He shrugged. “How do you know she rode it that evening?”
“Remember your witness, Elizabeth Peake? She stated at the inquest that she saw Ada pedal by at eight o’clock on the evening of the fourth. Since then, another witness has come forward, Mrs. Cutcliffe. She actually spoke to Ada just before Elizabeth saw her ride off.”
The marshal cleared his throat and took out his small notebook and stubby pencil from his fringed vest pocket. “Why didn’t Mrs. Cutcliffe come forward with this information?”
“She left that same evening to go to the High Sierras with her husband. She didn’t hear about Ada’s death until she got back home a few days ago.”
He looked at her, suspiciously. “Why have you been keeping this to yourself? Since you have this crazy idea that your sister was murdered, I’d think you’d have told me this right away.”
“I was waiting until I gathered enough evidence to present my case to the District Attorney’s office.”
“Your case?” He scoffed. “Are you a detective now, Miss Cunnin’ham? Need I remind you there was a thorough investigation into the cause of your sister’s death and the verdict was suicide. The inquest won’t be reopened, in spite of any evidence you might have, unless I decide it should be, not the DA.” He pointed at his badge. “So it’s me you should talk to if there are any new developments.”
Fortunately, the percolating coffee gave her an excuse to step away and collect herself before she said something she might regret.
She poured the coffee into two mugs and sat back down.
“Honestly, I didn’t think you’d be interested in what I’ve learned about my sister’s death, and it appears I’m right.”
He heaped sugar in his coffee and gulped it down. “Anything that happens within my jurisdiction is of my interest, Miss Cunnin’ham.” He turned to his notebook again. “So what else have you got?”
“Mr. Robinson Jeffers told me that on the fourth he saw through his binoculars a fisherman hauling in what he first thought was a heavy sack of fish, which seemed odd so late at night.”
He took a pinch of snuff out of a small tin and sniffed it up each nostril. “I wouldn’t believe anything that un-American pacifist says. And you shouldn’t either. He’s a very unreliable witness.”
Sarah continued, undeterred. “Maybe her killer dumped the bike in the woods and then brought her body over to River Beach to make it look like a suicide?”
“I’d say you and Miss McCann have been reading too many crime magazines. Did anyone actually see her in Whalers Cove that night? And who is this killer you’ve concocted out of thin air? Let’s stick to the facts, shall we? What we do know is your sister’s body washed ashore on River Beach with weights in her pockets and she wrote a suicide note.
“If you have any facts to add to that, then I’m all ears.” Sarah said nothing. “No? Well then, maybe we should ask Albert for his testimony seeing as he was with your sister that evening and is your only real witness.”
Sarah saw she wasn’t getting anywhere discussing her case, but she had one more card she wanted to play, if only to get a knee-jerk reaction.
“Marshal, as you already know, my sister was pregnant.”
“And?”
“I’ve since learned that she was engaged to be married and I was able to track down her fiancé.”
“And who would that be?”
“Alain Delacroix.”
“What? You can’t be serious. The famous actor?”
“Yes, that’s him,” she replied, casually, enjoying his astonishment.
“I’d like to talk to him.”
“But why?” she said, innocently. “As you said, the case is closed.”
He stuffed his notebook in his vest pocket and stood up. “I’m the marshal here, Miss Cunnin’ham, and if Mr. Delacroix has any information concerning Miss Davenport’s death, although I doubt it, my job is to know about it. Tell me where I can find him?”
“He’s in Hollywood. He left yesterday. He had to get back to finish a motion picture.”
His face turned the color of his bandana, scarlet. “You let him go without talking to me?”
“You were never interested in finding out who the father was. Why now?”
Sarah lit a cigarette and sat back in the nook, letting him stew before she said, “Mr. Delacroix promised to come back if there is a reopening of the inquest. I do not think he’s a suspect. He has a legitimate alibi and why would he kill the woman who was carrying his child?” She took a drag from her cigarette before adding, “It’s deVrais’s alibi you should be checking on. Or what about finding the fisherman Miss McCann saw up on the rocks when she found Ada’s body?”
