Beyond the Grave
Books by Marcia Muller and Bill Pronzini
Double
The Lighthouse
Beyond the Grave
Marcia Muller
and
Bill Pronzini
SPEAKING VOLUMES, LLC
NAPLES, FLORIDA
2011
Beyond the Grave
Copyright © 1986 by Marcia Muller and Bill Pronzini
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.
ISBN 978 1 61232 120 2
Contents
PROLOGUE: 1846
PART I: 1986
ONE
TWO
THREE
PART II: 1894
ONE
TWO
THREE
PART III: 1986
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
PART IV: 1894
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
PART V: 1986
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
PART VI: 1894
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
PART VII: 1986
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
EPILOGUE: 1894
1986
PROLOGUE
1846
FROM WHERE HE stood on the casa's upper gallery, Don Esteban Velasquez commanded a broad view of all that was his. As far as the eye could see were the hills and valleys, creeks, groves of oaks and fruit trees that comprised Rancho Rinconada de los Robles, his grant from the government of Mexico. Below this oak-shaded hill where he had built his hacienda, nestled in one of the little valleys near the westward roadway, stood the adobe buildings of the rancho's pueblo; the cross atop the church of San Anselmo de las Lomas, rising above the stables and garrison and vaqueros' quarters, was like a brand burned in the gray sky by the hand of God. Down there, too, to the rear of the church, was the cemetery where Don Esteban's first wife, Maria Alcazar, and two of his three sons lay at rest beneath the grassy sod.
But it was at none of these things that he stood looking on this drizzly December morning, three days before Christmas. It was at the rider approaching on the main camino from the south—a single rider forcing his horse at a gallop along the muddy track, where instead there should have been a long column of men and animals returning without undue haste, in triumph.
The rider was still too far away for Don Esteban to recognize his clothing or his mount. One of the rancho's soldados? His mayordomo, José Verdugo? No matter. It did not matter. Whoever the rider was, he could only be carrying a message of doom from San Marcos Pass: Don Esteban's plan had failed.
He knew this with a bleak certainty; there could be no other explanation for the lone rider, the thunderous haste. He had known it the moment one of his mestizo servants, having noticed the rider's approach, had summoned him. He had already ordered the servants here to prepare to defend the hacienda. He had already sent word to the remaining few of his men at the pueblo to do likewise there, and to begin evacuating the women and children; and he had requested that Padre Urbano join him immediately.
He had given no thought to escape. This land was his; he had lived here for twenty-five years, and three members of his family were buried here. If he had not been prepared to die defending it, he would not have devised and then sought to carry out his intrigue against the Americano troops. He would, instead, have accompanied his young wife, Gloria, and his only living son, the child Felipe, to Mexico City ten months ago, when it had become clear to him, if not to all the other abajeños, that war between Mexico and Los Estados Unidos was imminent.
What fools those others were! They had shut their minds as well as their eyes to the Americanos' desire for the annexation of California. Refused to listen when Don Esteban urged that a well-trained militia be assembled and garrisoned at strategic points throughout the province, rather than relying on the private soldados loyal to each don. Refused to listen when he had spoken out in favor of expelling all gringos, not just the troublemakers such as John Fremont. And now it was too late. Now war had been declared. Now the Yanquis had captured General Vallejo at Sonoma and raised a flag, what they called the Bear Flag, proclaiming California a republic. Now Monterey, the provincial capital, had fallen, as had most of the northern half of the province. It was a time for desperate measures if the abajeños were to save the southern half.
If the trap at San Marcos Pass had been properly sprung, it would have dealt the advancing Yanqui forces a crippling blow. And by all the saints, it should have been properly sprung. Spies had reported the movement of Fremont's batallion on El Camino Real, pointing south for an assault on Santa Barbara. This route, the easiest, would take them through Refugio Pass. But Don Esteban had spread word of an ambush at Gaviota Pass, beyond Refugio: soldados from the Santa Barbara garrison waiting to roll boulders down on the Americanos as they passed through the narrows. Fremont, believing this falsehood, had diverted his troops away from Refugio to the more rugged route—a brush-grown Indian trail—through San Marcos Pass. It was at San Marcos that the real ambush had been laid, manned by men from Rancho Rinconada de los Robles. Why it had failed to catch the gringos by surprise Don Esteban would soon know.
When the lone rider neared the foot of the hill below, Don Esteban descended from the gallery by way of the courtyard stairs and crossed to the main gate. He said nothing to the three armed guards who waited there in the thin drizzle, watching as he had been watching from above. There was nothing more to be said until the messenger reached them.
But the messenger did not reach them. Halfway up the hill, the plunging horse broke stride, stumbled, pitched the rider as it fell heavily on its side in the thick adobe mud. The animal, so sweat-lathered that its brown coat seemed smeared with white, lay spasming for a few seconds and then was still. The man staggered to his feet, holding his head, swaying with fatigue; Don Esteban, waiting at the gate while the mestizos ran downhill, recognized the wet, strained features of José Verdugo.
