Ghosts in the Gulch: An Evergreen Cemetery Mystery (Evergreen Cemetery Mysteries Book 1)

by S. L. Hawke

  Emma was the only living child of a Russian privateer named Vladimir Leonov. A cousin to the Czar, he had no qualms about marrying a woman who had both Japanese and Hawaiian Royalty in her veins. Both were Catholic, but her mother converted to the Russian Orthodox faith. Such a different religion did not fit in well here, despite their wealth. Her father, taking this rejection of the community as a sentence from God, built a stone home deep in the mountains. The fortress created a sense of safety from the deeply Protestant Community that feared them.

  But after Emma lost her ranch to ruffians (John Towne had claimed), not Ian McKenna as Emma had told Cynthia, the guards and their European presence were necessary. Ian McKenna had strangely disappeared into the hills and had come into money. He made courting gestures in public which were always shunned. In fact, Emma shunned all the suitors that had come out of the woodwork, playing the mysterious widow, like in a verse from Homer, or a play from Shakespeare.

  Emma left Beth, as always, with presents. Cynthia admired the way Emma used her station to help others and hoped someday Emma would meet her brother Jack. They would be a good match. And no one would question them, especially with Jack’s little half Japanese son. Emma with her money and status could protect them both. And Jack, Jack would keep Emma safe from men like John Towne and Ian McKenna.

  Their wagon broke a wheel and fell down on their way to visit their ailing mother. Emma had told Cynthia that the tinctures were helping ease what was inevitable, as the cancer in her mother’s lungs was now all consuming. But that afternoon, rescue had come in the form of Supervisor John Towne.

  It was all decent, of course, Cynthia told herself. He seemed polite and well mannered. But Cynthia also knew that John Towne kept company with Ian McKenna, was a member of the Knights and frequented the Red Room. A man like that was no husband. When John Towne came courting, Cynthia heard from Ava Singleton that John Towne had stopped going to the Red Room. It was good news. But there was a scar on Ava’s face that Cynthia did not remember being there. Ava then admitted that a year previous, before Jane had been assaulted, John Towne had threatened Ava.

  “He wanted to know about your family, especially about Beth’s husband, Elijah. But mostly I think he worried I’d tell the Church about what he done.” Here Ava’s soft Southern accent came forward: “Men like that are always worried about being found out.” She would say no more.

  Instead, Ava had gently taken Cynthia’s hands in her own and reminded Cynthia that she had suffered worse when Ava herself was a woman of the brothels and that it was Cynthia who taught her to stand up against these kind of men.

  “The horse bridle hit me, that’s what my husband thinks,” Ava assured Cynthia, but somehow, now, that same prostitute Ava had been helping had turned up dead, buried at Evergreen, and no investigation ever made. Cynthia tried to find out on her own and contacted a few girls she had helped at the Ocean House Hotel, but they were too well paid to divulge much else. Perhaps, as Jonathan reassured her, the doctor was finally right this time. The poor girl simply had enough of suffering and took carbolic acid as her death drink. What only Cynthia knew was that the prostitute was pregnant.

  Cynthia looked at the bulge beneath her youngest sister’s skirts. She tried to recall when there would have been time for Towne and Beth to do anything. Beth was always in her or Sophia’s company when courting.

  “When is the baby due?” Cynthia picked up the carpet bag and repacked it. Beth sniffled and would not meet her sister’s eye.

  “Four months,” she whispered. Beth picked up a small teddy bear and handed it to her sister. Cynthia placed her hand on her sister’s arm as Beth struggled for words. “At least he married me. For the baby. He could have left me in scandal,” Beth cried. Cynthia made comforting sounds of agreement, realizing she was treating her sister very much like the prostitutes she took care of. Ice filled Cynthia’s heart.

  “Would it offend you if I asked how–” Cynthia straightened her shawl and swallowed, “–when it happened?” Beth looked up at her with reddened eyes.

  “You mean when, as in before we were married,” Beth’s voice cracked with bitterness.

  “I suppose. Like you said, at least he married you.” Cynthia could not hide her disdain. But towards whom was hard for her to know.

