The Bohemian Murders

by Dianne Day

  Early in the afternoon, having satisfied myself that all was well with the lighthouse, I opened the wardrobe in the bedroom and surveyed my limited supply of clothes. I don’t know what I was thinking, or hoping—that something suitable might suddenly materialize, I suppose. I knew perfectly well that I owned nothing suitable for what I had in mind.

  “Aha!” I said, as an idea occurred to me.

  The clothes Hettie had not taken on her trip were all on one side of the wardrobe, protected by dustcovers; mine, unprotected, were on the other. Hettie and I were quite nearly identical in size, except that I was somewhat taller and thinner than she. Surely she would not mind, and I would be extremely careful …

  I selected the dreariest, most outmoded dress in the wardrobe. It was a dull satin, gunmetal gray, with tiny buttons all the way down the front and, in back, a swag skirt over a cascade of pleats that hung like a plethora of turkey wattles. On me it was a bit short, but I would wear my black high-button shoes so my ankles wouldn’t show. Due to the fact that Hettie would have had a corset under the dress, it fit my own uncorseted waist just fine. If I didn’t move too quickly, perhaps it would not be obvious that I wasn’t wearing one of those strangulating inventions of the devil. Or of some man who could qualify for that position; surely it could not have been a woman who first thought up corsets?

  Having gone this far, I looked into the hatboxes on the wardrobe shelf. Since moving to California, where I do not have proper Bostonians always breathing down my neck, I have seldom worn a hat—I think hats are a lot of foolishness and uncomfortable besides. Nowadays there are women who go around with dead birds and baskets of fruit and God-knows-what-all on top of their heads. It would be amusing except that the wearers themselves fail to see the humor.

  If Hettie owned any outrageous hats, she had taken them with her. She did, however, have one that looked as if it might have been made for this very dress. Like the dress it was a bit out of style, a dark-gray satin chapeau shaped like a little flat cake with one thin black feather slanting skyward; it was meant to be worn forward on the head, held in place by thin satin straps that tied under the chin and looked for all the world like gray spaghetti. I put my hair up, and the hat on, and was astounded when I looked in the mirror. I looked quite respectable, and quite unlike myself.

  Thus transformed I set off to beg an audience with the Matriarch of the Grove: Euphemia Wells.

  “I hope you will forgive my presumption, as we have not been formally introduced,” I said, using my most proper Beacon Hill manner, “but as it is a Sunday and therefore a day of leisure, I thought you might be at home to callers.”

  She frowned down at the calling card I had placed in her hand when she’d opened the door herself.

  “The card,” I hastened to explain, “still has my old San Francisco address. There have been so many things going on since the earthquake that getting new ones printed was the last thing on my mind.”

  “Understandable. Fremont Jones? You have no Christian name?”

  “My first name, which I no longer use, is Caroline.” The rebel in me longed to make some smart remark about what would I, a nonbeliever, do with a Christian name—but miracle of miracles, the heathen held her tongue.

  This conversation was taking place on Euphemia’s front porch. Behind me on Forest Avenue there was a good deal of traffic for a Sunday afternoon—the clip-clopping of horses’ hooves, the rattle and creak of wagons, the chug-and-wheeze of automobiles. The sky was blue, the air had a clean taste, and I was as nervous as any schoolgirl who has been sent to the principal’s office.

  “He was an upstart, you know. Relative of yours?” Euphemia performed the considerable feat of looking down her nose at me even though I am taller than she.

  “You are referring to John Charles Frémont?” I asked.

  She nodded; iron-gray curls like sausages bobbed against her chunky cheeks.

  “He was a cousin on my mother’s side of the family. That is how I got the name.”

  She narrowed her eyes, which had the effect of making her face appear bulldoggish. “What’s wrong with Caroline?”

  “Nothing. But as a woman in business, I thought I might do well not to advertise my gender.”

  Euphemia Wells snorted. Whether this snort denoted approval or disapproval was impossible to tell, but she stepped back and motioned for me to enter the hallowed sanctity of her home.

