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

by S. L. Hawke

  “Cabron, I am very impressed,” Faustino said, enjoying the fact that Sloan had collapsed and laid his head on Faustino’s shoulders. He seemed asleep by how relaxed his body felt against Faustino’s. A great long sigh left Faustino as they walked the horses along the road. Shaw-Jones looked over at Faustino with a gentle smile.

  “I’m glad,” Shaw-Jones said, lightly, without sarcasm, surprising Faustino. When they reached the gates of the Estate, Josiah the Valet hurried them inside.

  “Quickly! There be a proper ladies tea going on!” Josiah shooed them away from the large picture windows above.

  “Oh Bollox!!!” Shaw-Jones suddenly swore.

  “What?” Faustino helped Sloan off the horse. Josiah pointed for Faustino to go into the kitchen as he took Sloan’s arm over his old shoulders and helped him walk away towards the house. Shaw-Jones had disappeared, again.

  !Gringos are so strange¡ Faustino thought as he stumbled into the servant’s area of the grand house. At least here he was safe. The memory and feel of Sloan’s head on his shoulders left him afloat as if he had seen heaven.

  6

  Russian Consulate Estate, Santa Cruz Mountains

  Mrs. Singleton’s carriage arrived on time. Emma had the day salon prepared for her, complete with changing screen and two Japanese maids skilled in the European method of dress. One maid Emma hoped Ava would take into her own household.

  Since Ava Singleton was almost as tall as many men, Emma made sure to have footed changing screens so that Ava could have some privacy while she changed clothes. Emma’s own screens were too short. Emma also made sure to include a French hair oil for ladies with hair the color of pale yellow roses. And lastly (the advertising claimed), pale face powder for those with “eyes as clear and blue as the ocean on a warm day”.

  Emma enjoyed Ava’s manner, with her soft Southern accent. It was warm and genuine, despite her past. Ava was the first of Cynthia’s pupils and regularly supported the library with generous donations that could not leave her ignored by local society.

  The Ladies Tea and Literary Society, after a generous donation by Aunt Vera, included Ava this year and had invited her to this event, hosted this time by Emma, under the name of her Aunt, The Duchess. Emma knew no one of any social standing, such as it was in this town, would refuse such an invitation. The Duchess’ dinner party at the Singletons had changed their standing and this tea would have Ava now confirmed as a member of high society without dispute.

  Emma greeted Ava clad only in her dressing robe. Ava shrugged her shoulders and smiled at the risqué gesture, covering her mouth as if they were doing something that could land them in jail.

  “Ahre you sure the otheh ladies comin’ to this pahty will be comfohtable, you know, bein’ with me in the same room?” Ava looked at herself in the large oval mirror provided by Emma so that the lady’s maid could dress her hair. Ava’s long hair was being gently combed, still wet from the bathing and perfumed oiling that was done to make the strands untangle and feel soft as rabbit’s fur.

  “You are Mrs. Walter Singleton of Kentucky, the wife of a prosperous gold miner and now successful wine maker.” Emma came over with one of the dresses she had chosen for the day’s social tea and held its fabric against the side of Ava’s face. Ava smiled warmly at the dress and then with sad eyes looked down at her hands.

  “Your Highness–”

  “Emma, please, especially to you. Besides, if you ask anyone, I’m a wild half breed savage, all mixed up with God knows what kind of heritage–” Here Emma paused, recalling something told to her recently, “–like the fruit compote Sophia makes for her hotel guests.”

  “That fruit dish is a best seller, from what I hear,” Ava added, admiring a set of gloves she picked from an offered tray. “People love new tastes, at least that is something I learned at the whore house that still serves me well.” Ava nodded, showing humor from her experiences that inspired Emma. Emma smiled back.

  “The fact that they tolerate MY money seems to be the only reason I am invited to these social occasions. Royalty does not even make a difference,” Emma stated with a roll of her eyes.

  “Well, I don’t know…Now take Ian McKenna, they say he has a lot of money tucked away up in the mountains, supporting that Confederate cause of his. But get a few glasses of wine in him, and all he talks about is marriage to you. That doesn’t seem like exclusion to me.”

  Ava had a point, Emma knew. It was one thing to be a woman of ill repute regaining some respectability. It was quite another to be born into money.

