by Dianne Day
I blinked rapidly and gulped at the cold, wet air. Wrong thing to do; it became harder to breathe than before. Bessie’s iron-shod hooves rang on wood as the shay clattered over a bridge spanning a steep-sided gulley. I was panicking. The tall trees, dark green and threatening, were closing in on me. Trapping me in a forest full of danger, full of shadows, the same sort of shadows that not so long ago had flung a masked bandit in my face. Snap yer head right off yer neck, like a flower off its stalk!
Had he really tried to kill me? Was I alive simply because he’d misjudged the strength behind his blow? Or had he pulled back mercifully at the last minute? Was he really a he? Or a she? And had this same person, this bandit-who-was-not-a-bandit, made Phoebe disappear? I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, a technique for controlling fear and tension that Michael had taught me in our more comradely days. I would not—absolutely would not—give in to my fears.
“Gee-ha!” I yelled, as much to encourage myself as to make the horse go faster. I had a good reason for taking the long way home: Braxton Furnival. I had to see him, because he possessed the only remaining copy of Phoebe’s Jane Doe sketch.
I burned with wanting to know who Jane Doe was. She had been an important person, that much was sure—important enough to keep the newspapers quiet, maybe even to squelch a police investigation, though in all fairness I supposed the police could have been investigating all along. When the newspapers do not make their reports, who is to know? Maybe the police had found the next of kin, as Mr. Mapson suggested, and the kinfolk had come and picked up the body. Maybe good old Tom really had lost the paperwork after releasing Jane Doe to them.
I snorted. “Not very likely!”
There is an interesting clarity that comes over me when I am fired by a certain sort of anger. In this clear state of mind I can do things I might not otherwise be able to accomplish. Thus I found Braxton’s horrid house with no difficulty whatever, even though I approached it from the opposite direction. What is more—and I count this pure, sheer luck—he was at home. He answered the door rather sooner than I might have wished, for I was enjoying a satisfying pounding of the knocker.
“Fremont! Thunderation, you’re all drenched. Come in, come in!” he boomed heartily.
“Thank you,” I said, drawing my shawl more closely around me, “but actually I am merely damp, and in somewhat of a hurry. I will get to the point. I should appreciate it if you would return to me that sketch I left on your door the other day.”
“Why? What for?” Braxton put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, staring down at me.
I hadn’t anticipated such a question, and so I stumbled on my answer. “Why, because I, I … Oh!” I raised the back of my hand to my forehead, closed my eyes, and deliberately swayed a bit on my feet—the only delaying tactic I could think of. “You know, Braxton, I believe I will come in just for a minute. I suddenly feel a little strange.”
He was extremely solicitous, and I found that I rather enjoyed being fussed over by a tall and handsome older man. Never mind his atrocious taste in houses. He hovered over me, guiding me through an enormous great hall, the sort of place where one imagines people in horned helmets regularly consuming whole roast boars with their bare hands and teeth; thence to a smaller room with a welcome fire in a fireplace of near-normal size.
“Sit yourself down by the fire,” Braxton said. “You’ll have to excuse me for a minute while I go get us some refreshment. I’m on my own today—servants’ day off.”
I demurred, but only halfheartedly, and so of course he went off. There is no stopping a man like Braxton Furnival once he has made his mind up about something—I know the type from the years after Mother’s death, when I acted as hostess for my father. The fire felt good; I held out my cold hands to warm them, while I used the time alone to think of a reason why I might want Jane Doe’s picture. Other than the real reason, which I had no intentions of telling anyone.
Aha! I had it!
I could hear Braxton’s footsteps long before he came through the door, because the great hall was uncarpeted. So was this room. Perhaps the bare floors were intentional, a pretension of the royal-rustic style. He placed a tray on his desk. This small room was his study—or at least I presumed it would be eventually, when he finished furnishing it. At the moment most of the bookshelves that lined the walls were empty.
“Brandy,” he said, holding the decanter up to the light. He gazed at me, then at the crystal container, turning it to catch the light. “Did you know, Fremont, that your hair is about the color of brandy?”
