The Artist Colony Page 28

  At the end of the ceremony, they followed the casket out of the temple and stood by as it was lifted by Tajuro and the other pallbearers into the back of a horse-drawn wagon and Sirena began her journey to the crematorium and the afterlife.

  Sarah thought about what Tajuro had said—the second service for the dead was given to help those who were left behind. It was given to help them continue on their own journeys through life. Sarah felt that Sirena’s crossing into the afterlife was like an awakening of her own spirituality on Earth.

  An idea formed in her mind and she looked for Mr. Kassajara. She spotted him on the lawn. A line of mourners were stopping to say a few words, bowing, and then moving on.

  Sarah joined the queue and when it was her turn, he thanked her for coming and then lowered his head for several moments as she spoke quietly to him. When she was finished, he met her eyes and they both smiled.

  “I like your idea very much,” he said. “And yes, we will honor both Ada and Sirena at the shonanoka celebration.”

  Rosie and Sarah climbed the stairs to Sirena’s bedroom to gather her belongings to give to her grandfather.

  Quietly and carefully, they folded Sirena’s few pieces of clothing and laid them in a box.

  When they were finished, Sarah looked around and asked, “Where is her sketch box? And where are her paintings? She’s been studying for a year but there are no paintings here and no drawings either.”

  “I remember she asked me once if she could use the attic,” said Rosie. “Maybe she kept them up there.”

  They opened a door at the end of the hallway and climbed the narrow wooden stairs.

  There was a tiny garret just large enough for a stool, an easel and a worktable. “Saints alive!” said Rosie. Sirena’s paint-stained sketch box was on the worktable beside an oil lamp and several drawings. A circular window under the peaked gable of the roof offered a bird’s-eye view of the ocean and the only natural light.

  “Sirena must have been up here painting by the light of that lamp when everyone else was sleeping,” said Rosie. “And I never knew it.”

  Sarah held up a Japanese woodprint and a copy that Sirena had made on canvas. “There aren’t any teachers here in Monterey who could teach her how to paint like this. She had to have taught herself. She hid her work because she was afraid that painting in the Japanese style would expose her racial identity.”

  “She was so alone in this world,” said Rosie. “I bet no one is excluded in the afterlife because of their color.”

  “She wasn’t alone,” said Sarah, looking at the woodprints lining the wall of traditionally dressed women and children walking on bridges or having picnics by a lake or looking up into a starry sky. “She created her own community up here, closer to the sky.”

  Sarah sat on the stool and studied the painting that was on the easel. “Armin Hansen was right,” she said.

  “Right about what?” asked Rosie.

  “He told me Sirena created a floating world all her own, a very personal world. Look how she’s used the view from her window as her subject. She cropped it to show gnarled, black tree branches crossing her canvas, with the spaces in-between filled with the indigo blue of the sea. It’s flat without shadowing or perspective. Simple but profound.

  “I felt the same sense of peace and serenity when Mr. Kassajara was chanting today at the service.”

  “Sarah, come look at this,” said Rosie, standing next to a painting on the wall near the far corner. “Isn’t this Mr. Kassajara?”

  “Yes it is. And my sister painted it.” No, she would not cry, not now. She took it off the wall. “Ada and Sirena would both want Mr. Kassajara to have it.”

  They left the garret and went down the squeaky stairs. At the entryway, Sarah wrapped her arms around Rosie and gave her a heartfelt hug.

  Albert was anxiously waiting for her at the Sketch Box. She curled up on the couch and sobbed for the loss of her sister and now Sirena. Albert nuzzled against her, comforting her through her spasms of grief until they were spent.

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 9

  —29—

  Sarah felt the gentleness of Robert’s hand on her face and pressed against its warmth, but all she got was the touch of Albert’s cold nose. She woke up and a disenchanted Albert jumped off the bed.

  It wasn’t just Robert’s kiss she was wanting. It was his reassurance that Sirena’s death wasn’t her fault. She couldn’t stop thinking that Ada’s killer somehow found out Sirena was going to betray him and that’s why he killed her before Sarah got to Whalers Cove.

