The Bohemian Murders (6 page)

Hettie was to be gone for six months, so at least until July my schedule would be as follows: In the mornings I generally would be at the lighthouse, doing all the paperwork associated with the keeper’s job—the log; the ordering and monitoring of supplies; recording the hours worked by Quincy and his occasional helpers; accounting for the ingress and egress of monies; and so on. In the afternoons I would go to my office in town, from noon until about three-thirty. Though I would of course have liked to stay at the office longer, I did not feel I could ask Quincy to take the hourly watch past four o’clock. And since I was a whiz at the lighthouse paperwork, I could spend the occasional morning away without much harm done.

It was just after eleven-thirty when I returned from Carmel and checked in with Quincy, who told me about the logging schooner that had entered the bay from the north during the last hour. I thanked him and went up to the watch room, where I added the schooner to the “Comments” section of the log. Everything observed on the bay—traffic in or out, sightings of marine animals, any unusual event—had to be recorded there. Such as the drowned woman, I thought on my way back downstairs.

Much good I’d been able to do her, I reflected while making myself a sandwich of bread and cheese for lunch. I wondered if anyone had reported her missing. And if not, how the police would proceed to make an
identification. Perhaps they would have a photograph taken of the good side of her face, publish it in the newspaper. That’s what I would have done.…

Not being as fond as Hettie apparently was of milk straight from her spotted cows, I helped myself to some of Quincy’s coffee. He is a coffee fiend, it is his one indulgence, and he keeps a pot of coffee on the stove in the lighthouse kitchen all day. This stove is a black iron thing that positively eats wood and looks as if it has been there since the lighthouse opened half a century ago; I couldn’t cook on it to save myself. But then, I am not much of a cook in any circumstance.
Why oh why did I ask Misha to dinner?

“I just won’t think about it,” I said briskly; “what’s done is done,” And in short order I finished my sandwich and set out walking to my office, just over a mile’s distance, in downtown Pacific Grove.

FREMONT JONES TYPEWRITING SERVICES
: My sign, a portable one that has graced several different working arrangements since the earthquake, now hangs in a window on Grand Avenue, between Lighthouse Avenue and the main street, which is appropriately called Central. I smiled when I saw it and my heart gave a little leap of gladness. How good to be in business again, even if only for a few hours a day!

The office is quite different from my first one, which was on Sacramento Street in San Francisco and burned right after the earthquake. This one is smaller but somehow has more personality. The building itself is brick, rather narrow, two-and-a-half stories tall. My office is located on the ground floor; what is over my head, I am not sure, as I have not yet seen the occupant nor heard anyone moving about. My door opens onto the sidewalk; right next to it is a window so wide it takes up almost all the rest of the storefront. Inside, the ceiling is high, providing a sense of spaciousness that offsets the sparse square footage.

I furnished this office quite economically with used household furniture from a shop in Monterey. Furniture
designed for offices proved to be entirely too pricey. So my “desk” is an old library table, and my typewriter stand is an end table cut down to the right height. File folders reside beneath the desk in a wooden milk crate I begged from the dairy on Point Pinos because it happened to be the right size. Supplies are stashed on the shelves of an old bookcase, the kind with glass doors that drop down to keep out the dust; much of the glass has been cracked and mended with adhesive tape. Two undistinguished straight chairs have cheerful yellow cushions tied onto their hard seats. The pièce de résistance is my new Royal typewriter, which has a moving carriage and a little bell that dings when you have reached the end of the line and must perform the carriage return.

Filled with pride of possession I uncovered the typewriter, then went to the window and flipped over a card that says
OPEN
on one side and
CLOSED
on the other. Since the day had turned so fine, I left the door open. A breeze wafted by, bearing scents of salt and kelp. The streets were quiet; Pacific Grove is nearly always quiet. But compared with the lighthouse on Point Pinos, the little town was abuzz with activity. Traffic sounds were like music to my oft-isolated ears.

I waved at the man who tends the photography shop across the street. He ignored me, as usual. I presume he is one of those people who believe a woman has no place in business—the world is full of them. I pay such folks no mind. With a smile for extra measure I turned my back on him and proceeded to the typewriter.

Business was far from brisk, but most days a few customers trickled in. I had two letters to type from yesterday afternoon, so I got right to it. I was completely absorbed in the second one, trying to decipher the author’s endlessly inventive and sometimes amusing misspellings, when I sensed another presence. I looked up.

A man stood in the doorway, a distinguished older gentleman who was yet by no means
old.
His hair was so silvery it glistened in the sun. His skin, contrastingly, was tanned, suggesting that he must spend a good deal of time outdoors. He wore a black-and-gray-pinstripe vested suit, a white shirt with a starched collar, and a
black tie. In one long-fingered hand he held a black top hat by the brim.

I smiled and said, “Good afternoon.”

His face was all the more handsome for its lines of experience. But he did not return my smile. He said, “So it’s true, then, what I heard.”

“
I
beg your pardon?” I said.

“Braxton Furnival, at your service,” he said with something between a nod and a bow of his silvery head. “May I come in?”

“If you have business, Mr. Furnival, by all means.” I stood up behind my typewriter. I was wishing that I had placed the library table/desk out in the room instead of against the wall, so that I might shelter behind it. On the other hand, I hate the fact that I have become so suspicious of people—even if his initial remark was odd enough to merit it.

He advanced, turning the brim of his hat in his hands. “At the moment I’m merely curious, but I may have
business after we have talked. You are, I take it, Fremont Jones?”