  “Well,” Emma shivered at the thought of McKenna, “It’s important to remind the community here that respectability is within, despite your past. And everyone here has a past Ava.” Emma looked into the mirror at Ava as the maid took a long tendril of Ava’s golden hair and twisted it around the top of her head. “You can leave that life behind. You have left it behind. Men can be pigs. You’ve moved up in the world through devotion and hard work. It means you don’t have feed those pigs anymore.” Emma watched Ava’s blue eyes glisten slightly.

  “I guess I was thinkin’ of that sayin’ about the sow’s ear and the silk purse.”

  “Well, then, we should just stop fussing and go in our underwear!” Emma threw up her arms. “Most of our company will all be sows,” Emma said without much expression, making Ava giggle. “I mean, why can’t Mrs. Canfield buy a newer corset?”

  “That’s because they don’t make them in the heifer size, I suspect.” Ava smiled. “Of course, Mrs. Potter is of the poultry persuasion.”

  Emma began to mock with eerie familiarity Mrs. Potter, sending Ava into laughter. “Can’t you just see how dashing Mr. Cooper is in his waist coat? Paw paw, Cluck, cluck!” Both women then paused, trying to look guilty at their teasing of those who could not be defended, but then broke out into laughter again.

  “The Kirby women are coming, and I do hope they wear their Turkish pants.” Emma called them the Kirby women, simply because Miss Coulter spent so much time at Mrs. Kirby’s. Mr. Kirby lived in a separate house and never visited his wife. Mr. Kirby seemed content living only with his Chinese housekeeper.

  Emma suspected the two women were more than friends but understood the importance of discretion. For a brief minute she thought of Faustino. Women do have some things easier in this life, she thought sadly.

  “I just don’t want anyone to be the subject of social conversation that takes that mean pointed turn, if you get my meanin’.” Ava brought Emma back to the moment. Her thoughts went to A.J. What was he doing at the Powder Works? She sighed, thinking about how much she enjoyed having him share the bed and how she did not want him to leave her this morning.

  “Don’t worry! I have the perfect distraction, and trust me, by the time this tea is done, those old sows will be talking about the day as if it were the only exciting thing that has happened all year!”

  There was a knock on the door. One of the maids went to open it. The Duchess came into the room, her dark green French-bustled dress making rich swishing noises across the room. The scent of oranges mixed with sandalwood startled both of them. Their discomfort did not escape the Duchess.

  “Was I a bit overzealous with the dabbing?” The Duchess sat slowly down with help from a maid on the waiting chair. “Mrs. Singleton, I do declare that the taffeta gown you are wearing is to be quite envied.”

  Ava broke out into a very large smile. “Well, I am most grateful for the compliment, Your Majesty? Or is it Your Highness?”

  “Oh my dear, really, it is simply Duchess. And if my brother continues to rule in the manner that he does, my title will become relegated to history.” Duchess Leonovna pulled her chin in and shifted on her bustle. “My, what a wonderful thought, to be unknown.”

  “Don’t be sarcastic, Aunt Vera.” Emma covered her nose with one hand. The sudden need to want to vomit rose up unexpectedly once again today. It had begun this morning and she had felt queasy most of the morning. She felt exhausted as well, ev
en though it was not even noon.

  Emma strode over to the balconette and opened a window. “It is too close in here.” She took a breath of welcome fresh air and the nausea lightened.

  “How is your Mr. Sloan? I must say, Virofsky does not easily take kindly to strangers and yet he seems to find Mr. Sloan’s reference impeccable. I did hear something about him recently from a friend stationed in Asia. It appears that he was once the bound consort of the Emperor of Japan’s cousin.”

  “What happened?” Ava put on a jeweled earring handed to her by the maid.

  “It was quite a scandal. An American privateer mistaking the Princess for a commoner shot her dead!” The Duchess clutched her carved eagle’s head atop of her ivory cane. “And they say this is the Wild West.” The Duchess paused for effect. “However, this same Mr. Ay Jay Sloan, as he is called, has recently been hired as our local security expert. I am certain, to keep Mr. McKenna from his continual quest for an audience with you.”

  Emma ignored her Aunt’s pointed looks.