“Miss McCann was hysterical at the time and Mr. deVrais has a solid alibi. He was on a train to San Francisco.” He reached for his ten-gallon hat and pushed it down on his forehead. “A final warning to you, Miss Cunnin’ham. If you find out anything else in your so-called investigation, you tell me and not the D.A. And now I’ve got important business to attend to.”
Sarah poured the remnants of his coffee down the drain and washed it. She took hers into the studio to work on Sirena’s portrait.
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 6
—26—
Rosie called to say that Sirena had telephoned the lodge. She didn’t want Rosie to worry but she had been visiting her sick grandmother in San Juan Bautista. Sarah was relieved to know the girl was all right. She’d spent yesterday and today worrying about her and not even her work in the studio had helped the time go faster.
Albert watched Sarah get dressed for the Weston gallery opening, but then he realized he wasn’t going with her and dropped his leash and curled up on his pillow with his back to her.
“I know I haven’t been paying much attention to you, Albert. Walks too short. Tummy rubs too quick. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Once this is all over.”
The road was barely visible in the approaching fogbank and she switched on her flashlight as she stumbled and cursed tripping over another knuckled oak root.
She reached Ninth Avenue and hastened her steps when she saw a petite figure moving through the mist wearing saffron-striped gypsy pants shining like tiger stripes in her flashlight’s beam.
“Sirena!” she called out, running up to her.
The girl spun around. “Stop following me, Sarah!”
Sarah was not to be put off and grabbed Sirena’s hand. “Come and sit down over here,” she commanded and pulled the unwilling girl over to a bench half hidden under the canopy of a twisted cypress. “You can’t run away from your troubles. You have too much to answer for. And if you’re not going to be honest with me then I will have to turn you over to Marshal Judd. Is that what you want?”
Even in the dusky light, Sarah could see the fear in Sirena’s eyes. She wanted to put her arms around her and protect her but she needed to know the truth. “Is your grandmother feeling better?”
Sirena stiffened. “So Rosie told you about my Portuguese grandmother and you probably know who my Japanese grandfather is too. I should’ve known not to trust her. Or Ada. Or any of you whites.”
“That’s not fair, Sirena. It’s you we can’t trust.”
“So what do you think of this yellow monkey hanging on a limb.” She held up her arms and scratched under her arms.
“Stop it, Sirena. I don’t think of you that way. I too know what it’s like to be different.”
“Really?” she said with heavy sarcasm. “I don’t think so. How could you possibly know how that feels? Oh yes, you suffer for being a woman striving to be accepted as an artist, but you don’t have to suffer for being from a different race. You’ve never been confronted by someone telling you that you’re not wanted because of your color? That you’re only chance of succeeding as an artist is to risk passing for white?”
She started to get up and Sarah reached for her hand and pulled her back down.
“You’re right, Sirena. I don’t know how that feels, but I still wa
nt to help you.”
“Would you really tell the marshal?”
“Of course not. Your secret is safe with me.” Sarah brought out her cigarettes and offered one to Sirena.
“I’m a pretty good actress, aren’t I?” said Sirena blowing a few smoke rings. “My people call it Asian power when you expend physical effort, sweat, and hard work to achieve something that is easily in reach if you have white privilege.”
Sarah nodded and lit their cigarettes. “But it must be exhausting to always pretend you’re someone you’re not. To have to deny your grandfather when you see him in the street. And look at the trouble you’re in because of it.”
The tip of Sirena’s cigarette turned fiery red as she took a deep drag. “I’m not in any trouble as long as you keep quiet.”
“Oh c’mon, Sirena, why don’t you give up this racial masquerade?”
Sirena stood up and glared down at her. “You can’t be serious. Do you have any idea what would’ve happened to me if that snooty waiter at the Del Monte had known I was of a mixed race and was passing for white?”
