The walls of the lobby were covered with a rough concrete plaster, giving the room the feel of a cold damp cave. It was an eerie contrast to the warming bustle on the street outside.
The place had a recently vacated aura. A table pushed up against the back wall contained the remnants of what appeared to have been a sizeable spread of hors d’oeuvres and snack food. A handful of leftover sandwiches, each one cut into a triangle with the crusts removed, lay on a tray alongside a few scattered cookies and a lone deviled egg.
Rupert suddenly woke from his slumber and stretched his head upward, sniffing hungrily against the stroller’s top netting.
“You just ate,” I hissed down at him.
He gave me a confused look as he smacked his lips together. His last meal in the back of the van was already long forgotten.
I tapped Rupert’s head through the netting and turned my attention to the door leading into the theater’s auditorium. Red velvet curtains had been pulled back to facilitate entrance into a semicircular stadium of seating. An easel-mounted placard beside the curtains identified the evening’s performer as traveling Mark Twain impersonator Clement Samuels.
I grinned at the sign and whispered down into the stroller. “Doubt that’s his real name, Issy.”
She murmured her agreement as I peeked through the curtains to the auditorium. The overhead lighting had been dimmed, and the members of the audience had taken their seats. The room was filled with the respectful silence of a preperformance hush.
I didn’t see anyone selling or collecting tickets, so I nosed the stroller inside and rolled it down a wide aisle near one of the back rows. With a light thud, I flipped the red vinyl cushion of the nearest chair into its horizontal position and sank into the anonymity of the darkness.
Craning my neck, I could just make out the front rim of a balcony positioned above my row of seats. Given the numerous pieces of lighting and sound equipment poking out over the ledge, the second floor looked as if it was closed off to the audience.
I dropped my gaze to the darkened area around me. The auditorium’s walls and floor were constructed of the same concrete substance as those in the lobby. If the theater was as old as it claimed, I mused, extensive renovations must have been done to the original structure.
At the bottom cusp of the seating area, a focused flood of light poured down onto the stage, where an open checkerboard surface awaited the afternoon’s performer.
Looking out across the audience, I noticed the front spotlights reflected the tops of mostly white-haired heads. The majority of today’s patrons, I suspected, were local theatergoers. The occasional cycling tourist mixed into the crowd was easy to pick out.
After a crackling of static, a man’s deep, resonant voice, warmed by the soft edge of a Southern drawl, echoed from behind the stage. “Friends, Romans, countrymen—and a few bewildered bystanders drawn in from the street. Welcome to the Nevada Theatre!”
A whiskery, rosy-cheeked man in a tattered black bow tie and a rumpled linen suit strolled gallantly onto the stage. He stroked the corners of a white mustache as he approached the microphone stand. Then, standing center stage, he turned toward the audience and pumped his wild flyaway eyebrows.
I stared at the actor, momentarily transfixed. The unkempt eyebrows, the bended curve of his shoulders, the twinkle in his eyes as he assessed the crowd—all these features were strikingly similar to the man in the black-and-white photo I’d found almost a year earlier in the basement beneath the Green Vase—the photo of my Uncle Oscar posing as Mark Twain.
I tried for a moment to recall the details of the photograph so that I could perform a mental comparison between my costumed uncle and the actor on the stage. But quickly, I abandoned the idea. Of course there’d be a strong resemblance between the two men, I told myself with a firm reasoning gulp. They were both impersonating the same historical figure.
“Ladies, gentlemen, and”—the man paused for effect—“assorted beasts.” I gripped the handle of the stroller as he winked toward the rear of the auditorium. “Again, welcome to this afternoon’s program. Now, I presume introductions are unnecessary?”
He stopped expectantly, as if waiting for confirmation from the audience. As the silence stretched out, he turned his whole body sideways, cupped his hand around his right ear, and leaned out over the front row of seats.
“What’s that I hear?” he called out belligerently, stamping his lace-up ankle boots in exaggerated irritation as he spun to face the audience. “Surely, my reputation precedes me?”
