The Dangerous Ladies Affair

by Marcia Muller

  “Johnny Reb? Hardly.”

  “Southerner, ain’t you? Tell by your accent.”

  The old man must have ears like an elephant to detect what was now only a faint trace of a southern accent. “Born in Baltimore,” Quincannon admitted, “but I’ve lived in San Francisco for fifteen years.”

  “Once a Johnny Reb, always a Johnny Reb. Spot one of you graybacks a mile away. Only good Reb’s a dead one, you ask me.”

  “The Civil War has been over for thirty years, Mr. Dana.”

  “Tell that to my right eye. It’s been pining for the left one for more’n thirty years. Damned Reb shot it out at Antietam.”

  He clumped over to a long puncheon table and sat down with his arms folded and mouth downturned into a lemony pucker.

  “Don’t mind the old coot,” Kennett said to Quincannon. “He’s only like that when he’s sober and getting ready for a trip to the doctor in San Francisco. His bark’s worse than his bite.”

  “About Noah Rideout, Mr. Kennett. Have you ever seen him in the company of a woman such as the one I described?”

  “Can’t say I have because I haven’t. He minds his business; I mind mine.”

  “How far is his Schyler Island farm from here?”

  “Six, seven miles.”

  “How do I get to it?”

  “You figure on going out there today?”

  It was one of two options, the other, less desirable one being to wait here on the chance that Gus Burgade and his store boat would put in an appearance. Action was always preferable to passive waiting. If Pauline Dupree wasn’t to be found at the Schyler Island farm, Rideout himself might have returned there by this time.

  Quincannon said, “Yes, if I can rent a horse.”

  “Prob’ly can. Livery’s right across the road, Mr.— What’d you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t. But it’s Flint, James Flint.”

  “Take the ferry across Dead Man’s Slough, Mr. Flint, and follow the levee road till you come to another ferry at Irishman’s Slough. That one’ll take you to Schyler Island.” Kennett paused and then advised, “I’d get a move on if I was you—we’re in for a blow tonight.”

  The livery was a barnlike building diagonally up-road from the inn. One of the doors was open and a buttery lamp glow shone within. Entering, Quincannon discovered four horses in stalls and the hostler asleep in the harness room. He woke the man up and questioned him. No, he hadn’t rented either a wagon or a horse to a woman answering Pauline Dupree’s description—“Never seen anyone looked like that around here, more’s the pity”—or to anyone else in the past few days. He’d seen Noah Rideout a few days ago when one of his employees had delivered him to the steamboat landing in a carriage, hadn’t seen him since. Quincannon haggled with the hostler from a distance of two feet—he had a mouth half-full of as many black teeth as white and a rancid breath that would have gagged a goat—and emerged astride the best of the available horses, a ewe-necked bay, his valise tied to the saddle horn.

  The last traveler or travelers to use the ferry had been headed west; the barge was moored on the opposite bank of the slough. Quincannon yanked the bell rope on the landing stage and the bell’s sharp notes brought the ferryman, a muscular gent of some fifty years, from his shack. He seemed none too happy to be summoned out once again into the chill afternoon; he answered Quincannon’s questions about the identity of recent travelers with nothing more than a series of grunts and monosyllables as he winched the scow across. It was held by grease-blackened cables made fast to pilings on a spit of north-side land a hundred yards upslough. The current would push the ferry across from shore to shore, guided by a centerboard attached to its bottom and by the ferryman’s windlass.

  When the barge nudged the plank landing, the ferryman quickly put hitches in the mooring ropes, then lowered the approach apron so Quincannon could lead the horse aboard. As soon as the ferryman collected the toll, he set the cable to whining thinly on the windlass drum and the scow began moving again, back across. A taciturn cuss, he said not a word the entire time.

  The levee road was well graded and fairly well maintained, in order to accommodate wagons, carriages, and stagecoaches, and the bay handled easily; Quincannon set a brisk pace. The wind had sharpened and the clouds were low hanging, so low that the tops of some of the taller trees in the flanking swampland were obscured by their drift. But the ozone smell was no stronger than it had been and there was no moisture in the air yet. The storm was still two or three hours off.

