“Have you ever regretted publishing an article?”
Cara considered her question. “Years ago, no. Now that I’m at the top of the pile; yes, but only the ones that weren’t truth.” Cara crushed her cigarette into the tray with brutal force. “Truth is a powerful thing, and it’s our job to find it. Besides, if you don’t write it, then someone else will.”
The woman sauntered out without another word. Isobel turned back to her typewriter. Truth was all fine and well, but not in the hands of an editor. Taking a deep breath, she took a plunge, and began the long dance on her typewriter.
✥
The door was locked. Isobel inserted her key, and stepped into Ravenwood Agency. The main office was empty. She paused to listen at the consultation room, but it was Riot’s office door that opened. She turned, finding Tim with revolver in hand. Recognition lit his pale eyes and he lowered the weapon.
“Riot gave me a key,” she explained. “Expecting trouble?”
“Always—of the bad sort.” He rocked on his heels.
“Is there a good sort?”
“You’re the good kind of trouble, girl.” He flashed his gold teeth.
“I’m afraid the word ‘good’ and my name have never been used in the same sentence.”
Tim cackled like a madman and stepped into the main office. “A.J. went for a walk,” he explained.
“Is anything more required of me for the August case?”
“No, he kept Miss Bonnie’s name out of it for the most part.”
“He has a knack for that.”
“Well, that’s the benefit of an agency. It has a spokesman.”
“And Riot is yours?”
“The boy has a smooth tongue.”
It was actually warm and demanding, but she kept that thought to herself.
“Should have been a lawyer or a politician,” Tim mused.
“I can’t imagine him chained to a desk.”
“No,” the old man agreed. “Look, I’m glad you stopped by, I’ve been wanting to talk with you, Miss Bel.” Tim stood on his tippy toes, and hopped on a desk, swinging his feet in midair. He reached under his coat, and brought out a stack of bills. “Here’s your cut of the pay.”
She looked at the bills, and took a step back. “I was conducting my own investigation, Mr. Tim.”
“And you helped the agency solve ours. Time and bonus, same as I pay the boys.” He extended the cash, and when she did not immediately take it from his hand, he said, “Fair is fair; pride is foolish.”
“It’s not pride,” she insisted. “I am trouble, Mr. Tim. The less connection with me and your agency the better.” Even as she said it, she felt foolish, standing in the office as she currently was.
“I don’t see it like that.”
“Well I do. Riot and your agency will be dragged into the mire if I’m ever found out.”
“I’m not asking Isobel Kingston to work for the agency,” Tim argued. “I’m asking Mr. Morgan, or Miss Bonnie, both if you like. Whoever suits you.” He set the money on the desk and pinned her with a finger. “But you don’t get two wages for the both of them.”
Isobel frowned. She nudged the money, and after a moment’s thought, picked it up, tucking the cash inside her handbag. “Thank you for your offer, but I really can’t.” She turned to leave, but his words stopped her.
“You seem to think that you’re the only one with secrets, Miss Bel.” There was a hard edge to the usually good-natured man. She turned to face him, and the cheerful, amiable old man had taken on a grave air.
“I nearly killed my brother, and Riot.”
“Did you hold Lotario down and threaten him on pain of torture if he didn’t question a few actors at the theatre?”
“Of course not.”
“Look here, Miss Bel,” he smoothed his long beard. “You’re a captain who I reckon doesn’t shanghai her crew. When a man signs on with a crew, he does it willingly—despite the known dangers. It’s the same thing.”
“Not exactly.” Isobel was suddenly tired, and she walked to the door, reaching for the handle.
“Well, A.J. will be relieved,” Tim tossed out.
“Why’s that?” she took the bait.
“I have the distinct feeling that he doesn’t want me to hire you. In fact, he told me he wouldn’t ask himself. Probably worried you’ll get hurt, you being a woman and all.”
“Nice try, Mr. Tim, but Riot knows I find trouble aplenty.”
