For whatever reason, lesbians love mystery novels. I have a few theories as to why, but they're kind of stupid and silly and probably not at all right, so I'll skip going into any of them. The fact remains: lesbians
love mystery novels. Why haven't I written one before Pintor Noche if I'm aware of this fact? Because I don't actually read mystery novels. Yep, I am one of a tiny handful of lesbians roaming the literary landscape with no mystery novels in my reading diet. Then I read a few steampunk mystery novels and realized the genre could include the tech stuff I like and often have elements of romance. Romance is my jam.
Pintor Noche is the culmination of a ton of research and talking to painters, Spaniards, detectives, and engineers. What I came up with is probably less accurate than most alternate history writing, but perhaps more historical than many mysteries...or maybe that's just what I'm telling myself. Whatever was sacrificed in accuracy was done in the name of fun, adventure, and a good story. And I'll stick by that even under intense interrogation by a Spanish Inspector.
Synopsis:
Barcelona is burning!
The police are powerless to discover the identity of the Pintor
Noche, the Night Painter, who has turned the summer of 1905 into an
arsonist’s masterpiece. In desperation Inspector Esperanza seeks out Desdemona, the daughter
of his legendary former mentor and predecessor Inspector Amina. Implementing the latest in forensic science, Desdemona teams up with
the Inspector to hunt down the Pintor Noche before one of his fiery
works of art consumes the entire city. With the help of her painter paramour, Santene, and a roguish French
journalist, Yvette, Desdemona struggles to navigate the perilous worlds
of the aristocracy, Sephardic gangsters, and secret societies to chase
the ghost of a man who paints with fire.
Sample Chapter:
Chapter 1
Sun from the trio of skylights in the
studio warmed Desdemona Amina’s skin, telling her it was getting on toward noon. The task of an artist’s model was to
maintain stillness in the face of crushing boredom. It wasn’t Desdemona’s
preferred work, but she could not deny Santene anything. She watched her lover
paint, focusing closest on Santene’s caramel-colored eyes as they wandered from
her form, to the palette, and finally to the canvas. Desdemona believed she
could tell which part of her Santene was painting based on the micro reactions
of her face. A blush to the cheek, faint smile, light sweat on her upper lip,
slightly arched eyebrow, all hinted at the different areas of the painter’s
focus and the affects Desdemona’s nude form was having on the artist. Santene’s
messy, brown curls falling free of the loose bun she always placed her hair in
while painting, the fullness of her pursed lips when she concentrated, and the
voluminous cleavage created by her corseted dress all served to arouse similar
reactions in the model as she watched the artist engrossed in her process. It
was only a matter of time, probably even before the sun reached it zenith, when
Santene would abandon her paints to join Desdemona on the litter of pillows and
sheets. Morning light in the workshop was best for painting while afternoon sun
in Barcelona was meant for drinking wine, napping,
and making love.
The tension building between them even as
the sun warmed the little studio to an uncomfortable level was shattered by a
terse knock upon the peeling white door. Desdemona let out a sigh and flopped,
face down, onto the blue, satin pillow she’d formerly reclined on. Santene set
aside her palette and brush on a nearby stool and rose to answer the door.
Before Santene could even fully open the door, the feminine, artistic energy of
the room was shattered. Inspector Esperanza charged into the studio,
remembering only manners enough to snatch the bowler hat from his head within a
few steps. He was a tall, slender man, dressed smartly in a pale, gray suit
with gleaming copper buttons. His black hair was mussed every so slightly and a
dappling of sweat clung to his immaculately tended moustache indicating he’d
been walking briskly in the morning heat.
“Señorita Amina, at last I’ve
found you,” Inspector Esperanza said, averting his eyes quickly from her nude
form.
“At last I am found,” Desdemona muttered.
She slipped from the pillows to retrieve her robe. “I wasn’t aware I was
sought.”
Inspector Esperanza shifted his focus
from one of the many cracks in the plaster on the far wall to look instead at
Santene’s work in progress. He cocked his head to one side and then the other
in much the same way a chicken might study a particularly puzzling kernel of
corn.
“Why is there so much purple to the front
edge of her skin?” Inspector Esperanza asked.
“It is an undertone in the process of
drying,” Santene explained. “Skin has many shades to it that are built in layers.