Beneath the overgrown mustache, the man’s lips puckered petulantly. He unbuttoned the loose-fitting linen jacket and stroked the paunch of his collared white shirt.
“Don’t tell me that you are unaware of my extensive collection of work?” He put his hands on his hips defiantly. “Come now, I have not been dead that long. Someone in the audience must have read my writings . . . ”
He scanned the crowd in frustration. His face grew pained as his voice pinched with disbelief.
“See here, I have it on good authority that my subversive propaganda has thoroughly infiltrated the educational system of this country . . . ”
He began to pace back and forth indignantly. “A voluminous collection of texts explicitly crafted to inspire outrageous pranksterism and impish deviltry?”
The man’s face reddened with mock outrage. “Manifestos which have corrupted generations of malleable young minds with their recountings of tomfoolery . . . and Huck-Finnery ?”
The slightest whisper of a wink twitched the man’s left eyebrow, triggering a few nervous giggles in the audience.
He leaned over the stage to examine a nine-year-old boy sitting in the front row next to a protective elderly woman in a silk scarf. The boy’s eyes bulged as he plastered himself against his seat-back.
The actor’s face broke into a gentle, reassuring grin. “Ma’am, is this your grandson?”
She nodded with a reserved smile.
The man beamed down at the boy. His voice silked a rich comforting tone. “Ah, so innocent appears the bloom of youth.”
He shifted his gaze back to the woman and thumped the lumpy bridge of his nose.
“Do not be deceived by this crafty little devil,” he barked harshly. “The youth is a scheming and conniving beast—one of the most dangerous creatures known to mankind!” He leaned back on his heels with an appeasing grin. “I should know. I used to be one.”
A ripple of laughter ran through the theater, and the man spread his arms wide. “We’re all friends here. There’s no need for the formality of our full Christian names,” he said genially. “You can just call me . . . ”
He picked up a four-foot-long wooden dowel stick and tapped it against a placard set up on an easel near the edge of the stage. It was identical to the one I’d passed in the foyer introducing the Mark Twain impersonator.
He cleared his throat with a loud “ ahem.” Then, with an extra jab of the pointer, he stated, “You can call me Clem.”
Chapter 16
THE VIEW FROM THE BALCONY
HAROLD WOMBLER’S GREEN baseball cap bobbed through a sidewalk full of cycling fans as he lumbered up Broad Street toward the Nevada Theatre. A red cotton fabric flashed in the holes at his knees as he walked. After testing the late afternoon’s crisp mountain air, he’d slipped on a precautionary pair of thermal underwear beneath his frayed overalls.
A prudent wardrobe choice, he thought to himself as he tugged the stretchy fabric to adjust the fit, but not nearly as comfortable.
From the front chest pocket of Harold’s overalls, a pink nose popped up to check out the scene. Comfy in his tiny green jacket, the mouse twitched his whiskers as he soaked up the sights and smells of Nevada City.
In his right hand, Harold gripped the handle to the terrarium, taking care not to swing it as he walked. Before leaving the pickup, he’d refreshed the plant cuttings and tossed in a couple more chilled crickets. The two frogs rested comfortably on the wet
leaves, their stomachs working to digest their afternoon snack. Every so often, the larger frog turned his head to stare proudly at the blue first-place ribbon tied to the terrarium’s handle.
When he reached the top of the hill, Harold glanced briefly up and down the street to make sure he wasn’t being followed. Not seeing anyone of concern, he ducked into the lobby of the Nevada Theatre.
Other than the food table positioned next to the auditorium’s curtained entrance, the room was empty. Harold listened to Clem’s voice echoing from the stage as he snatched up a triangular-shaped sandwich with his free hand and stuffed it into his mouth. Still chewing on the oversized bite, he shuffled over to a red velvet rope that had been looped across a flight of stairs leading to the balcony. With a last glance at the empty lobby, he goose-stepped over the rope and climbed the steps to the second floor.