“So does that boy.” Tim hopped off his desk. “Why the blazes do you think I want you here?”
Isobel met his gaze. It was hard and steady, and the full meaning of his words sunk into her heart. Lotario’s voice drifted to the forefront of her mind. ‘Every queen needs a king to protect.’
Tim stalked back towards Riot’s office, pausing at the door. “If you care,” he said. “I reckon you’ll find A.J. at the Bone Orchard.”
37
Removing the Mask
SILVER TENDRILS COILED AROUND gravestones. Not a soul above ground save for owls and coons. Isobel walked to the top of a hill. A lone oak stood as a sentry, spreading its leaves over dark grass and a single headstone. She brushed her fingers over the letters etched in stone: Zephaniah Ravenwood. It was a pompous name. And the date was long; he was close to seventy when he died.
Isobel looked out, surveying the veil of silver. On a clear night, the sea shone, but not now. The top of the hill was frigid and damp and the breeze cut to the bone. She pulled off her wig and hat and turned to the wind, letting the fog clear her head. When she opened her eyes, her course was laid.
Acting on a whim, she turned down a path, walking towards a familiar mausoleum. It had two pillars and a splendid arch. She would have preferred gargoyles to the weepy angel on its front. A glow from inside beckoned her near. The gate was ajar.
Isobel climbed the step, and peeked inside her final resting place. A raven-haired man sat on the bench beside her coffin. Her heart lurched. Riot was doubled over, elbows on knees, his face buried in his hands. His usually careful fingers rubbed ruthlessly at the stripe along his temple. His walking stick lay forgotten on the floor.
Isobel nudged the gate open. A mere whisper, and the man was on his feet, revolver drawn and cocked with the speed of a snake. She froze. Riot’s spectacles were absent and she was out of his three-foot range.
“It’s Bel,” she whispered.
Riot sucked in a sharp breath, and let it out with purpose. He pointed his revolver towards the ceiling and eased down the hammer. “I apologize.” Riot fumbled for his spectacles.
She stepped forward, and stopped his hand, looking up into his eyes. “Are you all right?”
“Not especially,” he rasped.
“Do you want me to leave?”
Riot shook his head, and winced. The movement seemed to cause him pain. He sat back down, fingers returning to his temple, worrying over the deep rut beneath his hair. “I gave testimony today.”
“For the Cottrill case?” she asked.
Riot gave a careful nod of his head.
“Martins didn’t hang?”
“No,” he sighed. “The jury acquitted him of murder. They did, however, find him guilty of illegal gambling. I got fined too.”
“Jesus,” Isobel cursed, sitting down hard on the bench.
“I promised Mr. Cottrill that his wife’s murderer would hang, and instead, the man walked free.” That hand, it kept rubbing and worrying at the scar as if he sought to tear it from his scalp. Isobel could not stand it any longer. She slipped her arm around his shoulders, and ran her fingers through his hair. For a moment, he tensed, but soon relaxed, letting his hand fall away.
“Shuffling cards doesn’t bother me, but this does,” she said, gently tracing the deep gouge in his skull.
“It’s a new habit,” he admitted. Beneath her gentle fingers, the tension bled from his body, seeping onto the floor. His whole body seemed to sigh. She let silence be, and soon he broke it.
&nb
sp; “Justice isn’t blind; it turns its head completely.”
“All too often,” she sighed. “I was so keen on solving a murder that I never spared one thought for the end. August may very well hang. I’m not sure he deserves that fate, and yet your man, who very rightly deserves the noose, walks away. You were right, this isn’t a game.”
Riot sat back and she removed her hand, but he caught it, and held it, looking at her. “Of a cruel sort,” he said. “The pieces grieve and bleed and suffer, and we, the players left standing, are the ones to pay witness to it.” His fingers were sure on her hand, and he looked down, tracing her wrist with a touch like a breath. “Ravenwood always reminded me that we are not lawmen; we are detectives. Truth is our aim.”
