Midnight Harvest (54 page)

I am still amazed that this Lord Weldon should make such a generous offer. The money promised is beyond our current expectations regarding income, but now that there are people coming to Reno for gambling, we resort owners around Tahoe are seeing the first signs that this region might also enjoy something of a surge in business. If Lord Weldon does not mind waiting for at least a decade to see any significant return on his investment then I hope to justify his faith in Ponderosa Lodge.

While I realize the autonomy clause does not require it, I will keep complete records of all repairs, improvements, and additions to Ponderosa Lodge and I’ll be happy to present him notarized copies of any and all of these records if he should ever wish to review them. And in any case, I will keep you informed of any and all changes undertaken here.

Please extend my gratitude to Lord Weldon, and assure him he will always be welcome here. I look forward to the day I can shake his hand and give him a full tour of the place. The same goes for you; if you should ever wish for a Sierra vacation, I will reserve my best cabin for you and your family.

Sincerely yours,

(Mrs.) Enid Curtis

chapter two

Carlo Pietragnelli was waiting in the circular driveway, an umbrella raised over his head as Saint-Germain brought the Pierce-Arrow to a halt and got out. “Thank God and all the Saints! Pieta di me!” he exclaimed. “Grazie, grazie, Signor Ragoczy. And you, Signor Rogers.”

“What on earth is wrong?” Ragoczy asked as he hurried into the shelter of the porch, his raincoat flapping around him, Rogerio a foot behind him. It was not quite noon, and the weather was early February foul, spitting rain on gusts of cutting, icy winds interspersed with twenty-minute stretches of drenching downpour; the storm had arrived shortly after midnight and was expected to linger for three days. “We left as soon as you called.”

“It’s my neighbor, Hiro Yoshimura. You met him, if you will recollect.” He was hastening to open the front door.

“Yes; the Japanese fanner,” said Saint-Germain, shaking the water from his hat “What is the trouble, for I assume there must be trouble. You said the situation was urgent.”

“He’s dead,” said Pietragnelli, and crossed himself.

“How?” Saint-Germain asked, shocked by this announcement.

Pietragnelli took a deep breath and launched into his account as if afraid to stop. “It was the White Legion, of course. It had to have been. They have been after him, and the rest of us, for months. But Yoshimura had the brunt of it This time they struck directly, and worse, far worse than before. He was beaten early yesterday evening, between five and six, from what we can establish. His hands left at five and I found him—he was supposed to come by for supper, and when he didn’t arrive and there was no answer on his telephone, I went to his farm—a short while after six. It had to happen in that time he was alone. Thank God it wasn’t raining, for that would have chilled Yoshimura, to say nothing of what the mud might have done. When I got to his farm, I searched his house, and discovered he wasn’t in it, so I looked more widely—chicken coops, duck pond, the storage shed—and finally came upon him by the pump-house, blood everywhere, and three of his chickens, out of the coop, were beginning to peck at him. He was not really conscious, just moaning. It was hideous. There was blood coming out of his nose and ears. I got him into my car and drove him into Santa Rosa, to the hospital.” His eyes filled with tears. “He was not himself most of the time, saying little bits of things, and then fading out; I didn’t understand most of it—it must have been in Japanese. From the cursory examination I did before I lifted him into my backseat, I was sure he had a broken arm, and ribs, and bruises everywhere, but that wasn’t the worst of it: he had a terrible injury on the side of his head.”

“When did he die?” Saint-Germain asked, his voice as kindly as his question was blunt.

“Around eight this morning; the hospital called me just as I was going out the door to start the morning chores; I start late in the winter and early in the summer. And it was raining, and Mrs. Barringstone hadn’t come to work yet; she was waiting for the school bus with her children, down at the front gate. The nurse who called told me that the doctor worked on him all night, and when he was as patched up as they could make him, they put a nurse on duty to watch him, which is the best they can do for anyone. He stopped breathing, and that was the end of it. I called you as soon as I heard, and then I called Will Sutton and told him that he and the sheriff have to do something; he was shocked to hear about this. And doubtless he isn’t the only one, the word is all over the area, thanks to our telephone operator Of all of them, Violet is the worst, and she has been on duty this morning, which is the same as issuing a public announcement. She listens in to everything, and passes it on whenever anyone makes a call. I know she heard the hospital’s report, and mine to you and Will Sutton, and that would be enough for her to start telling all the subscribers on the line.” He made a gesture to ward off the Evil Eye before he dropped into the nearest chair in the parlor. “I was so sure we had them on the run. They had stopped coming into Geyserville to recruit, and I thought that meant progress.”

