Time of Fog and Fire Page 16

  “Niu,” I muttered and smiled to myself. It was so wonderful to be able to smile again. This evening I’d go to the party and ask a few discreet questions and presumably Daniel would be there, disguised again as the old professor. I had a long soak in the luxurious bathtub and was dressed for the party by five o’clock. Bella appeared soon afterward looking splendid in black lace with a silver and pearl choker at her neck and a white gardenia in her hair. In her hand she carried a large ostrich feather fan. She looked so quintessentially Spanish and yet I had been told that she was originally an East Coast American girl who married a man of Spanish descent. The exotic persona suited her well, I thought. I wondered if she would have stood out as well if she had been the widow of a Mr. John Smith.

  “How do I look?” she asked.

  “Magnificent,” I replied.

  “You are too kind.” She smiled. “I’m hoping to catch the eye of Señor Caruso. I hear he is quite one for the ladies.”

  “The ladies in the plural,” I pointed out. “You wouldn’t want to be one of many, would you?”

  “I haven’t seen him close up yet but I understand he is very handsome. San Francisco is lacking in sophisticated European gentlemen.”

  “You should move back to the East,” I said. “New York is full of sophisticated and handsome men.”

  “I could never do that,” she said quickly, then frowned and added, “but you will be able to find yourself a new husband, will you not?”

  I remembered I was supposed to be the grieving widow. I had quite forgotten. “How can I even think of that now?” I asked indignantly. “Daniel is the only man for me.”

  “Of course you feel that way now, but you are young and pretty. You will want a new man in your life, I am sure.”

  “Maybe. But let’s not even talk about it. We’ll go to the party and I’ll try to have a good time. Then you’ll watch Caruso and it will be wonderful.”

  She took my hand and patted it. “I wish you were coming, my dear. I did try to find you a ticket, but even the scalpers say that no one wants to sell to them. The event of the new century, they are calling it here.”

  Tiny came down the stairs, looking uncomfortable in a white tie and tails. “I don’t know why you want me there,” he said.

  “I might need a bodyguard if there is a riot,” Bella said. “Besides, it will do you good to acquire some culture.” And she laughed. “Go and summon the carriage.”

  “You don’t have an automobile yet,” I commented. “It seems they are becoming more popular.”

  “My dear, with hills like ours can you imagine trying to climb them in an automobile? There have already been occasions when engines have cut out at the wrong moment and the automobile has slid backward to destruction. Give me a reliable horse any day.”

  The carriage arrived, Tiny helped us inside, and off we went, a few yards up the hill to the Crocker mansion. If Bella’s party had been glittering, it was certainly overdazzled by this: a magnificent ballroom—ablaze with electric light—with a small orchestra playing in one corner. A fountain of champagne played in the middle. An endless stream of waiters in smart black jackets brought around trays of tiny vol-au-vents, crab claws, oysters, minute lamb chops. At least I wouldn’t have to eat dinner when I went home, I decided. The room was already quite full and I looked around for Daniel. I felt a wave of disappointment when I didn’t see him. But I did notice Mr. Douglas, standing close to the bar with a glass of whiskey in his hand. Now was my chance. I squeezed through the crowd to him.

  “Good evening, Mr. Douglas.”

  He looked up from his contemplation. “Mrs. Sullivan. Good to see you again. Are you ready for the night of the century?”

  “Alas I won’t be attending. I don’t have a ticket,” I said.

  “I imagine there are many men in this room who would willingly give you theirs, only their wives won’t let them.” He smiled.

  “You are not married yourself?” I asked.

  “I was.” The smile faded. “She died in childbirth ten years ago. That was when I decided to leave old and bitter memories and come out West. I’ve done well for myself.”

  “You certainly have, from what I’ve been told. How did you manage it?”

  He smiled again. “The Scots are naturally frugal. I worked on a ranch here. I found out how things are done. I saved my money, bought a small plot, and started growing fruit. That’s when I found there was an insatiable market for peaches and soft fruit. I made money and bought up more land. Some of it was considered useless marsh, but I drained it, built dykes, and now it’s the best soil you can imagine.”