  The road was flanked on both sides by streams of sluggish brown water, swamp oaks, and moss-infested sycamores all the way to the next ferry crossing at Irishman’s Slough. He met no one along the way. The ferry tender there was less taciturn than the one in Kennett’s Crossing; he informed Quincannon as he winched him and the bay across that the only others to request passage today were local farmers. The land on Schyler Island had been cleared and planted with crops; fields of onions and a variety of green vegetables stretched as far as the eye could see. Most of the farmhands tending them were Chinese, so many of which race worked as delta laborers that an entire community had been established at Locke.

  A mile or so from the ferry landing, farm buildings appeared in the distance. The entrance to the road that led to them was spanned by a huge, arched wooden sign into which the name RIDEOUT had been carved and then gilded. Quincannon turned in there, rode another quarter of a mile through fenced fields to the farmstead.

  There were several buildings, all whitewashed and well-kept. The main house was surprisingly large and elaborate for the delta country, two stories of wood and stone with a galleried porch in front. As soon as he reined up in a broad wagonyard, the front door opened and a burly fellow wearing a butternut coat over gray twill trousers came out and down the steps.

  He looked Quincannon over appraisingly before asking, “Something I can help you with, mister?”

  “I’d like to speak with Mr. Rideout, if he’s here.”

  “He isn’t. He’s in Stockton on business.”

  “When is he expected back?”

  “Late tonight. If you have business with him, you can tell me what it is. Foster’s my name, Mr. Rideout’s aide-de-camp.”

  “Business with him, yes, but of a private sort. Concerning a lady friend of his.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “Pauline Dupree. An actress at the Gaiety Theater in San Francisco.”

  If Foster recognized the name, his face didn’t show it and he didn’t admit it. He said nothing.

  “Handsome woman, dark gold hair. Mr. Rideout kept company with her in the city.”

  “His business, if so.”

  “She wouldn’t happen to be here, would she?”

  “The only women here are servants.” Foster’s gaze narrowed. “Who are you? What’s your interest in Mr. Rideout and this Dupree woman?”

  “I’d rather discuss that with him.”

  “I’ll still have your name, unless you have some reason to withhold it.”

  “John Quincannon. Which packet will he be on tonight?”

  Instead of answering the question, Foster said, “It’ll be late when he arrives and he won’t want to be disturbed. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow to see him.”

  Not if I have my druthers, Quincannon thought. “Will you be meeting him?”

  Foster didn’t answer that question, either. “Tomorrow, Mr. Quincannon. Good day until then.”

  He turned on his heel and reentered the house.

  20

  SABINA

  Kamiko opened the door to Sabina’s ring, Elizabeth hovering close behind her. “Good morning, Mrs. Carpenter,” the girl said, bowing but unsmiling.

  “Good morning.”

  “You wish to speak with Amity-san?”

  “Yes.”

  Sabina closed her umbrella, shook the drops of rain from it before entering. Elizabeth said as she stepped inside, “Mrs. Wellman is upstairs changing. We’ve just come b
ack from church.” She added, “Everything here is status quo.”

  No, it isn’t, Sabina thought. “I’ll wait for her in the main parlor,” she said.

  Kamiko took the umbrella from her, placed it inside a copper stand, then hurried across the entryway and up the winding staircase to the second floor.

  “Will you want me to join you?” Elizabeth asked.

  “No. I need to speak to Amity alone.”

  “I’ll go up and pack my things, then. This is my last day here, with Mr. Wellman due home this evening?”

  “Yes.”

  Elizabeth paused. “You seem a bit … tense this morning, Sabina. Is something wrong?”

  “I’ll explain later.”

  She went across through the archway into the main parlor. The room was cold, logs having been laid on the hearth but not yet set ablaze. The heavy damask curtains were drawn over the windows to mask the dreary gray drizzle outside. One lamp glowed palely; Sabina lifted the glass and put fire to the wick of a second lamp near the display of antique weaponry.