A few seconds later, Harold stepped onto a landing packed with lighting and sound equipment. Booms, bulbs, and speaker boxes competed with one another for space. With difficulty, Harold made his way to the front row of seats and placed the frog terrarium on the ledge overlooking the auditorium. The frogs waddled to the side of their glass cage so they could peer down onto the patrons below. Harold carefully squeezed in behind the frogs and craned his neck over the top of the terrarium.
After a quick search of the audience, Harold spied a familiar pair of heads sitting in the middle of the theater: a woman with curly gray hair and, beside her, an elderly Asian man who was nearly bald. Dilla and Wang, he grunted silently. The Vigilance Committee was present and accounted for—Montgomery Carmichael had been left off the roster for the Bear Flag operation, which was plenty fine with Harold. That man had become even more unbearable since his recent promotion at the Mayor’s office.
Harold rotated his head to study the space directly beneath the balcony. A woman with long brown hair sat next to a stroller containing two white cats. Through the carriage’s net cover, a furry face with pointed orange ears looked up at him inquiringly.
Harold’s bleary bloodshot eyes locked in on Isabella’s clear blue ones. He jerked his head several times to the left; then he tapped the tip of his nose.
Isabella tilted her head up against the netting, cautiously pressing the flat pad of her nose against the underside of the zipper’s metal slider. Following Harold’s guidance, she began to move her head in quick jerking motions to the left, slowly inching the slider across the teeth of the zipper. The brown-haired woman sitting beside the stroller failed to notice as a cat-sized opening formed in the net cover.
Harold shifted his focus to the stage. The actor’s cadence gradually began to increase as he built to a moment that would capture the audience’s full attention.
When Harold saw the actor lean toward the front row, he motioned a go-ahead sign to Isabella. The actor growled viciously at the audience, causing the brown-haired woman to jump in her seat. Her attention remained fixed on the actor’s bear impersonation as a flash of white fur leapt gracefully from the stroller.
Harold pushed back from the railing, a satisfied expression on his face. He reached into a pocket on the left side of his overalls. His thin lips twisted into a smirk as he unwrapped the package to reveal a toy bear holding a tiny paper flag in its outstretched paw.
Noiselessly, Harold eased his way to the rear of the balcony. Then, carrying the frogs in their cage, the mouse in his pocket, and the toy bear in his free hand, he quietly returned to the lobby.
IN A DARK corner of the balcony, where he’d sat watching Harold’s entire charade with Isabella, Ivan Batrachos silently stroked the thin line of the scar that creased the left side of his face.
Chapter 17
THE WORDS OF MARK TWAIN
CLEM TAPPED THE microphone as the applause to his opener died down. “Now that we’re all introduced,” he continued jovially. “I’d like to move on to the main topic of today’s lecture. This afternoon, I’ll be discussing one of the more curious events from our state’s early history.”
He tilted his head conversationally. “The incident I’m about to relate to you happened a few years before I arrived on the scene, but I spoke to many firsthand witnesses, and I’m convinced my information is reliable and accurate.”
Clem coughed lightly into his fist before amending. “Well—let’s say generally reliable and mostly accurate.” He shrugged his shoulders with a sheepish grin. “You have to allow me a few modest embellishments here and there.”
His eyes flicked toward the back of the theater as he licked his lips dramatically. “Today, I’m going to tell you the story of the Bear Flag Revolt.”
I edged forward in my seat as Clem leaned out over the front of the stage. Clearly, I had come to the right place, I thought as he suddenly assumed a threatening grizzlybear stance and growled at the young boy in the front row. I felt myself jump, in tandem with the boy, who once more flattened himself against the back of his chair.
Clem chuckled reassuringly, “No, no, I promise, there aren’t any real bears here tonight.”
My hand instinctively reached into my pocket for the stuffed bear from Oscar’s kitchen as my eyes stayed riveted to the action at the front of the auditorium.
“For a very brief time in the summer of 1846 . . . ” Clem wacked the dowel stick against the rim of the stage as he pumped his eyebrows at the boy in the front row. “A very brief time, don’t blink or you’ll miss it.”
