The Artist Colony Read online

  A wooden sign, CHARLES MURPHY CARPENTRY, hung over the entrance of an old barn. The lofty space was filled with pieces of furniture that had been fixed or were waiting to be fixed. Charles, a white-haired older man, was bent over his workbench. The tools of his trade were hung neatly on the wall in front of him.

  His full attention was concentrated on fitting together the complicated parts of a table leg joint. It wasn’t until the two women were casting shadows on his work that he realized someone was there and looked up with irritation until he saw it was Rosie. He raked back his thick hair and greeted her with a pleasant smile.

  “What a pleasant surprise,” he said, wiping his hands on a rag. “Why Rosie, you’re as pretty as the day we met. How do you manage to stay so young while the rest of us fade away?”

  “Ah, Charlie, always a flirt,” she said, though obviously pleased.

  He turned to Sarah. “And who might this young lady be?”

  Sarah introduced herself and told him she was Ada Davenport’s sister.

  He offered his condolences.

  Getting down to business, Rosie said, “Sarah’s been staying at the Sketch Box and the studio was broken into last night.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Charlie. “What with all those tourists crowding into our village on weekends, it’s just not as safe as it used to be.”

  “The thief jimmied the alley door,” said Rosie quickly. She knew well how the locals felt about the tourists, and to avoid a long discussion said, “We were hoping you could replace the lock while we did our errands in Monterey.”

  “That should be easy enough. I installed that alley door for Miss Ada when I built the Sketch Box with my son.”

  “You built the Sketch Box?” asked Sarah. “That’s certainly something to be very proud of.” Knowing now that he was a superior craftsman, she felt embarrassed when she asked him if he could also change the lock on the front door.

  “Don’t you worry, Miss Sarah, I’ll take care of it right away.”

  Sarah remembered Albert, but Charlie said Albert was a good friend of his and there’d be no problem.

  He turned to Rosie, “If I finish before you return, shall I leave the new keys in the usual hiding place in your rose garden?”

  Rosie blushed and said, “So you haven’t forgotten?”

  “Forgotten what?” asked Sarah.

  “Never you mind, Sarah,” said Rosie. “Now let’s leave the man alone so he can do his work. As my Da used to say, ‘Lose an hour in the morning, and you’ll be looking for it all day.’”

  The carpenter said again how good it was to see Rosie in his shop and that she should visit more often.

  “Thank you, Mr. Murphy, for helping me out,” said Sarah.

  “No need to be formal, Miss Sarah. You can call me Charlie. Like your sister did.” He walked them outside. “Grief has a way of working itself out, Miss Sarah. It just takes time. If you’re as strong of character as your sister was, you’ll get through this just fine.”

  When they climbed the stairs to Mr. Peabody’s office and opened the door, Miss Honeysuckle was there to greet them. She apologized for Mr. Peabody’s absence and said he was playing golf.

  Rosie looked again at Mr. Peabody’s secretary. Finally she said, “Don’t I know you, Miss Honeysuckle?”

  The secretary’s round face brightened. “I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me. I was your student at the Japanese Association. If I hadn’t taken your courses in English, I never would have gotten into secretarial school.”

  “Why Saint’s alive. You’re Machiko!” exclaimed Rosie as she gave the secretary a warm hug and exchanged greetings in Japanese. “How good it is to see you after all this time. Why just look at you. You were just a wee thing in pigtails when I last saw you and now you’re a sophisticated young lady.

  “But why are you now called Miss Honeysuckle? Wasn’t your family name Inaoka?”

  The secretary suddenly became shy and shuffled some papers on her desk before answering. “I knew I’d have a better chance of getting work if I used an Occidental name. I’m afraid Machiko Inaoka on a resume would have put me at the bottom of the stack or in the wastebasket.”

  Both Sarah and Rosie told her that they wished things weren’t like that.

  “I quite like your adopted name,” said Rosie, “but might we still call you Machiko?”

  “Of course. Now let me see that will and I’ll make you a copy.”

  Machiko opened a closet door onto an enormous black mimeograph machine. “This new invention has made my life a lot easier,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to copy every document that comes through Mr. Peabody’s office by hand.”

