The Artist Colony Page 25

“Yes I have. I was surprised how good they were.”

  “Me too. Her pictures portray a floating world all her own. Very personal. I don’t know who’s been teaching her, but her paintings are deceptively simple. They remind me a bit of Hiroshige and Hokusai’s woodprints, but still her ideas are original. She will go far if she continues her studies.”

  Sarah told Hansen she hoped to paint with him again and was walking up the wharf, swinging her sketch box, carefully holding the wet canvas with her other hand, when she heard a voice over her right shoulder. “That’s a beautiful box.” She stopped, turned around, and saw Mr. Kassajara beaming at her.

  “Hello, Mr. Kassajara. Nice to see you again.”

  “I often see painters’ sketch boxes on the wharf,” he continued, “but I’ve only seen one made of burled wood like that.”

  “Then you must have seen my sister’s,” said Sarah. “They were both made by the same French craftsman. Would you like to take a closer look?”

  He sat down on a bench and set the sketch box on his lap. He pulled open the drawer and studied the brushes. “Miss Ada had brushes like this, too.” He stroked his palm with a brush. His muscular, weathered hands reminded Sarah of Sirena’s—callused from foraging for abalone in the underwater canyon.

  She stopped herself from asking Mr. Kassajara if he knew where Sirena was. Instead she asked, “Do you paint?”

  He grinned and shook his head no. “Your sister made a picture of me on this bench.”

  So Ada too had found synergy in this aristocratic man with gold-capped teeth and soulful eyes.

  “Miss Ada saw beauty in all faces. All different kinds of beauty,” he said as if he’d heard her thoughts.

  She wondered where Ada had stored Mr. Kassajara’s portrait. She hadn’t seen it in the studio. Or had it too been stolen?

  While they walked together toward her bike, Sarah thought what a shame it was she could not speak to Mr. Kassajara about his talented granddaughter. She wanted him to know she was going to help Sirena get a scholarship to an art school in Paris. She wanted him to know how sorry she was that his people were not treated fairly because of narrow-minded people’s unwillingness to see the humanity in those who are different from them.

  “Can we give you a lift?” asked Mr. Kassajara, pointing toward a truck at the end of the wharf. “We can pass through Carmel on our way home.”

  She let his crew put the bike and her sketch box in the back of the truck and wedged herself and the canvas between the driver and Mr. Kassajara on the bench in the front cab.

  After dropping off her things at the cottage, she walked over to the lodge to pick up Albert, but as she reached for the knocker, the door swung open.

  “I was just coming to get you,” said Sirena, with a stricken look on her face.

  “Why? What happened?”

  “It’s Rosie. I found her curled up on the parlor floor. I got Dr. Lewis to come and he revived her with smelling salts and gave her a tincture of laudanum and helped me get her into bed. I stayed with her and tried to get her to relax, but she wouldn’t settle down until I promised to go and get you.” She stopped to catch her breath. “Dr. Lewis will be back to check on her this evening. He’s very worried about her weak heart and gave me instructions to not let anyone excite her. Promise me you won’t talk about Ada.” Sirena flashed a reproachful look at Sarah.

  “You needn’t worry about that,” said Sarah as she squeezed past Sirena into the entry way. “I care about Rosie as much as you do. I’ll stay with her until Dr. Lewis comes back and then you and I need to talk.”

  In Rosie’s bedroom, several books of poetry were stacked on a side table next to an armchair. There was also a Silver Sheet pulp magazine with a melodramatic cover illustration of a desperate man holding an expiring woman in his arms. It was advertising a new motion picture, Scars of Jealousy. Not something Sarah would want to see.

  Rosie lay sleeping, her glasses still perched on her nose. A book of Emily Dickinson’s poetry still in her hand draped over the bed. Rosie’s literary taste was such a contradiction, thought Sarah, taking the book before it fell on the floor.

  Rosie groaned and half opened her eyes.

  “Sarah, is that you?” she said, hoarsely.

  “Yes, it’s me, Rosie.” She took her friend’s hand and gently squeezed it. “Sirena told me you fainted. Are you feeling better?”