Señorita Amina has lovely violet hints to her skin in the right light.”
“She looks brown to me,” Inspector
Esperanza said, “a pleasant shade of brown to be sure, but brown nevertheless.”
“Certainly you didn’t come all this way
to discuss color layering in skin and paint,” Desdemona said, eager to be rid
of the Inspector.
“In a manner of speaking, I did,” the
Inspector said. “There was a fire last night that I believe was the most recent
arson committed by the Pintor Noche. The night’s victims reside in the Moro
district…” The Inspector worried the rim of his hat in his hands, trying to
avoid the indelicacy of what came next.
“…and they won’t talk to you,” Desdemona
surmised.
“Only enough to tell me the quickest way
out of their district,” the Inspector said, forcing a chuckle. “Jests aside, I
can pay you for your time. I don’t know how lucrative modeling for painters
is…”
“You’re supposed to be paying me?”
Desdemona asked of Santene with a flirty smirk.
“Only if I plan to sell the work, but I
was going to hang this particular painting in my bedroom,” Santene said, “for
personal use, you understand.”
“I believe I know the wall you mean.”
Desdemona returned her attention to the Inspector, who had grown a few shades
redder from the coquettish banter passing between the two women. He was a good
Catholic man with a thunderous boring streak who eschewed the houses of
burlesque and drinking of absinthe. Desdemona suspected she could send him into
an apoplectic fit if she kissed Santene in his presence. Entertaining though
that might be, she decided it also might spoil her chance at gainful
employment. “Very well, Inspector, I’ll look into the matter.”
“Excellent, here is the address.” The
Inspector produced a slip of paper from the front pocket of his suit vest and
handed it to her. “I shall meet you at the crime scene within the hour if you
are able.”
Desdemona took the paper, scanned the
address, and glumly deduced she would not have time to enjoy any carnal
delights with Santene if she expected to meet the Inspector’s timeframe.
“Barely enough time to lace a boot,” she murmured, “but I’ll manage.”
The Inspector bowed to each of them in
turn and then hurriedly exited the studio. Immediately upon his departure,
Desdemona let her robe drop and began searching amid the painting supplies,
canvases, and set props for her clothing. She could feel Santene’s eyes upon
her the entire time, which only served to make the room feel warmer and her
imminent departure more loathsome.
“I suppose I’ll head down to the docks to
sketch sea birds if you’re going to be occupied this afternoon,” Santene
grumbled.
“If you buy clams and wine, I can cook
them for you,” Desdemona said.
“If you make me dinner, you will have to
stay the night,” Santene countered.
“If I stay the night, you will have to
provide breakfast in the morning.”
“Your terms are acceptable Señorita Amina.”
Santene stood from her painting stool, crossed to Desdemona, and gave her a
light kiss on the shoulder before collecting her sketching implements. “Until
this evening.”
Desdemona dressed quickly in her yellow,
corseted dress, at least as quickly as the cumbersome garment would allow, and
drew up her hair into a bun to hold it beneath the matching, wide-brimmed hat.
In bohemian districts she could get away with more sensible attire, but she had
to cross several posh streets to get to Santene’s studio, and her skin color
was already a source of sideways glances depending on the hues of each
neighborhood.
She stepped from the subdued studio into
the bustle and life of the city. The smell of roasting lamb floated on the air
amid the dust of the ancient streets. She turned down the handle on the side of
her Penny-Farthing bicycle’s rear wheel. The motor was of her own design,
working in much the same way as a pocket watch to spin the small, rear wheel of
the bicycle rather than forcing her to peddle the much larger front wheel. It
worked marvelously well around the flatter parts of the city, especially when
she was wearing a dress that required her to ride sidesaddle. With the mechanism
wound, she rolled the bike forward enough to get it going, stepped onto the peg
along the back frame, and swung herself up into the saddle atop the four foot
tall front wheel. She flicked the drive release on the moustache handlebars and
set off at a clicking, jaunty pace over the cobblestone streets. Certainly she
could have purchased one of the new Rover Safety Bicycles that had the lowered
frame for ladies to still peddle while wearing a dress, but she rather enjoyed
the view from the top of her Penny-Farthing and the nearly unstoppable gait
provided by the large front wheel.