  Sarah handed her the will, the inventory of Ada’s paintings, and the inquest files. “Can you please copy these too?”

  Thirty minutes later, Sarah had all the copies and the originals were in Mr. Peabody’s locked desk.

  It was then that Sarah asked, “Machiko, do you remember the name of the man who came here with my sister?”

  “Didn’t Mr. Peabody tell you?”

  “He said to ask you,” said Rosie. “He seems to be quite dependent on you to remember things for him.”

  Miss Honeysuckle smiled. “I’m afraid his memory is not that good when it comes to names. But he is a very smart lawyer. You’re in good hands with Mr. Peabody.” She frowned. “Though it is rather embarrassing that he forgot Alain Delacroix’s name. After all, he is a famous actor.”

  Sarah dropped down into a nearby chair. Never would she have considered the dark, swarthy man she met at the Jeffers’s to be Ada’s fiancé. But then again she and Ada had very different taste in men.

  “Are you all right, Miss Cunningham?” asked the secretary.

  Sarah said faintly, “Are you absolutely certain it was Mr. Delacroix?”

  “Oh yes, no doubt about it. I was very excited to meet him in person.”

  “When will Mr. Peabody be back?” asked Rosie. “We must see him as soon as possible.”

  Machiko looked at her appointment book. “We could squeeze you in at two o’clock? He should’ve finished his golf game by then.”

  “I still can’t believe it’s him!” exclaimed Sarah, pointing to a Forest Theater playbill in a shop window with the actor’s face prominently featured.

  Now that she knew, it seemed like Pirates of Penzance playbills were displayed in every window on Alvarado Street. And walking down to the Monterey wharf, she felt his eyes stalking her.

  His face was in Pop Ernst’s Abalone and Sea Food Restaurant window as well. Sarah picked up a copy of the poster at the counter before a waitress ushered them through the busy restaurant to a corner table overlooking the wharf.

  “Thank you, Molly,” said Rosie.

  “The usual?” asked Molly.

  “Yes, please. And the same for my friend.”

  Molly left and Sarah pointed to the playbill, still stunned. “I was introduced to him as Ada’s sister at the Jeffers’ party, so he had to know who I was, but he ignored me. He was even rude. Why not tell me he was Ada’s fiancé? And why keep it from their mutual friends, the Jeffers?”

  Rosie waved at a group of elderly ladies who shuffled into Pop’s like a brood of swans.

  “Did you ever see Ada with him?” she asked Rosie.

  “No. Never. I’m just as shocked as you are. The first time I laid eyes on Alain Delacroix was at yesterday’s rehearsal at the Forest Theater.”

  “I need to speak to him, Rosie.”

  “Of course you do, my dear, and so you shall. On Sunday night, after the last performance, there’s going to be a cast party. You can come as my guest.”

  “Rosie, you’re a miracle.”

  Large abalone shells filled to the brim with steaming chowder were placed in front of them by Molly.

  Rosie stuffed a napkin into her collar and dipped her spoon into the bowl. Minutes later she looked up at Sarah, “Now wasn’t this worth waiting for?”

  Sarah nodded yes and
wiped the creamy white sauce off her chin before pointing to Alain Delacroix’s face on the playbill. “I’ll take this poster back to Whalers Cove and ask the Japanese villagers if they saw him there with Ada.”

  “I don’t know if that’s wise, Sarah. A.M. Allan is a rancher who owns all the land at Point Lobos, including the property the village is built on, and except for his family who live nearby, the villagers are suspicious of white people coming into their cove. I don’t think they would tell you even if they did recognize him.”

  “It’s still worth a try.”

  Rosie sopped up bits of chowder with a piece of crusty sourdough bread. “All I’m saying is I don’t want you to get into trouble. If any of the villagers are somehow involved in Ada’s murder, it could be dangerous. Let me ask Mr. Kassajara.”

  It had been a long time since Sarah had been mothered by Ada and while she found it slightly annoying, it was a comfort to know that someone other than Ada cared for her, and she didn’t have to fight all her battles alone.