  “During the big rainstorm last year. He was stranded and came by the house…” Beth walked over to the window and pulled her shawl closely around her shoulders, then rested a hand on the bulge of her pregnancy. There was a tiny smile on the corner of her mouth. Well, Cynthia took a deep breath, at least it wasn’t a bad memory.

  “Jonathan and I will come back after dinner. You can see little Frank off at the dock.” Cynthia left her sister in her room, descending into the living room of the home. Saws and hammers greeted her. This house was three stories with an indoor kitchen and outhouse, the best that money could buy.

  “Mrs. Guild, or Cynthia, may I call my favorite sister-in-law Cynthia?” John Towne was a compact man with the muscles of a carnival wrestler and the manner of a snake oil merchant. His blond hair curled about his head when not confined to his derby hat. His bright blue eyes glinted with serpentine precision on her body first, then her face. Cynthia smiled widely.

  “Mr. Towne. You may address me as Mrs. Guild if it is all the same to you.” Cynthia looked around the home under construction. “My, you spare no expense for my beloved youngest sister. I do hope, in time, you will welcome her little Frank as warmly as you are about to welcome the first of your progeny.”

  Towne did not smile. “Mrs. Guild, at least I have progeny. Now, as you can see, I have a house to build.” And with that Cynthia found herself on the doorstep.

  That evening Cynthia held her nephew bundled up in the most expensive wool coat she could find. Beth had not come. No doubt this was her way of saying goodbye. A man came out of the darkness, his height and size frightening her beyond anything she could have imagined. Jonathan placed himself between Cynthia and the huge man. There was a silver glint on his lapel. Jonathan visibly relaxed when he saw it. The man was bald and wore a huge red flower on his lapel. He stooped and as he came into the light of the dock lamp, his face was adorned with an equally large mustache. He handed Cynthia a letter in familiar hand.

  “My name is Marshal Mosley. Missus Sweeney sends her regards and wished for the Marshal Service to escort the young Master Frank Woolsey to his kin in San Francisco.”

  “So very good to see you, sir!” Jonathan was smiling with relief and shaking the large Marshal’s hand deeply many times. Cynthia, holding back tears from her eyes but not her voice, held her nephew tightly.

  “Why is mama sending me away? Was I bad?”

  “No no, honey. No. You weren’t bad,” Cynthia said softly as she smoothed the five-year-old’s coat. “Your mama has a new husband, who doesn’t want–” She got up and turned away weeping. Jonathan looked at his wife with some pain, then bent down and looked at the small boy.

  “Frank, your father wanted you to get to know his father and mother, your grandparents. Your mama didn’t want to let you go, but your grandparents needed you. You are all they have left. Your daddy was their only son. It’s where you belong.” Jonathan put a wool cap on the boy’s head, then nodded to the Marshal. Cynthia wept as her nephew boarded the steamer. Jonathan hugged her hard.

  “You know that old saying?” Jonathan said to his wife as they took the long way home, down by the edge of the coast to the stone bridge.

  “What saying is that?” Cynthia pulled at her gloves’ fingertips. She sniffed and wiped her nose with a handkerchief.

  “Do not get angry. Find a way to best the tormentor.” Jonathan looked sideways at his wife. He could tell by the way she straightened that hope was on the horizon.

  “There is always wisdom in an old saying,” Cynthia agreed and sniffed the sea air deeply. “We’d best get back. Jack’s due to come home soon.”

  “Soon? I heard he left New Almaden yesterday.” Jonathan cringed
a bit, expecting Cynthia to berate him for not telling her as soon as he knew. But she was strangely quiet.

  “I know. But I just don’t know what I can say to him after all these years,” Cynthia sighed. “Well, we’d best get to Harris House for dinner. I’m sure Jack’s got a story or two to tell in this dispatch.” She turned the letter from Dorcas Sweeney over and over in her hands. The telegram was by far the greater shock. Jack was no longer a boy, nor too far away. From what Dorcas had written, Jack had become a formidable man indeed. Cynthia felt a great sense of hope and relief. Help was on its way.

  3

  “A.J.” Someone was shaking me. “A.J., wake up.” It was Andrew. Slowly, feeling like a ton of rocks was upon my chest, I curled up from the cot. The sounds of a busy kitchen were to the right of me as was a woman’s commanding voice.

