Bill Pronzini - Beyond the Grave

I nodded. “Do you have a theory?”

“No, not really. I suppose I could formulate any number of them, if I cared to. But as a historian, I've got to stick to facts, and there are too few of them in this case.”

I was silent for a moment, wondering if there was anything in John Quincannon's report that might shed light on the matter. If so, I couldn't recall it. “Those ruins up the road a mile or so-are they what's left of the rancho's church, San Anselmo de las Lomas?”

“Yes. And of the pueblo. The church ruins and a few foundations of other buildings are all that remain. The hacienda was on a hill a quarter mile or so to the east, but there's nothing left of that. It burned in a forest fire in the 1920s; the fire also destroyed what little was still standing of the pueblo. The pueblo is supposed to be haunted, you know.”

I could understand why people thought so; apparently I wasn't the only one who had been affected by the eerie desolation of the place. I said, “But the Velasquez family still lived at the hacienda after the revolt.”

Sam looked curiously at me but didn't ask how I knew that. “Until the turn of the century. Then the last of them moved to Santa Barbara.”

“Who owns the land now?”

“The site of the hacienda and the pueblo is still in Velasquez hands. There is a woman in West Los Angeles, I believe, who controls it and prefers to let it lie as is. As I said, the rest was sold off long ago to pay debts.”

“Do you know how I can get in touch with this woman?”

Now Sam looked openly curious. “Why?”

“I'll explain. But first- can you put me in touch with her?”

“Perhaps. There's an old lady who lives on the other side of the square who was at school with her. I believe they still correspond. She-the old lady-is never home on Sundays; her daughter takes her on an outing then. But I can speak with her tomorrow and then call you.” He came around the chopping block and pulled up a companion to my chair. “Now. Why are you so interested? Does it have anything to do with Don Esteban's missing artifacts?”

“You've heard about that, then?”

“Of course. It's a fact, and also part of the lore about the Velasquezes' downfall. It's said that the don hid his collection before Fremont's troops attacked. As far as I know, the artifacts never turned up.”

“What do you think happened to them?”

“I would think that would be obvious: Fremont's soldiers got them.”

“Don Esteban's son, Felipe, wasn't so sure of that.”

Sam raised his eyebrows.

“I found some old papers,” I said. “Part of a report made by a detective who was hired by Felipe Velasquez to look for the artifacts. The report tells of the beginning of the search, and now I want to know the end.” I went on to give him the particulars of what I'd read.

When I was done, Sam looked excited. “The Velasquez treasure. So part of it did turn up.”

“Yes. But did Quincannon ever find the rest of it? Reading that report was like reading a mystery novel with the last few chapters torn out.”

His eyes shone. “What fun! I'd love to see the document.”

“I'll be glad to show it to you,” I said, “in exchange for your getting the Velasquez woman's address.”

“It's a deal.” But suddenly he looked wistful.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing, really. I was just thinking how much more interesting the Velasquezes are than the Russian and French aggressions. You'll be sure to keep me posted on what you find out, won't you?”

“Of course.”

“Maybe if you ever do learn how Quincannon's case turned out, I could write it up for a historical journal-if that wouldn't be stealing your material.”

“My material? What would I do with it? I can't write to save my soul. You're welcome to use it. If there's anything to find out-”

A woman's voice, loud and strident, called Sam's name from the front of the house. He frowned in annoyance and said, “It's Dora, fifteen minutes early, as usual. The party's about to begin.”

From the sound of her, plus Sam's previous comments, I'd expected Dora Kingman to be a sour-faced old busybody. The woman who entered the kitchen was not more than thirty, wiry and athletic-looking, with close-cropped black hair and a pert face. She broke into a grin when she saw me and said, “Oh, good, somebody new! What these potlucks need is fresh blood.”

Sam made introductions while Dora set a paper sack on the counter and began to unload Tupperware containers in various sizes and shapes. She said, “I'm glad you could join us, Elena. Sam, get off your buns and help me find room for these in the fridge. And what is that smell coming from the oven?”

Sam rolled his eyes at me and went over to the refrigerator. He opened its door and started dubiously into its tightly packed depths.

Dora said, “I asked-what's the smell?”

“Lasagna.”

“Ahah! Cheating again.”

He opened one of the containers she'd brought and sniffed at its contents. “And what's this smell?”

“Brown rice with eggplant.”

“Ugh. It's all gray and tan.”

“To each his own. I knew that except for the gazpacho and salad, you'd cheat, so I brought the things that I like to eat-and that are good for you.”

Sam shrugged and stowed the containers away, balancing them one on top of the other. Neither he nor Dora seemed particularly upset with each other; I suspected he “cheated” every time she came to dinner and that she always brought her own food.

The screen door slammed, and footsteps came across the front room. Gray Hollis appeared in the doorway, brown paper bag in hand. Dora turned, and her eyes narrowed as they moved quickly to the bag.

“So, Gray,” she said, “what are you contributing tonight?”

He raised the bag, which clearly showed the outline of the bottle within. “Fine bourbon whiskey.” As Sam had predicted, Gray was drunk, teetering on the fine line between rigid control and stumbling lack of coordination. He walked to the counter in a marionettelike gait, got a glass from the cabinet, and poured himself a couple of fingers of liquor. Dora glared openly at him. When he took the bottle from the bag, I noticed that it was only two-thirds full.

Dora opened her mouth, but Sam pushed a stack of plates into her hands, saying, “I thought we'd eat outside. You want to set the table?”

Dora glanced back at Gray but carried the plates out a side door to where a picnic table stood in a clearing among the weeds. Gray watched her go with an amused expression, then leaned against the counter and raised his glass in a toast. “Here's to you, Sam. And to our pretty visitor, who I believe I saw in Marshall's earlier.”

Sam introduced us, adding that I had come to see him “on a quest of historical importance.” Before I could explain, there was a flicker of motion over by the door, and we all turned our heads. A young man stood there, silent as a ghost. He was Chicano, slender to the point of being frail, with thick hair falling to his shoulders.

“Arturo!” Sam said. He went to the counter and poured a big glass of wine. The young man moved gracefully across the room, setting a covered plate on the chopping block. He took the glass wordlessly and retired to one of the director's chairs. I looked at Sam, but he was inspecting the nachos on the plate. Gray had turned and was looking out the window at Dora and sipping bourbon.

Since no one seemed about to introduce me, and Arturo Melendez's silence indicated he might not speak English, I said, “ Yo me llamo Elena Oliverez.”

He acknowledged the words with a slight twitch of his lips that might have been a smile.