The Woman in the Camphor Trunk

by Jennifer Kincheloe

  Joe Singer, who was always the gentleman, now smiled like a masher. His grin was blue. “You got the right idea, Sherlock.” He beat his chest and hollered. “I’m on fire.”

  He grabbed Anna and tried to kiss her, but she dodged it. She thought it wrong to take advantage of Joe Singer when he was cuckoo with cold and whiskey.

  “Yes. We’ll both be very hot once we get to camp. We’ll build a fire.”

  “I want to get married.”

  “You are getting married. To a breeder.”

  “Sherlock, I want you. Let’s make love. Right here. Right now.”

  “Stay there.” Anna leapt up and bolted to the mule, which was still tethered to the tree. Her eyes widened. A mountain man was unbuckling one saddlebag, the other already hung from his shoulder, her cashmere bundle dangling from it. He was hairy and dirty, and he was touching her things.

  She reached in her pocket for her revolver and pointed it at him. “Hey!”

  He dropped her cashmere bundle and loped off into the dark forest with the saddlebag.

  “Give it back!” She heard the sound of hoof beats and screamed after him, “You, you! You unconscionable hillbilly!”

  Joe’s spare clothes were gone. The kettle was on the ground. Her cashmere bundle lay in the mud some three feet away. She groaned. At least she had her gun and a box of dry matches, now safe in the pocket of Joe’s pants. She had seen the man’s pale face—English maybe, or French. He was not Chan Mon.

  Joe’s bedroll still hung from the mule. She quickly retrieved it—two heavy wool blankets pinned together at the side with horse safety pins. She flew back to Joe. He had pulled his undershirt halfway over his head and then quit. She could see his hairy armpits and his stubbly chin, but nothing more of his head. Anna grabbed the hem and tugged it down. “Joe, there could be Chumash Indian ladies hiding in the bushes.”

  His blue lips didn’t answer.

  Anna felt the fluttering of panic in her chest. She unrolled the blankets on top of Joe and scanned the area for shelter. There was a V-shaped gap between two boulders, and one of the rocks had a three-foot overhang. The wind couldn’t reach them, and she could build a fire to warm him, and to keep away the mountain lion.

  “Joe, you have to get up and walk.”

  “Anna, take off my clothes.”

  “Yes, I will. But you have to walk over to the big rock. Then, I’ll take your clothes off me and put them on you.”

  “No. Don’t put them on me. I’m too hot. Give them to the Chumash ladies. We are going to live under the rock, you and me. I’ll hunt. You’ll smash acorns.”

  “Yes, Joe. But only if you walk to the rock.”

  He grinned. “You bet I will.”

  Anna took Joe’s hands and pulled him to a sitting position. She peeled off his pack, then wrapped an arm around his torso and squatted like an Olympic weight lifter. “Ready? One, two . . .”

  He turned his face to hers, his breath a white cloud. “I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you.”

  “One, two, three.” She lifted, and Joe Singer rose, shaky, clumsy, and drunk with cold.

  The shelter under the rock was shallow, but it had been used before. A fire pit blackened the ground by a stack of dry wood. This gave Anna pause, but she had very little choice. If the owner of the firewood returned and he was malevolent, she would simply have to shoot him.

  Anna helped Joe to lie down very near the fire pit. She untied the bandana around her waist and the pants dropped to the dust. She stepped out of them. She slipped off his coat and laid it atop the covers. Anna kept only his shirt, the shirttails falling down her thighs like a nightgown, her legs bare but for her wet, knee-high boots. Very soon, she would be freezing, too. She hugged herself with one hand, and put the other on Joe’s forehead. He felt like an ice cube and trembled violently. And it was all her fault. Anna draped him with the bedrolls and forced the pants over his feet, scootching them up his manly legs. She could not get the pants over his biscuits. “Lift your backside.” He did not. She left his pants bunched at his thighs and wrapped the bandana around his head, tying it under his chin.

  Anna went back to retrieve her bundle. She dumped her things out of the cashmere blanket and wound it around her waist. It fit snugly, like a hobble skirt. She took Joe’s flashlight, which lay on the ground where he had fallen, and ventured out into the brush surrounding the cave, looking for kindling. When she had a suitable amount, she easily built a fire, having frequently played with matches as a child. The fire burned brightly within a few minutes, casting its glow on Joe Singer’s shivering form.