  “Most embarrassing. I was looking out the window at the Sketch Box and . . .” Her eyes closed again.

  “Rest, Rosie. We can talk later.”

  Her blue eyes opened wide and she pulled herself up on the pillows. “No, this can’t wait. Your life is in danger.”

  “Dr. Lewis said you need to rest. Do you want me to ask him to come back?”

  “No, I don’t! He’ll just give me another dose of that stuff he gives hysterical women, which I’m not.”

  Sarah put her hand on Rosie’s forehead only to have it brushed away.

  Rosie asked for water and cleared her throat. “This afternoon I was cleaning the bay window in the parlor when I felt a dark omen pass over me like a shadow. I looked out the window and saw the same fisherman in the brown stocking cap and orange jacket who ran away from your cottage earlier.”

  Her flushed face and nervous excitement worried Sarah. She started to get up to call the doctor when Rosie grabbed her hand.

  “Stop looking at me like I’ve gone off the deep end and listen to what I have to say.” Sarah sat down reluctantly. “He was the same fisherman I saw perched on a high rock when Albert led me to Ada’s body on the beach. Albert started barking at him and I leaned down to quiet him. When I looked up again the fisherman was gone.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before? Or the marshal?”

  “I did tell him. He said if there had been such a man he would’ve seen him when he was walking toward me. I was in such a state at the time that I believed him and forgot about it. But today, when that ominous cloud crossed over me what I had seen came flooding back. I rushed to the door to go after the fisherman and fell over in a faint.”

  “Do you think it was Paul deVrais masquerading as a fisherman?”

  “I don’t know. His back was to me. But he was tall and broad-shouldered like him.”

  “And like hundreds of other men,” said Sarah.

  “But most men don’t wear Portuguese fishing jackets. Nor do they disappear into thin air like that man on the beach. It was as if he flew away.”

  Now it was Sarah’s turn to be excited. “Wait a minute, Rosie. You might have something. What if he had a powerboat tied behind the rocks? What if he wanted Ada to be found so it would look like a suicide, but was worried the tide would come in and drag her out so he let Albert go and waited behind the rock to be sure she was found? Then as soon as you and Albert arrived, he jumped into his powerboat and got away.”

  “By Jove, you’re right. Good deduction work, Sarah.” Rosie gave her a satisfied smile and folded her arms over her heaving chest. “We both deserve a wee glass of sherry. Don’t you agree?”

  “I don’t think Dr. Lewis would agree. He’d tell you that what you need is a good night’s sleep.”

  “Balderdash! Sherry is a far better potion than any doctor’s tincture. Now do be a dear girl. You’ll find the decanter in the cabinet on top of my wardrobe closet.”

  Sarah switched on Rosie’s bed light and poured the sherry into thimble glasses.

  “My, how that warms the cockles of my heart,” said Rosie, after taking a sip. “Now I want to know about Alain Delacroix.”

  Rosie listened keenly to Sarah’s account of her meeting with Alain, stopping her only once to ask her to pour another sherry.

  When she was finished, Rosie said, “So that’s why I never met him. La Playa was their hideaway.”

  Sarah then told her about Sirena delivering a message to Ada, which made her a suspect in Ada’s murder.

  “That poor lassie. If what you say is true, she’s in more trouble than I ever im
agined.”

  “I know,” said Sarah, feeling as miserable.

  The sherry did seem to be the perfect medicine for Rosie as she now settled down in her bed and closed her eyes. Sarah was just getting up to leave when she sat up again and clutched her heart.

  “What is it?” said Sarah, alarmed.

  “I know how he did it!”

  “Rosie, don’t you think you should get some rest?”

  “No. This is too important. Just this morning I was reading a modern crime story. The detective used forensic evidence to prove the victim was strangled.”

  “I don’t see what this has to do with Ada.”

  “When I found her on the beach, her shawl was wrapped around her neck. In the story I read, the murderer strangled his victim with a scarf and then submerged her body in a bathtub so it would look like she’d drowned herself. The detective solved the case when he learned from a forensic expert that it was possible to strangle someone with a soft cloth that leaves no marks. They eventually got a confession from the victim’s boyfriend.”