  Sarah showed Rosie the telephone subscription card.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s a record of Ada’s subscription. It accidentally fell into my satchel while I was at the telephone company the other day.” Rosie laughed. “It shows that she ordered her phone to be disconnected until her return on August 1st.” Sarah pointed to the dates on the card. “If she was planning to kill herself why would she do that?”

  “My oh my, Miss Holmes. Well worth the snatch!”

  “Why thank you, Miss Poirot.”

  After generous portions of apple crumble pie à la mode, the two self-appointed detectives topped-off their lunches sipping coffee and observing the other diners who, like them, were white.

  “I can’t believe I’m asking this, but don’t you find it surprising that Mr. Peabody hired Miss Honeysuckle?” asked Sarah. “I would think in this race-based town she’d be excluded from having such a trusted position in a law firm.”

  “Mr. Peabody is an intelligent man. Miss Honeysuckle is very qualified. He knows what he’s doing. If only there were more people like him in Monterey who had the courage to step over the racial line.”

  “I wish there were more people like him everywhere,” said Sarah. “I’ve been away for three years and though I’ve read how common racism had become in my own country, particularly after the war, I didn’t really believe it. Why even Robert, who’s a really nice guy, was calling the Japanese people aliens. And when I think Sirena has to pass for white to be accepted into art school, I am embarrassed for my race.”

  Molly brought the bill and Sarah insisted on paying.

  They were chatting with Machiko in the outer office around two o’clock when Mr. Peabody came out from his office. He was dressed in a red and black diamond-patterned argyle sweater and baggy plus-four golf slacks gathered below his knees with matching calf-length socks. Otherwise, he was wearing the same blue and white polka-dot bowtie and a starched white shirt. Of course, at the club he would have to substitute his wing-tipped brogues for his spiked golf shoes.

  He ushered them into his office and sat down at his desk. They’d hardly settled in their seats when his finger hit the time clock, which resounded with a shrill whang.

  Sarah held up the Forest Theater playbill.

  “Yes, I know,” said Mr. Peabody, shifting in his high-backed chair. “I must admit I’m rather embarrassed that I didn’t remember his name. Thank goodness I have Miss Honeysuckle to keep me on the straight and narrow.

  “At any rate you should be proud of yourselves, ladies. You have found a crucial player in this case. I would talk to Mr. Delacroix to see what you can find out, but be very cautious. My first impression of him was of an upright gentleman. But seeing he did not come forward at the inquest to acknowledge the deceased as his fiancé makes him a questionable character and a possible murder suspect.”

  “I’m hoping that’s not true,” said Sarah. She didn’t want to believe the father of Ada’s child could be a murderer.

  Mr. Peabody held up the will. “I happened to stop by my office just after you left this. I delayed my golf game to look it over and it’s in good order. There should be no problems with the probate court. I will also give them a copy of the inventory of your sister’s paintings currently in Mr. deVrais’s possession. Your sister’s estate will be resolved shortly, in spite of Mr. deVrais’s claims.”

  Sarah smiled. Now they were getting somewhere. “Thank you, Mr. Peabody, that makes me feel a lot better.”

  She asked if he’d read the inquest files, particularly the suicide note.

  He clipped his pince-nez on his permanently dented nose and shuffled through his papers until he found it. Looking up at Sarah, he asked, “Didn’t the handwriting expert confirm that this was Miss Davenport’s handwriting?”

  “It is Ada’s handwriting, but let me explain.” She came around his desk and put the bookmarked page next to the suicide note and pointed out the redactions.

  He looked back and forth at the pages. “Hmm. Most curious.”

  Sarah put the ruby attached to a scrap of burnt leather on the desk beside the note. “I found this in my sister’s fireplace. Someone burned her journal, and this is all that remains.”

  He twitched his nose like a rabbit smelling a carrot and the pince-nez dislodged and swung from its chain, but he waved the suicide note in the air. “It’s still circumstantial evidence, nothing can be proven, Miss Cunningham, and I’m afraid it’s inadmissible. I sympathize with your situation, but if you want the District Attorney to reopen your sister’s inquest you’ll have to come up with something more concrete, or better still, a suspect without an alibi. Let’s see what Mr. Delacroix has to say.”

