She reached out and placed one of her hands on a box. Carefully wiping away the fine layer of dust, she read the tag. Johan’s darkroom was written in Aunt Shelley’s neat handwriting. Her father’s photographs. He was a photojournalist who had been to many dangerous places; he could have been killed so many times, in so many different ways. Instead he died in San Francisco, in a car crash. Sara wondered, if he were able, would he have been upset by the mundanity of his death? Or perhaps he would have appreciated the irony of it. Overwhelmed, she stepped back and closed the door of the unit, locking it behind her. She wasn’t ready for this. Maybe some other day.
Back in her apartment, she paced around, not getting anything done, resisting the urge to call David. In the end she settled for calling Phoebe.
“I knew it!” Phoebe cried out after hearing about Sara’s dream. “I knew there was something fishy between William and Julia.”
“To me it seemed more like William had a crush on Julia first, but then changed his preference to Alice.”
“All possible. But then to end up in the same house, Julia without a husband, and Alice ‘not well’—although that seems like an understatement. What’s laudanum, exactly?”
“I looked it up. It’s some opium concoction. Not used anymore.”
“Nice. So while Alice is high, William and Julia are left down low, facing reality—two lonely people with a past. One has to wonder…”
“Very poetic. I’m more curious about when this took place. I looked into the Tivoli this morning. It was the Opera House here in San Francisco. They moved to a new building sometime in 1903. I’m guessing that was what Julia was referring to.”
“Is it still there? The Tivoli?”
“No, it was destroyed in the earthquake.”
“Ah. Well, that narrows it down somewhat. What was her name again, the opera singer?”
“I wrote it down. Chelie Delooshan.”
“How do you spell that?”
“No idea. I don’t even know if I heard it right. Your great-great-grandfather was as drunk as a skunk.”
“Charming. Both my great-great-grandparents sound like real winners.”
“I wouldn’t be too harsh on them. We may only have half the story.”
“True. You’re right, I guess. Okay, I’ll look into that singer. See what I can find.”
“If you want,” Sara said, a little surprised.
“Have you talked to David yet?”
“No, he hasn’t called.”
“Maybe you should call him?”
“Maybe… I’ll think about it.”
The afternoon passed slowly. Sara was still thinking about the dream when the doorbell rang. Just for a moment she hoped it was David, swooping in like a knight in shining armor, professing his love. Almost immediately she snorted. That would never happen. She answered the intercom.
“Hello?”
“Good afternoon, it’s Sid. Can I come up?”
“Oh. Sid. Yes, I suppose.”
“Don’t sound so enthused. I may be tricked into thinking you actually like me.”
Sara buzzed him in and waited.
“I do like you,” she said as he entered her apartment. “It’s just, I feel you want more than I have to offer. I have a boyfriend—did you forget?”
“How can I? You remind me every time I see you.”
“As long as you’re hearing me…”
“I do. Want to go out for dinner? I know this great Indian place.”
Sara sighed. “I love Indian food. But Sid, I don’t want to go out on a date.”
“No date. But you need to eat, right?”
“I guess.”
“Let’s go then. You have any other plans?”
“No.” Reluctantly she grabbed her keys. “Okay, fine. We’ll go for dinner. Just as long as we’ve established the ground rules.”
“Don’t worry. I’m basically a eunuch.”
Sara rolled her eyes. “I seriously doubt that.”
He chuckled. “Smart girl.”
At the restaurant, Sara let Sid pick several items from the menu. As she sampled the food, she had to admit it was really good, and much better than the microwave meal she had planned on back at her apartment.
She complimented Sid on his choice.
He tried not to beam too much over her approval. “I am glad it agrees with your Scandinavian taste buds.”
“My taste buds are not very Swedish actually. This is way better than lutfisk, I can assure you.”
“What’s lutfisk?”
“Dried whitefish—soaked in lye. We had it once for Christmas. My mother banned it from the menu ever since.”
