of Virginia standing on the parapet, when in fact she was hiding behind the fog-hidden cypress where you found the sinker.

  “As soon as Lucas drew the kite down and collapsed it to hide the painted side, Virginia screamed and each of them pitched an object over the cliff to the highway below—Lucas the rock that he’d earlier set in place, to create the path through the ice plant and simulate the sound of a falling body, and Virginia the cypress limb with a duplicate of her scarf attached to it.”

  John’s grudging but sincere admiration for her deductive skills showed plainly in his expression. The slight poutiness around his mouth, she knew, had nothing to do with the fact that she had successfully matched wits with him; unlike so many men, he harbored no ill feelings toward strong and intelligent women, else he would not have suggested their partnership in the first place. No, his self-esteem and his flare for the dramatic being what they were, it was simply that he chafed and always would chafe at having even a little of his thunder stolen, no matter whom it was who did the stealing.

  To placate him, she said, “I’m sure you arrived at the same conclusions. Was it before or after you solved the riddle of the Carville ghost?”

  “It was all of a deductive piece,” he said. He sounded perkier now. One thing about John: even though he was prone to pomposity at times, when deflated he bounced back quickly and held no grudges. None toward her, at any rate. The ersatz Sherlock Holmes was another matter. “The only possible way in which both dodges could have been worked was with kites.”

  “Then you added all the clues together much as I did.”

  “Along with several others.”

  “Tell me how the spook lights were created on the dunes.”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “Not exactly. How could I? I wasn’t in Carville and you were.”

  Further placated, John said, “The game was a variation of the one on the Heights. Whiffing knew from past conversations that Zeke Crabb was afraid of anything that smacked of the supernatural. First he told Crabb that he’d seen the lights among the abandoned cars and to watch for them himself. Then, past midnight, he slipped out, went to one of the cars, used a tool to make clawlike scratches on the walls and floor, flashed the kite he’d made—one fashioned in the image of a man and more heavily coated with phosphorescent paint—and fled with the kite before Crabb or any of the Meekers could catch him. He kept doing it, adding the banshee shrieks, when Crabb refused to be panicked into fleeing with the stolen money.”

  “All for naught, since Crabb never had the money.”

  “Yes, confound it. Whiffing was a blockhead, his girlfriend no better. Their game on the Heights was a stupidly dangerous lark, as you pointed out. Whiffing’s in Carville cost him his life.”

  “How was he able to run across the tops of the dunes without leaving tracks?” Sabina asked.

  “He didn’t. He ran along below and behind them with the kite string played out just far enough to lift the kite above the crests. To hold it at that height, he used more of the lead sinkers to weight and control it in the wind. In the fog and darkness, seen from a distance and manipulated by an expert, the kite gave every appearance of a ghostly figure bounding across the sand hills. And when he wanted it to disappear, he merely yanked it down out of sight, drew it in, and hid it under his coat, as he did on the Heights.

  “He was about to do it again last night when Crabb, having figured out the game, lay in wait and shot him. When Crabb’s bullet struck, the string loosed from Whiffing’s hand and the kite was carried off by the wind. I saw flashes of phosphorescence, higher up, before it disappeared altogether. This morning I found the remains on the beach. I also found kite-making evidence in a search of his room afterward.”

  Sabina made the mistake of continuing to apply balm to her partner’s ego by saying, “Well, I must say that was another fine piece of detecting, John.”

  “No finer than yours,” he admitted.

  “We do make a good team, don’t we?”

  “Indeed we do. And we could make an even better one.”

  “Now don’t start that again.…”

  His good humor had been restored. He actually winked as he said, “You really should give it serious consideration, my dear.”

  “For heaven’s sake, won’t you ever give up?”

  “When a goal is worthwhile, John Quincannon never gives up.”

  “And when her mind is made up, Sabina Carpenter never gives in.”

  He smiled at her. She smiled at him.

  The irresistible force and the immovable object.

  26

  QUINCANNON

  There was a police seal on the door of the empty house in Drifter’s Alley, put there after the body of Jack Travers had been removed. From the look of the yard and what Quincannon could see though cracks in the window shutters, the bluecoats hadn’t done much searching of the premises. As he’d expected. Murders were common occurances in the scruffier parts of the city, and the constabulary was overworked and understaffed, as well as corrupt and generally incompetent. The discovery of an unidentified, commonly dressed man shot to death in a tumbledown back-alley house would have been given short shrift. It was only when prominent citizens were slain, or the victims were young women slaughtered by the likes of the Demon of the Belfry, or families of the deceased applied legal pressure, that the detective squad mounted a serious investigation.