  Ada’s shawl used as a murder weapon was a grim possibility and Sarah sank back down in the chair, nervously kneading her own shawl between her fingers. It was one thing to solve murders while reading a mystery novel that had nothing to do with you personally, and quite another to actually take on the “burden of proof” when the victim is your sister.

  Several agonizing minutes passed before she could let go of her shawl and smooth out its wrinkles. When she looked up, Rosie was asleep. Sarah took the empty glass from her limp hand, put it down on the bedside table, and slipped out.

  Sarah was standing at Rosie’s parlor window when Albert ran in with Sirena behind him. Sirena demanded to know why Sarah wasn’t with Rosie.

  “She’s all right, Sirena. She’s asleep.”

  Sirena slumped down on the couch and Sarah sat down next to her. “I missed you at Hansen’s class today.”

  “I got a modeling job,” she replied. “Besides, classes are too expensive. And what’s the point? I’ll never become a successful artist. I’ve got too many things going against me, so I might as well make money instead.”

  “I’m not sure Hansen was going to charge us anything or I would’ve loaned you the money.”

  “I don’t need your charity, Sarah,” she snapped. “I was doing very well before you came here and somehow I’ll be doing very well after you’re gone.”

  Sarah was stung by the girl’s sudden venom and walked over to the window. She had hoped they could talk things over and find a solution but that didn’t seem possible with Sirena slithering in and out of personalities like an actress forever recasting her role. She had gotten a lot of practice always pretending to be someone she wasn’t so she wouldn’t be caught for passing as white.

  You’re going about this all wrong. Stop feeling sorry for the girl. There’s no more time for being nice, she heard Ada say as if she was standing beside her.

  Sarah returned to the couch and sat on the edge with her eyes on Sirena. “I thought we were good friends, but good friends don’t keep things from one another.”

  “I told you everything,” said Sirena, almost hissing.

  “No you haven’t,” said Sarah, her own anger rising. “But you’re going to tell me now or I’ll turn you over to the marshal and let him get the truth out of you.”

  Sirena was shocked but managed to snap back. “Sarah, I think you should go to the cottage, pack your things, and return to Paris.”

  “All right. I will.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Once you tell me who gave you the message that you delivered to Ada on July fourth.”

  Sirena jumped up and glared down at Sarah like a tiger staring into the gun of a hunter. “Whoever told you that is a liar,” she snarled. “The last time I saw Ada was on the first of July when she threw me out of her studio. You already know that. Why don’t you believe me now?”

  “Alain Delacroix was at the cottage when you came to see Ada. I want to know what was in that message and who wrote it.”

  Sirena started toward the door. Sarah grabbed her hand, pulled her back onto the couch, and stood over her, blocking her escape.

  “Did you know my sister was pregnant?”

  Sirena’s face drained of color. Her eyes wildly looking for a way out. She leaped away from Sarah, ran to a corner and slid down its wall, wrapping her hands around her knees, her head down, moaning.

  Sarah kneeled down in front of her. “You have to trust me, Sirena. You’ve gotten yourself in a load of trouble, but I can’t help you unless you tell me who you’re protecting and why.”

  “I can’t do that,” Sirena cried out. Her fear palpable. “I might not be able to save you the next time. Please, Sarah. Go back to Paris where you’ll be safe.”

  Sarah was about to ask what she meant about not being able to save her the next time when the brass knocker followed by Albert’s bark interrupted her. She rushed to the entryway to prevent Albert’s barking from waking Rosie. It was Dr. Lewis. She asked him to come into the parlor and help her to calm Sirena with the excuse that she was overwrought about Rosie’s illness and needed a sedative.

  “Why, she was just here,” said Sarah looking around the empty parlor the girl had escaped from.

  The doctor was much more interested in seeing his real patient and headed down the hallway.

  After examining Rosie, he whispered to Sarah, “Thank goodness, her heartbeat is normal and so is her pulse. She’s on the mend.” He put his stethoscope back in his medical bag, clicked it shut, and turned off the bedside light. They tiptoed out.

  In the entryway, Sarah said, “Thank you, Dr. Lewis, for taking such good care of her.”

