The Bohemian Murders (17 page)
Read The Bohemian Murders Online
Authors: Dianne Day
“My life is broken,” I muttered, stacking papers so vigorously that I bent the bottom edge of one and now would be obliged to do it over, “and I shall just have to figure out how to fix it!”
Michael was staying away, out of embarrassment or regret or sheer contrariness; Phoebe had not returned to Carmel; I had written to a friend in San Francisco about Sabrina Howard over a week ago, and as yet had had no reply; and Braxton Furnival was becoming a positive pest. He was a pest I could not exterminate, however, because aside from Arthur Heyer’s and Artemisia
Vaughn’s long manuscripts, his typing business was all I had.
It was time to write out a check for my February rent on the office. Without new business, the office would not pay for itself, much less turn me a profit. Instead of putting pen to checkbook I sat staring out the window, pondering my plight. To tell the truth I was unhappy, which is quite unlike me; and indecision was making me unbearably restless. I am one of those people who would rather do something than nothing—even if that something is the wrong thing, as in my own case it frequently turns out to be.
I thought of circulating a new flyer advertising my business. Thought of dropping my rate to seven cents a page. Thought of taking out an advertisement in the newspapers in both Monterey and Pacific Grove. None of these felt like the right thing to do, they felt like throwing away money—of which I had precious little.
“Think, Fremont,” I exhorted myself, “analyze!”
It seemed to me that people around here were too set in their ways, or perhaps they were merely satisfied with the status quo—at any rate, many had tried my typewriting once and then failed to return. This could not be due to the quality of my work, for I turn out a neat presentation even if I do say so myself, and I guarantee my work to be 100 percent accurate or I will do it over free of charge. Therefore the problem had to be either that they did not like
me,
which was a bit bothersome to consider, or they just did not see the point of paying to have something typewritten when they could do it themselves by hand.
Oh dear, I thought, beginning to face the inevitable; then I put a sign on the door,
BACK IN HALF AN HOUR
, and walked the few blocks down to Lovers Point. I walked past the public bathhouse and the Japanese tea house, out to the rocks, along the way disconsolately trailing my skirts in the sandy dust. The rocks themselves, large chunks of upthrust granite worn by wind and sea into a semblance of smoothness, were relatively easy to climb. Lovers Point is the tallest, most rock-bound promontory on the south side of Monterey Bay; nevertheless it is
quite tame compared with some rocky places I have walked along the bay in San Francisco—Land’s End, for example.
Tame or wild, foggy or clear, I find that simply being by wide water will eventually put me at peace and clarify my mind. I do not know why this is, unless it is that great forces of nature make my own problems seem small. I thought of the whales I’d seen from the lighthouse on the ten o’clock watch, creatures so huge and magnificent and mysterious, yet so hunted by man that now there are few where once they were many … and the memory of the whales too helped me find perspective.
When I returned to my office on Grand Avenue half an hour later, I sat down at the typewriter knowing what I should do. I wrote two letters, which I would post on my way back to the lighthouse at four o’clock. The first was to the owner of the building, giving the requisite thirty days’ notice. The second was to my friend Meiling Li, who is a special student at Stanford:
Dear Meiling,
I realize that I have not written since Christmas, which is very bad of me. Things have been more than a little odd, and I am having some trouble adjusting, which is why I have not yet invited you to come visit. There is another reason as well: There was a huge fire here in Pacific Grove last year, in which a Chinatown that predated the town itself was burned completely to the ground. No one will openly discuss this fire; it is still only mentioned in hushed tones. I gather that arson was suspected, but on whose part no one seems to have been able to ascertain. Suffice it to say the Chinese would hardly set fire to their own community! And while no one here is overtly hostile to persons of your race, still I think it the better part of wisdom that you not come to Pacific Grove.
As things are working out, I shall not be here much longer myself. This area does not appear to need a typewriting service. (You may trust my judgment on this
—
I will not bore you with the details.) Therefore, when I have completed my six months as temporary
keeper of the Point Pinos Light, I shall pack up and return to San Francisco. I will stop in along the way and visit you in Palo Alto, if I may.
I am sure your studies are going well, and eagerly look forward to our being together so that you can tell me all about geology, the science of the earth.