  She took Albert for a long walk on the beach and didn’t return until late afternoon. It gave her time to go over the last days leading up to Sirena’s murder. She decided that if she was in any way responsible it was failing to find Ada’s killer before he killed Sirena.

  Ada’s voice spoke to her as it had when she was lost in the Maze at the Del Monte. You will find your way. Just keep going.

  Sarah returned to the studio, hoping to escape her sadness, but she only felt worse looking through the few studies she’d made of Sirena’s portrait. The first one was the most representational, a portrait of a young girl with opalescent eyes. She would give this painting to Mr. Kassajara.

  She wasn’t satisfied with the other studies and wanted to try something completely new. An abstract improvisation, or as Armin Hansen instructed his students, “Just paint.”

  There were several similarly sized blank canvases stacked against the wall and she pulled out one from the back for good luck. As she began to prep the canvas with a coat of white primer, the surface rippled. How curious. Ada was always so careful. She always stretched her canvases flat.

  Sarah examined the surface from all angles. There were several more ripples. Puzzled, she turned it over to check that the nails gripping the stretched canvas were secure in their frame. Looking closer, she saw that there were actually two overlapping canvases.

  Using a small claw hammer, she slowly pried out all the nails on the four sides of the frame that held down the outer canvas. Then she turned the frame over and carefully peeled off the outer canvas to see what was underneath.

  The sea-gray eyes of Robert Pierce were as startled as she was.

  He was posing in the stern of an anchored schooner in Whalers Cove. Ocean Queen was painted in red on the stern. She looked at the bottom right corner. It was signed A.B. Davenport.

  The initial shock was immediately replaced with confusion. Ada knew Robert? And she knew him well enough to paint his portrait? But then . . . Robert knew Ada. And he knew her well enough to pose for her. On their picnic, when Sarah had tried to sketch his face he had turned away and said he didn’t want her to “capture his soul.” Well, Ada had succeeded where Sarah had failed.

  Her face reddened as her confusion changed to rage. She’d fallen for him like a silly schoolgirl. “You have a lot to answer for, Mr. Pierce.” She couldn’t bear to look at him and dropped his portrait face down onto the floor.

  She pulled off her smock, scooped up Albert, and grabbed the bike. Minutes later she was pedaling up Eighth Avenue with Albert in the front basket. It wasn’t until she turned right on Mountain View and pedaled for a few more minutes that she saw a rough sign and put on the brakes. Hagemeyer’s name was carved into a shingle nailed to a tree trunk. Above his name was a black arrow pointing down a trail leading into a dense pine forest.

  She jumped off and strode down the trail with the bike, Albert still in the basket. The tall pines blocked out most of the daylight but she wasn’t going to let her fear of the dark stop her from confronting Robert.

  A rustic redwood cabin came into view. She took Albert out of the basket and put him on the ground but he whined and cowered. She bent down and patted his head reassuringly, “It’s all right Albert. This won’t take long.” She put him down on the porch and tied his leash around a post.

  “Robert?” she called out. No answer. The door was unlocked and she stepped inside. There were a few pieces of r
oughly made furniture and a stone fireplace. She hardly noticed. It was the eight-by-ten-inch black-and-white photographs pinned to the wall across the room that pulled her forward.

  Her eyes were first drawn to several photographs of herself kissing the tree at Cypress Point. Then later at the wharf when she asked Robert to stop. She’d teased him about capturing her soul and he’d done just that. What a stupid fool I’ve been.

  Next to the photographs of her was a series of photographs of Sirena modeling in front of the Whalers Cove cabin. Sirena alive. Sarah could hear her laughter as she flirted with the eye of the camera. Robert’s eye.

  Farther down the wall hung a white sheet. She yanked it off. Underneath was a large glossy pin-up of her sister lounging in a low-cut bathing suit on the Ocean Queen. Her lips puckering at the unseen photographer.

  Albert’s high-pitch howl made her rush to the door where she bumped into Robert coming in. “What happened to Albert?” she cried out. “Where is he?”

  “Calm down, Sarah. He broke his leash and I was afraid he’d run off so I put him in the toolshed.”