  Anna tried to recall what Kit Carson would do in such a situation. He would make coffee, certainly. And he would feed Joe.

  Now Anna shivered.

  She jogged back to Joe’s pack and dug for coffee, sugar, and a tin of sardines. She retrieved the kettle from the ground. Emptying Joe’s canteen into the kettle, she set the water to boil. Thankfully, sardines did not need to be cooked.

  Anna crawled atop the two pinned blankets instead of underneath with Joe, for modesty’s sake, and lay on his chest holding the tin of sardines. “Open up. Yum, yum. Sardines.” She dangled a fish over his face like he was a seal who would leap for it.

  “Leave me alone,” he said.

  Anna took his mouth in her hand and squished his lips together. “Open.”

  When his jaw parted to complain, she propped his teeth open with her finger and slipped in a fish. She held his mouth closed. “Chew.”

  “No,” he garbled. The fish slipped back out. Anna tilted the tin and poured fish oil down his throat. He made a gurgling sound.

  Anna unpinned her hat, lay down, and trembled atop the shivering Joe Singer, arms to arms, legs to legs, three layers between them. She tried to be warm, to think hot thoughts. “Don’t die,” she whispered. “I need you in the world.”

  “Anna, lie with me.”

  “Yes. I’m here.” She felt the gentle rise and fall of his chest with each frosty breath. Anna was bone tired. With her cheek to his breast, she waited for the whistling of the kettle. Her breathing slowed, matching his, and before she heard the kettle singing, Anna fell asleep, her hand on the gun.

  The next morning, Anna feared opening her eyes. Joe might have died. Also, he was much friendlier cold than warm. She wasn’t sure what he would do if he awoke to find himself lying beneath the girl that he used to love. She guessed that the honorable, toasty Joe would not like it. Lastly, she imagined she had spoiled his kettle, as it had surely boiled dry during the night.

  Anna gradually became aware that she was not lying atop the muscular body of Joe Singer anymore, but lying between two blankets on the hard ground. Anna opened her eyes and sat up, clutching the blanket around her. The sun had risen, but had not yet reached its fingers between the mountains. The fire had long since died. “Joe,” she called tentatively. He did not answer.

  Anna stood and dragged the wool blanket behind her, walking out from under the overhang. Above her, the sky threatened a deluge, just going to show that weather bureau was not to be trusted.

  “Joe?” She surveyed the surrounding misty forest. “Joe!” She was greeted with silence, except for the sound of chipmunks and the gentle roar of the wind swaying the trees.

  The pack still lay on the ground, but Joe had taken his coat and gone.

  Anna’s face grew hot. Doubtless, he was angry at her improprieties, even though they had saved his life. So angry he had left her behind. Some men were simply more concerned with honor than practicality. She had hoped that Joe Singer would be above honor. Because even though he was angry, she would do it again, and more, to save him. Even if it meant covering him with her body completely naked, she shouldn’t have to explain herself. It made her angry, and she was glad he was gone.

  The mule still loitered, tied to the tree and still wearing its saddle. At least he had left her that. Her toothbrush, tooth powder, broken mirror, and comb sat neatly on a rock. Anna took out her knife and
cut a hole toward the middle of Joe’s two wool blankets. She ducked her head through the hole and wore them like a poncho, repinning them on the side with the giant horse safety pins. They dragged on the ground behind her when she walked, and while trains were fashionable this one simply got in the way. She cut it off.

  Anna raised her arms to the side like a massive, shapeless, wooly bird. The poncho now reached to her knees. Beneath the poncho, she wore Joe’s shirt and the makeshift cashmere hobble skirt.

  Anna ate a tin of kippers from the pack and brushed her teeth with tooth powder, rinsing with water from her whiskey bottle and spitting on the ground. She examined her image in the silver hand mirror, which had cracked down the middle. Even from the split reflection, she could tell her double pompadour lay flat on one side. She removed the hairpins and the rat, which gave her bun volume, and retwisted it up into a knot. The result did not inspire her. She topped the mess with her hat and pinned it in place—a feathered hat for the giant bird.