  He held his forefinger over the black box, “If there’s nothing else, I have delayed my golf game long enough.”

  As if in collusion, neither woman budged from their seats.

  “Did you read all the inquest files?” asked Sarah.

  He shifted his tall frame slightly. “In the little time I had, yes, I did.”

  “Didn’t you find it noteworthy that my sister was last seen riding her bicycle, but that the marshal never tried to find it?”

  “Yes, I agree, there was negligence on his part.”

  “I found that bicycle yesterday, Mr. Peabody. It was in the woods behind Whalers Cove.” She rushed on, “And I have two witnesses who didn’t see Ada on River Beach the evening of July fourth.”

  “And who might these witnesses be?” asked Mr. Peabody, picking up his fountain pen again and clipping his pince-nez back on his nose.

  “A young fisherman who was out fishing that evening.” She paused.

  “His name?” asked Mr. Peabody.

  Sarah looked over at Rosie who turned up her empty hands. “I don’t know but I’ll find out.”

  “And your other witness?”

  “Robinson Jeffers.”

  “Are you talking about the poet?”

  “Why yes. Have you read his poetry?” Sarah asked, surprised a lawyer read anything besides legal briefs.

  “I certainly have,” he said rather proudly. “He’s a fine writer. I’m sure we’ll be hearing much more from this talented young man. But he’s rather eccentric and is not very popular within our community because he is a known pacifist who didn’t enlist during the war. Judd might not consider him a reliable witness.”

  “Balderdash,” said Rosie. “He’d be an ideal witness.”

  “Perhaps,” said Mr. Peabody. “But as I said before, we still need a suspect before I can request a hearing. Let’s see what you can find out from Mr. Delacroix.”

  Sarah and Rosie tried not to show their disappointment.

  “One more thing, Mr. Peabody, please,” said Sarah. “Did you speak to Mr. Pritchard about the confusion at the bank regarding my sister’s depository account?”

  “Ah, yes.” He cleared his throat. “It appears Mr. deVrais is a signatory on Miss Davenport’s depository account and one of t
he bank tellers allowed him to make a withdrawal.”

  “That’s outrageous!” said Sarah, slamming her hand down on his desk. “That teller should be fired and deVrais arrested. You’re my lawyer. Isn’t there something that can be done about this kind of behavior? Certainly deVrais’s breaking the law.”

  Mr. Peabody ignored her outburst and said calmly, “This happened the day before you came to the bank. Mr. Pritchard was very confused as to who was the rightful beneficiary to Miss Davenport’s estate, you or Mr. deVrais. I told him to expect instructions from the probate court and until then not to allow Mr. deVrais to make any more withdrawals.”

  “Mr. deVrais’s having delusions of grandeur if he thinks he has any right to my sister’s assets.”

  “I think you have a good point there. Be assured that I am taking care of this by following the rules of law. I have advised Mr. deVrais’s lawyer, Mr. Hubbard, that the will has been located and that you are the executor and the sole beneficiary of Miss Davenport’s estate. You needn’t worry about any more withdrawals.”

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 1

  —19—

  Sarah had been irritated by the minutes clicking by on the kitchen’s wall clock reminding her of what little time she had left to return to Paris for her exhibition and stopped winding it up. But now she rotated both hands to ten and let the ticking commence. A harsh but necessary reminder to keep her going in spite of the hurdles she faced.

  She hoped to learn more from Alain Delacroix on Sunday. And as far as the portraits, she’d spoken to Eric Crocker and he’d given her another week to find them before he cancelled Ada’s exhibition. She still wanted to ask Sirena about how she came to be Ada’s witness on her will, but she wasn’t due back at the Lodge until that evening.

  As promised, Charlie had put a new lock on the front door and installed a burglar-proof Segal deadbolt on the new alley door, which made her feel much safer.

  She went into the studio where she hoped to find some rest from her racing mind.

  After putting on her red smock, she walked over to several blank white canvases leaning against the wall. It was unusual that Ada had stretched so many of them, but Sarah blocked out any further thoughts of her sister and propped one of them up on the easel, taking down the one Robert had seen of Sirena.