The Artist Colony Page 27

  Sarah pulled proof out of thin air. Proof that could blow up in her face if she was wrong, but Ada had told her deVrais needed to get out of debt and might be exploiting her, so she took the chance.

  “Ada’s bank statements show that no deposits have been made to her account this year. Yet paintings have been sold during that time. It seems you were mishandling her affairs even before she died. But no worries, Mr. deVrais.” She smiled. “We can sort this out to our mutual benefit.”

  He glared at her, but she stood her ground and didn’t flinch.

  His slow clapping hands echoed in the small hollow room. “Congratulations, Miss Cunningham,” he said with a mocking laugh. “I can see you’re close to putting a noose around my neck.” He paused. “What are your terms?”

  “I want you to pay Ada’s estate for any paintings you’ve sold. I want you to acknowledge the termination of your contract as Ada’s dealer, and . . .” She paused. “I want you to leave Sirena alone.”

  His grin was malicious. “I’ll give your offer serious consideration, Miss Cunningham. But don’t think I’m going to make this easy for you. Your sister learned the hard way. I don’t take well to being on the wrong end of the stick.”

  “Then I will see you in court, Mr. deVrais.”

  He stomped out of the gallery.

  Sarah went to the ladies’ room and splashed water on her overheated face. It was truly incredible that he didn’t even try to deny her accusations. It had only been a hunch, but now she knew he actually had been embezzling money from Ada.

  Well done, Little Sis. I couldn’t have done it better myself. Sarah smiled into the mirror and painted her lips red.

  Walking back into the main gallery, she saw Sirena at the exit and rushed over to her. “Don’t go yet. We need to talk.”

  “Mr. deVrais just left,” Sirena said nervously. “He was in quite a temper.”

  “Did he say anything to you?”

  “Only that I’d better keep my mouth shut about A Bleak Morning. Does he know I told you?”

  “No.” She put her arm around Sirena. “You have nothing to worry about now. Mr. deVrais can’t threaten you in Paris.”

  “So you’re serious about taking me with you?”

  “Very serious.”

  Sarah looked around the crowded gallery. “Did you see Robert? He was here a minute ago.” She took Sirena’s hand. “C’mon, let’s go find him and tell him the good news.”

  Sirena let go of Sarah’s hand. “I can’t right now. Grandfather is picking me up at the lodge. I promised to stay with him tonight.” She leaned toward Sarah. “Meet me at the Cove tomorrow morning at nine and I’ll tell you everything. Make sure you’re not followed.”

  Sirena was gone before Sarah could stop her.

  “There you are,” said Robert, showing up at her side. “I’ve been looking for you. If you’re ready to go, I could give you a ride.”

  As he drove down the hill to the cottage, she leaned her head against his shoulder and felt a very welcome sense of peace knowing that tomorrow she’d know who had killed her sister and with a clear conscience could return to Paris in time for her exhibition.

  When they got to the Sketch Box he came around to the passenger side to let her out and walked with her up onto the porch. She remembered the Canadian Club whiskey and invited him in for a nightcap. He said he’d love to but he had to catch the night train to San Francisco. A gallery had shown interest in exhibiting a series of his nature photographs and he was meeting with them in the morning.

  “That’s wonderful news, Robert,” she said, hiding her own disappointment. “Will you be gone long?”

  “Just a few days.”

  “I’d love to see your photographs when you come back.”

  “Then why don’t you ride your bicycle over to Johan’s studio Sunday morning. We could look at my pictures and then take that boat ride I promised you.”

  “I’d love that,” she said. “Where is Johan’s cabin?”

  He gave her directions, brushed a loose strand of hair off her forehead and ran his fingers down her face, stopping at her lips. She felt herself melting into him as his lips covered hers.

  A very tender kiss was followed by a deeper, sensual one. She wrapped her arms around him under his jacket and drew herself into the heat of his body. When he finally let her go and said, “See you Sunday,” his voice was raspy, his face flushed like hers.