“Chestnut, that is what people usually say. As for myself, I call it reddish-brown. I do not want any brandy, thank you all the same. I will have just a little of that soda water, however.”
“A woman without vanity,” he said in a musing tone, as if he were talking to himself. “Amazing!”
I ignored the remark, as it is not quite true of me, but it would be awkward to admit it. “You asked earlier why I wanted the picture of Jane Doe: because it was drawn by a friend of mine. She’s very skilled, and since I cannot afford to buy any of her work, I thought I would keep the sketch. She is bound to be famous one day, so I expect it will increase in value.” The last concept was one I was sure he would understand.
“Damn!” Braxton swore. He came over to me, handed me a glass of soda water, no ice, then sat in a chair that was a twin to mine. “Beg pardon, Fremont. My tongue gets away from me sometimes, I guess because I don’t get much chance to be around the fair sex. I’m a lifelong bachelor, you see.”
“I see.” I could not help smiling. I wondered how old he was exactly—in his fifties, surely?—and how many hearts he had broken.
He leaned forward smiling, rolling a glass of glowing brandy between his palms. “Where was I? You being here, it’s downright distracting.”
“My sketch,” I prompted.
“Oh, yes.” Braxton hung his silvery head and addressed the floor. “I can’t give it back to you, I’m sorry. I had no idea it was valuable.” He looked up at me, contrition in his eyes. “I thought, since she was gone, we were done with it. I wadded that piece of paper up and burned it last night, in this very fireplace.”
My disappointment must have showed in my face—it was so extreme that I could not mask it. I swallowed hard and said, “What a pity.”
“Fremont, how can I make it up to you?”
I took a long sip of soda water. Braxton leaned over and placed his big, warm hand over my free hand, which lay in my lap. Lowering the glass, I tipped my head, looked into his eyes, and lied. “It is not important enough for you to be concerned about. Just a whim I had, nothing more.”
He squeezed my hand and dropped his voice to a near-growl: “Then tell me who’s responsible for that bruise on your cheek, and I swear to Almighty God I’ll have him beaten within an inch of his life!”
“Oh, dear, I am in trouble! I did this to myself, you see.” I smiled, shook off his hand, and brushed mine against my cheek in illustration. “I have an unfortunate tendency to be clumsy, and there are all manner of metal protuberances around the lighthouse. I slipped and hit my head, that is all. So you do not have to beat anyone, but thank you for offering.”
He sat back in his chair, took some brandy in his mouth, and rolled it on his tongue. Watching him I could almost taste the pungent liquor myself; when he swallowed I felt a burning in my throat. His eyes bored into me with an intensity that made me wish I could read minds.
Slowly Braxton shook his head back and forth, his eyes never leaving mine. “Sorry, Fremont, but I don’t quite buy it. I just can’t get the idea out of my head that you’re not what you seem. But I like you, so I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.…”
I raised my eyebrows in silent inquiry. I felt as if I were skating on the edge of a precipice—one false move, one tiny push, and I might fall off.
“I’m going to tell you who I thought your Jane Doe was.
CHAPTER TEN
“Now mind you,” Braxton continued, “I’m not certain. That’s why I wanted to have a look at the body. I sure would like to know why it’s so important to you. Not that I really give a hoot in hell, I’m just curious.”
“Who did you think she might be, Braxton?”
The fire glinted red off his silver hair. A wolfish look stretched over his features. “If I tell you, will you satisfy my curiosity?”
“I will try.”
“Fair enough. Okay. I think maybe Jane Doe was Sabrina Howard, an actress. Aspiring actress, I should say, wanted to break into the moving pictures.”
“I can’t imagine why. Surely motion pictures are merely a novelty and will soon go the way of most fads.” I did not really believe this; in fact, quite the reverse. I simply wanted to keep him talking and perhaps throw him off-guard. “I should think an actress would prefer the stage.”