“Lutfisk. Lutfisk. Luuutfisk.” He rolled the word around in his mouth as if he were enjoying a good wine. “It sure sounds better than some of the good ol’ British cuisine. Ever heard of Spotted Dick?”
“Spotted what?” Sara almost choked on a piece of chicken. “No, never mind, don’t explain—I’m not sure I want to hear it.” She ignored Sid’s chuckling and wiped her plate clean with the last piece of nan.
Fully satiated and still working on her second beer, she sat back. “Do you believe in life after death?” She had blurted it out without really thinking.
Sid’s dark eyes rested on her, not betraying any emotion. “I keep hearing this fascination with death. Is there anything I should know?”
“No, I was just curious.”
“I see. Well, my mum’s convinced we get reincarnated. My father would tell you we die, and that’s it. My parents are the wisest people I know, and they don’t seem to agree on it. That should tell you something.”
“Hmmm.”
“I try not to think about it much. Eventually we’ll all find out, right?”
“Ha. Funny.”
“Now it is, perhaps. At some point, it may not be. However, we should make sure to spend our time here wisely and cram as many good things in as we can.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “So, speaking of good things. What’s your timeline? How long are you staying? When are you going back to that quaint yet horrendously dull mountain village?”
Sara frowned. “It’s not dull. It’s pretty and there’s plenty to do. Just… different things than here.” Her passionate defense of Dunnhill even surprised Sara herself.
“Right.” Sid was not convinced. “Have you considered staying?” he asked, almost too innocently.
“No, not really.” Sara avoided his eyes.
“Oh, come on, I can tell you miss the city.”
“I do—I won’t lie—the city is so alive. There’s so much to do, and I love the vibe. I just don’t think I could live here again.”
Sid sighed. “That’s too bad. It would be fun. You’re a very interesting woman. I could totally see myself falling for you—hard.” His eyes shone like onyx in the faint light, two black pools, pulling her in. She wondered what she would do if David weren’t in the picture. Sid was handsome, funny, smart, and fit. All in all, easy to get along with. She quickly pushed the thought away, saying, “Thank you. It’s nice to hear that. You’re not so bad yourself.” It was actually nice being pursued for once. She just wished it were David doing it.
It was getting late when Sid picked up the tab and accompanied her home. At the front door, he hugged her. “Is there any way I can convince you to stay?” he whispered in her ear. His lips slowly traveled past her cheek until they found hers. For a brief moment, which she blamed on the beers she had at dinner, she was caught in the thrill of the kiss—until alarm bells went off in her head. Quickly she disentangled herself and took a step back. They’d had a good time together—despite her fighting it—but she did not want to go down this road. “No, Sid. I don’t think so. Maybe if we’d met years ago, when I was living here. But not now.”
“I understand.” He managed to look bashful. “Can’t blame a boy for trying, right? Call me if you want to hang out. Goodnight, beautiful Sara.” He turned around and walked away.
She watched him
go, a little confused—although she wasn’t quite sure what was making her feel this way. Was it Sid leaving, or not having David? Or was it David not being a little more like Sid? Pondering the answer, she went inside.
Upstairs, in her apartment, after staring at her cell phone for a while, she gave in and dialed David’s number. It went straight to voicemail. She left a short message, asking him to call back. But by the time she fell asleep, it was late, and he had not returned her call.
Chapter 9
The next morning, her phone was alarmingly quiet. It wasn’t like David to ignore her, or to keep sulking. A tiny ball of worry hovered in her stomach, and as the minutes passed, it grew larger. Everything in her life seemed to be in flux. It was no good sitting here—she needed to get her mind off things. Feeling a little helpless, she surveyed the room. It did not look like she had done much since she got here. Maybe it was time she faced some of her own ghosts before tackling everything else.
Sara called Phoebe, and after a quick conversation, she threw some clothes in a bag and located her car. It was a long drive to Santa Monica.