  Anna considered her next step. Joe could have gone back up the stream, returned to the trailhead, or taken one of the paths up the mountain. Anna scanned the ground for evidence, starting at the mouth of the overhang. He had left tracks in the mud like a hippopotamus. She followed them to the fork where the stream and two trails came together. Other tracks marred the trail, but his footsteps led up the left fork. Anna went right so as to avoid him, pulling the mule along behind her, because she couldn’t straddle the thing with the cashmere blanket wrapped tight around her waist.

  Dewdrops shimmered in the chaparral. The air smelled fresh, like rain, and tiny waterfalls trickled down the hillside onto the trail. Anna would have found the hike pleasant if the way hadn’t been so lonely, and if she hadn’t felt so deeply ashamed, abandoned by everyone, and afraid. The thieving hillbilly might still be skulking about, and though Anna had bested him once, next time he would be prepared.

  A diamondback stretched across the trail, the upper third of its body folded like a ribbon, its tale rattling. Anna went very still. The mule stomped and pulled against the lead. She backed up slowly, slowly, and then threw rocks at the thing until the snake slithered away.

  Anna shed her cashmere hobble skirt, and mounted the mule, riding man-style so as to be out of the way of snakes and such. The wool poncho slid up to bare her knees. She draped the cashmere blanket over her lap for modesty’s sake, though there was no one to see. She decided she should name the mule, and settled on Mule Robins, after Miss Robins, even though it was homely and a boy.

  Anna followed every little path that diverged from the main trail, to see if any led to a cabin in the woods. Some meandered down to the water. Others petered out after a time, probably made by deer or coyotes. She followed each of them to their conclusion and returned back to the main trail by the way she had come, following Mule Robins’s tracks.

  When the sun had reached its zenith, she dismounted and ate a box of Cracker Jacks. She wondered if Joe had remembered to bring his lunch. She hoped not. She wondered what mules ate. She rummaged through the pack and found a bag of jerky, a chunk of cheese, four apples, and six peanut butter sandwiches. She ate all of it except the apples, which she saved, and three of the sandwiches, which she tried to feed to the mule.

  Feeling fuller than she had in weeks, Anna remounted the mule and returned to her task, riding up the trail, exploring every side path along the way.

  The shadows were growing and the forest cooling. If she didn’t turn back soon, she would be caught alone in the dark. Mule Robins had eaten nothing but weeds all day. Also, she had Joe’s blankets, and maybe all of his food. No matter how much she wanted to avoid him, she couldn’t leave him cold and hungry. Anna decided to return to the overhang and hope he’d come back. She could find the cabin tomorrow. Maybe, if she didn’t have to look at him, they could search together. She took one last trail, which ended in a crystal stream choked with giant boulders. Green lichens clung to them desperately. She would have to climb a boulder to see what lay on the other side. Considering this, she dismounted and donned her skirt, tying Mule Robins to a tree. She knelt to refill her whiskey bottle, careful to avoid the little water bugs that skated on the surface.

  Anna meandered over to a boulder. It felt cold to the touch. She tentatively set her foot into a crack that ran from top to bottom. Her hands gripped the frigid surface as she wedged herself in and used her back and feet to scoot up the rock. At the top, she hauled herself out. She saw what she needed to see—a manmade pool damned with rocks. It teamed with shimmering trout over a foot long. Quietly, Anna climbed down the far surface of the boulder and landed softly on the damp ground. A mossy log stretched across the stream, half submerged in the rippling, clear water. If she removed her shoes and gripped with her toes, she thought she could cross it. She stopped to listen and heard no human sounds. Boots in hand, she deftly padded her way across the slick log, icy water lapping at her feet. At the very end, she slipped into ankle deep water and waded to the bank, holding up her blanket skirt, but it was too late. A corner was soggy and stuck to her legs. She brushed the mud from her feet with her hand, and reshod herself—always quiet, always listening.

  Anna made her way to the pool where two giant trout lay cooling, strung on a string. She squatted and lifted the heavy string partly out of the water, sniffing the fish. They weren’t spoiled. Someone close by still planned to eat them.

  She tiptoed through the brush parallel to a stony path leading away from the water, all the while smelling the wintery odor of a fire. Soon she could see a cabin through the pines, built of river rock and logs—possibly the lair of a murderer. Anna spied a larger trail, which led off downstream. She’d seen no crossing and wondered whether both forks in the trail had led to the cabin.