“You mean the White Legion?” Saint-Germain asked, wanting to be sure he was following Pietragnelli.

“Yes. Not even the Leonardis were making a show of themselves, and I thought that was a good sign.” He sighed. “You should have seen what they did to him. I was almost sick when I found him. He had broken skin on his hands and face, and all that blood…”

“I know this must be a great loss to you,” said Saint-Germain. “He was your friend.”

“It was the White Legion. Yoshimura said it, but only I heard him; the doctor didn’t bother asking him who had hurt him; he was too busy trying to treat his injuries and once they gave him an injection for the pain, he didn’t say anything. It might be good medicine, but it was irresponsible. They could have waited long enough to hear him name the Leonardis, or the White Legion. They didn’t let me stay with him more than half-an-hour, while they got information about him and what had happened, though I said I was willing to stay there. They told me to go home. I’m not a relative, and that made it wrong for me to be with him,” Pietragnelli exclaimed, then ducked his head and lowered his voice. “I think I should call his wife and family.”

“The hospital will do that,” said Rogerio, certain they had already done so.

“I still should call them; I know them slightly, and I was with him; they will want to know how it was; I can tell them,” said Pietragnelli. “They must be suffering just now. I ought to tell them about what happened.”

“And what was that; do you know?” Saint-Germain asked gently. “You found him, beaten and half-conscious. Will that give them any solace?”

“I know more than that: I know that the White Legion came and beat him again, of course. They wanted him out of the area, along with many of us. It isn’t just that he’s Japanese; they’re after others. I told you about it. And the more I look into it, the more I think it’s a land-grab, because when someone leaves, a member of the White Legion takes over the property for a smidgen of its value,” said Pietragnelli, growing angry as he spoke. “I spent some time in the County Clerk’s office, looking up deed transfers, and there’s a real pattern, if you take the time to look for it. I don’t know who among them did this, but I know the Leonardi boys are behind this particular attack, not only because they don’t like anyone not white enough for them, they want to expand their family holdings again, and this is a good way to do it.”

“Do you think this will bring the Yoshimuras any comfort?” Saint-Germain kept his voice level and there was sympathy in his dark eyes. “Or will it make their burden greater.”

“It will tell them who is responsible,” Pietragnelli insisted, paying no attention to his tears. “They will want to know that.”

“They will, in time, and beyond all cavil.” Saint-Germain pulled up a straight-backed chair and faced Pietragnelli. “Is your assertion actual knowledge or reasonable conjecture?”

“Who else would do it? Oh, there are many who are not happy about the Orientals coming here, but none of them would go so far as to kill, except the White Legion. Why should I doubt what is so obvious?” Pietragnelli asked. “I know what’s going on. They painted his mailbox yellow four times in the last six weeks, and they’ve named him among those they plan to drive out. I’m on their list, as well.”

“Being on a list, no matter how disgusting, isn’t proof they killed Yoshimura,” said Saint-Germain, thinking of the many times he had been on lists, and what repercussion they had had. “It means that he knew he was in danger, and so did many others. His wife must be aware of that, too. But how can you accuse the White Legion, or the Leonardis, with only that to go on? He could have been killed by someone else who took advantage of the threats to act, confident that any investigation would turn toward the White Legion first.” He had experienced more than one such attack, the worst sixteen centuries ago; the criminal who had tried to kill him had almost got away with his deed because no one but Saint-Germain suspected him.

“That’s very unlikely,” said Pietragnelli.

“Yes it is, but it’s not impossible. This isn’t a time to embroider the truth, for it will only cloud the work to be done. Did Yoshimura say who it was? Did he identify the Leonardis specifically?” Saint-Germain waited for Pietragnelli’s answer, aware it was a difficult one.