  I swished across the threshold in my borrowed gray satin, and she creaked after me in her usual black bombazine.

  A quick glance revealed that there was only one parlor, so that was where I went. A moment later I declined tea or coffee, and we both sat down.

  “I know who you are, of course,” said Euphemia. She sat very straight, her stiffly encased breasts jutting out like a shelf. “You’re the temporary lighthouse keeper. From what I hear, it’s no wonder Hettie Houck picked you. You’re just like her, by all accounts. Except that I haven’t seen you in church.”

  “I go to a different one,” I lied, smiling. “Hettie is the reason I am here this afternoon. When she left, she said that if I ever needed advice about anything, I should come to you. She said, ‘Euphemia knows everything that is worth knowing in Monterey and Pacific Grove.’ I’m hoping she was right, and that your knowledge might extend a few miles into the Del Monte Forest as well.”

  When Euphemia Wells smiled, one worried that her face might crack, but it did not. She merely became a shade less formidable. “Do you find yourself in need of advice, Miss Jones?”

  Anyone else I would have asked to call me Fremont, but on her lips Miss Jones sounded just fine to me. “Yes, but this is extremely confidential.” I bent forward and lowered my voice to just above a whisper. “It concerns … money.”

  She too bent, from the hips, creaking like a mast in a gale. “Yes?”

  “I am thinking of investing in some land. I am my father’s sole heir, you see.”

  “I see,” she nodded sagely, with a light in her eyes. The mention of family money does that to a lot of people.

  “So I was wondering: What do you know, Mrs. Wells, about Braxton Furnival? Is he a trustworthy sort of individual?”

  The light in her eyes went out. In fact, Euphemia glowered. “No, I wouldn’t say so. I would not be able to say that at all.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Oh, dear!” I said. “That is bad news.”

  Euphemia leaned even farther forward, and said with an exaggerated air of confidentiality: “I have it on good authority that the development company has decided to replace him. They are only waiting for the new man to come down.”

  I pouted deliberately, even as it occurred to me that this information made sense of some things I’d seen—the sparse nature of his household furniture, for example. I said, “I am so disappointed. I had thought to buy into his golf club, but now I must question whether that would be a good investment.”

  “His golf club? It is true that there are some plans for a golf course in the forest some day, or so one hears, but Braxton Furnival has nothing to do with that. He is more or less a caretaker. That is why, I suppose, it doesn’t much matter that he is—shall we say—such an uncultured sort of individual. Likes to give himself airs,” she sniffed. “Don’t let that sort of man pull the wool over your eyes, Miss Jones.”

  “Oh, my.” I pouted again. “It’s certainly lucky that I came to you. I rather liked Braxton, you see. I thought of him as a diamond in the rough. Do you mean he doesn’t own that huge house he lives in?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea where he lives!” She thrust her chin aloft in a manner that made it quite clear I had no business knowing, either. Which was perfectly true, if one were to adhere to the standards one had been brought up with. But then, one’s life would be so terribly dull!

  “His house,” I said, “is an enormous place that looks as if it belongs in the Black Forest or some such place. Very rustic but very grand all the same.”

  “I do not venture i
nto the forest much, either Black or Del Monte. I stay at home in Pacific Grove, where decent, God-fearing people live.”

  I have often wondered how it is that decent people must fear their God, and whether Jesus feared God in spite of God’s being His Father, and if He didn’t, did that make Jesus indecent? I should have liked to ask Euphemia Wells this question. Instead, I rose and extended my right hand; the left was on my walking stick. “I take your point. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Wells. I shall heed your advice and hold onto my money until the Cypress Coast Company sends the new man. I don’t suppose you know when that will be?”

  “Haven’t got the slightest.” She shook her head and got ponderously to her feet.

  I started for the door. “I will be sure to tell Hettie how helpful you’ve been, when she returns. But that will be a while. She’s not due until the first of July.”