The bike ticked like a Swiss pocket watch
through the city, over the bridges, across the dusty bits of road in the
unpaved sections, and around the busy corner at the La Pedrera. The rich
scent of pipe and cigar smoke sat heavy atop French perfumes and colognes amid
the gentlemen and women walking leisurely down the thoroughfare. The vibe and
pace of Barcelona was slow and sumptuous in comparison to Paris or Berlin, but no less taken with the bohemian
revolutions in art, literature, and intellectualism. A strange bit of
nationalism for her city arose in Desdemona during the ride, and she found
herself a little cross that someone was burning down parts of it. By the time
she arrived in the Moorish district she’d come to the conclusion she would
locate the vandal regardless of what the constabulary might pay her.
The Moors of Spain, especially on the
Mediterranean coast, were a diverse lot inside of the larger Islamic community,
although the rest of Spain saw them as one darkened group with
inconsequentially different shades. Desdemona was of Moroccan descent, mixing
Arab blood with African for a thousand years before her ancestors came to Spain where the blending continued until she
only thought of herself as Spanish and her Muslim roots were completely lost to
the modernizing influences of Europe. In the neighborhoods set aside for the
Moors, who had once conquered and ruled the entirety of the Iberian peninsula,
there were proper Arabs, a few Turks, countless Libyans, and Africans from
beneath the Sahara—all of which had dealings with Moroccans and all of which
would see her as a go-between for the Muslims and the Catholics even though she
wasn’t particularly fond of either group despite being an amalgamation of both.
She could smell the lingering smoke of
the doused fire long before she saw the burned timbers of the scorched section
of the district. Inspector Esperanza was already at the scene with his carriage
waiting across the litter-strewn street from the burned out husks of buildings
that constituted the scene of the crime. The owners of the five burned
buildings were already gathered around the Inspector to voice their complaints
while refusing to answer any of his questions. As luck would have it, they were
also Moroccan Moors.
Desdemona goosed the spoon brake on her
bike to slow it and slid off the back. She tapped her foot on the motor’s
release along the way and grabbed the frame of the bike to walk it to a stop so
she might lean it against the side of the Inspector’s carriage. She may as well
have arrived with a platoon of soldiers, waving the Spanish flag above her head
for the immense relief her entrance instilled in Inspector Esperanza.
“Excellent, Señorita Amina, if you’d
be so kind,” the Inspector stepped boldly behind her, armed with his little
notepad and scrap of a pencil to record what information she might draw from
the increasingly agitated Moros.
“Which shop did the fire originate in?”
Desdemona asked.
A haberdasher, with his sleeves rolled up
and suspenders bedecked in sewing pins stepped forward. “That would be mine,”
he said, curtly nodding to her with his head of perfectly shellacked black
hair.
“And do you have any reason to believe
you were the target of the arson for malicious purposes?” Desdemona asked. “Any
enemies? Recent threats made against you? Disgruntled former employees?
Unsatisfied customers? Anxious lovers or an enraged wife?”
The other men chuckled behind the
haberdasher’s back. He proudly titled his head back and grunted his disdain at
the question. “I am a tailor of fine suits and coats for gentlemen of
discerning taste but modest means. I have always worked alone, I am well-liked
by my customers, respected by my competitors, and live a celibate life with my
extremely devout wife.”
She was all too familiar with the
haberdasher’s type since his description fit nicely many of the married couples
she’d known of both Muslim and Catholic persuasions. The haberdasher’s shop may
have been where the fire started, but she did not believe he was the true
target for the flames. Response times for Spanish fire departments were slow
and their capabilities upon arrival were haphazard; a fire in one shop would
almost certainly consume several other surrounding structures before the blaze
could be contained and a clever, increasingly experienced arsonist likely knew
these things all too well.
She took similar statements of
incredulity from a pawn broker, an art dealer, a type-setter, and an
unfortunate man whose house happen to partially burn down and was then knocked
completely over by the firemen attempting to stop the flames from spreading. If
there was a motive to be found in the bunch, it was known only to the Pintor
Noche.
“Splendid work, I suppose,” Inspector
Esperanza said when Desdemona was done ascertaining that the victims were as
they appeared: humdrum citizenry with unfortunate luck. “You’ve uncovered a
witness description of a man in a top hat with a cane fleeing the scene at a
brisk walk. This would describe every man of even moderate means within the
whole of Europe and much of America.”