“I certainly hope Ravenwood didn’t impart that sage advise while caressing your wrist.”
“Lotario would be hopeful,” he quipped.
Despite herself, Isobel laughed. “Riot,” she grinned.
The edge of his lip quirked, and his eyes danced. He brought her hand up, and pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist. His beard was soft and it teased. He let her hand go, and bent to retrieve his stick.
“Tim offered me a job again,” she said. Riot straightened, and waited, watching her. When she did not immediately answer, he nodded, resigned.
“I told him that you prefer to work alone.”
“Did you?”
“I did.”
“Well you’re wrong,” she said.
“You’re only saying that to be contrary.”
“I’m not,” she insisted. “Mr. Morgan will work for Ravenwood Agency.” A light entered his eyes. “Shouldn’t it be Riot’s Agency or Tim’s now?”
“Doesn’t inspire much confidence.”
“No,” she agreed. “Miss Bonnie, on the other hand, will continue with the Call, and consult—occasionally—with her pet detective.”
He cocked his head. “Pet?”
“I promise I won’t put a leash on you.”
Riot waited.
“Fine, colleague,” she amended. “And as for Isobel Kingston,” she looked to the coffin, “she will remain dead. Hopefully.”
“And Miss Bel?”
“She doesn’t have any plans.”
“None at all?”
Isobel shook her head.
“Would she consent to having dinner with me—a proper one this time?”
Isobel looked at him sideways. “It took you long enough to ask. I’m starving.”
As Riot straightened his collar, Isobel wandered over to the coffin, studying the marble crypt in the candle’s light. She thought of the poor girl who rested inside, who had shared an unfortunate resemblance to herself. Someone had brought flowers. Isobel raised her eyes, reading the inscription in the candle’s light. It was in Portuguese; her mother’s tongue: Ela fugiu para o circo novamente.
Isobel started to laugh. And Riot peered curiously at her. “What does it say?”
“She ran off to the circus again.”
Confusion flickered across his eyes. “I still feel in need of a translation.”
“It means that my mother isn’t convinced I’m dead.”
The penny dropped. “Ah,” he said. “I see. Your mother is a sharp one.”
“Yes,” Isobel agreed. “Yes, she is.”
“And so is her daughter.”
A weight lifted off Isobel’s heart. Humming tunelessly, she replaced her wig, made adjustments, and settled the hat on top, keenly aware of Riot’s watchful gaze. When she was satisfied with her efforts, Isobel blew out the candle and started to walk out into the night, but after two steps, she was caught, spun around and pulled against a strong body.
“You kissed me,” Riot stated.
“I had to.” There didn’t seem to be enough breath for words.
“You could have slapped me,” he returned.
“I was curious how your beard would feel.”
“Did you like it?”
“The kiss or the beard?” she asked.
“The two go together.”
Isobel thought for a moment. “It was wet.”
“I’ll have to kiss you when it’s dry, then.”
“How about now?” His gaze made her knees go weak, and she pressed against his body, arching her neck.
“It wouldn’t be the same. You caught me by surprise.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Turn about is fair play.” Riot took a step back.
Her mouth worked, and finally she settled on pride. “You’ll never catch me off guard now.”
“I’m a patient man.”
“I don’t think you are as patient as you think.”
Riot offered an arm, and she accepted. “We’ll see, Miss Bel.”
Acknowledgements
WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW. So goes the saying. I must confess, if I stuck to that, then you’d be reading about random Star Trek trivia, the life of a veterinarian technician, motherhood, and child-rearing (I wing the latter). Since I’m not a secret agent, private detective, or a daredevil in a circus, I content myself with ‘writing what I previously didn’t know’, which means… A ton of research. And even after I dig around books and the internet archives for four hours just so I can have a character say ‘Folsom Street Pier’ doesn’t mean I always get things right. Some details require an expert.