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 7

  —27—

  At eight o’clock the next morning Sarah was pedaling toward Whalers Cove. She remembered Sirena’s warning and kept looking back to make sure no one was following her. Albert wanted to go with her, but it was an hour-long ride, and his weight would slow her down.

  When she arrived at Whalers Cove, she saw a group of Japanese villagers huddled together on the shoreline. No one was working at the cannery. Judd’s mare, Gertrude, was tied to a post by the cabin. Something was very wrong. She dropped the bicycle on the sand and ran toward the shore.

  Marshal Judd was trying to get the villagers to leave, but no one was paying any attention to him, or they didn’t understand him, as he was yelling at them in English. He looked at Sarah as she approached. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to meet—” she stopped. “What happened? Why is everyone here?”

  “Bad business. The girl was already a goner when I got here. Shot through the chest and the bullet went straight through her heart. This old man seems to know her.”

  As she looked through an opening between the silent villagers, she saw Mr. Kassajara kneeling in the sand beside a crumpled body in a white diving suit. He turned and looked straight at her and nodded, his face ashen.

  “The old man said she was an abalone diver,” said Judd. “Though I can’t imagine why a white girl would be out here at the Jap village diving for abalone.”

  “Oh no!” said Sarah as she dropped to her knees. A cry of rage and pain rose up from deep within and she pressed her hands over her mouth to stifle her scream. A small sob escaped.

  He crouched down next to her. “Did you know her?”

  She heard herself say, “She’s my friend. Sirena Silver. She lives at Miss McCann’s lodge.”

  “I’d like you to go tell Miss McCann what’s happened and find out the girl’s next of kin. We need to get in touch with her family right away. I’ll come to the lodge and take down the details as soon as I can get away from here.”

  “But—” Sarah stopped herself and glanced at Mr. Kassajara tucking the blanket around his granddaughter’s body. He should be the one to tell the marshal.

  Sarah pedaled back to Carmel blinking away the stinging tears to see the road in front of her.

  All of the lodgers were out when she got there, but Rosie was in the kitchen. Sarah choked when she said Sirena’s name, but she managed to tell Rosie.

  “Why that’s impossible,” said Rosie. “Her grandfather picked her up here last night. I’m sure she’s with him. She can’t be—dead?”

  Sarah bit her bottom lip. “The marshal told me we should wait here until he comes to get the information on her next of kin. By then, I’m sure Mr. Kassajara will have told him the truth.”

  They sat in the parlor to wait. After a while, Sarah got up and offered to make a pot of tea, but Rosie said, “Let me do it. I need to keep busy or I’ll burst out crying.” She went into the kitchen and Sarah heard the water running as she filled the kettle.

  When Judd finally arrived, Rosie took him upstairs to show him Sirena’s room. Sarah went into the kitchen, put the teapot on the tray with cups and saucers and brought it into the parlor. She set it down on the coffee table and walked over to the open window to take in some air as she was feeling faint, her mind and body filled with terror. Had she caused Sirena’s death?

  When they came back downstairs, Rosie was out of breath. Sarah helped her sit down and gave her a heart pill with a glass of water. She could use one herself, her heart was beating so fast.


  “I just can’t get over that she grew up out there,” said the marshal standing over them. “She doesn’t look like one of them, though the old man, Kassajara, says he’s her grandfather. He was the one who told me her parents both died in a diving accident and she moved to San Juan Bautista to live with her dad’s parents. She came back here to study art and that’s when she started passing for white. Why would she want to do a dumb thing like that? Why didn’t she stay with her own kind and work in the cannery, or something like that, and keep out of trouble?”

  Because of people like you, thought Sarah. People who don’t realize that Sirena and “her kind” should have the same rights and opportunities as you have.

  “Mr. Kassajara must be beside himself with the loss of his granddaughter,” said Rosie.

  Judd frowned. “So I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. And you still allowed her to live here with the other girls?”

  Rosie looked him straight in the eye and said, “Yes I did, marshal, and I don’t regret it.”