The mestizos half carried the mayordomo uphill into the courtyard and laid him down beneath the protective overhang of the gallery. Water was brought for him, and when he could speak, the tale he told was this:
The trap had been laid as ordered on the hillside above the San Marcos trail. But it was the men of Don Esteban, not the Americanos, who had been the victims of a surprise attack. Scouts had reported Fremont's batallion encamped for the night along Alamo Pintado Creek, in a canyon below the pass; but Fremont had somehow learned of the ambush—from the lips of a traitor, no doubt—and had sent a detachment of perhaps fifty soldados on a circuitous route that took them to a position above and behind Don Esteban's forces. A dozen loyalists were killed in the first surprise volley; the rest were routed, run down, and shot or captured. Verdugo had barely managed to escape with his life. He had hidden in a cave until nightfall and then rounded up a horse and raced back here to the hacienda.
Listening to the mayordomo's account, Don Esteban knew that if a traitor had revealed the ambush plan to Fremont, that man would also have revealed the identity of the one who had arranged it. The Yanqui major would not allow such an act to pass unpunished. He would dispatch, if he had not already done so, another detachment of troops to arrest Don Esteban, and, if necessary, to lay siege to Rancho Rinconada de los Robles. It was the way of war; Don Esteban would have done the same if their positions were reversed. The soldados might a
rrive today, though it was unlikely they would have ridden all night as Verdugo had done; and if they reached the rancho late in the day, it was also unlikely that they would risk a night skirmish on unfamiliar terrain. Tomorrow, then. Don Esteban and the last of his loyalists would have perhaps twenty-four hours to prepare for the assault.
Men and weapons were too few to mount an adequate defense; he knew this. The Americanos would eventually claim a victory. But he would not be alive to see the fall of his rancho. Death was not only preferable, it was to be welcomed. He had no fear of it. His only fear, now, was that his most treasured possessions would become the spoils of war, the playthings of gringos—something that must not be allowed to happen.
Verdugo was being helped to the servants' quarters for food and rest when Padre Urbano arrived in a carreta drawn by his old swayback mule. Don Esteban quickly led the priest to his escritorio on the upper level, where he explained what had happened at San Marcos Pass. The mendicant listened stoically and offered a prayer when Don Esteban had finished speaking.
“I will not ask you to join the fight against the Americanos, fray,” Don Esteban said. “You may leave with the women and children, with my blessing. The decision is yours.”
“I will stay,” the padre said without hesitation. “It is God's will that I remain with my church.”
Don Esteban nodded. He had expected that this would be the mendicant's answer. “I have an important task for you, then. It must be accomplished in all haste and secrecy.”
“Sí, Don Esteban.”
The room was dark, somber except for the fire burning on the hearth grate; the firelight reflected glassily off the rich-grained oak cabinets, made the religious artifacts arranged within them gleam as if with a life of their own. Don Esteban went to the cabinets, stood looking at the artifacts for a moment. Altogether there were two-score of them, gathered on travels to Spain in his early years, to Mexico and throughout California in his later ones. Crucifixes, censers, statues of the Virgin Mary, of the Madonna and Child, of the various saints—all handcrafted of gold and silver, some decorated with precious stones. Holy books encased in bejeweled metal covers. Icons and devotional paintings by El Greco, Francisco de Zurbarán, Jusepe de Ribera. Other items of comparable rarity and value.
He faced Padre Urbano again. “These must not fall into the hands of Fremont's soldados,” he said grimly. “You must find a safe place to hide them.”
“At the pueblo?”
“Sí. The Americanos will not think to look for such treasures there. And quickly, fray. We have little time left.”
“It will be done. Upon my word as a man of God.”
With the padre's help, Don Esteban wrapped each of the artifacts in monk's cloth and carefully placed them inside a large wooden crate brought by one of the servants. A few items of personal value to his wife and son were also wrapped and put into the crate. Two mestizos were then called to carry the crate down to the courtyard and set it in the mendicant's wagon.
“Bring me word when you have found a place,” Don Esteban said, drawing the padre aside. “I must leave a record of the location for Doña Gloria and the boy Felipe.”
“You will receive me again before dusk, Don Esteban.”
“Bueno. Before dusk.”
Don Esteban watched as the carreta clattered down the muddy road to the pueblo. When it disappeared behind a stand of oaks, he returned to the escritorio and began to write a letter to his wife and son, one he prayed they would one day read. Once he finished, there would be little else to do except to await Padre Urbano's return. And then to begin the long wait for the coming of Fremont's soldados. And then to fight. And then to die as he had lived, as any good caballero lived—with dignity and honor.
The siege began the afternoon of the following day. It was preceded by the arrival of an officer bearing a flag of truce and bringing a formal request for surrender. But surrender meant imprisonment, perhaps the gallows; surrender meant dishonor. Don Esteban refused. A short while later the first shots were fired.