“Perhaps, but not many within the Moro
neighborhood,” Desdemona said.
“So our suspect is Blanco,”
Inspector Esperanza said. “We already believed this.”
“Of the other fires, how many struck
similar businesses to these?” Desdemona asked, ignoring the Inspector’s
petulance for the moment.
“Almost all of them have involved a
haberdasher. Perhaps the Pintor Noche detests finely attired gentlemen
or he had an unsatisfactory suit alteration that drove him to revenge,” the
Inspector offered.
“How many other suit-makers are there in Barcelona?” Desdemona wondered.
“Not counting the people who do a bit of
sewing and alterations out of their homes, perhaps a couple dozen or more,” the
Inspector said. “We are a fashionable city, after all.”
At the very least, it seemed farfetched
to her that the arsonist was targeting tailors over a matter of billing or
style. No doubt the records of customers at each establishment were consumed in
the flames, paperwork being entirely flammable and all. Still, there had to be
more to the fire-bug’s elusiveness than simply choosing a plentiful target in a
seemingly random pattern.
“I will need the addresses of all the
other fires and a street map current enough to list the businesses that stood
near the fires in the last year or so,” she said.
“I’ve looked over all these materials and
more already,” the Inspector said, “besides, you were hired to take statements
at this location and you’ve done so. The constabulary has things well in hand.”
“If the constabulary did indeed have a
satisfactorily progressing investigation, I imagine the Moro district
fire would have been largely ignored,” Desdemona said. “Instead you hired an
outside agent to take statements in hopes of finding a lead regardless of the
disinterest in the particular victims of the latest vandalism. No, no, no Señor
Esperanza, you do not have things well in hand.”
The collected victims of the arson, along
with several other curious denizens of the neighborhood who had congregated
around the investigation to eavesdrop on a scrap of news or gossip, broke into
subdued, yet sincere, clapping for Señorita Amina’s cutting oration.
Inspector Esperanza harrumphed, waggled his moustache, and straightened his
bowler from the fashionable tilt he’d formerly worn it in to a sterner slant.
The posturing of his authority evaporated almost as quickly as he’d bedecked
himself in it. She was right and he knew it.
“Your contract will be with me, Señorita
Amina, and not the constabulary.” He smoothed his moustache with two
fingers before producing a pad of paper from the breast pocket of his suit.
“You are an outside consultant only, not a deputized or temporarily sanctioned
agent of the city. This appointment most certainly does not allow you to carry
a firearm or represent yourself as a figure of authority to any Blanco
citizens.”
“And would they believe me even if I
did,” Desdemona said.
“Let us hope not.” The Inspector
scribbled out a contract on his pad of paper, signed it tersely, and handed it
to Desdemona. Within moments he was back in his carriage, banging on the
outside of the door with the flat of his palm to indicate to the driver he was
ready to depart. “I will have the pertinent materials brought to your apartment
as soon as they are ready for transport,” the Inspector said as a parting
comment.
Desdemona walked the crime scene for
another hour after the Inspector departed. She spoke at length with the
witnesses she believed might reveal more after the Blanco authority was
gone. They did reveal more, if only in placing blame on the police and the
dominant culture as a whole for cultivating an arsonist they seemed incapable
of capturing. Eventually, after she began wholly ignoring their gripes, the
crowd dispersed to return to whatever business was left to them after the fire.
She sketched the paths she believed the fire followed based on concentration of
ash. Santene would have done a far more artistic job of rendering the scene,
although aesthetics were not required for accuracy and she didn’t feel like
bringing her Blanca paramour to the Moro district just yet,
especially not when it was so justifiably riled by nocturnal arson.
When she’d finally walked and sketched
the entirety of the crime scene, successfully staining the bottom hem of her
skirt and her boots black in the process, she deduced that the fire appeared to
follow prescribed paths through the buildings. Whether or not this was a
product of fire’s natural proclivities or something the arsonist planned, she
could not say. She purchased from a nearby shop a number of small glass jars
and then collected ash samples from multiple locations within the scene to
compare at a later date. Research and testing would be required to learn the
true nature of fire; an arsonist knew the flame like a lover and so she would
need to follow suit to find him.
Even a clever man would have to abide by
the laws of nature that dictated fire’s behavior—in that, she believed she
could find a pattern and hopefully a clue as to his motive.