  “She’s a stubborn woman, but I’m quite fond of her just the same. Just don’t tell her that.” Dr. Lewis smiled, tipped his fedora, and left.

  Worried about Sirena, Sarah ran upstairs to her bedroom but she wasn’t there.

  Sarah scribbled a note: I’m sorry I upset you, but whoever you are protecting must be stopped. Together we can do it, but you have to trust me. Come to me, Sirena, let me help you.

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 5

  —25—

  Albert scratched at the kitchen door. Sarah let him in and he rewarded her with a thin rolled-up newspaper at her feet.

  “You smart little dog. Was it Ada who taught you to fetch the paper or was it something you learned on your own?” It was the second time that he’d brought her the weekly Pine Cone newspaper.

  Albert wagged his tail and Sarah gave him a milk bone.

  She sat down in the nook with a plate of biscuits and jam and a mug of hot coffee. The newspaper had only six pages and they were mostly dedicated to goings-on about town—local art committee meetings, advertisements for the Pine Inn, the Hotel la Playa, Leidig’s Market, and other small commercial enterprises. As she flipped through the pages she was drawn to an article about a new collection of Edith Wharton novellas that had just arrived at the Carmel Library. Next to it was an advertisement for a movie A Woman of Paris, directed and written by the comic actor Charles Chaplin, which was going to open at the local theater the following week.

  On the following page she read about a photo exhibition of the famous photographer Edward Weston. The opening was tomorrow night. Her heart skipped a beat. Maybe she’d see Robert there. She immediately chastened herself for thinking about Robert when it was Sirena she should be worrying about.

  Earlier she had telephoned the lodge only to be told the girl had gone out and didn’t say when she’d be back. Sarah reached for her drawing pad to make a few quick sketches of the silhouetted pine trees in the morning mist and then went into the studio.

  She was at her easel blending titanium white and cobalt blue on her palette when there was a knock. Albert barked and ran over to the alley door. Sarah hoped it was Sirena, but after she unbolted the door and pulled it open she saw it was Marshal Judd, bent down, inspecting the new deadlock. He lost his balance and
stumbled inside. Albert sniffed his cowboy boots but found nothing of interest and returned to his nap under the easel.

  To regain his dignity, he adjusted his cowboy hat, a bit oversized for such a short man, and stood up straight. “Charlie Murphy did an excellent job,” he began. “No one will break through this door.” There are no secrets in Carmel, thought Sarah.

  “Is there a particular reason for your visit, marshal?”

  He reached in his pocket, pulled out a folded sheet of paper and opened it. “I heard about your break-in and brought you a crime report to fill out. We’re more accustomed to cattle rustlers than house thieves here in Carmel, so I’d like to lasso this vermin before he gets to burglarizing any more homes.”

  Sarah looked at the form. She had her suspicions that Sirena had something to do with the break-in, but she wasn’t ready to hand her over to the law when she still hoped the girl would come to her with the truth. And whatever she was guilty of, Sirena wasn’t vermin. She handed the form back. “Thank you, marshal, for coming by. It’s true that the studio was broken into, but nothing was stolen and as you can see I’ve changed the door and the locks.”

  Ignoring the artwork leaning against the walls, he approached Ada’s red bicycle. “Good lookin’ bike. Surprised the thief didn’t take that. Is it yours?”

  Sarah considered her options and decided it would make more sense to befriend the marshal rather than alienate him by telling him to leave. If Sirena arrived, she could send him on his way.

  “No. It’s not mine. But come into the kitchen. I’ll make some coffee and tell you whose bicycle it is.”

  Calculating the sitting space in the nook as too narrow for his girth, he brought over a stool and straddled it, putting his hands on the table as if he was riding his mare, Gertrude.

  Sarah sat across from him while the coffee percolated.

  “So, tell me,” he said, “whose bike is it?”

  “It was Ada’s.” Judd continued staring out the window as if he found the view far more interesting than the owner of a bicycle.

  She hid her irritation and told him where she’d found it. With still no reaction, she said, “Don’t you think it’s a tiny bit interesting that my sister’s bicycle was in the woods behind Whalers Cove when her body was found on River Beach?”