  “So how did you know about soil?” I asked. “Did you live on a farm in Scotland? Exactly where in Scotland did you come from?”

  “Nae, lassie. I didn’t come from the land. My father ran a pub in Glasgow,” he said.

  “Really? Where exactly in Glasgow? One of our best friends in New York is from that city.”

  “Near the Gorbals. Not the part of the city your friend would have ventured to. That’s why I got out of it as soon as I could. Made my way to Canada, then heard about California and came here.”

  “So you were never in New York, or any of the East Coast cities?”

  “Never was. Toronto, then Winnipeg. Can’t say I’ve ever enjoyed big cities.”

  “They say you’re having a house built closer to the ocean than this.”

  “Aye.” His face lit up. “You should see the view from up there. Nothing around me and the Bay and ocean at my feet. If you’re staying on, I’d be happy to motor you out to see it.”

  “I’m not sure how long I’ll be here,” I said. “I just have a couple of loose ends to tie up and then I’ll be going home. There’s nothing to keep me here any longer.”

  “I understand, lassie,” he said. “The world seems empty and pointless, doesn’t it? It felt that way when my wife died. And the bairn. Hard work. That’s what you need. Make yourself too tired to brood.”

  “Thank you. I will,” I said, as a noisy group of young people swept past us to the bar.

  I took a glass of champagne I was offered and moved away. Mr. Douglas had come across to me as completely genuine and I was sure that the story of his wife’s death was real. It would be easy enough to check ships’ manifests, as well as records across Canada. But I would have to tell Daniel he was barking up the wrong tree. Another idea came to me. I came back to Mr. Douglas, who was now standing with General Funston. I hadn’t realized until I stood beside him what a small man the general was. No taller than I. And yet he was the one who’d waged such a successful war in the Philippines. Mr. Douglas introduced me and the general bowed. “We met last night at Mrs. Rodriguez’s, although we had no chance to converse. So how do you like San Francisco, Mrs. Sullivan? Do they have such parties where you come from?”

  “I live in New York, and I’m sure they have such parties, but I am not among the Four Hundred who are the elite in society and thus not invited to them. But you yourself, General, how do you enjoy California? I take it you are not from here?”

  “Born in Ohio, raised in Kansas,” he said. “And I have to confess that my quarters at the Presidio are decidedly cold and damp after the sweltering heat of Manila. I’m a man of action, Mrs. Sullivan. I feel myself champing at the bit here.”

  “Waiting for the next war, General?” Mr. Douglas asked.

  “You could say that.” The general grinned.

  I looked around the room, deliberately staring at the chandeliers, the silk wallpaper, the sheer opulence of it all. “It’s hard to believe that Crocker was a self-made man,” I said. “This is all truly magnificent.”

  “It is quite impressive,” General Funston agreed, “although to one used to Spartan army conditions I find it almost overwhelming. I’m told there’s nothing in San Francisco that money can’t buy.”

  “And I hear that most wealthy people in San Francisco are self-made,” I said.

  The general nodded. “So I’ve been tol
d. Railroads and silver, isn’t it?”

  “Are there still chances to make millions?” I asked. “Any new gold or silver rushes? Any new millionaires arriving in the city?”

  “I don’t know about silver rushes,” Funston said. “But still plenty of chances to make money here, I’d wager. Shipping to the Orient and now more trade with the Philippines, and pineapples coming from Hawaii. We’re the gateway to the world here.”

  “So is anyone else building a house like yours outside the city center, Mr. Douglas?” I asked.

  “Not yet. I expect they will when they see my situation and my view. There’s no more land to build on Nob Hill. The city will have to spread out toward the ocean.”

  “But much of that land is sand, isn’t it? Do you think they can build on sand dunes?” the general asked.

  “They could create a park on sand dunes, so why not build houses,” Douglas said.

  I tried another tactic, looking around the room. “Presumably you must know everybody here,” I said. “The Four Hundred in New York all know each other.”

