Josiah's Treasure (6 page)

Sarah couldn’t imagine a more unlikely outcome. “Not him. I think he needs the money to go along with the abundance of vengefulness he already possesses. His coat was a little threadbare.”

“Well.” Lottie’s pale eyebrows perked. “If he does need money, maybe we can buy him off.”

The shocking suggestion made Sarah grin. “Never in a million years, Charlotte Samuelson, did I imagine you would suggest we bribe someone.” She shook her head. “I don’t have the sort of funds to buy him off. Not when he stands to gain thousands of dollars from Josiah’s estate.”

“You never know, Sarah. Perhaps a few hundred dollars will be sufficient.”

Would it? It might be worth a try. “Perhaps. I do have some money coming to me from two paintings I put up for sale . . .” Money she had intended for repairs at the shop that were proving to be more expensive than her budget had allocated; she’d also been hoping that any money left over from the sale would allow her to buy each of the girls a second new dress to go with the ones she’d already ordered. The dresses would have to wait and the repairs as well, unless she could sell more of her work and soon. Or wrangle another loan from someone. “The sale of those
paintings isn’t going to get me an amount anywhere near a few hundred dollars, though.”

“We have to at least try. We must hold on to the shop. It is too important to the girls.” Lottie’s gaze held Sarah’s. “It is too important to you.”

Only Lottie knew the full story of Edouard and her past; she would understand what Sarah hoped to achieve with the girls and the shop and why.

The studio was more than important to her.

It was
everything
to her.

“Don’t worry, Lottie. I don’t plan to let go of that shop, no matter what Daniel Cady intends.”

“A fresh Imperial, sir?” The server working the Occidental’s lounging room, another skinny boy with a frizz of orange-red hair and a profusion of freckles, nodded at the glass at Daniel’s elbow. It sat three-quarters full of the sugared lemon-water concoction. Daniel had been too busy contemplating a mahogany-haired painter who answered the door in stockinged feet to remember to drink it.

“No. Thank you,” he said.

The server bent to clear it away.

“Are you new to San Francisco?” he asked the boy before he continued on his rounds.

The server gave his other customers a cursory glance. The ground-floor room was busy that afternoon, full of tourists eyeing the pedestrians passing the large plate-glass windows, their voices echoing off the marble floor, competing with the click of billiard balls from the rear parlor. Despite the crowd, the boy seemed inclined to stand and talk with Daniel. After he’d paid last evening’s waiter for information on Josiah—three dollars, as much as the daily hotel charge—Daniel would guess every server in the hotel would be content to chat with him, whoever waited for them.

“Moved here last spring, sir. Come from Kentucky. I’m the first one in my family to go anywhere more’n twenty miles beyond Washington County.” The boy’s broad grin revealed a gap where a tooth once resided.

“Too new to know anything about a Josiah Cady, then, I suppose.” Daniel didn’t expect the boy to have heard of Josiah—the fellow last night hadn’t either—but Daniel was always hopeful. The more he knew about Josiah’s dealings in San Francisco, the better Daniel could assess the extent of his father’s assets. In case Miss Whittier opted to be less than truthful about them. The first task for the San Francisco lawyer, right after the man examined Josiah’s will, would be to review his father’s bank accounts and real estate dealings. “Or a Sarah Whittier, for that matter. When they arrived in San Francisco. How much they might be worth. Any gossip at all.”

“Never heard of ’em. But Cook was born here,” he said, making the fact sound like a miraculous achievement.

“And Cook might know if, oh, there were stories about Josiah Cady arriving here with a lot of money or maybe gold from his mining operation. Gold or money he might have hidden somewhere. To avoid taxes.” Or to avoid paying his family what they’d been promised.

The server’s eyes widened. “I’ve heard about stuff like that happenin’.”

“I take it you’d be willing to ask Cook what he has heard.”

He nodded and licked his lips as Daniel reached for his money clip. “A dollar now. Two more if you bring me useful information.”

Another three-dollar investment toward his ultimate goal to obtain Josiah’s assets. Even if it meant taking the property away from Sarah Whittier.

“I’ll get right on that, sir.” The greenback disappeared into a deep pocket in the boy’s pants. “And my name’s Red, in case you’re needin’ to talk with me again.”

He trotted away. Daniel leaned into the seat cushion and
stretched out his legs. Felt a twinge of guilt.
Don’t be stupid, Daniel. Don’t feel sorry for her.

Don’t care.

“Fifty dollars?”

Sarah blinked at the proprietor of Grant’s Emporium as if he had sprouted a third eye to go along with the pair staring at her from behind wire-rimmed spectacles.

“That’s what I said, Miss Whittier,” he replied, flattening his hands on the counter that stood between them.

He’d sold her two best landscapes for only fifty dollars. The amount was a travesty. However, the San Francisco Art Association only took work on consignment and would never agree to buy paintings outright. She’d needed the money quickly in order to cover the cost of the studio repairs, forcing her to rely on Mr. Grant’s dubious ability to sell high-quality artwork. She needed even more money now.