Braxton chuckled. “Some pretty women have caught on to the fact that for the moving pictures you don’t have to have a lot of training, the way you do for the stage. Sabrina’s talented, though. I guess I should say she was, if that was her in your sketch. Did some vaudeville up to San Francisco, singing and dancing, that sort of thing. Wanted to get enough money put by to take her to New York, where most of the moving picture business is.”
Warming up to his topic he leaned forward, elbows on knees, the brandy forgotten in one hand. “I put her on to a good thing, her and a few others. Introduced her to this fella named Boggs who wants to make pictures down south of here, little place near Los Angeles called Hollywood. He’s looking for backing, hasn’t got it yet; I tried to put him together with some people but it didn’t pan out. That’s what I do—one of the things, anyway—put people with money together with people who want to use it.”
“And Sabrina Howard was a part of this, um, equation?”
“Huh?” Braxton’s thoughts had apparently meandered off on a tangent of their own. He called himself back on track. “Oh, no. Not exactly. She was, you might say, more of an ornament. You see, actresses like Sabrina, sometimes when I have a big party down here and entertain prospective clients and all that, I hire them for an evening or a weekend or whatever. Nothing out of line, you understand,” the wolfish look was back, “they just mix with the guests, look pretty, and act pleasant. It’s easy work, they like the money, maybe sometimes they make an important contact for their careers or maybe they don’t. Either way, I like to have them around.”
“I see. And when did you last have Sabrina Howard around?”
“It’s been a while. About six months ago, I guess.” Braxton tossed back the rest of his brandy.
Six months … the party Phoebe had attended at Braxton’s had been around six months ago.
“And you haven’t seen her since?” I asked.
“Nope.” He got up and poured another finger of brandy in his glass. I wondered at this, as it could not yet be past noon, and I was the one who had been chilled, not he. From behind me Braxton added, “Last time I had a party, as far as I recall, she said she was busy and couldn’t come. That’s the last I talked to her.”
“You must have an address, then, or a telephone number!”
The fire popped suddenly, and I jumped, putting a hand to my throat. Then the flames made a hissing sound as they licked at a damp place in the wood. A tendril of fragrant smoke escaped the fireplace and curled through the air.
“If she’s dead,” Braxton said, returning to his chair and draping one leg over the armrest in a pose that made me think of Michael being Misha, “what does it matter if I have an address or not?”
“Because if Sabrina Howard isn’t dead, and can be reached at the address you have for her, then the dead woman is not she and must be someone else!”
“So what? What’s all this to you anyway, Fremont? You promised to tell me.”
I could not sit still; I wanted to strangle him if that was what it took to get Sabrina Howard’s address. I jumped up and, for something to do, strode over to the desk, where he’d put the brandy decanter, and set down my glass there. Time for more dissembling. I forced a wistful tone into my voice. “You will think me foolish.”
Of course he reassured me that he would not.
“Well then,” I said with a reluctance that was not in the least feigned, for I was about to embroider upon a core of truth: “I made a silly promise that I just can’t get out of my head and I feel bound by it. When she was pulled from the bay and nobody knew who she was, I promised the dead woman I would make it my business to see she got a good Christian burial. I wake up in the night thinking about her, about my promise to her.” I shuddered; it started as an act but then I found my shoulders quivering in earnest. “She haunts me!”
“Poor Fremont.” Braxton left his chair and his brandy to put his arms around me.
With one last shudder I murmured into his yellow ascot, “The address?”
“I reached her through the place she most often worked, the Rialto Theater. I never knew where she lived; in fact, I don’t know if Sabrina Howard is her real name or a stage name. Let it go, Fremont. You have no obligation to a dead woman you never met.”
“I’m sure you are right.” I pulled back but his arms tightened so that I could only move my head. I was trapped all too near those interesting lines in his tanned face. “Perhaps I could let it go, if only she would stop haunting my dreams.”
“I’ll help you. I can make you forget.” His face came down to mine and his lips opened, emitting the sweet-sharp smell of brandy.
And I, minx that I am, turned my head and twisted out of his grasp.