  He looked at her sternly and jotted down a note in his little book. “The old man said his daughter, Juniko, married a neighboring Portuguese boy by the name of Salvador Silvia. His parents were dairy farmers. The Silvias with a bunch of other aliens originally came over here from—” He flipped through his notebook.

  “The Azores,” interjected Rosie. “Their families settled here in the late eighteen-hundreds to hunt whales. That’s why it’s called Whalers Cove. You can still see whale bones near the cabin, which they built to store their harpoons and sailing equipment. When the use of whale oil for heating became unpopular many of the Portuguese turned to dairy farming.”

  “Is that so?” he said, finally sitting down. Rosie poured the tea.

  “Why would anyone want to kill that sweet child?”

  “I think I have a pretty good idea.”

  Rosie knitted her brow and looked at him curiously.

  “The rum runners. I’m almost sure they use the Cove to smuggle in their whiskey. I’ve suspected that for a long time and I think the Japs probably help them. Or they’re paid off to keep quiet. I know there’s a lot of shady things going on out there, but I’ve never been able to catch anyone.

  “Let’s say the girl needed money and put the screws on the smugglers and she threatened to tell all, unless they paid her off?”

  Both women looked at each other as if to say, Did he just say that? Is he out of his mind?

  “Are there any other possible motives, marshal?” asked Sarah. “I only knew Sirena a short while, but she didn’t seem like the kind of girl you’re suggesting.”

  “Then it was one of those yellow boys in her village,” he said. “A jealous boyfriend maybe. The girl rejected him and he shot her.”

  Another incredulous look between the two women.

  “Marshal, do the villagers even have guns?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But you can be sure I’m gonna find out. We found a shell casing a short distance from where the girl was shot. The bullet that killed her was from a Colt .45 revolver. That shouldn’t be too hard to find. I’ll form a posse and search the village.”

  Sarah was shocked at his lack of empathy as he offhandedly described the weapon that killed Sirena and his ridiculous plan in one breath. It took her a moment before she said, “Isn’t that rather rash? Don’t you think that would upset Mr. Kassajara and the villagers?”

  “I’ve got to find the killer, don’t I?” he said, gulping down the rest of his tea. He slammed the cup down on the table. It was a miracle he didn’t break it.

  “Now, Miss Cunnin’ham, why don’t you tell me what you were doin’ out at Whalers Cove this morning?”

  Sarah took a deep breath and let it out slowly, allowing herself time to consider her words carefully. “I saw Sirena last night at the Edward Weston exhibition and she invited me to come to the Cove this morning so she could show me how she dives for abalone.” Sarah and Rosie’s eyes met briefly and Rosie nodded and put her hand over Sarah’s.

  “I think you should know that Paul deVrais threatened Sirena last night at the gallery.”

  “And why would Mr. deVrais do that?” he said, reopening his notebook.

  “You’ll have to ask him.”

  “And you, Miss McCann,” he said, pointing his stubby finger accusingly at Rosie. “You’re in a bit of trouble here. You consider yourself an expert on immigration so you must know the laws about harboring a non-citizen. You should have reported that mixed breed to the immigration authorities rather than letting her pass as one of us.”

  Judd closed his notebook, stood up, and stuffed it in his vest pocket just below his six-pointed badge. “But I’ll have to deal with you later. Right now, I’ve got to get back to the Cove and find the thug who shot her.”

  He tipped his cowboy hat, “Good day, ladies.”

  After hearing the front door slam shut, Rosie stopped rubbing her pearls and folded her arms over her chest. “What an insufferable man. Did Sirena tell you who wrote the letter she delivered to Ada?”

  “No,” said Sarah. “She was going to tell me this morning but someone stopped her before I got there.”

  Rosie pushed away her teacup. “Well, we’re not going to figure out who that was by sipping tea. We’ve got work to do, Sarah. And right now Marshal Judd is our biggest problem.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You heard him. He’s going to send a search party into the Japanese village to find Sirena’s killer. Think what that might trigger, if word gets out that a murderer might be hiding out at Whalers Cove. The white folks could get into a frenzy and turn into a wild mob.

  Sarah started for the door. “You’re right, Rosie. Let’s go.”