  “Well, that should help keep more than Mr. McKenna away from you. I heard a Mr. Thomas McIntyre has put down a deposit on a rancho in the south of Watsonville, out Hollister Way,” Ava added. “Isn’t he the one you grew up with, Your High– I mean, Emma?”

  “Oh do tell!” The Duchess smiled. “Was he that skinny boy you used to play with when I visited your father? He ran the stables when your father lived in that infernal cave–”

  “Aunt Vera.” Emma crossed her arms in front of her chest.

  “My thoughts, precisely,” the Duchess concurred. “Now, please tell me what I am to expect with this afternoon’s festivities?”

  In the distance, a very large BOOM could be heard. Emma recognized the sound and wondered how many Chinese died this time. Another accident at the California Powder Works had just occurred. The joy of the afternoon left her. A.J. and Faustino were up there. She would have been in Faustino’s place if Uriah had not betrayed her. Were they safe? Worse yet, did they cause the explosion?

  The main drawing room held twenty ladies from Santa Cruz and two from Watsonville. Emma was quite pleased to see Mrs. Imus and young Miss Imus, Mrs. Bliss, Mrs. Potter of course, the Kirby Ladies (in Turkish Pants! They brought a pair for Emma as well.), and many of the town’s ladies who came, Emma knew, because they wished to see the Duchess. Emma was looked upon with some hesitancy until her cousin Eliza had come with her mother. Cynthia made an effort to come, bringing with her Margaret. Younger ladies also came, though Emma’s heart ached for Jane’s recent loss of her baby son. Jane had instead embraced books, reading, and spending time with the Kirby women learning poetry. Cynthia’s pride in her shone brighter than most mothers with the most well-bred of daughters.

  Tea was served in the manner of the Russian Court, in a samovar, with sweets that had even the staid Mrs. Lynch, the town’s most severe proponent of religious values, fill her delicate mouth a bit too full. There was a crème-filled poppy seed and nut pastry called vatroushka that particularly made Mrs. Lynch roll her eyes in delight.

  And yes, Emma had made sure to provide a Russian sweet called Pastila, which was much like the British ‘Turkish Delight’, to honor the Kirby Women. The delicate cups, saucers, and plates all bore the Russian Royal Crest in its dark blue and red colors, liberally anointed with gold on its rims.

  “This is very lovely.” Cynthia admired the room but studied Emma with a look that was a bit too piercing. “I can see why my brother was quick to move out of my sister’s hotel.” Cynthia took a delicate sip. “I trust he is earning his position as Head of Security.”

  Emma smiled, then leaned forward and whispered: “He’s to leave for the mountains for a rendezvous in a few days. Faustino will be guiding him.”

  Cynthia straightened, sipped her tea and smiled. Emma knew they were to be discreet, but Emma could also see that she was delighted at the news. A.J. had gotten in with the Rebels. Soon all would be over. Emma wondered what Cynthia would do when all was done, war and espionage. “Tell A.J. that he may meet his old acquaintance from his army days on the road.”

  Emma made a gesture to the sweets table and a servant offered a glacé to Cynthia who made a grand gesture of delight, some of which was to distract some of the ladies from the content and brevity of their exchange. “And please, Your Highness, let me express to you how much I do miss my little Juan. There isn’t a day that goes by that I do not miss him.”

  One of the ladies who came with Mrs. Potter fixated on this part of the conversation. Emma wondered if her husband were a member of the Knights. Whatever the connection, the message that a certain Hispanic boy was suddenly missing would be a nice distraction from the job Emma had done as Juan. However, the bait was cast.

  “I wonder if he were killed with that harlot they found on the banks of the river, near the Tannery!” Mrs. Galbraith said between mouthfuls of pashka, another Russian dessert. The other ladies present gasped in such a way as to encourage more talk.

  “They say she was the kind that let the men beat her.”

  “I heard it was one of those rich Masons, and that she was pregnant.”

  “No, she was often seen in the company of one of Santa Cruz’s prominent politicos.”

  “I heard it was the Tong, the Chinese killers that did it.”

  “My husband was called out to see to the cause of death. He told me she was carrying…”

  A hush fell. “Better them than us,” Mrs. Lynch said sternly. She was seconded by Mrs. Potter.