“Fifty dollars,” she repeated, feeling a rush of panic. Hardly enough to buy off Mr. Daniel Cady, whose arrival in town had thrown more than just her budget into disarray. Lottie’s suggestion was sounding sillier by the minute.

Sarah brushed her fingers across the brooch pinned to her waist and rejected the impulse to pawn it. She never would. Not the miniature of the
Rêve d’Or
roses, the petals a blush of salmon-tinged gold, the color her mother loved so much. It was the first ivory miniature she had successfully painted and so full of memories that Sarah could feel the weight of them whenever she touched its surface. Not even for the girls would she part with the brooch.

“That is less than what you told me your customer was willing to spend, Mr. Grant. These paintings are worth far more than twenty-five dollars apiece.” Edouard had claimed Sarah had a rare gift, a true talent as an artist. He had lied to her so much,
she should reconsider whether his flattery had been a lie as well. Mr. Cady had seemed genuinely impressed, however, and he had no reason whatsoever to lie to her.

“Miss Whittier.” The proprietor’s lips settled into a grim line as he extracted a handkerchief from his inner coat pocket, removed his spectacles, and took to cleaning them. He regarded her myopically. “I do not recall giving you any particular sales figure. After all, this is not a fine arts gallery. This is a decorative arts emporium.”

Restoring his spectacles to the bridge of his nose, he waved a hand at the room, crowded with overstuffed chairs, tables, and glass cases to display his goods. A colorful collection of Japanese plant pots filled one corner. Figurines—including numerous scaled-down copies of the
Venus de Milo
—dotted every surface alongside blue and pink glass vases, fancy silver frames to hold photographs, and paper knives in mother-of-pearl and silver and carved ivory. On the walls hung Mandarin fans, though there would be better and more authentic to be found in Chinatown, and popular prints and copies of famous paintings, tags declaring their prices hanging from their gilt-edged corners. The bric-a-brac and decorations of the aspiring classes, but few original pieces of artwork and certainly no watercolors of the quality she produced. And though that was the case, Mr. Grant had assured her that he could sell her paintings for more than twenty-five apiece, even if today he had conveniently forgotten the sum.

Sarah sighed. Any amount was better than none.

“Thank you, Mr. Grant.” Nodding politely, she folded the fifty dollars and put the money in her reticule. “I’m grateful you sold them for me at all. Perhaps you would consider another?”

From off the floor at her feet, she retrieved the paper-wrapped painting of the Seal Rocks that Daniel had admired in the parlor and laid it on the counter.

Mr. Grant exhaled and peered at her through his spectacles, his eyes distorted by the glass. “How much do you want for this one?”

Sarah fixed a calm smile on her face. “I would like thirty-five. It’s one of my best pieces and a very popular subject.” Enough to pay for the repairs, but not enough to also buy dresses for the girls. Those would simply have to wait.

Mr. Grant shook his head. “Miss Whittier—”

“Don’t say no. You did sell my others quickly, and this will sell too. I’m confident.” She pushed the watercolor closer to him.

“You know, it’s not as though Leland Stanford is going to stroll in here any day soon looking for the next great landscape painting to hang in his parlor. Although I wouldn’t mind at all if he or his missus did.”

“I don’t need Leland Stanford to buy it. Just someone who wants to appear as rich and influential. I’m sure you know a few folks in town who fit that description.”

Rubbing his knuckles against his jaw, his glance moved between her and the painting. “You’ve worn me down, Miss Whittier.” He undid the string holding the paper closed and peered inside. “Very nice. I’ll put it in my front window and hope one of the Stock Exchange Board members strolls by and takes to it.”

“I would appreciate that. Good day.”

Before he changed his mind—or uttered any more quips—Sarah turned and left the shop, heading south on Kearny. She didn’t have far to go to reach her destination. Mrs. McGinnis had shown her the newspaper when Sarah had returned from Lottie’s, Daniel Cady’s name a prominent mention among recent arrivals in San Francisco. He was staying at the Occidental, one of the finest hotels in the city.

The proper place for a man who must believe he was soon going to claim a sizable chunk of money.

Having nowhere better to go that afternoon, Daniel still had his legs stretched out and his fingers intertwined atop his waist when she walked through the ground-floor doors. Reflexively, he sat up
straight. Unexpectedly, he realized he was pleased to see her. It had been a lonely eight months, searching for Josiah. He missed sociable conversation. Even with a woman who didn’t look like she’d come for a chat.

He watched her make her way through the room. She wore a blue walking outfit so lacking in ornamentation, she made the other women in the lounging area look like peacocks, with their towering feathers and cascading flounces and sweeps of pearls. The vast majority of the female occupants of the room took one look and dismissed her as irrelevant, trivial. The men looked a little longer, until they decided she was no great beauty and the street scenes beyond the windows were more interesting. To dismiss her was to overlook her greatest attribute—a spine made of steel. Who was she? If he were a betting man, he’d lay odds she was not some uncultured girl from a rough Arizona town. Sarah Whittier spoke with intelligence, could paint with exceptional skill, and carried herself with authority. She had either quickly learned how to ape her betters or was not exactly who she claimed to be.