“No,” he said at last. “He said it was the White Legion. He said there were two of them and they wore hoods, with a chess knight on them, just as they have on all their pamphlets.”

“They could be recognized, which means Yoshimura must have known them on sight,” Rogerio said. “The hoods prevented recognition.”

“So I think. I am sure Yoshimura knew his assailants. And the Leonardis have been the most vocal of those speaking against Yoshimura.” Pietragnelli buried his head in his hands. “I brought this on him. It is my fault, mine.”

“How do you come to that?” Saint-Germain inquired.

“I was the one who made him stay and fight. I said I could lend him protection. I promised him that we would put an end to the White Legion in Sonoma County.” He had begun to weep. “Oh, God. I should have seen this coming. I could have prevented it.”

“You did send guards to him, didn’t you?” Saint-Germain knew the answer. “You had men keep watch on his farm. He was aware of the danger.” It was no comfort, and he knew it. “But it is a terrible loss.”

“And it is on my soul,” said Pietragnelli heavily.

“I hope not, for it is not your burden,” said Saint-Germain, continuing, “Would you like to talk to a priest about this?”

“What good would that do? Neither Father Boncuore nor Father Bryce like Orientals. They would tell me to pray, and I can do that without their help.” He shook his head. “No. I am accountable for this, and no amount of Ave Marias will change that. I encouraged Hiro to stand against the White Legion. Had he gone to his wife in South San Francisco, he would still be alive: I persuaded him to stay.”

Saint-Germain regarded Pietragnelli compassionately. “If you had sent the White Legion to attack him, then I might agree with you, but you took reasonable measures to prevent just this kind of brutality, and that should absolve you of all blame.”

Rogerio took it upon himself to build up the fire, for the room was chilly and the logs in the fireplace were almost reduced to ashes. He used the poker to break down the charred wood, then reached into the copper washtub, where wood was stacked, took three sections of a split oak trunk and laid them on the glowing embers, fanning the wood with yesterday’s newspaper. He sat back on his heels and waited for the logs to catch, the poker resting on his knees in case the logs needed to be shifted.

“You are a kind man, Signor Ragoczy, and you are seeking to cheer me,” said Pietragnelli. “But I know what I know, and nothing you tell me can change that. I was the one who took up the challenge. Those who joined me did so at my instigation. Yoshimura has paid for my recklessness and I must answer for it. He defied the White Legion because I convinced him to.” He rubbed his face to wipe away his tears. “And it is for me to see that justice is done. If I fail in that, then I am truly among the damned.”

“I think you may be too severe; you need not make yourself the villain of the piece. If you heap disdain upon yourself, you may alleviate some of your self-imposed guilt, but it will do little to gain justice for Yoshimura, or to bring any of his attackers to answer in a court of law. If, on the other hand, you are determined to bring his attackers in, you may wish to find a way to accomplish your ends that will also bring respect to Yoshimura’s memory,” Saint-Germain proposed at his most bracing.

“And how am I to do this?” Pietragnelli wondered aloud. “I am at a stand-still.”

“Making accusations without strong foundations will not do it,” Saint-Germain observed, knowing how much Pietragnelli felt the need to do something to help his murdered neighbor. “You may vent your spleen, but it will not bring about the ends you seek. You have to have proof that the White Legion is responsible.”

“But I
know
they must have done it,” Pietragnelli protested.

“I do not doubt you, but a court of law would have to, and once the culprits are tried, if they are acquitted, they cannot be tried again, even if their guilt is shown beyond all question.” He saw Pietragnelli prepare to argue. “That is the law in this country, and it will prevail. You know that as well as I, if not better. If you seek to circumvent it, you will be doing the very thing you deplore.” Saint-Germain waited until he had all Pietragnelli’s attention, and then he went on, “Have you any evidence—not supposition or conviction, but evidence—that the Leonardis were the ones responsible for killing Yoshimura?”

“No,” Pietragnelli admitted, adding, “but there was a note in my mailbox this morning. It said
you’re next,
with a skull-and-crossbones at the bottom of the page, and a chess knight. That, I believe, identifies the Leonardis.”