Later that evening, she found herself sitting in Phoebe’s kitchen. She had just been given a tour of the house and was still recovering from the shock. Phoebe’s bank account did not appear to be suffering from the same affliction as Sara’s, that much was certain.
“How was the drive?” Phoebe asked while fixing Sara a drink.
“I forgot how bad the traffic is here,” Sara answered, rubbing her tired eyes.
“Yeah, it’s disgusting. Here.” Phoebe placed a gin and tonic in front of Sara. “This will help.” She grinned.
“Thanks, I’ll need more than one, I think, to prepare myself for tomorrow.”
“No problem. The kids are asleep. Vincent is out of town. In this kitchen, it’s just you, me, and Estelle.” Estelle was the pug currently running circles around Phoebe’s feet while snorting loudly. “Sorry, no gin and tonic for you,” Phoebe said to the dog, who promptly sat down, panting expectantly. “You better keep an eye on her, Sara—Estelle has no manners.”
Sara reached out to pet the little black dog, who immediately slobbered all over her hand. “Don’t worry—I like dogs. Too bad I can’t meet your husband—Vincent? What does he do?”
“Oh, he’s an executive at a movie production company,” Phoebe said like it was the most common job in the world, grabbing her own drink and sitting down across from Sara. “So, I’ve found out who that opera singer was.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep. It’s Zélie de Lussan,” Phoebe said in a remarkably crisp French accent. “She was an opera singer, famous for her Carmen performance. She performed in San Francisco on March 27, 1903. She may have been there more often, but this is the performance we found that fits the timeline.”
“We?”
“Yes, well, not me, really. I’ve got a friend who loves this sort of stuff. I don’t do historical research. You can ask me all about the latest fashion, though—or what was hip five years ago.”
“Not tonight, if you don’t mind. Wow, so she exists? Zélie, I mean?”
“Did you doubt it? I thought you said your dreams were the real deal?”
“I did. They are. But still…”
“No buts. I believe you,” Phoebe said. “Your dreams moved from 1901 to 1903—quite a leap. Alice is now depressed, a recovering addict, and having marriage issues. Her husband, William, is a drunk, and trying to get it on with his sister-in-law, Julia. It must have been a most interesting household. I can imagine it spiraling out of control at some point.”
“Yeah, me too.” Sara scowled. “Men…”
“You’re upset. What happened?”
Sara told Phoebe about David not returning her call and her growing concern that something was wrong.
“You think something happened to him? Wouldn’t someone call you if that was the case? His family?”
“Probably. Then why isn’t he calling, though?”
Phoebe shrugged. She grabbed a bag of chips from the pantry and placed it between them. “Relationship troubles make me hungry,” she said. “Please dig in.”
Sara took a big handful. “I don’t get it,” she said. “Everything was fine when I left.”
“What happened? After you left, I mean.”
Sara relayed the yoga class experience and the fight they had after she went out for coffee with Sid.
Phoebe’s mouth curved up rather naughtily. “I do like me some yoga. What’s Sid like?”
“A bit too pushy, perhaps, but not in a bad way.” Sara grabbed some more chips. “Otherwise, handsome, friendly.” She thought for a moment. “Limber,” she said with a smile.
Phoebe almost choked on her chips. “I hope you didn’t tell David that.”
Sara shrugged. “He either trusts me or he doesn’t.”
“Have you seen Sid since?”
“I spent a day with him touring the city.” Sara bit her lip. “And we may have gone out for dinner last night.” She decided not to mention the kiss.
“Ah. Well. That’s more than just a coffee. Are you sure there’s nothing there?”
“I like him. Not romantically, though.”
“I’d be sure to tell David that when he calls.”
“If he calls,” Sara mumbled.