Your most devoted friend,
Fremont
There! I read it over, signed it, and experienced a flood of relief. It is quite amazing how much better one feels after reaching a difficult decision.
As I addressed and stamped the envelopes, I thought it would be wise to delay telling Michael my plans for as long as possible. You may imagine my surprise, therefore, when that very person opened my office door and stuck his head in.
“Speak of the devil!” I said. “Or think of him, as the case may be.”
“I beg your pardon? May I come in?”
“Of course you may. I have just written a letter to Meiling, so perhaps it will come as less of a surprise that I was thinking of you. By the by, does Meiling know about the Misha transformation?”
Michael scowled at me, then turned his back and made a show of examining some truly awful paintings by Tom, Dick, and Harry—the Twangy Boys—that Artemisia had, as promised, assembled on my wall.
“Well,” I needled, “does she?”
“No!” He turned again to me, positively glowering. “The members of her family to whom I was close are all dead, all except Meiling, and I do not wish to intrude upon her studies with trivial matters that cannot possibly be of any interest to her. I trust that answers your question?”
I covered the typewriter and slipped my letters inside my leather bag. “Rather more vigorously than I would have thought necessary, but thank you all the same. Is this a social call, or did you have something that wants typing?”
“Let’s say my purpose is personal but not precisely
social. Since we are finally having fair weather, I was hoping you might close your office an hour early and come out on the bay with me. I haven’t taken the
Katya
out in quite some time, and as I recall you enjoy sailing.” I was vastly tempted. But even as I thought about how pleasant it would be to skim across the water with the wind in my hair, the sea spray on my face, I was swamped with a gut-level remembrance of the sea’s ability to isolate. The nape of my neck began to prick.
“I suppose you will think it peculiar of me,” I said cautiously, “to wonder why all of a sudden you want me to go out in a boat with you, when so many days went by without your troubling to inquire if I were recovering from that blow to the head. And then there is the matter of Phoebe Broom: I sent you a note about her very suspicious departure, to which I have had no reply whatever. These things rankle, Michael.”
“You are being oversensitive. Taking the last first, I see nothing at all suspicious in Phoebe’s deciding to go away for a while. She is a free agent and a mature woman, not required to discuss her plans with any of us. As for the rest: I knew you were recovering satisfactorily because I paid your man Quincy to bring word to me if you took a turn for the worse. As I’ve heard nothing, I assumed you were doing well—and I am happy to see that you are.” He favored me with his most charming smile. “The bruise on your cheek is almost gone, as I was sure it would be. You’re young and healthy, Fremont, there is no reason you should not heal rapidly and well.”
“Oh, fine!” I crossed my arms and tossed my head. “You’re not content with being a spy yourself and making a mess of your own life, you have to go and pay Quincy to
spy on me!
And I’ve told you before, don’t call him my man! Quincy is as much his own man as anyone, so you can just leave him alone. Thank you very much.” I fussed with the things on the desk. “And no thank you to the sail. I do not care to be isolated out on the bay with you just now.”
“Fremont, please—”
“No. You have been acting entirely too peculiar of late. I am trying to get my life back in order, and I have
the distinct feeling that if I let you influence me again it will only become more hopelessly messed up.”
Some people, myself among them, blush in response to an excess of emotion; others do the opposite—they blanch. Michael’s face drained of all color, which made his shapely nose appear yet more sharply honed.
He pleaded, “Fremont, trust me! I have something to tell you, and I dare not do it anywhere except the one place where I am certain we cannot be overheard.”
I gave him a quick up-and-down glance. He was dressed head to toe in black, most of it leather. “Do you really expect me to trust a man who dresses like that? Who practically attacks an injured woman in her own kitchen? Whose entire personality—never mind his name—has changed almost beyond belief?”
“Your points are well taken,” he said grimly, and he left.
After the midnight watch I could not sleep. I tossed and turned for a while, then got up, lit the lamp, and looked for something to read. In vain. I kept forgetting to obtain a library card, which was perfectly ridiculous considering the public library is free.
A whole host of things were keeping me awake, the principal one being Michael Misha Archer Kossoff; I feared I had shot myself in the foot, so to speak, where he was concerned. Probably I should have gone on the boat with him; on the other hand, he should be able to understand that after being hit on the head out of the blue (or green) it is not especially easy to trust
anyone.