  “I hope she is having a pleasant time. Where was it Hettie said she was going?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied, with considerable satisfaction. How pleasant it is to be able to frustrate a person one senses to be a malicious gossip! “She didn’t say. At least, not to me.”

  Euphemia was not one to give up easily. “Surely you must have a way to write to her. What if there were an emergency?”

  “Then I would contact the Lighthouse Service, just as I do when I am in need of supplies. Good day, Mrs. Wells. Thank you for the advice and information.”

  “Good day, Miss Jones. Do come again.”

  With my foot on the first step down off the porch, I turned my head. “By the way … do you happen to know Braxton Furnival’s friend Ramon Reyes?”

  “I should say not! Mexican, is he?”

  “Or Spanish.” I walked down the remaining steps and turned my head again. “Mr. Reyes appears well bred.”

  “Miss Jones, it seems to me you’d be better off confining your activities to the lighthouse for a while. You are obviously in danger of falling in with the wrong crowd! Spanish or Mexican, doesn’t matter—one has to avoid these foreign-speaking people.”

  From my safe distance, I simply could not resist a parting remark: “It is hard for me to think of someone who speaks Spanish as foreign, when California belonged to them first. But I will remember what you’ve said.”

  My next stop was the Hotel Del Monte. I enjoyed the drive, except for the part past China Point and the depressing ruins of the former Chinatown. The burned-out husks of former buildings there are fenced off, with guards posted; I had asked Quincy once why anyone would want to guard something that essentially was no longer there, and he’d said the owner of the land was doing it so that the Chinese would not attempt to move back and rebuild.

  There is prejudice, I reflected, everywhere; even in so beautiful a place as this. Today Monterey Bay was a perfect azure mirror, the sun so pleasant on my satin-clad arms that I did not even need a wrap. Yet I allow I was in a somewhat grim frame of mind. I sensed that time was running out, things were working their way up to some sort of conclusion, which might well be my own disappearance. Or death.

  I had reasoned that Arthur Heyer might have recalled where he’d seen Sabrina Howard, and mentioned it to someone in or around Carmel before he’d had an opportunity to tell me. Then this someone—probably Braxton or his friend Ramon—followed Oscar and Arthur down to Big Sur and whacked Arthur, scaring, Oscar out of his wits in the process.

  My theory, such as it was, was full of holes. For one thing, why whack Arthur but not Oscar? For another, where was the motive in any of this? Sabrina Howard must have known something she should not have known and threatened to tell. Perhaps she’d wanted to be paid to keep quiet—that would fit the picture of the ambitious actress with a taste for fine clothes.

  Something else was bothering me: If Ramon was, so to speak, Braxton’s henchman, then most likely it would have been Ramon who’d hit me on the head—but Ramon’s eyes did not look to me like the eyes behind that mask. And another thing: For all that I could perfectly well imagine Braxton in some sort of shady business deal, he did not impress me as a man who would deliberately injure a woman. There are some men who genuinely like women; they like to look at them and touch their hair, admire their clothes, to treat them as exotic, expensive pets. Braxton seemed such a man to me.

  “Yet I have so often been wrong before!” I muttered bitterly. The Maxwell chugged in agreement, its steering wheel vibrating under my hands and reminding me of the final thing—well, person—that bothered me deeply: Michael. Could he have had a role in any of this? “Of course not!” I declared … but I had to admit that if I had known him less well, I would have been obliged to seriously consider him as a suspect, if for no other reason than that (as usual) he had picked a crucial time to leave town. Add to that his recent uncharacteristic behavior, his refusal to help me investigate …

  I saw that I had reached the sprawling building and grand grounds of the Hotel Del Monte. Giving the requisite hand signal, I turned into the drive and chugged on through to the parking area, at one side of the great Victorian structure. I could have had the parking valet take care of the car, but then I would have had to tip, and it is silly to waste money that way when I am perfectly capable of parking and walking a few steps myself.