  Sarah stared at the handsome face that Ada had rendered so perfectly with the strokes of a paintbrush. The portrait came forward to embrace her but she pushed Robert away. He looked surprised, even hurt. “What’s wrong, Sarah?”

  “I saw Ada’s portrait of you.”

  “So that’s why you’re here.” He seemed unaffected by her discovery. “I thought it was because you couldn’t wait until tomorrow to see me. Where did you find it? I looked everywhere.”

  “Ada hid it under a blank canvas,” she said, gulping down the rising panic in her voice. She’d felt so smug, so smart and confident when she told Rosie that it would be so like Ada to make a mistake with a handsome, charismatic man. And here she’d done the exact same thing. And with all the evidence in front of her she was still hoping for some kind of explanation that would prove him innocent.

  “Such a very clever woman your sister was.” He glanced over her shoulder at the pin-up. “And so incredibly beautiful.” He turned back to Sarah and touched her face. She backed against the wall. “You’re so like her. I thought she’d come back from the dead when I saw you wearing that ridiculous peacock hat.”

  “Where did you see me wearing her hat?”

  “You wore it to the Jeffers party and then again at the Del Monte Gallery. I had to keep a watch on you. Make sure you didn’t cause any trouble.” His voice was smooth, flawless, without emotion.

  Her heart thumped wildly when he closed the door and locked it.

  “Please, Robert, let me go.”

  “Why the hurry, Sarah? I was just developing some pictures to show you tomorrow. But why wait?”

  He gripped her hand and pulled her across the living room and into a darkroom, a room barely large enough for two people. The only light was a reddish-brown bulb hanging over the sink. The stench of vinegar burned her nose and made her nauseous.

  Three headshots of Ada, Sirena, and herself had been clipped to a metal wire and hung up to dry. Their unblinking eyes were frozen in time. He had taken their lives and she was next.

  Robert’s breath was hot on her neck as he put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her toward the sink. “I’m a good photographer, don’t you think?” he said in a soft, droning voice. She was so close to the images they looked blurred. She breathed in the vinegar dripping from their glossy surfaces. Her eyes burned.

  “I tried to convince you that Hollywood pansy Alain Delacroix killed her but instead he charmed you, just like he charmed your sister.”

  A beaker labeled ACETIC ACID over a skull-and-crossbones was on the edge of the sink. If she could just distract him long enough to get hold of it. She forced herself to turn around and face him. “How did you get Ada to come to Whalers Cove that night?”

  “I told her if she didn’t bring me my portrait I’d tell her fiancé that she and I were still lovers and the child she was carrying was mine. Not his.”

  Sarah felt bile rising up from her stomach and swallowed it down. She fumbled behind her for the beaker, but she only pushed it farther out of reach.

  “Like old times, she motored out with me to the Ocean Queen. I waited until we were aboard before I asked her why she hadn’t brought the portrait. She pleaded with me to let her keep it until after her damn exhibition. And when I insisted that we’d have to go back and get it, she got angry.”

  “Why would you care if she showed it?”

  “The coast guard knows the Ocean Queen is a Canadian schooner transporting crates of liquor. My liquor. They’ve been looking for it, but we’ve managed to keep them out of Whalers Cove by greasing a few pockets, like that marshal of yours. But if someone in the coast guard saw a painting of me onboard the Ocean Queen, my cover would be blown.”

  The reddish-brown glow of the overhead light bulb made the rum runner’s face grotesque, a sickly orange. A monster.

  Behind her back, she stretched her fingers and barely touched the beaker. While she inched it forward, she heard Ada. Be patient, Little Sis, you’ll only have one chance.

  “Is that why you killed her? Because of your portrait?”

  “I told you, Sarah, it was an accident. She came at me like a bearcat, flailing her arms, clawing me and screaming. The coast guard patrols at night. They would’ve heard her.

  “When she ran to the stern I chased after her, but before I could reach her, she tripped on a cable and fell overboard. I dived in after her and got hold of her shawl and tried to muffle her screams. I didn’t mean to hurt her, Sarah. You believe me, don’t you?”