  “What time is it?”

  “Just after noon.” Andrew looked worn and bone thin. I got up, swayed a bit unevenly, and felt a very tender spot on my neck. I stared Andrew down.

  “Fergus.”

  “Army left yesterday with his body. You were like a madman. Lam had to put you out.”

  My hands were shaking but my bowels were serene. Pain free. That could only mean one thing.

  “Laudanum.” I looked down at the place where I held Fergus, but my shirt was clean, I was clean. It was as if the whole nightmare had never happened.

  “The killer?”

  “Held in jail – and a trial will come up when the judge gets here next month. We can’t stay.” Andrew said these words with tired finality, knowing full well I would protest mightily, but whether or not it was the drug speaking, I felt the need to get away from this hell hole. What did the Army do? Why wasn’t Vasquez hanged? None of this made sense. Andrew poured me a cup of water and handed it to me. “The Army will see to it. Turns out Poole hired Vasquez to take out the army supplier so that they couldn’t pursue him. Brilliant if you ask me. Now they have to get a new officer, take care of Fergus’ final requests, before returning to the pursuance. Fortunately we Marshals are a bit faster that they are.” Andrew threw a telegraph paper at me. “Just got permission to chase and capture alongside you.”

  “Not a chance in hell!” My voice cracked. I could barely feel my tongue. I drank, tasting dirt.

  “You can’t go out there alone.”

  “Watch me.”

  “Thought you’d say that, so the plan is to make for Santa Cruz, find out how Poole is getting supplies from there, then corner him. You don’t know this area. The Californios do. Wandering around the wilderness is not going to bring Fergus back or change the fact that out there is someone who could seriously change the odds of this war.” Andrew spoke softly, carefully, not full of anger, unlike what I was feeling. Where the hell was my hat?

  “So what’s your plan?” My sarcasm was not lost on Andrew.

  “Find another guide. Someone we can trust. Someone we can control.”

  Andrew surprised me. Yet of course, much of that relied on the attitude many of the Californios would have towards us.

  “Your sisters could help us out too,” Andrew added, tentatively, as if waiting for me to calm down. “Apparently they seem to know a lot about Poole’s partner, Captain Rufus Ingram.”

  “Why are you just now telling me all of this?”

  “Well, I would have told you this–”

  “This should do nicely!” Rachel Croix entered the room with two Chinese servants who set a quick table and a generous amount of fresh bread, steaks, potatoes, and eggs. A plate of fruit and cheese accompanied it. She looked at me with sadness but sternness as well. Crossing her arms beneath her bosom, she gently frowned at me. “Nothing cures the ills like food. You’re a man. You eat when you grieve. Trust me, the best thing you can do for that young Captain is your job. Now eat up. Your saddlebags will be ready and bursting at the seams if I have anything to say about it.” Then she grabbed a towel at her apron’s waist and slung it over her shoulder in a gesture oddly like her husband’s. “Just don’t tell my sister-in-law.” She winked and whirled away, leaving me feeling oddly determined.

  Andrew and I sat down and ate, toasting Fergus. Now more than ever, I was determined to see this through.

  Lam had departed on the stage to Santa Cruz while I had been unconscious in my cot. Andrew had taken it upon himself to outfit us for the ride “over the hills” towards Santa Cruz. We could take a train part way, but I needed time to think, so we opted for riding the entire fifteen leagues or so. Fergus’ death was on me. He didn’t have to work with us, but insisted. In fact, Fergus didn’t have to cooperate with us at all. If I had insisted that he stay with his unit, do his job, he’d still be alive.

  Worst yet, folk at the mine thought I was the Marshal in charge of this tragedy, and that now I was on the road going after the Union Army because I was a Grey Coat underneath it all. I’d come to that poker game to arrest fugitives and set the Union Army a-runnin’. That hit me hard. With this now floating out in the wind like the flag of surrender, I could not think of a better failure than a man to lose his life with two of us in the room with him. The Marshals looked more foolish than fearful. Andrew didn’t seem too put out. He wore his star proudly on his vest, while I wore none. The stares and head shakes were aplenty.