  Actually the walk was not a few steps but a considerable distance, along a covered walkway decorated with graceful arches and various architectural frew-fraws. Along the way I swung my walking stick and clenched my jaw, hardening my resolve. Chin up, I proceeded through the front door, using the walking stick to push it open in an imperious manner that I rather enjoyed.

  The lobby was about the size of a football field, with palms and ferns and aspidistras and various articles of furniture dotted about. The walls were entirely paneled in golden wood, elaborately carved and polished to a high sheen. The hotel desk, long and sleek as some yachts out in the harbor, was made of this same wood. I strolled across the carpet and took a seat on one of those ridiculous round couches that one sees nowhere except in hotel lobbies, the sort that look like a giant sultan’s hat with a rolled brim, the brim being the cushions. Acting as if I were waiting for one of the hotel guests, I glanced frequently in the direction of the stairs and elevators.

  If I had been interested in a parade of fashion, I could have seen it here. But I was not. I was, actually, nervous. My palm on the dragon’s head of the walking stick felt cold, slick, damp. I closed my eyes briefly and repeated to myself: Phoebe, Phoebe. I am doing this for Phoebe.

  My intention was to find Phoebe, dead or alive. When I had found her I would go to the sheriff. The diligence of the deputies in questioning the Carmelites had made a favorable impression on me. Surely if I had enough facts at my command they would listen … and then perhaps the culprits would be caught and Quincy and I could rest in peace.

  Rest in peace, requiescat in pace—an unfortunate choice of words. RIP is what they put on tombstones. Heaven forbid! It was too late for Sabrina but oh dear God, I hoped that Phoebe was not dead. I also hoped that I would not be joining either or both of them. An unexpected and most unwelcome chill spread through my body, and I suddenly found it difficult to breathe.

  I have found that this sort of breathless panic may be relieved by taking action. So: Time to get moving! With one last glance in the direction of the elevators, I slipped over my shoulder the strap of the black reticule I was carrying instead of my favorite leather bag, took up the walking stick, and stepped briskly toward the desk.

  Stopping a couple of steps short of my goal, I surveyed the three clerks on duty and picked one: an older man with a narrow face and serious mien. On him the ostentatious uniform that all Del Monte employees wore looked less ridiculous than it did on the other two raw-faced lads. I fixed my gaze on the older man and moved forward.

  “Good afternoon,” I said, placing my reticule on the desk’s high counter, “I wonder if you could help me?”

  Nodding gravely, the man came forward. “I’ll certainly try, Miss.”

  “
I’d be so grateful.” I reached into the reticule and withdrew an envelope containing the photograph of Sabrina Howard. Placing it on the counter I slid the photo out and kept my hand on its edge. Then I leaned forward and said in a low voice, “This woman has, I believe, stayed here often. Do you recognize her?”

  “That would be Miss Howard, a famous actress from San Francisco. She does come here a lot,” he said, still nodding, still grave. “However, she hasn’t been with us in recent weeks. I expect you might find her in, as one says, the city?”

  When he said “the city,” he smiled, and it was like the sun flashing briefly out from behind a thin gray cloud.

  “You are from the city yourself!” I said with unfeigned joy. “So am I!”

  For a few minutes we exchanged information and condolences on our losses from the earthquake, an exercise with which I was by now (alas!) all too familiar, and then I got back on track. “Sabrina—Miss Howard—has not been seen in any of her usual haunts for quite some time. I am trying to help her mother, and a member of the San Francisco Police Department, gather as much information as possible in order to locate her.” Of course Wish Stephenson didn’t know I was helping, but one cannot put too fine a point on these things.

  The clerk gave me a look and I nodded significantly, even as I prayed he would not ask me for any sort of official identification. I leaned forward again. “If you could check the hotel register and see when she was last here, I would be so grateful.”

  He grinned, letting out not the whole sun but one warm ray. “I expect I could do that.”

  As in many large hotels, the register was not a single book but rather a series of bound books, like ledgers, one for each month. Only the current one was kept on the desk. The others were arranged on a shelf behind. While the clerk located the ones he wanted, I put the photo back into my reticule. It had served its purpose.