  A mule brayed, and the friendly sound chilled her. She stopped mid-step. This was what Anna wanted—to find Elizabeth’s killer and bring him to justice. She had come to the mountain alone for just this purpose, equipped with a gun and cuffs. Yesterday, with the wound of Joe’s engagement and her father’s snub still fresh, Anna had felt careless with her life. She had felt hunting killers was her only purpose, and it was. But now she wondered if she wouldn’t catch more killers if she let this one go. Joe still wandered somewhere in the woods, maybe nearby. Unlike Anna, he knew how to make a collar. She should swallow her pride and find him even though he had humiliated her once again by leaving her alone. Finding him was the sensible thing. Anna turned and quietly slipped down the path toward the pool of fish. She kept her gun in hand.

  Something occurred to Anna. It wasn’t like Joe to humiliate her wordlessly and at a distance. He usually did it in person. For the first time, she wondered if he were possibly still cuckoo, and had simply wandered off. She didn’t know how long cold could rob a man of his wits. Maybe he would encounter the killer and face him crazed and vulnerable. Perhaps he had found the cabin already. Perhaps the killer had captured him. Joe might be in danger. He might need her. Anna’s heart pounded. She had to think.

  If Joe were still crazy, she should first check the cabin—the most dangerous place.

  Anna crouched in the trees for several minutes and watched. She saw and heard neither Joe nor Chan Mon and so crept forward. The pine needles crackled softly beneath her feet. She had to circumvent a trash heap to reach the cabin wall. Most of the refuse looked old and weathered, but there was a crust of burnt rice shaped like the bottom of a pot and covered in ants, a smattering of used tealeaves, and a pile of fresh fish bones—also ant-ridden. Someone had burned dinner. Anna poked about with her long stick and counted seven fish spines. She doubted that any man could eat more than one of those large fish per day, and estimated that one man had been in the mountains at least seven days, or two had stayed three days, and so on.

  Anna snuck to the outside of the hut, staying quiet, keeping low. She peeked through the weathered wooden blinds that covered the cabin’s glassless windows. They let in only a little light, and Anna’s eyes had to adjust to th
e dimness. The hut consisted of one large room with a crude table, a homemade bed covered in a gray wool blanket, and a stove. A stack of books towered on the table. She could see the front door, which stood open and allowed a rectangle of sunlight to glow on the floor. Most of the space lay within view, but a man could conceal himself if he leaned up against the wall. She listened at the window.

  Anna heard a rustling behind her. She swung about, gun extended.

  A lone mule—not Mule Robins—stood in the forest chewing the bark off a cedar tree. He brayed. Anna put a hand to her chest and panted.

  Suddenly outside seemed more dangerous than inside. Anna moved her revolver in an arc, panning the trees. Nothing. No one. She slunk around the cabin, gun arm first, and slipped in the door. She stole to the window on the far side of the cabin and peered out between the slats. She appeared to be alone, and yet the wood-burning stove radiated heat.

  Anna quickly moved backward through the cabin, keeping her face to the door and her gun arm extended, but quickly taking in her surroundings. Mud smeared the floor. There were pots and provisions. A saddle and riding tack—probably for the mule—waited on the floor in the corner. A suit of clothes lay folded on a crude wooden trunk under the far window. They looked too new and nice to be Joe’s. Anna considered taking them, as they would be an improvement over her current ensemble. She picked them up, sniffed them, and dropped them immediately. They smelled like a sweaty stranger. Better to wear Joe’s blankets, which smelled like the sweaty man she didn’t love.

  Anna leafed through the books stacked on the table. They were all written in Chinese, except for one—a book of poetry in English. A fragile hope rose in Anna. She opened the book to a marked page and read, “Now on the summit of Love’s topmost peak Kiss we and part; no further can we go . . .”

  It was titled “Love’s Wisdom” and attributed to Alfred Austin. Chan Mon had copied the poem in his love letter to Elizabeth. Anna closed the book, her heart rising. This could be no coincidence. The hunting cabin must belong to Chan Mon, one of her two murder suspects. But where was he? More importantly, where was Joe?