  “I thought they got you wrong.” A voice from long ago, it seemed, hailed me. It was William Brewer. I shook his hand. “Bad business with the Army. Heard they swept it under the rug, claimed a butcher died at a poker game. Never saw such a large contingent pull up stakes so fast and move.” Brewer put a rolled cigarette in his mouth. He lit it deftly against the wind. “But then they are the Army. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a Union man all the way. Watsonville, they are a nice town, good people. Watch out for Santa Cruz. The last engineer that went that way,” here he paused, “robbed and killed.” He looked askance at Andrew. “Hope you guys make it,” Brewer whispered to me. Then he shook his head and wished us luck and to note any strange occurrences or artifacts we found along the way.

  Our saddle bags, as promised by Pete’s wife, Rachel, were bulging. Bratton did not see us off, as the mine was ordered to shut down and no doubt he was trying to make his accounts look good. My mare was in good spirits and anxious to ride, unlike me, who could not think beyond Fergus and the cheerfulness he brought to large endeavors. Andrew made a large click and command to go at his horse, walking off towards the main trail that would ultimately lead me back to my family. The high hills were dark with strangeness and redwoods, reminding me of the trials and discomfort to come.

  “You got a letter, and I sent one in your name to your sisters in Santa Cruz. Should be there by now,” Andrew said, shifting on his saddle and turning around to speak. Then he reached inside his jacket and pulled the letter forth but held it up like a billet. “Call it motivation to get to our first camping spot!” Then, with a kick of his horse he cantered ahead. The afternoon sun would be behind the hills soon.

  I followed, my mare liking this game of chase, but my heart wasn’t in it. Even though the late light was to the side of us, it was soon lost to the trees that towered above us so thickly, twilight had appeared. I did not like this darkness and the danger it seemed to emanate.

  The smells around me made things easier to bear. Often a roasted, spicy smell of cinnamon seemed to fill the air, sometimes cedar. What was Hiru up to at this moment? Would Dorcas array him in a small suit of clothes or let him run wild, barefoot, as I had often done on the beaches of Kaua’i? Would they visit the ocean here? Would he learn to like being dirty? My mare pulled back and nickered uneasily. Andrew’s did the same as he looked around us. He pulled his pistol. Both of us dismounted, calming the horses.

  Then I heard it. It was an animal moan but steady in tone. Then it would rise high pitched, then suddenly stop.

  “What the hell is that?” I said softly. It sounded like a growl and you could hear the strength of it; there was no answer, no companion noise. It was just simply and suddenly cold. And
rew’s breath misted out in front of him, like early morning chill. The horses were breathing hard, their breath also forming clouds.

  “Sounds like an engine, you know, like a little train,” Andrew whispered back.

  “There’s no pumping with that noise.” Now the sound was gone, as quickly as it had appeared. “No whistle,” I added for no good reason other than to hear myself talk.

  “Sure as hell wasn’t an animal,” Andrew mumbled.

  “What else could it be?”

  We let it slide, though both of us were spooked. And we lost the trail. Cursing, Andrew and I pulled out a compass and got a bearing from the moss on the side of an old tree, even though it seemed to change from place to place. The compass needle jumped and spun. A sense of vertigo hit me. I dismounted and started to walk. I did not lose sight of Andrew since Andrew would stop, listen to the sounds of the forest, and then continue. The horses were jumpy.

  “Here it is,” Andrew announced with relief. The ground was dry, leaving very little evidence that anyone had been on it recently. Folks preferred the stage route around the mountains, but we wanted a more direct path. At least there was no shortage of creeks, but the drought had changed all that. We needed to find water, soon. Our track would take us up an old Native footpath they called Umunhum. From there we hoped to see more evidence of logging and mining, people, and of course a cart road as we ventured into cultivated lands.

  The going uphill was slow, and barely had we gone ten miles before the need for water became apparent. Finally we heard that wonderful sound of trickling over rocks and came upon a nice stream with a swift cold current. Andrew breathed a sigh of relief as this was on our map and, still uneasy about the strange animal noise we had heard earlier, decided after an excellent meal of Mrs. Croix’s bread and cheese along with a few stewed apricots that we should try to make the summit before dark.