  “Okay, but where?”

  “We’ve got to speak to Mr. Peabody.”

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 8

  —28—

  Mr. Peabody had done as they’d asked and convinced the District Attorney to stop the marshal from searching or arresting anyone in Whalers Cove without a warrant. He also ordered him to keep quiet about his investigation.

  Sarah and Rosie were sitting solemnly at the banquette in Ada’s kitchen when the cowbell clanged and a startled look passed between them.

  Sarah went to the door and brought back into the kitchen Tajuro Watanabe, the young diver she met at Whalers Cove. He’d come with an invitation from Mr. Kassajara to attend Sirena’s funeral service that afternoon at the Japanese temple in Monterey.

  Sarah told him they would certainly come and she asked after Mr. Kassajara. “He’s doing his best,” said Tajuro. “Making plans for Sirena’s wake and funeral has kept away his sadness. Last night, his family and their friends sat tsuya for Sirena—”

  They gave him a questioning look.

  “It’s a vigil, passing the night watching over her body lit by only one candle to keep the bad spirits from finding her. The Silvias came from San Juan Bautista to join in the vigil.

  “This afternoon’s funeral is the Buddhist ceremony of departure,” Tajuro explained. “Sirena will be given a new name, Shizuko, to prevent her spirit’s return from the afterlife when her name is spoken by the living. Seven days after the funeral, there will be a shonanoka celebration, a celebration of Shizuko’s future life in the land of the dead. We say Namu amida butsu—thank you to the Buddha—because Sirena’s departure helps us to appreciate and honor our own lives here in the present. Her ashes are spread and then carried by the wind to the afterlife.” He paused. “It’s a happy moment we all share.”

  Tajuro bowed and when he looked up his eyes met theirs. He had spoken with little emotion but the sadness in his eyes expressed his unspoken grief.

  “Do you know where our temple is in Monterey?” he asked.

  “Yes, I do,” said Rosie. The young man bowed again and left.

  Rosie told Sarah that Tajuro had attended her English classes with Sirena and she often saw them playing together as young children.

&n
bsp; Now she understood why Sirena thought a memorial service for Ada was so important. Sirena wanted Ada to have a happy afterlife.

  Sarah was very moved by the spiritual concepts behind the Japanese rites of passage, and as much as she was grieving the loss of her friend, she found comfort in chanting Namu amida butsu to herself.

  That afternoon, Rosie and Sarah took the bus to Monterey, walked to the Japanese Association, and waited at the steps with the other mourners. As they entered, they were given white gardenias, the traditional color of sorrow. The austere room was decorated with symbolic Japanese flags and calligraphy scrolls. The Japanese from Whalers Cove and other Japanese communities filled the rows of folding chairs in front of a raised stage.

  After a while they began filing out of their rows, one row at a time, and walking down the center aisle to place the gardenias in Sirena’s open casket. When Sarah’s turn came, she hesitated. She didn’t want to see her beautiful young friend lying there cold and motionless. But Rosie whispered that it would be disrespectful not to participate.

  As she reached the casket she drew in her breath and stifled an involuntary cry. Sirena was dressed in a white kimono, very different attire from her usual saffron coveralls or gypsy pants. A garland of white lilies around her head and shoulders. Her face powdered white. Her lips painted carmine red.

  A sable paintbrush, the one she’d given her as a present, was in her right hand, an abalone shell was in her left hand. Favorite possessions to take with her into the afterlife.

  Sarah felt her legs collapsing and her hand shaking as she placed her bouquet near Sirena’s silent heart. Rosie was next to her and took her arm to steady her as they stepped back. The other mourners shifted to make room for them as they walked back down the center aisle to their seats. As they sat down, Sarah bowed her head and took the handkerchief Rosie offered her.

  Wearing a black silk jacket, Mr. Kassajara then led the ceremony. As he chanted a Sutra prayer over the casket the sound of his voice soothed Sarah and a sense of peace flowed through her wounded soul. A stick of sweet-smelling incense was handed to her and she prayed for Sirena.