Sabina had no plans and saw no reason to refuse the invitation. When Amity added, “Please say yes. I’d be grateful for your company tonight,” she accepted.
Amity stood then and went to lift her bicycle from the grass. Following suit with hers, Sabina asked, “Shall we try to find the rest of our group?”
“No, let’s return directly to the clubhouse,” Amity said. “I seem to have lost my enthusiasm for any more pleasure cycling today. Frankly, what I’d very much prefer, and the sooner the better, is a large glass of Burton’s amontillado.”
2
Sabina
The clubhouse rented by the Golden Gate Ladies’ Bicycle Club was on Clayton Street near the Panhandle. They left their bicycles there, washed, and changed clothes. Although the Wellmans owned a private carriage, Amity preferred to take public transportation whenever possible. A pair of trolleys and a cable car, therefore, delivered her and Sabina to the Wellman home on Telegraph Hill.
The house, a two-story gingerbread-festooned pile set back from the sloping street behind a fence of filigreed black iron pickets, was not the largest in the neighborhood, but it was among the best maintained and most attractively landscaped. Flower beds and flowering shrubs, greensward, and rows of Australian cypress filled its front and side yards. The front gate was not kept locked, and the nearest electric streetlamp was some distance away; it wouldn’t have been difficult, Sabina thought, for whoever had delivered the threatening notes to have slipped in and out unseen between midnight and dawn.
Kamiko appeared before they reached the front entrance, as if she had been watching for her guardian’s return. She was a petite girl, lightly brown skinned, her long black hair piled high and fastened with ivory combs. Her facial features and body structure were delicate, but her stature and slenderness concealed a surprising strength; Sabina had witnessed her shoulder with little effort a full crate of statuettes Burton Wellman had sent to their home. As she had on Sabina’s previous visits, Kamiko wore a traditional Japanese kimono, which she preferred to Western clothes while at home, the garment rather plainly decorated and tied with a red obi.
She welcomed them with bows and smiles, asked in her flawless English if they had had a pleasant day and conducted them into the parlor. There was nothing discerningly different in the way she looked at or spoke to Amity; Kamiko’s usual serenity seemed undisturbed. If she was in fact frightened for her guardian and in possession of some sort of secret knowledge about the notes, she kept it well hidden.
“Mrs. Carpenter will be dining with us this evening, Kamiko,” Amity said.
“I shall inform the cook. Will you have tea now?”
“No. Sherry for me. Sabina?”
“The same.”
“Mr. Wellman’s amontillado, please.”
Kamiko bowed again and hurried off, her slippers whispering on the hardwood floor.
The parlor was furnished, as was the rest of the house — Sabina had been given a tour on her first visit — in the type of expensive Spanish antiques Burton Wellman specialized in. Here there were several early-century estrado chairs, a sofa with damask cushions, a large central table, corner tables, paintings of California missions on the walls, and damask curtains on the windows. The furnishings were all attractive, but much too dark for Sabina’s taste; the only color in the room was provided by Burton’s collection of antique weaponry — a bejeweled Spanish dagger, a pair of matching Polish blunderbuss pistols, a Malay kris, a Japanese double-edged kaiken with a finely carved ivory handle and matching scabbard, a medieval Scottish ax, and many more large and small weapons from around the globe. Amity had confessed that she, too, was less than fond of the motif — and of the weaponry, for that matter — but since she spent little enough time here and devoted her attention to more important matters, she deferred to her husband’s preferences.
Burton’s vintage amontillado sherry, which Kamiko served in ornate tulip glasses, was excellent. While Sabina and Amity sipped it in front of a blazing log fire, they discussed the proposed amendment to the state constitution giving California women the right to vote, and the opposition to it.
The primary and most formidable opponent was the Liquor Dealers League, an organization composed of the producers, proprietors, and consumers of alcoholic beverages. Less powerful but nonetheless active were Nathaniel Dobbs’ Solidarity Party, the traitorous (Amity’s word) remonstrants, and assorted small groups with similarly old-fashioned views. They wrote letters to the newspapers and gave speeches direly warning that women would attempt to serve as soldiers, sailors, policemen, and firemen and elect themselves to executive offices and judgeships, thus threatening male livelihoods and male dominance. Dobbs, for one, had also ridiculously accused men who supported woman suffrage of lacking in both wisdom and masculinity.
There was no question that the former water commissioner was a misogynistic buffoon, but Sabina still had difficulty believing he would actually commit or sanction bodily harm. Everything she knew or had heard of the man indicated he was full of a great deal of smoke (among other things) but no real fire. One of the many things she’d learned during her years as a detective, however, was never to take anyone or anything at face value.
Dinner was served at a long, parquetry-top refectory table in the spacious dining room. A succulent shrimp and crab cocktail, rare roast beef, potatoes and vegetables, and chocolate custard for dessert. Sabina, ravenous after the afternoon’s exercise and two glasses of amontillado, ate lustily. Her appetite and capacity rivaled John’s despite the difference in their sizes, and her metabolism and active lifestyle were such that she never gained an ounce. She weighed the same as she had when she and Stephen were married in her native Chicago.
Afterward she and Amity returned to the parlor. Amity declined Kamiko’s offer of coffee, saying that she felt the need of some fresh air and would go for a walk in the garden.
“Are you certain this is wise, Amity-san?” the girl said. “It is very cold tonight.”
“Not so cold, and I’ll bundle up. Would you care to join me, Sabina?”
The invitation wasn’t genuine; this was the excuse they’d decided upon to give Sabina the opportunity to speak to Kamiko alone. “Thanks, no. I believe I’ll have coffee here by the fire.”
When the girl had gone out, Amity asked, “How much time do you think you’ll need?”
“No more than a few minutes to gain her confidence, if I can.”
“I’ll be surprised if you do.” Her friend put on a warm lambs wool coat and went out through a pair of louvered doors into the side garden.
Kamiko brought the coffee on a silver tray. As she set it down, Sabina said, “Please sit for a moment, Kamiko. I’d like to have a few words with you.”
“As you wish, Mrs. Carpenter.” Obediently the girl sat on one of the estrado chairs, folding her hands in her lap.
“Your guardian and I had a talk at the park this afternoon,” Sabina began. “She showed me the warning notes she has received.”
Kamiko nodded, her almond-shaped eyes grave. “Yes. I was shown them as well.”
“Do you feel the threats should be taken seriously?”
“No threat to one’s safety should be ignored or dismissed.”
“That doesn’t quite answer my question. Is it your opinion that her life is in danger?”
“I do not know. I pray not.”
“Do you have any idea who wrote the notes?”
There was the slightest hesitation before Kamiko said, “No. The cause Amity-san struggles for has made her many enemies.”
“Is her cause one you also believe in?”