“He’ll call. And he’ll probably have a good explanation. What you need right now is a diversion. Even though I don’t do historical research, I do have something cool.” Phoebe jumped up and walked over to a set of shelves, where she retrieved a box. “This,” she said, placing the box on the table, “is from my grandmother’s place. After she died, my mom got it. I had my dad bring it over. It’s full of old pictures of people… I’ve no clue who they are. Old family members? Friends? Who knows. But maybe there’s an old picture in there with someone you recognize in it.” She opened the box and flipped it over, spilling out a pile of black-and-white photographs and some newer color ones. “As you can see, it’s not very organized. I haven’t really looked at them, but I remember my mom telling me about it. Wish I had listened better. I was hardly interested in stuffy old pictures from dead family members back then. Look at me now…” She refilled both their glasses.
They spent the rest of the night examining the old pictures, which were filled with unfamiliar people in old-fashioned clothing. Some photographs had names and dates on the back, while some had nothing but pictures of people long forgotten to time.
“I’ve got something,” Phoebe said, staring at a faded color picture. “This looks like my grandmother.” She flipped the photograph over and read “Mom and me, 1972.” She showed it to Sara. In it were two women, outside on what appeared to be a beautiful summer day. The younger woman was in her fifties, sitting on the grass, her skirt neatly folded over her legs. She held a wine glass as she looked up at the older woman, who was sitting in a chair and gazing directly at the camera.
Phoebe pointed to the younger woman. “That’s my grandma. I’m sure of it.”
“If that’s your grandmother,” Sara said, “then the older woman must be…”
“Eleonore,” they both called out at the same time.
“Do you recognize her?” Phoebe asked.
“Eleonore was a toddler when I saw her. So, no. Sorry…”
“Oh, right. Yeah.” Phoebe put the picture aside. “Let’s keep looking.”
Another stack of pictures later, Sara’s head was spinning with unknown faces, not to mention a ghastly number of moustaches. She found herself staring at a photo with two women in it. At least this was taken in a relaxed setting. On the back it was labeled with the year 1948.
It was a black-and-white picture, taken outside, of an elegantly dressed elderly woman. She was staring into the camera with a faint Mona Lisa–like smile. Her grey hair was impeccably done up, showing off her long, fancy earrings; her posture was slender and straight as she barely leaned on the walking stick she held in her right hand. Her left arm was hooked into the arm of a
beautiful middle-aged woman, who was smiling candidly at the camera. She wore an A-line summer dress that came down to the knees and accentuated her slim waist. Sara’s eyes lingered on the younger woman. She looked familiar—almost like Julia—but Julia would have been long gone in 1948. Sara flipped the picture over once more. Squinting, she could vaguely make out some penciled writing.
“Hold on.” Phoebe turned on an extra light near the table.
“That helps,” Sara said. “It says… Mother? Mother and Aunt Thessa? No, not Thessa—Theresa. Did your grandmother write this? If so, it would be Eleonore and Theresa. Although, technically, Theresa wasn’t your grandmother’s aunt.”
“No, but Eleonore would have called her Aunt Theresa, so maybe that’s how grandma remembered her.” Phoebe pointed to Theresa. “I can see how she would have made a good colonel’s wife. Everything is in perfect order. She’s standing as straight as her walking stick.” She looked closer. “Fascinating. We should show Jean this one.”
Later that night in bed, Sara’s head buzzed from all the gin and tonics. She was a bit disappointed there had been no pictures of Julia or Alice. Most likely their pictures had disappeared over time—thrown away by family members who, like her, had no clue who the photos depicted. She was pretty sure her mother had not been in possession of any old photographs. And Jean had not mentioned any. Tired after the long day, she closed her eyes, groaning. Too much gin. The room spun a little. Or was it her bed? Still trying to put her finger on it, she passed out.
Chapter 10
Sara is in a bedroom this time. It’s a nice, light room. A woman sits in front of a vanity table, fixing her hair. Julia. She is humming a tune. Someone knocks on the door.
A Dose of Deadly Intentions Page 6