  The property and its environs had been deserted when Quincannon arrived, and remained so while he conducted his careful searches. The only signs of recent digging anywhere in the yard were the handful of shallow holes Zeke Crabb had created. There was nothing in the shallow space beneath the front porch except remnants of trash and a nest of spiders. Nor were there any evident burial spots among the bordering trees or in the adjacent vacant lot. If Jack Travers had planted the Wells, Fargo loot, he’d done it undetectably or in some other location.

  Quincannon had no qualms about breaking into the house. He left the police seal intact and entered through by picking an unsealed lock on the rear door. If the police had added to the chaos caused by Crabb’s ransacking, there was no indication of it; the interior rooms looked more or less as they had by match light on his first visit. The only apparent difference was the emptiness of the bloodstained cot in the bedroom.

  He made an exhaustive search of each room, using a pry bar he’d brought with him to lift floorboards, wallboards, and wainscoting. He looked inside the stove and dismantled the flue, barely escaping a cascade of soot. He dragged the icebox away from the wall so he could check beh
ind it. He inspected cabinets, furniture, light fixtures, ceiling rafters—every conceivable hiding place that Crabb might have overlooked.

  The green-and-greasy wasn’t there. Not so much as a dollar of it.

  It was not in Quincannon’s nature to give up on a quest, particularly one of such a remunerative nature. But what else could he do now? Only Jack Travers had known the whereabouts of the swag, and his greedy secret had died with him. It could be anywhere, close by or miles away, buried in the ground or tucked inside a hollow tree stump or an abandoned building or dozens of other places. There was simply no way to tell what sort of hiding place the crafty mind of a thief had come up with.

  All the detective work Quincannon had done, all the indignities he had been subjected to—beer bath, whizzing bullets, the fight with Zeke Crabb, the unwanted helping hand from the crackbrain—and what did he have to show for it? Shared fees from Joseph St. Ives and Barnaby Meeker, yes, Sabina had reminded him of that. She might be satisfied with them, but he wasn’t. Not when he could have, should have, by Godfrey was entitled to have, added so much more to the agency’s coffers.

  Thirty-five thousand dollars in cash—missing, lost, perhaps never to be found.

  Thirty-five hundred dollars reward—gone forever.

  It was enough to make even a peerless detective weep.

  27

  SABINA

  “Sabina, dear, allow me to introduce Mr. Carson Montgomery.”

  Cousin Callie, in full formal regalia, with a tall, slender man in tow. Sabina, who had just arrived at the Frenches’s Victorian home, smothered a sigh. She should have known that her cousin had had an ulterior motive in insisting she attend “a small dinner party Hugh and I are giving, just a few of our more interesting acquaintances.” Forever the matchmaker, that was her plump, bejeweled, and spritely cousin.

  She was prepared to be her usual polite but aloof and disinterested self at such planned introductions, but when she’d had a close look at Carson Montgomery, she changed her mind. Or rather, had it changed for her. He was her age, or perhaps a few years older, and well turned out in a gray cutaway morning coat with matching trousers and a light-colored waistcoat. He had fine ascetic features and curly brown hair, but it was his eyes that held her gaze. They were a brilliant blue—exactly the shade Stephen’s eyes had been. And they had the same kindly softness, but with a similar glittery light that told her he knew and responded well to danger. Eyes such as those could be understanding or harshly disapproving; loving or sparking with anger; thoughtful or suddenly gay and frivolous. In her too-brief time with her husband, she had seen just such a full range of expression in his eyes.

  Callie nudged her—hard, in the small of her back. It was only then that Sabina realized she was staring, and that a warm flush had crept out of the high collar of her evening dress.

  “How do you do, Mr. Montgomery?” she said, offering her hand. When he took it, his fingers felt electric on hers.

  “Quite well, thank you. And you, Mrs. Carpenter?”

  “Fine,” she said. The one word was all she could think of.

  Callie said, “Mr. Montgomery is one of the Montgomerys.”

  “Really?” Another rather lame one-word response. She couldn’t seem to draw her gaze away from his.

  “Yes. The Montgomery Block, you know.”

  “I know your name, of course,” he said, “from the newspapers.”

  “You mustn’t believe everything you read, Carson,” Callie said. “The St. Ives matter was blown completely out of proportion.”

  “I have no doubt of that.” He smiled at Sabina. “Your work must be fascinating, if sometimes hazardous.”

  “Yes. It is.”

  Callie excused herself, saying, “I’ll leave you two young people to get better acquainted while I tend to my other guests.” She was beaming with satisfaction as she withdrew to join her other guests gathered in the parlor.