And it is perfectly true that he has been acting strangely. So why should I have this feeling that Michael needs me?
“It is probably only wishful thinking,” I said crossly, getting back into bed and punching my pillow into shape. I blew out the lamp … and fifteen minutes later I was up, lighting it again. I put on my bathrobe, an inexpensive tartan thing resembling a Black Watch plaid, belted it tightly over my white nightgown, and stepped into black felt slippers. With a ridiculously sharp pang of longing I missed my disreputable old once-viridian
bathrobe. All my present clothes (which in sum total far fewer than I was once accustomed to own) are new and cheaply bought. I lost my former clothing, and virtually all my possessions, in an incident that occurred some months after the earthquake. Only my leather bag—which I begin to think has nine lives like a cat—and three pairs of shoes survived. And as for that incident, even now I still have nightmares about it.
I climbed the stairs to the watch room and stood for a moment looking out at the velvety-black night, split every few seconds by a sweeping white beam of light. I listened intently, and heard only the soft, swishing sound of peaceful seas. Then I closed the shutters so that I could work without the ever-moving beacon distracting me.
Though I had decided to close down my office, I still had Arthur’s and Artemisia’s manuscripts to finish. I’d brought the typewriter to the lighthouse so that I could do the work here in the watch room, a pleasant if somewhat cramped place to type. Since I could not sleep, and had nothing to read, I thought I might as well be doing something useful. It was better than lying awake and thinking myself into a mad tizzy.
I had spent more time thus far on Arthur’s ghost stories, so in all fairness to Artemisia (and to be honest, I had a hard time being fair to her) I decided to type for a while on her novella.
I began on the second chapter of
The Merchant of Dreams:
The very first night after I entered into the contract, I slept under the spell of Jonah Morpheus. I know this now, though at the time, upon waking I was only excited and a shade mortified by a dream of such vivid imagery and content.
Though by terms of the agreement I could have moved into the Morpheus Foundation, I preferred to remain in my own apartment even though it is little more than a hovel. So upon arising I dressed and broke my fast quickly, then went immediately by streetcar to the foundation, being careful not to speak to anyone along the way. The agreement was that the
first words I spoke each morning after waking would be to Jonah Morpheus, an accounting of the previous night’s dreams.
Morpheus himself answered my knock. He looked as if he too were not long out of bed, with his black hair somewhat disarranged and a white shirt, soft and curiously ruffled, flopping open at the neck. His trousers were gray, quite tight; he looked as if he belonged to another age.
“Come in,” he said, “I have been waiting for you.”
I tried to smile but my lips trembled, and I did not return the greeting because such words would have had nothing to do with my dream.
Morpheus led the way up the stairs into the upper regions of the house, where I had never been before. Gaslights burned in sconces on the walls, giving off only meager light and casting our own huge, wavering shadows before us as we ascended. Up and up we went and with every step I felt more curiously removed from day-to-day reality. I began to wonder: What if this, too, is a dream? I lost count of the landings, the turnings, the floors that we passed, but at last Morpheus stepped off the stairs. The cat, Shadow, was sitting between the balusters at my eye level; it blinked its great black-rimmed eyes at me as I passed, then lifted its handsome tail and with a subdued meow greeted its master. I debarked from the stairs and the three of us—man, cat, woman—proceeded entrain down a dim, high hallway.
Jonah Morpheus opened a door and stood back for me to enter, which I did, preceded by his cat. His shadow goes before me, I thought, but I was not as amused as I might have liked. In truth I was more than a little apprehensive. The door through which I had passed led into a suite of rooms, sumptuously but oddly furnished. I blurted out “How extraordinary!” before I’d had time to think.
“Sshh!” whispered Dr. Morpheus, cautionary finger to lips. He touched a switch somewhere out of sight—or perhaps he was as much the magician as he looked and only snapped his fingers. But however he
effected it, a chandelier glowed to life in the ceiling. It shimmered like diamonds hanging in rain. And like diamonds it refracted the light into a rainbow palette that played over the sheer draperies covering not only the windows but also the walls and doors. A room of veils.