  Its glow gave her a clear look into the glass-topped case containing Burton’s collection of antique daggers and knives. The ivory-handled kaiken in its matching scabbard was in its customary place in the second case. She was just about to lift the lid when Amity entered from the hallway.

  “Good morning, Sabina. Not a day for bicycling, is it?”

  “No, it isn’t.” Nor would it be if the sun were shining.

  “Brrr, it’s cold in here. I’ll light the fire.”

  While Amity was doing that, Sabina reached into the case and removed the kaiken. When she slid it out of its scabbard she saw what she expected to see and had hoped she wouldn’t.

  The tip of the ancient razor-sharp, double-edged blade was missing.

  There was a whooshing sound as the hearth logs burst into flame. Amity turned, saw Sabina holding the kaiken, and said, “That handle is beautifully carved, isn’t it.” But then she came closer and her brows knitted. “What could have happened to the blade? Burton will be furious when he sees that it’s been broken off. It’s one of his favorite pieces.”

  “I know what happened to it.”

  “You do?”

  Sabina took the lace handkerchief from her coat pocket, unfolded it, and removed the broken metal tip. It had the same dull patina, the same sharp double edge, as the blade of the kaiken. There was no need to fit the tip to the blade; the two were identical.

  Bewildered, Amity asked, “Where did you find the broken tip? Here somewhere?”

  “No. Before I tell you, I have some questions to ask.”

  “Questions?”

  “About the love letter you received from Fenton Egan. Did it come through the mail or was it hand delivered the same as the threatening notes?”

  “… Through the mail.”

  “Plain stationery, with no return address on the envelope.”

  “No, of course not.” Frown ridges marred the surface of Amity’s forehead. “Sabina, what…?”

  “Where did you read the letter? In the entryway?”

  “No, in here.”

  “And you were alone at the time.”

  “Naturally. I wouldn’t have opened the envelope in front of Kamiko.”

  “Did Egan sign his name to the letter?”

  “Yes.” Her mouth twist was bitter. “‘With abiding love, Fenton.’”

  “And once you read it, you threw it into the fireplace.”

  “Along with the envelope, just as I told you.”

  “Was the fire blazing as it is now?”

  “Blazing? I don’t … Why are you asking all these questions, for heaven’s sake?”

  “Please, Amity. Was the fire hot, blazing that day?”

  “… No. It had begun to bank.”

  “Did you wait to watch the letter and envelope burn?”

  “Did I? No. No, I was too upset, with myself as much as with Fenton for writing such a letter. I went upstairs to lie down.”

  “Where was Kamiko at the time?”

  “On her way in here, I suppose to attend to the fire. I passed her in the hallway— Oh, my God! You don’t think Kamiko rescued the letter before it burned?”

  “That’s just what I think. Rescued it and read it.”

  Her face pale, Amity sank onto one of the damask-covered estrado chairs.

  “If you’re right, then she did know about the affair. That was what she was holding back, hiding.…”

  “More than just knowledge of the affair.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Sabina hated what she had to do and say next, but there was no way to prolong the necessity or to sugarcoat it. She went to sit next to her friend. “Let’s suppose,” she said, “that Kamiko did read the letter and was upset by it. She could have confronted you, demanded or begged you to end the affair, but she didn’t.”

  “She’s not the sort to demand or beg.”

  “But neither is she the sort to have tacitly allowed it to continue. She couldn’t bring herself to confront you, it would have been too painful for her, but she felt she had to do something. Not appeal to your lover to end the affair—her Japanese heritage, with its emphasis on female deference to the male, wouldn’t have permitted it. But she could appeal to his wife, woman to woman.”

  “Oh, dear Lord! You mean that’s how Prudence Egan found out about the affair? Kamiko betrayed me?”

