The Bohemian Murders Read Free Page B

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Weather: Cool, a.m. fog
Comments:
    I
noted the wind direction and the early morning fog in the log; I would add to this, on the basis of my observations, as the day went on. I presumed Hettie would approve my frugality with words. I had patterned my style of log-keeping after hers, and she was nothing if not concise. There were no wasted words in her log; I daresay there had been no wasted words, or anything else wasted, in the entire life of Henrietta Houck. I had never heard of a female lighthouse keeper before meeting her. Now I knew there were others, but probably few, male or female, of such exacting standards.
    She had been gone since just before Christmas; she’dtrained me during the two weeks prior to that. There was definitely a serendipity in our meeting that night on the sidewalk, for although on the surface we seem not at all alike, Hettie and I are sisters under the skin. It did not take either of us long to figure this out, or to see that our respective wants and needs dovetailed exactly: She desired to take a trip (for what purpose she did not say), but the deputy provided by the naval lighthouse service had proved unsatisfactory during his training and so she had dismissed him; I wanted to stay near, but not in, Carmel until I had at least tried for a while to understand what was going on with Michael. Six months at the lighthouse suited me exactly. It not only gave me a place to live, but also a small salary—a great help to me in my reduced circumstances.
    Hettie’s assistant, now my assistant, is a man named Quincy. He is taciturn, with the sort of tanned and weathered skin that men get from spending their lives on or near the sea. He might be fifty, or he might be a hundred years old; the only thing one can say for sure about Quincy’s age is that it is doubtful he’ll see forty again. He is thin yet muscular, in a wiry sort of way, and his shoulders have a slight stoop. He usually wears a battered old felt hat with gray locks of longish hair straggling from beneath its brim, and his eyes are such a dark gray they are almost black. He cannot read or write; otherwise Hettie could have turned the lighthouse over to him in her absence. But this lack of literacy is a small deficiency when one considers that he can (and does) do everything else there is to be done about the place.
    I do not like to have to rely on people for things, because then what is one to do if those one relies on are not available? However, I do find myself relying on Quincy. He positively adores being asked to do things; his eyes get all shiny with pleasure. They were shining as I explained to him that I needed to go to Carmel, so would he please hook up Bessie to the shay? And would he mind, if it wasn’t too much trouble, taking the watch for a couple of hours?
    “Righty-o!” Quincy said. It is his favorite expression.
    • • •
    The sun shone through the morning fog with a glowing pearlescence as Bessie and I set out to climb Carmel Hill. Near the summit I hopped down from the shay and walked the steepest part to give the horse a break. The fog was like an army of wraiths, swirling among the dark shapes of tall trees, obscuring the view, creeping along the surface of the road. I hurried, tugging at Bessie’s halter, and as soon as the angle of the slope leveled off, jumped back into the carriage.
    “Go, Bessie!” I yelled, flapping the reins. The mare took off like a bat out of hell. It was an interesting descent, what with the two-wheeled shay tipping this way and that from our speed. The farther down we went, the more the fog cleared, until the sun broke through just as the road took a southerly bend that would soon lead us to Carmel-by-the-Sea.
    Michael has built a cottage for himself on a street called Casanova, which he says means “new house” in Spanish, but I think he is only trying to divert me with that definition. I suspect rather that the name of his street has gone straight to his head, for I gather