  “These women do not have a choice!” Cynthia began to argue. “Many were fleeing violence in the home, poverty, things you can’t imagine!” The Kirby women joined in the spirit of the point.

  “Women deserve the right to vote!”

  “Why do we wear corsets? Why can’t we wear what we like?”

  “I do all the accounts! My husband has no clue how to use money!”

  “My husband couldn’t find his underwear if he were wearin’ it!”

  “We could run a clean town!”

  Suddenly, a loud bang came from a door swung open with force. A man appeared, smoking, hair, jacket and all, and smelling of gunpowder. His hair was on end and his face was covered in soot.

  There was extreme silence in the crowded room as the perfumed and well adorned ladies stared at the newcomer with a mixture of horror, amazement, and confusion. The man was tall, thin, with wide set eyes. It was impossible, Emma saw, to tell anything more about him.

  “GOOD AFTERNOON!” he boomed. “Noble ladies.” Emma recognized his deep voice at once. She delighted in the fact that its volume and imperious accent made the audience uniformly lean backwards. “You are about to witness a most impossible sight, in fact, one of the most miraculous inventions of the modern era!”

  Emma saw through the window that A.J.’s horse and Faustino, looking particularly disheveled, had disappeared into the carriage house. She could not tear her eyes away from the sight, wondering what had happened.

  “Regardez-moi,” the man continued. Virofsky came through the side servant panel and crooked a finger at Emma. Picking up her pink silk skirts she moved behind the audience, just as they seated themselves in divans and soft chairs, lined up like at a theatre, to watch this strange, soot-covered stranger take off his coat then pull out from behind him an orange, an egg, and a lemon. “As you can see, I need a handkerchief.” The stranger made an apologetic spread of his arms and an exaggerated look of embarrassment. “This is what happens when I try to cook my own meals.” Titters came from the audience, with a stern admonishment from Mrs. Lynch. Virofsky made a gesture for Emma to stand next to him and watch the sooty young man.

  “I believe he can continue and build upon your late husband’s work.” Virofsky delivered the news offhandedly, but the trip to the Powder Works had been a success.

  “Is A.J. here…uh…I…mean…Mr. A.J. Sloan…” Emma whispered, but kept her eyes politely on the performer. Virofsky nodded in an offhand way, and gestured ag
ain for Emma to keep her eyes on the performer.

  ““He was able to verify the quantity needed and can provide Mr. Sloan with the necessary cargo for his mission. I have told him that you are amenable to the cost of this contract and your consent will be if you are pleased with his performance today.”

  Emma blinked. Was A.J. alright? What had happened? Who died? What of the Shaolin, Lam? Did he go with A.J. too? How can I be thinking of such things now? she thought.

  Shaw-Jones gratefully took the handkerchief from one of the ladies, but Virofsky quickly intruded and removed the delicate hanky from the dirty man’s hands and offered his own. Then Virofsky retreated to the side of the ‘stage’. Emma was offered a chair from a servant and, arranging her skirts, sat down to watch this unexpected ‘performance’.

  Shaw-Jones took the egg and placed it on the table, then took the lemon within the kerchief. It disappeared, then reappeared, to become a single wooden stick. He then placed the stick in a pot he took from a nearby table. He grabbed the orange and placed it inside the handkerchief. It too disappeared. When he opened the handkerchief, petals fell out, which he showered onto the stick. Then he held the entire kerchief draped open in front of the pot containing the stick. He flapped the square of fabric multiple times and then, with a kerfuffle and a distressing apology about not seeing anything happen and alas, there would be nothing behind the hanky, he turned away, pulling the hanky with him revealing alas, as he had suspected, just a stick.

  “It’s growing! It’s getting leaves!” shouted Margaret’s eldest daughter. Shaw-Jones, his back adorned by his sooty shirt, remained that way, as if sulking until there were multiple exclamations from the ladies prompting him to turn around! Please look! Yes! The tree was growing! Feigning shock at the sight, all the ladies in the room were gasping and exclaiming the impossibility when the tree gave out oranges, fruiting like no other. Emma found herself gasping in delight as well. Shaw-Jones shrugged his shoulders as if the whole thing were a happy accident.