  “She wouldn’t have viewed it that way, but as a moral duty in order to preserve your marriage. Only she had no way of knowing then how disturbed and dangerous the Egan woman was, the extent of her rage and hatred. She found out last Sunday evening.”

  “Then … it was Prudence Egan who tried to kill me?”

  “Yes. Brooded and brooded and finally crossed the line.”

  Amity shook her head twice, three times, as if trying to clear jumbled thoughts. “But why didn’t Kamiko tell us then what she’d done? She must have realized Prudence Egan could have been the assailant, the danger in continuing to keep silent.”

  “I think she did. I think she may even have recognized the woman before she fled through the garden. Her night vision is much better than yours and mine.”

  “And still she kept quiet? She must hate me almost as much as Prudence Egan did—”

  “On the contrary, she loves you very much. More than enough to protect you at all costs. That’s why she did what she did later.”

  “What do you mean? What did she do later?”

  Sabina drew a breath, let it out slowly. “She should be the one to tell you. Ring for her, Amity.”

  “But what if she still won’t admit—”

  “She will. Now.”

  Amity went to pull the bell rope. Kamiko appeared almost immediately, her small face unsmiling, the luminous black eyes showing an emotion that might have been sadness. Nothing changed in her expression when she saw the kaiken Sabina still held in her hand.

  “You wish something, Amity-san?”

  “Sabina and I want to talk to you. Sit down.”

  The Japanese girl perched on the settee, knees together under her kimono, slippered feet flat on the floor, small hands clasped together in her lap. Her gaze shifted slowly between the two women. She must have known what was coming; the tension in the room was palpable, and the few moments of silence had a brittle quality. Yet her delicate features remained impassive.

  “It’s time for the truth, Kamiko, the whole truth,” Sabina said. “No more secrets.”

  “And please, no lies,” Amity added.

  “You know I do not lie.”

  “Did you save a letter to me from burning in the fireplace last week? And then read it?”

  “Yes.” Without hesitation. “I should not have, I know.”

  “No, you shouldn’t. Nor should you have gone to Mrs. Egan and showed it to her. You did do that, didn’t you?”

  “To speak with her, yes. But I did not show her the letter. I burned it as you wished.”

  “Still,
you betrayed me.” Then, painfully, “As I betrayed Burton, to my everlasting shame.”

  “My shame is greater than yours, Amity-san,” the girl said softly. “Much greater.”

  “Because you knew it was she who tried to shoot me.”

  “Yes.”

  “For another reason, too,” Sabina said. “The death of Prudence Egan.”

  Startled, Amity sucked in her breath. “Prudence Egan is dead? How? When, where?”

  “Stabbed on Tuesday afternoon in an apartment she rented on Larkin Street.” Briefly Sabina explained about the woman’s trysting place. “I learned the address and discovered her body there yesterday.”

  “Yesterday? Why on earth did you wait so long to tell me?”

  “I saw no purpose in disrupting the benefit last night. And I needed more time to be sure of my suspicions.”

  “Stabbed, you said. Dear God! With that kaiken knife?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then … Kamiko? Oh, no, no—”

  Emotion showed in the girl’s face for the first time. She clasped her hands together more tightly in her lap. “Yes, it is true,” she admitted. “But I did not mean for it to happen.”

  Sabina said, “The kaiken is the traditional weapon favored by Japanese women. You took it with you when you went again to see Mrs. Egan.”

  “Hai. For protection and self-defense. That is the only reason. She was a dangerous woman and I did not know what she might do.”

  “Then why did you risk accusing her?”

  “I felt that I must. I believed wrongly, foolishly, that my promise to remain silent would prevent her from another attempt on Amity-san’s life.”

  “You recognized her in the garden Sunday night?”

  “I was not positive it was she, but I thought it must be.”

  Amity said, “But why not tell me or Sabina? Or the police?”

  “I could not. I had no proof of her guilt.”

  So young, so naïve to believe she could reason with the likes of Prudence Egan. Driven by guilt for putting her beloved guardian’s life in jeopardy in the first place. Seeking a measure of atonement.