It was a brief skirmish, and a bloody one. The Yanqui detachment numbered one hundred men, heavily armed with rifles and light cannon; there were fewer than twenty men left to defend the rancho, only five of those trained soldados, and a shortage of weapons and ammunition. The pueblo, where most of Don Esteban's men were deployed, came under attack first and was quickly overrun and seized. The empty garrison was set ablaze, as were most of the other buildings; the church of San Anselmo de las Lomas was partially destroyed by errant cannon fire. Padre Urbano, the one man of all the rancho's defenders who might have been spared by the invaders, was inside the church, in the path of the cannonball when it shattered the adobe wall. He was killed instantly.
Three dozen troops stormed the hacienda, where Don Esteban awaited them with three mestizos and a pair of matched silver dueling pistols. In the first exchange of fire, Don Esteban fell at the main gate with a bullet in his chest. He, too, died instantly.
There were no survivors.
PART I
1986
ONE
I ALMOST MISSED the auction because of Mama being in the hospital. She'd been rushed there the night before, after collapsing in the recreation center of the mobile-home park where she lives. Her doctor had diagnosed a bleeding ulcer, and they were now running tests to see if she needed an operation. Mama wasn't saying much, but I could tell she thought she was going to die; there was a quiet resignation in her eyes—so dark against her drained face—and her work-worn hands lay still and protectively curled on the coarse hospital blanket.
I might have panicked had it not been for Nick Carillo, Mama's seventy-nine-year-old boyfriend. His manner was relaxed as he lounged on the chair next to her bed, and the smug expression on his bony, tanned face said that he was looking forward to many more years of taking Mama and her diet in hand. Nick is a health nut and constantly lectures both of us about our wicked ways with overly spicy and impure foods. Now he probably envisioned a million occasions upon which to say “I told you so.”
But he hadn't stalled in on it yet, and even though I knew neither Mama nor I would ever hear the end of this episode, I was grateful for his steadying presence. Nick had eleven years on my mother, had been through the countless illnesses of friends and relatives, and was far more realistic than any member of the Oliverez family. When the time for the auction approached and I said maybe I shouldn't go, he told me I was being foolish. “Attending the auction is your responsibility to the museum, Elena,” he said, “and besides, your Mama and I will be here when you get back, waiting to hear what treasures you've bid on.” So—ignoring Mama's dramatic farewell look—I went.
The sale of old furniture was being held in a cavernous building that used to be an auto showroom, on the frontage road where Route 101 cuts through Santa Barbara. I'd gone over there the afternoon before—Friday—to preview the items, and there were several I planned to bid on in the hope of acquiring them for the museum. When I arrived there that morning, I parked my car—a vintage VW beetle convertible that I had bought for a song the summer before and was unashamedly proud of—at the far side of the lot where no one could open his door into it and ding its costly yellow paint job. Then I looked in my purse to make sure I had the auction catalog and hurried over to the showroom; the sale was to begin at noon, twelve minutes from now.
Inside, the temperature was at least ten degrees warmer than in the parking lot. Although it was a balmy April day, overhead fans worked sluggishly, and even the most scantily dressed browsers waved catalogs to supplement the fans' ineffectual efforts. Several rows of folding chairs had been set up in the center of the room, in front of a raised platform, and some of the smaller items had been moved up there behind the podium. Other pieces, many of them quite massive, ranged along the sides, where would-be buyers were inspecting them. I took a seat in the front row of chairs and waited for the auction to start.
As director of Santa Barbara's Museum of Mexican Arts, I am not stri
ctly responsible for acquisitions. However, our curator, Rodolfo Lopez—better known as Rudy—had only joined the staff last November, and he was still bogged down in learning the myriad details of the position I'd vacated nearly a year ago when I'd been named director. Rudy was in Los Angeles this weekend attending a big estate auction, and he'd asked me to cover this smaller one here at home. I was only too glad to do so; basically I'm a curator at heart, not an administrator. And the auction promised to be a good one: What Rudy wanted to buy was furniture for a display that would show how Alta Californians had lived in the era of los ranchos grandes, and there were several good pieces here that dated from that fabled period. I had my eye on a pair of convent chairs, a hand-carved dining table, and a small marriage coffer. The coffer—a low chest measuring three feet long by two feet tall and incongruously resembling a coffin, which had once contained a bride's dowry—was a particularly fine piece, hewn of dark wood, with a boldly carved crucifix pattern around its edges and hammered brass fittings on the hinged top and on the shallow drawer below the main compartment.
I sat there for a few minutes, feeling beads of sweat break out on my upper lip and forehead and trying not to worry about Mama. An insidious sleepiness crept over me—I'd been up all night at the hospital—and to banish it, I turned my mind to practicalities. Nick would see to Mamai's trailer in her absence, so I wouldn't have to deal with that. I hadn't been able to reach my older sister, Carlota, in Minneapolis either last night or this morning; it seemed to me that the last time we'd talked she'd said something about a weekend conference with some fellow sociologists up in Duluth, but I couldn't recall exactly when that was to take place. No matter, I'd try her again anyway before I went back to the hospital. And maybe I should cancel my dinner date with my boyfriend, Dave Kirk—well, tentative date, providing he got back as scheduled from the mysterious trip he'd gone off on four days ago. It was lucky I'd arranged to take the next week off in order to use up some of my accumulated vacation days; before, it had seemed a luxury I could ill afford, but now …
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