“He would have asked you to leave?”
“No. He would have called the marshal and had me arrested right there in front of all of you pure white folk, and the immigration authorities would’ve had me deported to Japan where, I’ve never lived. That’s the law in the land of the free. Ha!”
She retreated back into the shadows when two men passed by and politely tipped their hats.
After they were gone, Sarah reached out her hand and touched Sirena’s arm. She was encouraged when the girl didn’t pull away. “Please listen to me, Sirena. You’re not to blame for trying to succeed as an artist by crossing the colored line. It’s the bigoted people that exclude you that should be punished.
“Let me take you away from here, Sirena. Come back with me to Paris where you’ll be free to be the artist you deserve to be.”
Sirena slumped down on the bench, all the bravado gone. She looked at Sarah in disbelief. “Why would you do that?”
Sarah was actually as shocked as Sirena by her impulsive offer. But now that she’d made it, it didn’t seem like such a bad idea. She was certain Sirena never meant to bring harm to Ada and if the girl told her who Ada’s murderer was she could forgive her for her deceit.
They sat smoking in silence, their thoughts shrouded in the misty fog.
Sirena slipped her hand into Sarah’s. Her voice weak. “I’ve done bad things, Sarah, much worse things than passing for white. I don’t deserve your friendship or your generous offer.”
“Believe me when I tell you that everything is going to be all right, but you have to trust me. Tell me who killed Ada and I’ll have him arrested. I’ll keep you out of it and then when I leave for Paris, you’ll be on the train with me. I promise.”
Sirena was about to say something when they heard, “Paris?” It was the two sisters, Hallie and Jeanette, appearing out of the mist. “Who’s going to Paris? Can we go too?”
“Hello, girls,” said Sarah. “No one’s going to Paris right now. I was just telling Sirena how much I love living there.”
She was suddenly aware of how many people were passing by on their way to the Edward Weston exhibit. Bits of conversations and laughter carried easily in the night air, even hushed conversations. She was certain Sirena would’ve told her the name of the murderer, if the sisters hadn’t shown up, but now, as much as she wanted to know, it wasn’t safe. She’d have to wait until they were alone.
She stood up and pulled a reluctant Sirena along with her. “Stay near me,” she whispered.
With the sisters behind them, they turned the dark corner onto Monte Verde and the electric lights coming from the Art and Crafts Club cut through the fog. As they squeezed their way into the crowded foyer, they were separated.
Sarah was looking for Sirena when she bumped into Robert. An easy smile spread across his face when he saw her. He took her by the hand and drew her over to a corner of the room.
“I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve been wanting to apologize for my behavior at the cast party, I—”
“No, Robert,” said Sarah, “it’s I who should apologize. It was rude of me to ask you to come and then run off.”
“You said you spoke to Delacroix? Did you learn anything?”
“Yes. I was wrong about him. I know now that he loved my sister. He would never have hurt her.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. Just because someone loves someone doesn’t mean they’re beyond hurting them. Even if by accident. I don’t think you should see him again without me there.”
“That won’t be hard. He’s gone back to Hollywood.”
“Oh. Well that’s even better. Is there anyone else you suspect?”
“Ada’s art dealer, but he has an alibi.”
“Then what’s next?”
She was about to tell him there might be a new suspect when Mac bumped into them. Robert put his arm around Sarah’s shoulders and said, “Hello Mac, are you enjoying the show?”
“I’m thrilled to see Weston’s photographs. His show is a smashing success.”
As Robert ushered Sirena farther into the gallery he began speaking enthusiastically about Weston’s photography, but an argument broke out between two photographers standing nearby. One was saying that Johan Hagemeyer’s manipulated photographs weren’t as honest as the natural photography of Edward Weston. Robert stepped in to defend his teacher’s modern methods.
Sarah took the opportunity to slip away to find Sirena.