He kept eye contact; his gaze did not roam up and down my body. I counted that a good sign and relaxed a bit. “I am indeed. Will you take a seat, Mr. Furnival?”

He was so large and long-limbed that he quite dwarfed the yellow-cushioned chair. Seemingly at his ease, he crossed one ankle on top of the other knee. His socks were black with silver clocks. Now came the smile. “I heard Hettie’s replacement over to the lighthouse was a woman with a kind of odd name, and that this woman keeps a business afternoons in town. So I came to see for myself.”

“I’m replacing Mrs. Houck on a temporary basis only. Typewriting is my main business, which I will pursue full-time after she returns to the lighthouse in July. Provided, of course, that there is sufficient need for my services here.”

“I see. Are you any good?”

There was a certain roguishness to the question, and a roughness in general about Mr. Braxton Furnival, in spite of his excellent clothes. I rather liked him—but then, I have always liked older men. So I did not take offense but answered with a touch of roguishness myself, “Yes, I am. Quite good.”

He laughed and slapped his knee. “A female with spirit, and good-looking too! By thunder, I’ll take you on.”

“If by that you mean you have something for me to type, I’ll be glad to look it over. Do you have the material with you?”

“Nope. I’ve got me a secretary, but he don’t do typewriting.”

“What sort of business are you in, Mr. Furnival?”

“Land, my dear. Land. I’m the man on the spot for the Cypress Coast Company.” This announcement pleased him; he grinned, put both feet on the floor, and tipped his chair back, lacing his fingers across a broad but tight belly.

“On the spot?” I inquired.

“Del Monte Forest. I live out there, keep an eye on
things, participate in development plans, that kind of stuff.”

“So presumably you might have reports to type, and correspondence?”

“Yep. Where you from, m’dear?”

The question was personal but I was determined to keep this conversation on a professional basis, so I replied, “My previous business was in San Francisco. I can, however, provide you with local references since I have been at work in this location for several weeks. I’m sure you’ll find the quality of my typewriting satisfactory.”

He shot me a knowing look and nodded his head a few times. I interpreted this to mean that he had received my subtle message. “I’m sure I will,” he said as he reached out and plucked his hat from the end of the desk where he’d placed it. He put the hat on his head, adjusted the brim to his satisfaction, and stood up with his right hand extended.

I rose and joined in a brisk handshake. He was a head and more taller than I, although I am tall for a woman.

“Fremont Jones. Fremont’s a famous name in these parts. Do you mind my asking—”

“Not at all,” I broke in, although in truth I could not help being tired of it. “John Charles Frémont was a distant relation. Fremont was my mother’s maiden name.”

“Oh. That explains it, then.”

He lingered and I waited, though my feet were feeling a bit fidgety beneath my skirt. I did have work to get on with.

“Lots of folks around here didn’t have much use for him, you know. Frémont, I mean. Hope that’s not causing you no trouble.”

“Not at all, Mr. Furnival. I quite understand. John Charles Frémont seems to have been a person whom other people either liked very much or disliked with equal intensity. No one felt neutral about him. It was the same in Mother’s family. He was something of a black sheep, and his wife, Jessie, was not mentioned at all. However I have always admired them both and wish I could have known them.” I gestured toward my typewriter. “Now, if you’ll excuse me …”

“I see. You got work to do. Well, one of these days soon I’ll be back with some work for you, Miss Fremont Jones.” A few long-legged strides took him to the door, but there he turned back. “Or is it Mrs. Jones? You wouldn’t be a widow by any chance, and you so young?”

Naturally he assumed I would not have a living husband and be working. I knew it was unreasonable to be irritated—anyone would have assumed the same; nevertheless my throat felt tight as I said, “I am unmarried and self-supporting, Mr. Furnival. Good day.”

On the way back to the lighthouse I stopped at the tobacconist’s shop, where one may also buy newspapers and magazines, and obtained a copy of the afternoon paper, which is called
The Wave.
Once I had smiled and nodded my way through the most populous part of town—that is to say, up to Pacific Street—I unfolded the paper and scanned headlines as I walked. I turned page after page, every so often hefting the strap of my bag up higher on my shoulder.

So assiduously did I search through the paper that I was unaware of entering the wood until relative darkness among the trees made the newsprint difficult to decipher.

“Oh, botheration!” I swore, pages rattling as I folded
The Wave
without attention to neatness. Various woodland creatures, startled by my noisiness, ceased their chattering and scampering. The wood became unnaturally quiet. A chill slithered down my spine, feeling like a premonition, in spite of the fact that I am not the least bit superstitious.

“Why?” I didn’t realize I had spoken aloud until I heard the word resound through the silent wood. Even my footsteps on the sandy dirt trail made scarcely a sound. Why, I reiterated silently, was there nothing at all in the newspaper about the Poor Drowned Woman?

I was beginning to think of her in capitals, as if that were her proper name. Surely there should at least have been a simple report that the body of a woman had been brought from the bay by the men of the ocean rescue.
The ocean rescuers are local heroes; therefore one would assume their actions to be newsworthy.

I quickened my steps, with the consequence that grit from the sandy road worked its way between my shoes and stockings. The price of living near the beach! No matter; the sooner I got to the lighthouse, the sooner I could give
The Wave
a thorough perusal. Some sort of article had to be there. I told myself as I hurried along that the lack of a photograph was a good sign. Probably someone had already identified the unfortunate woman.

I came out of the wood to discover that there was more than one source of the gloom that had stopped my reading. The day was clouding over, and not with simple fog. A massive dark gray cloudbank rose up from the south, spreading so fast that its progress could be seen with the naked eye.