  When Carson asked Sabina if she would like some refreshment, she nodded and allowed him to take her arm and guide her to where a huge punchbowl sat on the buffet table. As he poured a cup for her, he said, “You’re not the first eligible and charming lady I’ve been introduced to by well-meaning matchmakers such as your cousin. Debutantes, distant relatives, titled ladies, visitors from exotic foreign lands. Not to mention a woman in Modesto with three children and a grandchild on the way.”

  He chuckled when he said the last, and Sabina found herself responding in kind. The fact that Carson Montgomery had a sense of humor was a point in his favor. She had never been able to abide humorless men.

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, Mrs. Carpenter,” he went on, “none has caught my eye in quite the same way you have.”

  “That’s a rather forward statement, Mr. Montgomery.”

  “But honestly given as a compliment. Do you mind?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “I’ll be even more bold. I was waiting, perhaps, for someone like you.”

  Stuff and nonsense, Sabina thought. Where did men come up with such pronouncements? And yet, to be fair, all men—and women—had golden words that they believed would entice, seduce, and secure. She herself had used a few upon occasion in her younger days.

  “You see,” he went on, “most women seem interested only in the fact that I have money and position in San Francisco society. You strike me as an exception—an independent woman with means and a mind of your own. I suspect you’d find the fact that I am also a fairly competent metallurgist who spent several years in the Mother Lode goldfields more interesting than my net worth.”

  She nodded, the warmth still in her cheeks. Those blue, blue eyes of his were almost mesmerizing.

  While they sipped Callie’s champagne punch, Carson spoke more of his experiences in the goldfields. They were interesting; he was an excellent raconteur. But far from the egotistical sort who spoke only about himself. He soon shifted the conversation to her and her detective work, his questions revealing a genuine curiosity and admiration for her accomplishments as a Pink Rose and as a partner in Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services. They untied her tongue and allowed her to speak freely, to relax and completely enjoy his company.

  By the time a hovering and still-beaming Callie announced that dinner was served, Sabina had permitted him to call her by her given name and had agreed to the same privilege. And when the evening ended and he asked if he could see her again, for luncheon or dinner, cocktails or a buggy ride in the park, she agreed to that, too. With enthusiasm and a stirring of excitement. He was the first man she had responded to this way since Stephen’s death. Not even John had succeeded in turning her head in quite the same fashion.

  John. He would be hurt when he found out, she thought on the cab ride to her flat, as he surely would if she continued to keep company with Carson. But, really, it was none of his business, was it? Her private life was her own; she had made it clear to him all along that she had no intention of mixing business with pleasure.

  Then why, for heaven’s sake, in spite of her attraction to Carson Montgomery, did she feel as if she were being disloyal to John?

  Authors’ Note

  The historical background in these pages is genuine. Adolph Sutro was mayor of San Francisco in 1895, resided on the clifftop estate called Sutro Heights, and had financed the construction of Cliff House and Sutro Baths; Carville-by-the-Sea was a budding oceanside enclave, though destined to be short-lived; the Barbary Coast and Uptown Tenderloin districts flourished as the city’s lower- and upper-class seats of sin; Theo Durrant, “the Demon of the Belfry,” did in fact murder and mutilate two young women whose bodies were found in the Emanuel Baptist Church in the spring of 1895, for which crimes he was hanged three years later.

  It should be noted, however, that for story purposes, small but necessary liberties were taken with certain geographical and descriptive details and time elements. The world of fiction is like those that might be found in parallel or alternate universes: people, pl
aces, and events past and present are almost but not quite identical to those in the world we inhabit.

  M.M. / B.P.

  BY MARCIA MULLER AND BILL PRONZINI

  NOVELS

  Double

  Beyond the Grave

  The Lighthouse

  The Bughouse Affair

  SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS

  Duo

  Crucifixion River

  NONFICTION

  1001 Midnights

  About the Authors

  Marcia Muller is the creator of Sharon McCone and one of the key figures in the development of the contemporary female private investigator. The author of more than thirty-five novels, three in collaboration with her husband, Bill Pronzini, Marcia received the Mystery Writers of America’s Grand Master Award in 2005.

  Bill Pronzini, creator of the Nameless Detective, is a highly praised novelist, short-story writer, and anthologist. He received the Grand Master Award from the Mystery Writers of America in 2008, making Marcia and Bill the only living couple to share the award (the other couple being Margaret Millar and Ross Macdonald).

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously.

  THE SPOOK LIGHTS AFFAIR

  Copyright © 2013 by the Pronzini-Muller Family Trust

  All rights reserved.

  Cover art by Gordon Crabb

  A Forge Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

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  New York, NY 10010

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  Forge® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN 978-0-7653-3175-5 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-1-4299-9722-5 (e-book)