  “San Francisco is not like that,” Mr. Douglas said. “People come and go all the time. It’s a convenient stopover from the Orient.”

  I gave a little sigh. Of course this was something we had not considered. Daniel’s land fraud perpetrator could merely have stopped over in San Francisco on his way to points East. He might only have been in the city a few days and was now long gone. In which case the reason Daniel was pushed over a cliff was entirely to do with the corruption charges being brought against the city fathers, and I was standing in a room full of them. Against one wall I saw Mayor Schmitz throwing back his head in laughter as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Even City Attorney Ruef was smiling at the joke. I didn’t know which one of them had ordered Daniel to be followed but if the federal government wanted to bring corruption charges, then this was a dangerous place. I looked around once more, hoping that Daniel might still arrive, but I couldn’t see him.

  “I was hoping to meet your friendly priest and the funny old Irishman again,” I said when Bella came up to me.

  “I should think last night was a bit much for the poor old boy,” she said. “That nasty cough—I hope he doesn’t come down with pneumonia. And…” she paused, looking around the room, “I hope he doesn’t cough during Caruso’s performance.”

  “It looks as if people are already leaving for the opera house,” I said. “Would you like me to walk back to your house? It really isn’t far.”

  “Walk? Of course not. I’ll have the carriage take you first then come back for us. Tiny?”

  She looked around in annoyance and spotted him standing at the bar, looking morose and out of place. “Tiny! The carriage for Mrs. Sullivan.”

  He went, probably glad to escape from the room.

  Bella smiled. “Poor Tiny. How he’ll hate the opera.”

  The carriage arrived and I slipped away without seeking out Mr. Crocker to thank him for the party. I doubt if he noticed I was there in the first place. We went a few short yards down the hill and the coachman helped me out. Francis was waiting at the front door.

  “Do you require dinner, Missy Sullivan?” he asked.

  “I don’t. Thank you, Francis,” I said. “I ate enough canapés at the party.”

  “Then I go take my dinner with Ellen in kitchen,” he said.

  “Please do. I need nothing else,” I said. “I may read for a while in the octagon room and then go to bed.”

  “You want me to bring you drink first?”

  “Oh, no, thank you. Go and enjoy your dinner, Francis.”

  “Thank you, Missy Sullivan,” he said. “If you want drink, you find on sideboard in drawing room.”

  I nodded, took off my wrap, and went through to the octagon room. I looked for the newspaper but couldn’t find it. Probably it had already been cleared away. There was just a possibility that it had been taken to one of the other rooms. I wandered first into the dining room, then into a library, then the drawing room. In the latter the sideboard, well stocked with decanters and bottles, caught my eye. I had hardly sipped my champagne at the reception and decided that a small glass of brandy might be settling to my stomach after the rich fare. I found the decanter, poured myself a little, and started to carry it back to the octagon room. I suppose I could have sat in the drawing room, but the smaller room felt less overpowering.

  As I crossed the hall on my way back my nose picked up a whiff of scent—the faintest whiff of the unpleasantly sickly smell of Señor Garcia’s pomade still lingered. I stood alone in the hall, realizing I was alone in the big, empty house apart from the servants somewhere in their quarters at the back. And an idea came to me. I could take this chance to search for Daniel’s bag. It could have been disposed of, but if not, where might it be hidden? Was there an attic? I knew there was a cellar because I had seen …