KEEPER’S LOG
January 31, 1907
Wind: SW light
Weather: Clear, mild, sunny, bay waters calm
Comments: Two passenger steamers in, one from San
Francisco and one from Vancouver; counted five whales
well off Point Pinos headed S.
Business was not booming for my typewriting service. I sat in my office at two o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon at the tail end of January and wondered what had happened to my life.
“My life is broken,” I muttered, stacking papers so vigorously that I bent the bottom edge of one and now would be obliged to do it over, “and I shall just have to figure out how to fix it!”
Michael was staying away, out of embarrassment or regret or sheer contrariness; Phoebe had not returned to Carmel; I had written to a friend in San Francisco about Sabrina Howard over a week ago, and as yet had had no reply; and Braxton Furnival was becoming a positive pest. He was a pest I could not exterminate, however, because aside from Arthur Heyer’s and Artemisia Vaughn’s long manuscripts, his typing business was all I had.
It was time to write out a check for my February rent on the office. Without new business, the office would not pay for itself, much less turn me a profit. Instead of putting pen to checkbook I sat staring out the window, pondering my plight. To tell the truth I was unhappy, which is quite unlike me; and indecision was making me unbearably restless. I am one of those people who would rather do something than nothing—even if that something is the wrong thing, as in my own case it frequently turns out to be.
I thought of circulating a new flyer advertising my business. Thought of dropping my rate to seven cents a page. Thought of taking out an advertisement in the newspapers in both Monterey and Pacific Grove. None of these felt like the right thing to do, they felt like throwing away money—of which I had precious little.
“Think, Fremont,” I exhorted myself, “analyze!”
It seemed to me that people around here were too set in their ways, or perhaps they were merely satisfied with the status quo—at any rate, many had tried my typewriting once and then failed to return. This could not be due to the quality of my work, for I turn out a neat presentation even if I do say so myself, and I guarantee my work to be 100 percent accurate or I will do it over free of charge. Therefore the problem had to be either that they did not like me, which was a bit bothersome to
consider, or they just did not see the point of paying to have something typewritten when they could do it themselves by hand.
Oh dear, I thought, beginning to face the inevitable; then I put a sign on the door, BACK IN HALF AN HOUR, and walked the few blocks down to Lovers Point. I walked past the public bathhouse and the Japanese tea house, out to the rocks, along the way disconsolately trailing my skirts in the sandy dust. The rocks themselves, large chunks of upthrust granite worn by wind and sea into a semblance of smoothness, were relatively easy to climb. Lovers Point is the tallest, most rock-bound promontory on the south side of Monterey Bay; nevertheless it is quite tame compared with some rocky places I have walked along the bay in San Francisco—Land’s End, for example.
Tame or wild, foggy or clear, I find that simply being by wide water will eventually put me at peace and clarify my mind. I do not know why this is, unless it is that great forces of nature make my own problems seem small. I thought of the whales I’d seen from the lighthouse on the ten o’clock watch, creatures so huge and magnificent and mysterious, yet so hunted by man that now there are few where once they were many … and the memory of the whales too helped me find perspective.
When I returned to my office on Grand Avenue half an hour later, I sat down at the typewriter knowing what I should do. I wrote two letters, which I would post on my way back to the lighthouse at four o’clock. The first was to the owner of the building, giving the requisite thirty days’ notice. The second was to my friend Meiling Li, who is a special student at Stanford:
Dear Meiling,
I realize that I have not written since Christmas, which is very bad of me. Things have been more than a little odd, and I am having some trouble adjusting, which is why I have not yet invited you to come visit. There is another reason as well: There was a huge fire here in Pacific Grove last year, in which a Chinatown that predated the town itself was burned completely to the ground. No one will openly discuss this fire; it is still only mentioned in hushed tones. I gather that arson was suspected, but on whose part no one seems to have been able to ascertain. Suffice it to say the Chinese would hardly set fire to their own community! And while no one here is overtly hostile to persons of your race, still I think it the better part of wisdom that you not come to Pacific Grove.