With that in mind, I’d like to give a huge thank you to Captain Tim Morgan of the Little Windflower, the 41ft gaff-rigged cutter that I used as a model for the Pagan Lady. Imagine my surprise when he saw my posts on a sailing forum and contacted me. His help was invaluable. Not only did he make sure I had my warps and mainsheets straight, but he also graciously forgave me of nearly setting his boat on fire in the first book.
Thank you Steve Wright for helping me with my poker hand. And as always, his wonderful wife Alice Wright has my gratitude for her steadfast help.
A huge thanks to Annelie Wendeberg (buy her books!) for reading the first draft. And as always, I cannot thank my editor Merrily Taylor enough. She is the most patient and understanding teacher/editor I know and always whips my manuscripts into shape. I couldn’t do what I do without both of them.
Erin Bright and Dennis Tuma, both engineers who are way smarter than me, kindly assisted me with questions regarding the electrical belt. And Noémia Pereira made sure my Portuguese was not gibberish.
Also, to the folks at the California Digital Newspaper Collection (although they will probably never ever read this), I don’t know who took the time to scan all those newspapers into the archive, but Thank You! The archive is a researcher’s dream.
This book beat me up. It was brutal. And I’m afraid that my family had to put up with my hair-pulling, nail-biting stressed out nerves for months on end. So… thank you. I’m sorry to say that it probably won’t be the last time, however.
Historical Afterward
AS I WAS SEARCHING through the San Francisco Call newspaper articles of the late 1800s to early 1900s, I stumbled across three very odd articles. Although they were different dates, all three contained a mention of a mysterious woman who visited before a death. One involved a woman named Violet Clowes. The article listed a string of details that didn’t connect: that she was an actress, a nurse, that a stage light fell on her, that she handed the conductor a note proclaiming her innocence, and that she was acting increasingly strange. The surfman did watch her, and leave for a coat, and her body was later discovered in the sea at Ocean Beach. The message in the sand was there too, the very same words that I listed in the book along with the letter from the spirit world.
Curious writer that I am, I was dissatisfied with the coroner’s ruling of suicide, and wanted to explore the life of this unfortunate woman. Where, I wondered, did the message come from and that strange letter?
Elma was another unfortunate woman who I came across in the newspaper. The article mentioned her mysterious visitor, the note of innocence, and subsequent suicide by acid. Nothing else was ever discovered o
r written about the suicide.
And finally Hal, another odd disappearance involving a string of strange events, including his penchant for handing out violets and a mysterious woman.
The articles contained so many unanswered questions that I decided to tell the rest. As I often do, I began to write, and the story began to unfold.
For any readers who may be doubting that there were female reporters in 1900, I’ll point them to two remarkable examples: Winifred Sweet Black Bonfils was an American reporter and columnist who wrote under the pen name ‘Annie Laurie’. She is famous for staging a fainting stunt in San Francisco to expose the deplorable state of emergency services. Her efforts resulted in a major scandal and the institution of the ambulance service. In 1900, she disguised herself as a boy and was the first reporter on the scene after the Galveston Hurricane. She covered the 1906 earthquake and reported from Europe during WWI. A truly formidable woman.
Nellie Bly is another reporter of the era who feigned insanity to get herself committed and report on the asylum conditions while undercover. Her efforts resulted in massive reformations in the asylum system. I highly recommend her account of ‘Ten Days in a Madhouse’.
And lastly, I took some artistic liberties with the 1896 chateau-style Cliff House and added a floor of hotel rooms. It was not a hotel, but rather boasted eight stories of private dining rooms and lunch rooms, ballrooms, parlors, bars, a large art gallery, a gem exhibit, a photo gallery, and a reception room. It did, however, have an elevator.
About Author
Sabrina lives in perpetual fog and sunshine with a rock troll and two crazy imps. She spent her youth trailing after insanity, jumping off bridges, climbing towers, and riding down waterfalls in barrels. After spending fifteen years wrestling giant hounds and battling pint-sized tigers, she now travels everywhere via watery portals leading to anywhere.
A Bitter Draught Page 29