In a smaller gallery, Weston’s earlier, less-known photographs were displayed. Sarah froze when she saw that the only other person in the room was Paul deVrais. His back was to her as he stood in front of a photograph of Whalers Cove.
She thought to leave but then decided it couldn’t have been a better time to settle accounts. “I was just there the other day,” she said, coming up behind him.
He turned around and said with displeasure. “It seems you’ve been rather busy in our little village, Miss Cunningham. Judd came to see me this afternoon about some new evidence. He felt obliged to ask me for the punched ticket the conductor gave me after I boarded the train to San Francisco. Unfortunately, I’d thrown it out, but I assured him the conductor would remember me, as I often take the evening train.”
Sarah was pleased Judd had taken her investigation seriously. Probably her mention of the District Attorney getting involved kicked a spur in his side.
“I’ve also heard from my lawyer,” continued deVrais. “He tells me the preliminary findings of the probate court show that you are, in fact, the sole beneficiary of Ada’s estate and her executor. That’s a serious responsibility for a young inexperienced woman like yourself, Miss Cunningham. You’re lucky to have me to represent Ada’s work and make the right decisions. In return, I will offer you the same fifty percent share that I gave Ada for any paintings sold. Under my expertise, you will become a very wealthy woman. You can live like a queen in Paris.”
Sarah put her hands on her waist. “I’m sorry, Mr. deVrais, but I have my own plans for Ada’s legacy and I won’t be needing your services. In fact, it’s very opportune that I saw you here tonight so I could tell you before you hear it from Mr. Peabody.”
“Hear what?”
“You are to return all of Ada’s artwork to me, including any paintings out on consignment.”
“That’s ridiculous. As I told you before, I never received a termination letter from Ada and therefore the contract is still valid. And it’s valid in perpetuity, I might add.”
Sarah leveled her eyes on her adversary. “Mr. deVrais, let me make this perfectly clear. If you insist on pursuing these false claims, I will have to resort to less pleasant ways to force you into compliance.”
“My oh my, such strong language from such a pretty young lady.” His grin faded. “Have you lost all sense of propriety? Women are not made to handle such matters. Let the men take care of this. I’ll have L.G. talk to Peabody about an
y misunderstandings you might have.” He turned to leave.
“Before you go, Mr. deVrais, I want to thank you for delivering A Bleak Morning. I had an authenticator in San Francisco verify its provenance.” In truth the painting was actually still hidden in the loft above Ada’s studio.
“He confirmed my suspicions. The painting is a forgery and so is the signature. You commissioned someone to paint A Bleak Morning and then you forged Ada’s signature and tried to sell it.”
He fidgeted with his shiny pink ascot. “You can’t prove that. Sirena was the one who delivered the painting to me and she said it was Ada’s. If Sirena forged the painting, she should be prosecuted, not me.” Sarah blocked his path.
“Did you know that Ada kept a complete list of all the artwork given to you?” His eyes flashed like silver bullets, his hands tightened into fists as if he was ready to punch her, but she didn’t wince.
“You may have burned other documents that might have incriminated you—I’ll leave that up to the marshal to find out—but the inventory list was hidden in a safe place.”
She didn’t give him any time to think about her accusation.
“It’s a detailed list, Mr. deVrais. It accounts for all the paintings in your vault and elsewhere. You’ve been rather busy since Ada’s death. Several art collectors have recently bought her paintings. Others are hanging in galleries on consignment. In fact, I’m told there is a second painting of Ada’s about to be hung at the Metropolitan.”
“There’s nothing unusual about that. It just shows I’ve done a very good job representing her work. All the more reason for you and I to forget our silly spats and work together to our mutual benefit.”
“We have no future, Mr. deVrais. You have been selling these valuable works without sharing the profits with your artist. I’m told that’s a criminal offense and can result in a jail sentence.”
“You’re crazy like your sister. What proof do you have?”
The Artist Colony Page 26