Winking, he swung the stick up and over his shoulder. “California declared itself an independent republic. The Bear Flag Revolt was the beginning—and the end—of that independence movement.”
Clem leaned the dowel stick against the microphone stand, tucked his hands into the small of his back, and began pacing back and forth across the stage.
“As I said, the Bear Flag Revolt took place in 1846. June fourteenth to be specific. Back then the West was a vast unknown territory, claimed by many, owned by none. It was a land of men. Men who were unfettered by the restraining yoke of a society’s rules and regulations”—Clem reached up to the bent crook of his nose; dramatically pinching his fingers around the tip end, he squeaked out—“and its regiments of sanitation.”
The crowd murmured in amusement.
“I’m not talking about those gold-grubbing Forty-Niners you here in Nevada City are so familiar with.” Clem cleared his throat with a note of self-deprecation. “I count myself in that classification.”
Straightening his shoulders, he self-consciously stroked the thin gray strands that covered the crown of his head. “No, I’m recollecting a time before those starry-eyed masses surged across land and sea to California’s gold fields. This was a different group of explorers. Intrepid souls who came West hankering after something far more elusive than the gold nuggets that tumble through these frigid mountain streams.”
Clem grumbled a shivering aside under his breath. “Blast those tormenting nuggets . . . ” He shook his head as if to clear the memory.
“No, this was before the state took on its golden luster. In her early days, California attracted a different type of reckless visionary . . . ruthless, cunning men who were intent on fame, glory, and a permanent place in history—and they were willing to do anything to get it.”
Clem dragged a wooden stool to center stage and eased himself onto the seat. “The old-man version of me needs a few props,” he explained apologetically before resuming his dialogue.
“Our story begins with one such character, a young gentleman who would become the leader of the Bear Flag Revolt: Captain John C. Frémont. He was in the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers—the part of the military responsible for drawing up maps of this country.”
Clem politely cleared his throat. “Early on in his career, this here Frémont earned himself a nickname. It was a clever moniker, one that young John Charles wore with pride. He thought it was a compliment. You see, they called him ‘the Pathfinder.’ ”
Clem issued a sly smile to the boy in the first row. “Beware of nicknames, lad,” he s
aid, slapping the top of his knee. “I don’t know if Frémont ever caught on to the punch line about his nickname. He was a rather sensitive, touchy kind of fellow, and it’s quite possible no one ever bothered to explain the joke to him for fear of the volcanic temper tantrum that might erupt.”
Raising a finger toward the ceiling, Clem explained. “You see, the Pathfinder was known for blazing trails through the wilderness . . . his particular specialty was finding paths that had already been mapped out by others.”
A roll of laughter passed through the crowd.
“Now,” Clem admonished, wagging his finger at the audience. “This is not to say that our Pathfinder lacked ingenuity or that he in any way shied away from danger. Oh no. Long before his landmark visit to California, he’d demonstrated he was full to the brim with conniving initiative as well as the blindest form of bravery.”
Clem cocked his right eyebrow. “John Frémont took a shine to the beloved daughter of the country’s most powerful senator. Jessie Benton hadn’t passed her sixteenth birthday when she fell under his romantic influences; she was more than ten years his junior—and stratospherically above his social status.
“Senator Benton right near took our sapling Pathfinder to the woodshed when he found out they’d eloped. If it weren’t for the new Missus Frémont’s intervention, her husband might well have been reduced to splinters. Cut down in his prime, so to speak.”
Clem grinned impishly. “Seeing as Jessie had hidden all the meat cleavers and commandeered the keys to the gun cabinet, Senator Benton had to come up with some other means of dealing with his unsolicited son-in-law.
“Benton wasn’t one of the country’s leading politicians for nothing,” Clem said, tapping his temple wisely. “He quickly came up with a plan. He arranged for a new mapmaking mission for the Pathfinder, one that his overly ambitious, glory-hungry heart could not possibly turn away from, one that would send him on horseback all the way across the continent to the wilds of the Oregon Territory.”
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