  “Then why not report it as an accident? Why take her body to River Beach?” she asked, finally getting her hand around the beaker.

  “I couldn’t take that chance. If I was arrested they’d find out I was a rum runner with a long record and hang me. But if they found her body on River Beach no one would come snooping around Whalers Cove and bust my operation. I left her on River Beach and motored over to Carmel Bay.

  “I used her key to get into the cottage and set up the suicide note. Don’t you think the vase of flowers was a nice touch? Something Ada would’ve done if she’d really planned to kill herself.” He sneered. “It certainly convinced that dressed-up cowboy, Judd. But you’re smarter than him, aren’t you Sarah?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “If only I’d found that damn portrait before you did, you would’ve never known it was me. When I came back later to look again, you’d moved in and that mutt ran me off. A shame you found it. I was so enjoying our romance.”

  She gripped the beaker. “And Sirena? How did she get involved?”

  “She knew about Ada and me. And when she heard Ada was dead, she confronted me. I told her it was an accident, but she said I had to turn myself in. She kept insisting until I told her if I was arrested, I’d lie to the coast guard and say her grandfather and those other yellow monkeys distributed my whiskey and they killed Ada when she threatened to expose them to the coast guard. When I told her I put their diving stones in Ada’s pockets so the marshal would believe my story, she promised to keep her mouth shut.

  “That is until you showed up and started snooping around. I told Sirena to convince you that Ada killed herself, and when that didn’t work I told her to arrange your drowning. And then what does that fool do? She saves you! I watched the whole circus. The two of you laughing on the beach like you were the best of friends.”

  “But why kill her?”

  “You didn’t see me, but I was behind an easel displaying a Weston photograph when Sirena asked you to meet her at Whalers Cove. After I dropped you off, I drove out there. Her white diving suit was an easy target at night.”

  Sarah swung her arm around and threw the acid in his face. He screamed in pain and grabbed a rag to wipe it off. She opened the darkroom door and ran across the living room. He stumbled after her, squinting and rubbing his eyes. She was struggling to get the door unlocked when he came up from behind and dragg
ed her back into the darkroom. He twisted her arm and pressed a wet cloth over her mouth. She felt herself dropping into the abyss.

  When she woke up, she was groggy and her head was throbbing. In the moonlight she saw that she was in the hull of a powerboat, water lapping against its wooden sides. She struggled to stand up but her hands were tied behind her back. Her mouth gagged and taped. The face of the full moon looked down upon her without pity.

  She propped herself up against the engine and saw that the boat was beached under the rocky promontory at Whalers Cove. The golden lights of the cottages looked down on her but the villagers were too far away to hear her muffled cries for help. She struggled to get up again.

  “Here let me—” said Robert, jumping into the boat. He leaned down and pulled her up to an awkward sitting position. He was wearing an orange fisherman’s jacket.

  “You’re shaking,” he said, seemingly concerned. He tucked a blanket over her legs as he had done in his Ford coupe. It gave her little warmth or comfort.

  “Sorry you had to wait so long. I had to clean out the cabin and prepare the Ocean Queen for my long voyage back to Canada.” She winced. “Don’t worry. You’re still going to have that boat ride I promised you.”

  She struggled to pull her hands out of the rope but the knots were too tight and they cut into her skin.

  Suddenly she heard Albert’s bark over running footsteps. A torch lit the face of Mr. Kassajara. “Let her go,” he shouted as he drew nearer.

  Robert jumped out of the boat with his revolver raised. Albert clamped his teeth on his leg. Robert yelled and dropped the gun. Mr. Kassajara locked his arms around Robert. They scuffled. Albert went after his leg again, but Robert kicked him and he yelped and fell down.

  Robert punched the face of the older man. He collapsed on the sand next to Albert. Neither got up. Robert returned to the boat and started pushing it out into the cove.

  From over Robert’s shoulder, she saw Mr. Kassajara come after Robert from behind. His arms raised in the air and wailed like a banshee. A giant abalone shell gleamed in the moonlight before it came down with a dull thud on Robert’s head. He groaned and fell over in the water.