  I realized at that moment that I was standing close to the cellar door. I opened it and was relieved that there was an electric light switch, even down here. Such an efficient and modern house! I placed my brandy glass on the top step then tiptoed down the stairs. The cellar was full of the normal jumble one stores away—packing cases, broken lamps, cleaning materials … and in one corner a small brown leather suitcase. I opened it with trembling hands. The loud click echoed around the cellar. It was Daniel’s all right. I lifted out various items of his clothing and shaving equipment, puzzled. Why had Bella claimed the police had taken it away? Unless she didn’t know it was still here. Maybe Ellen or Tiny had taken it down to the cellar without Bella’s knowledge. I reached the bottom of the case and found nothing suspicious. Nothing that would have raised a red flag to anybody. Then, when I went to replace Daniel’s neatly folded shirt, a piece of paper fell out onto the dusty floor. I picked it up. It was a photograph of a fine figure of a man in Western garb and a cowboy hat standing at the gateway to a ranch. He had an impressive mustache and from the way he stood and smiled at the camera he was feeling very pleased with himself. He was holding the bridle of a horse in one hand and his other arm was around a woman. She was a mousy little thing, skinny and bony, wearing an apron over a plain cotton dress, clearly uncomfortable having her photograph taken as she was looking away from him at the ground. It was hard to tell whether she was his wife, sister, or mother.

  And on the back of the picture someone had written, Douglas and Lizzy Hatcher, Texas 1889.

  Hurriedly I stuffed it into my skirt pocket and searched the case for more such pictures, but found nothing. I replaced the suitcase, realizing that I should not give any hint that I was anything other than the grieving widow. I was about to creep back up from the cellar when I caught another whiff of that obnoxious perfume. What could Señor Garcia have been doing down here?

  I started to poke around, my nose trying to pick up where the smell was most potent. There were trunks and valises stacked against the far wall. My nose wrinkled as the smell was at its strongest here. Most unpleasant, in fact. Cautiously I opened one of the trunks and let out a small gasp of surprise. It was full of money. Hundreds and hundreds of bills of various denominations. Hurriedly I closed it again. Then I opened the trunk beside it and found myself staring down at Señor Garcia’s lifeless body.

  Twenty-one

  I put my hand to my mouth to stifle my gasp. Señor Garcia had been stuffed into the trunk like a rag doll. His eyes were wide and bulging. His mouth was open in surprise. The scent of his pomade was sickly sweet and overpowering. I closed the trunk again with a shudder. I had to get out of here immediately. I tiptoed up the stairs, listened for a long moment, then turned off the electric light switch and opened the door, an inch at a time. Nothing moved. There was no sound except for the heavy ticktock of the grandfather clock across the hall beside the drawing room. I retrieved my brandy glass, came out of the cellar, and shut the door carefully behind me, trying to make no sound as I lowered the latch into place. I had only gone a few steps across the hall when I heard the slap of Chines
e slippers and there was Francis coming up behind me.

  “Missy Sullivan? You need something? We hear you walking around,” he said, his face expressionless as always.

  I smiled. “No, thank you, Francis. I just went to help myself to a little brandy to settle my stomach. The food at that party was rather rich. I think I’ll take it up to my room and read up there.”

  “Very good,” he said and watched me walk up the stairs.

  Did he know I’d been down to the cellar? In which case was I liable to end up like Señor Garcia? I must let Daniel know immediately. He would know what to do and could decide whether to go to the police. But Daniel was at the opera with the rest of San Francisco. I could not send a message to him until morning. In the meantime I would play the innocent and watch my back. Since I had no idea why Bella or anyone in her household might want Señor Garcia dead I had no way of judging whether I might be in mortal danger. Just in case I locked my door.

  I undressed and curled up in my bed. After the initial shock had worn off I started to see the complicated nature of our predicament. How could Daniel go to the police, when he was supposed to be dead and buried? And if he did reveal that he had survived, who exactly might not be pleased to learn that news? For all we knew he might become a convenient suspect in Garcia’s murder. In the morning I’d tell Bella that we had decided to return home immediately. I’d pack up our things and take Liam across to Oakland, where I’d send Daniel a message to join us as soon as he could. Then we’d be safely on the next train heading East and Daniel could choose whether to tip off the police about Señor Garcia’s murder or not.

  I drifted off to sleep and half awoke at the sound of a carriage coming to a halt outside, then Bella’s animated voice floating up to my French windows. I had left them unlocked, just in case Daniel chose that way to visit again. Bella was laughing merrily as I heard the front door slam, the footsteps coming up the stairs, past my door. They did not pause but went on down the hallway.