“Sit, Heloise,” said Dr. Morpheus, by a sweep of his hand indicating an empire-style chaise lounge. “Put your feet up, lean back, close your eyes. It will help you to remember.”
The rainbow lights played over the chaise lounge, too, so that try as I might I could not tell what color the upholstery was. Nevertheless I did as he bade, for my dream had become heavy within me, a great burden I longed to be rid of—though how I would bear to tell its intimate content to a complete stranger, I could not imagine.
I arranged my skirts, turned my head, and looked at Morpheus and at his cat, which sat on the floor beside him. Those identical eyes …
“Heloise, tell me your dream!” he commanded. And I obeyed.
“I was walking upon a beach. At the cape, I suppose it was. The tide was low, the sea calm, the breakers merely lacy ruffles upon the sand, and the sand itself a shiny, silken, virginal stretch unmarred by footprints of human or bird. It was cool and quiet. I saw this scene all in shades of silver.
“But then it changed. The sun came out all gold, its rays shedding down heat from a deep blue sky. So hot! I took off my shoes and stockings and left them on the sand; bunched up my skirt and petticoats and waded in the surf. The salt water was warm; like a soothing bath it licked about my ankles, and the sea bottom softly oozed up between my toes. I swayed with the rhythm of the waves and I longed to go deeper … deeper …”
Realizing what I should have to say next, I felt my throat tighten and go dry. I glanced over at Morpheus and his pet, neither of whom appeared to have moved a muscle, although the doctor had a notepad balanced
upon his knee and a pen in his right hand. “Go on, Heloise,” he said, as if he knew there was more to the dream.
I cleared my throat, closed my eyes, and raised the back of my hand to my forehead so that my bent arm partially obscured my face. “Then—” I paused to clear my throat again “—then as is the way of dreams, the scene changed yet again. I was still on the same beach but it was night. The sun had gone down and there was no moon, only stars twinkling in an inky sky. I had apparently disrobed, for I was emerging naked from the sea. Where I had been hot before, now I was cool, deliciously cool. A breeze sprang up and touched my wet skin, playfully, in places where—ah, where—”
“You must hold nothing back,” said the voice of Morpheus, in a low tone so near my ear that my eyes flew open and my head snapped around. I thought I would find that he had moved his chair right up next to the chaise lounge, where he could touch me; that he was after all some sort of filthy if wealthy pervert with faked scientific credentials. But my ears had deceived me. Morpheus and Shadow sat exactly where they were before.
“Please, Heloise,” he said reasonably, “you are not the only person involved in this project, you know. Time is precious.”
I said, “I’m sorry,” and composed myself. “The breeze touched me where, ah, only a husband may touch. It was actually quite … quite arousing. In fact I grew weak, limp with longing. I staggered up the beach and lay myself down upon the silky wet sand.
“I lay on my back with the breeze blowing over me, blowing stronger all the time, touching my, my nipples and the hair … down there. In the most intimate sort of way. And I was quite shameless. I opened my legs and let the wind be my lover. Stronger and stronger the wind blew, in great thrusts and gusts it swirled over me. Entered me. Took me to a height and depth of pleasure no mere man ever took me to before.…”
I opened my eyes and removed my hand from my forehead. My face was hot, as flushed as when I’d first awoken from that dream, and I was as wet in my secret place as I’d been then, too. The myriad of rainbow-colored lights on the ceiling whirled in a mad dance—but that was only my fevered imagination, for even as I blinked they slowed and winked as they should. “And that is all,” I said, continuing to regard the ceiling.
I felt mortified.
“Was that the only dream you had last night?” Morpheus asked in a dry, clinical tone.
“The only one I remember.”
“Very well. You may go.”
I sat up and asked, shakily, for my pay. Dr. Morpheus said I would be paid once a week, on Fridays, and then he left the room. I thought that considerate of him, believing he must have understood I needed some time to get myself in hand, as it were. But the cat stayed. The cat stared. When I rose from the chaise lounge the cat darted under my skirts and twined itself about my ankles, purring.
I could not rid myself of the conviction that the damned cat knew—more, it wanted to be close to—my shameful secret: the sticky moisture of arousal was dripping down my inner thighs.
