Marcia Muller: The Body Snatchers Affair

Carson nodded and said he would be happy to make the arrangement. Just then goblets of wine arrived — an excellent French Chablis. He raised his and made a toast, as he had at their previous dinner engagements. This one, however, was a touch more personal.

“To us,” he said. “And the rosiest of futures.”

Sabina felt her smile dim slightly as she touched her glass to his. He seemed to want their relationship to move forward more rapidly than she did. She simply didn’t know him well enough. Nor was she at all sure that she wanted or needed intimacy with any man. It had been more than four years since Stephen’s death and though tempted a time or two since — by John, of all possible suitors — she had remained celibate. The passion she had shared with her late husband could never be matched, of that much she was certain.

Fortunately, Carson made no more statements of a personal nature. While they ate their first course — plump, juicy South Bay oysters on the half shell — he asked what sort of cases Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, were presently working on.

“Oh, a small matter of stolen checks, a breach of contract suit, a larcenous servant. The only recent one of interest came to us just this afternoon.”

“And that would be?”

“Well, it’s confidential. All I can tell you is that it has a Chinatown connection.”

“Ah. The trouble brewing there? The stolen body of the late tong president? The newspapers have been full of those stories lately.”

“Yes, they have. But of course I can’t reveal the specifics.”

“Of course. The situation appears to be potentially volatile, however. I hope your investigation won’t put you in harm’s way.”

“No. It’s John’s case more than mine.” Sabina felt a momentary thrust of concern, for John had gone to prowl about Chinatown tonight on behalf of their client, the wife of an opium-addicted attorney named James Scarlett, and the rancid byways of the Quarter could be dangerous after dark. She banished the concern by saying, “He’s well able to take care of himself.”

“He, too, must be a very good detective.”

“Yes. He is.”

“When will I have the pleasure of meeting him?”

Not any time soon, Sabina thought wryly. John was a very good detective, yes, but he was also infatuated with her, in a way that went beyond what had seemed at first to be typical male lechery, and ridiculously jealous as a result. She hadn’t told him about Carson, nor would she until — if — their relationship progressed beyond its present casual stage. He would grumble and growl if he knew, and if he and Carson came face-to-face, sparks were liable to fly and there was no telling what might happen.

“I really can’t say,” she said. “He’s quite busy these days.”

“Try to arrange it, won’t you? You speak so often and so well of him that my curiosity has been aroused.”

Oh, Lord. Now he’s the jealous one!

“Yes,” she lied, “I’ll try.”

Carson smiled and reached across the table to entwine his fingers with hers. She felt the familiar electricity as his blue eyes, Stephen’s eyes, gazed into hers. But then the uncertainty came again. What was it about this attractive, cultured man that bothered her? A reserve, perhaps, that piqued her detective’s instincts and made her wonder if he was exactly the man he seemed to be; if there might be some part of him he deliberately kept hidden.

That seemed unlikely, for his life had been chronicled in detail by Callie, and in a profile in the Sunset Limited . His reputation was impeccable, as was that of the entire Montgomery family. What could he possibly have to hide? Unless it was something from his roving days in the Mother Lode...

While they dined on crab cakes, she encouraged him to talk about his mining experiences. He’d mentioned them before, but only in a general way. He was forthcoming enough tonight, but in a way that made Sabina think he might be holding back, reluctant to provide specific details.

“By the time I left my last job in Nevada County,” he said, “the rough-and-ready years were over and the area was showing signs of civilization — churches and church socials, quilting bees, even a small art museum. The miners imported their women, you know, and with respectable ladies came polite society. Of course there were still a disproportionate number of saloons and houses of ill repute.”

“You were quartered in Grass Valley?”

“For a short time, yes. In the Holbrooke Hotel, as fine a hostelry as one could hope for in the Sierra foothills. None of the other counties I worked in offered such satisfactory accommodations.”

“What exactly was it you did in the mines?”

“Principally, study and report on the quality of the ore to be extracted from them. Most were opened in mid-century, and many had been played out by that time, or were capable of yielding only low-grade ore, but a few of the larger mines continued to produce substantial amounts of gold. Whenever new veins were discovered or old ones threatened to play out, I was employed by the owners to assess them.”

“It must have been interesting work.”

“Only to a metallurgist.” His smile was a trifle crooked, she thought. “But the places... French Camp, for instance. Not only was it a first-rate mining town, but also the terminus of the first long-distance telephone lines in the country. And Downieville in Sierra County, once the fifth largest town in the state. It almost became the capital of California, you know, losing to Sacramento by a mere ten votes.”

“Did you have any adventures in those days?”

“Adventures?”

“At the mines or in the towns. Encounters with desperadoes, that sort of thing.”

A frown darkened Carson’s features, tightened the corners of his mouth. “No.”

“Nothing at all exciting or dangerous?”

“Nothing at all,” he said, and immediately changed the subject.

Now Sabina was convinced that he was holding back, concealing some unpleasantness in his past. There was nothing necessarily wrong in that; most people at one time or another had done or been caught up in something they preferred to keep to themselves. Still, being cautious and inquisitive by training and nature, she couldn’t help wondering if Carson’s secret indicated a dark side to his nature.

The main course he had ordered for them was boeuf bourguignon . He consulted the wine list, then summoned their waiter to order a bottle of Bordeaux. While he was doing this, Sabina happened to glance down and across the busy dining room toward the long ornate bar. A tall, angular man in evening dress who stood at the near end, directly opposite their balcony table, was staring intently up at her. Startled, she peered back at him. He was familiar... too familiar.

No, it can’t be him!

But it was. Even at a distance, even outfitted like Carson and the other male diners, that lean, hawklike countenance was unmistakable. And when he realized that she’d caught his riveted attention, he turned abruptly and hurried away toward the entrance. A moment later he was gone.

Sabina was nonplussed, to say the least. The last time she’d seen the Englishman who claimed to be the famous detective, Sherlock Holmes, had been less than a month ago. Outlandishly dressed in one of his inexplicable disguises, he’d accosted her on a streetcar on her way home to give her what had turned out to be valuable information on related cases she and John were investigating. He’d claimed to be involved in some mysterious undercover work of his own, and she’d thought — hoped — that would be the last she would see of him. But here he was again. Coincidence that he’d turned up like a bad penny on the same night she was dining at the Palace of Art? She fervently hoped so. John would be furious if the “crackbrain,” as he called the bogus Sherlock, once more attempted to insinuate himself into their lives.