Marcia Muller - The Body Snatchers Affair

Hacquette’s Palace of Art, on Post Street near Market, was one of San Francisco’s most fashionable restaurants. Not only was the menu extensive and the cuisine reputed to be outstanding, it housed a considerable number of preeminent works of art — fine paintings, marble carvings, hammered silver plaques and cups. Many different types of curios adorned the walls as well, among them redwood burls and other uniquely shaped and colored wooden items. An elaborate rococo bar occupied one side of the large dining room; tables covered with immaculate white linen were arranged throughout, as well as upon a balcony opposite the bar.

This October Tuesday evening Sabina sat with her escort, Carson Montgomery, at one of the intimate balcony tables. Although her cousin Callie French had spoken of the Palace of Art to her, she had never before had occasion to dine there. Carson, however, judging from the fawning attentions of the maître d’ and the headwaiter, was something of a regular customer. Not that that was any surprise; he was a member of the socially prominent Montgomery family and one of the city’s more eligible bachelors, and well-known at a number of first-class restaurants and other elegant gathering places.

He was a handsome man, clean-shaven except for long sideburns, his hair curly brown. His most striking feature, the one that had drawn Sabina to him initially and continued to command her attention whenever they were together, was his eyes. Bright blue, lively, interested, gentle, and kind. Yet with the type of inner fire that proclaimed him a man of action who would respond quickly to the threat of danger.

So much like Stephen’s eyes...

Like Stephen in other ways, too? Perhaps, she thought as she watched Carson confidently ordering for both of them, but she didn’t know him well enough to make any definite judgments. Certainly there were no professional similarities. He was a metallurgist who had spent several years working in the rough-and-tumble goldfields of the Mother Lode and who was currently employed by Monarch Engineering, while Stephen had been one of the Pinkerton Detective Agency’s most capable operatives. Her late husband had also been the most capable, most passionate man she had ever known. Before Carson, the only other she’d encountered who possessed similarly admirable qualities was John Quincannon. But her esteem for her business partner was purely professional, or so she kept telling herself, and her feelings for Carson were still uncertain. It was Stephen who remained uppermost in her thoughts and her heart and always would.

She had met him in Chicago, where she’d been born. Although her father also had been a Pinkerton man, she’d been allowed little knowledge of his profession while growing up, being steeped in the conventions deemed proper for a middle-class young lady. By her eighteenth birthday, she had grown thoroughly sick of afternoon teas, quilting parties, and silly evening soirees, and longed for a more exciting, adventurous life. When her father died shortly afterward, from complications of gout, she made up her mind to follow his career path and applied for a secretarial position with the Pinkerton agency. From the first she’d shown aptitude for detective work, perhaps inherited from her father, and it was not long before she was promoted to the status of “Pink Rose,” as the agency’s female operatives were called. Stephen, already an established Pinkerton operative, had been transferred to the Chicago office six months later. Their courtship had been as ecstatic as it was swift.

Within a year of their marriage, they were transferred together to the Denver office. They’d had five years together there, five short years of sharing private moments and occasionally working together before his life was snuffed out, through no fault of his own, in a shooting scrape with a band of outlaws. His death had devastated her, thrust her into a deep depression that had nearly cost her her livelihood. A friend had helped rid her of the shackles of grief and self-pity by urging her to resume her career. This she’d done, throwing herself tirelessly into her work.

If it hadn’t been for an undercover assignment in Silver City, Idaho, she might still be living in Denver and working as a Pink Rose. For it was in Silver City, while posing as a milliner (though she knew little about the creation of hats), that she’d met John, then a near-alcoholic treasury agent investigating a counterfeiting case. Their liaison had altered the course of both their lives. On his return to San Francisco he had sworn off demon rum, left the Secret Service to open his own detective agency, and persuaded her to relocate and join him as an equal partner. She’d never regretted the move. Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, was now a well-established and prosperous enterprise.

She led a full life in her new home, free of the strictures placed by the era’s Victorian standards on single, married, and widowed women. As a professional detective, she was able for the most part to do as she chose, associate with whom she pleased, without male interference (except John’s now and then). Her apartment on Russian Hill was a cozy haven; her cat, Adam, a pleasant companion; and Callie and her husband, Hugh, had provided an entrée into local society.

It was Callie who had pressed her to attend the dinner party, “just a few of our more interesting acquaintances,” at which she’d met Carson. Like most of Callie’s “small dinner parties,” this one had mushroomed into a soiree complete with an orchestra, uniformed servants bearing trays laden with canapés, and a score of her plump, bejeweled friends and their well-fed husbands. Callie was an inveterate matchmaker; she invariably invited one or more eligible bachelors in the hope of piquing Sabina’s interest. None had until Callie practically forced Carson onto her, and she’d looked into those bright blue eyes, Stephen’s eyes. When he’d taken her hand, she’d felt a tingling electric current pass between them.

Since then they had dined four times at elegant restaurants, taken a buggy ride through Golden Gate Park, and held lively conversations on all manner of subjects. He was attentive, interesting, possessed a keen sense of humor, and had been a perfect gentleman — in fact, he hadn’t even attempted the liberty of a good-night kiss. She enjoyed his company, felt comfortable with him. Still, she was hesitant about the courtship — if indeed that was what it was — and not quite sure why. Stephen and her memories of their time together, yes. John was part of the reason, too, in spite of her vow to keep their relationship on a professional-only basis. But there was something else that she couldn’t quite define...

Carson was saying something to her. She blinked, refocused her attention on him across the table.

“Woolgathering?” he asked with a smile. “Or were you thinking about one of your investigations?”

“Oh... neither, actually. I was thinking of adopting another cat.” This was not really a fib. She had indeed been considering another feline adoption; she was absent from her apartment a good deal, and Adam would be happier, she felt, if he had a companion.

“One isn’t enough for you?”

“I’m not enough for him.”

“Well, then. It so happens a relative of mine is looking to place a litter of kittens. All black, wiggly, and charming.”

“Really? Perhaps you could arrange an interview.”

“An interview... with cats?”

“Each has its own personality. I could determine which meshes best with Adam’s and mine.”