Leaden Skies (17 page)
Inez stomped into the saloon in a foul mood. Flo’s last words before the jailer wandered back up the block, jangling the keys significantly, had echoed her own fears. “Remember, Mrs. Stannert. You and I, we’re riding the same horse. I need to get out of here before the whole cathouse goes to hell. Molly can only handle so much. She’s prone to nerves. So many of the girls are. And with all the temptations close to hand. Booze, laudanum, ether, opium. I insist the girls not touch the stuff, but without me around…The Hatchet struck a deal with the judge or someone high up. He said, even if I get the money, I won’t get out on bail for weeks. That’s too late! Find Zelda today. Tomorrow. Tell me or Danny. I trust Danny; he’s been with me forever. Tell one of us, and we’ll take it from there.”
I wish I’d never agreed to run Justice’s “errand of mercy.” I wish I’d never signed that agreement. Still, if I can only get through this. Surely SOMEONE at the bordello knows more about Zelda, who her family is, where she might have gone to ground.
In the kitchen, Abe was reading the paper while Bridgette fried up sausages.
“Mrs. Stannert, you seen all the hullabaloo in today’s paper?” Abe tapped the front page of
The Independent
with his fork.
Her first thought was that it had to do with Lizzie’s death, but she quickly realized that such an event, not all that unusual to begin with, would hardly rate front-page news. “Do you mean the fire two nights ago?”
“Nope. Although that’s mentioned along with Grant’s arrivin’ in town. This is somethin’ else, though. Looks like that young fellow, Wesley, has got hisself in a big pickle.” Abe creased the paper and handed it over to Inez. “Got the words from some letters here, that he sent t’ couple folks in town, sayin’ he’s all for Chinee immigration and women voting.”
Inez grabbed the paper and read. “Interesting,” she said softly.
“And why’s that?”
“I had a very odd conversation with Wesley’s mother at the public reception for Grant last night. Well, it was no conversation, it was more as if she was making a speech to me. She said her son had a bright future in politics and would be backing women’s right to vote.”
“Well, he’d be standin’ pretty much alone if’n he did that,” said Abe. “Don’t know how the fella’d get elected, as there’s no women votin’ yet, only men. As for the immigration business, that’s enough to get a fellow tarred and feathered in these parts. Suppose the only reason he isn’t run out on a rail is that he wrote the letter to Harry Gallagher, and Harry’s got a fair bit of pull around the town. No one’s gonna cross him, not even over this. Although I wouldn’t put it past the Silver Mountain Consolidated miners to get more than a mite upset about it.”
She read to the end of the article and said, “Wait. What’s this about a lascivious picture showing the charms of a seductress from the Far East? Is Jed making this up? How on earth did he get his hands on all this?”
Abe shrugged. “Guess you’d better ask him for the details.”
“No thanks.” Inez tossed the paper on the table. “I’ve enough to deal with at this point. Have you any extra sausages, Bridgette? I’m famished.”
“Surely do, ma’am. How did the poor invalid like the biscuits and stew?” Bridgette stabbed two sizzling links with a long and wicked fork and placed them on a plate. “And did you bring back the basket?”
Inez had forgotten all about the invalid story she’d spun for Bridgette. She took the plate and sat across from Abe, giving herself time to think before answering. “She was most thankful and asked me to pass along her gratitude. I forgot the basket. I’ll try to pick it up tomorrow.”
Abe stretched his legs out, crossed them at the ankles. “Stopped at the post office on my way in. Got a letter for you, Inez.” He indicated the cream-colored envelope on top of an already opened stack of invoices. “Looks like your sister’s hand.”
Inez abandoned the sausages. Using an unsullied cutlery knife, she slit open the envelope carefully and extracted a single sheet. The paper released a small whisper of her sister’s lilac perfume as she unfolded it. The smell, combined with the sight of Harmony’s handwriting caused Inez’s throat to close up.
Harmony. Ten years younger. Calm and considered against Inez’s impulsive and stubborn nature. Married well, as their parents wished, and stayed close to home, whereas Inez eloped and left without a backward glance, captivated by the Southern drawl and charms of a charismatic cardsharp and the lure of adventure out West.
Inez sighed.
And Harmony now raises my son. What would I do without her? We know each other’s dreams, foibles, and darkest fears. I owe her so much. Who else would have taken in my little William, my life’s greatest gift, with such love and compassion?
A second inner voice interrupted:
Were Flo and Lizzie close like this? If Harmony were—God forbid, murdered—how far would I go to find her killer and extract payment?
Inez knew the answer to that. She’d pursue the murderer through the gates of hell without looking back. Kill him if she could, and hand the Devil her soul with no regrets.
“What’s got that murderin’ look on your face, Mrs. Stannert?”
Inez started, and looked up. Abe was leaning back in the chair, brown eyes quizzical, one long arm resting on the top rung of the ladder-back chair.
“A stray thought, that’s all.” She focused her attention back on the letter, scanning through news of her parents, the summerhouse, and the weather. The next sentences swept away the black clouds that had invaded her soul. “Oh! Listen to this. ‘My best news I’ve saved for last. I have made arrangements with my husband for nanny, me, and little William to come to Colorado before the summer is out. I had pointed out that it has been well over a year since I’ve last seen you, that you are pining for your son, and that circumstances are such that it is far easier for us to come to you than vice versa. And, of course, to leave the busy life of New York for a brief respite at the Colorado and Manitou Springs shall do us good. I have had to promise that we will not, of course, come to Leadville, as my husband has read naught but ill of the violence and turmoil there. I believe he’s thinking of the mining strike you wrote of in May? In any case, he refused to share any more information as to his misgivings, as he feels we women are too delicate for knowing much of the rough, violent worlds of men.’”
Inez stopped, aware that she was divulging much more of Harmony’s inner thoughts to Abe and particularly Bridgette’s avid ears than Harmony would no doubt wish. “Well, and of course, she goes on. In any case, the upshot is, I’ll be able to see my sister and son again, come August!”
My sister. My son.
She thought of the last cabinet photograph sent by Harmony, earlier that summer. The image showed a child, not a baby but not yet a young boy, still many years of skirts ahead of him. A face still familiar, but rapidly changing into someone she no longer knew. Her heart constricted. “It will be a long month until we meet,” she said softly, then refolded the letter and put it back in the envelope.
Bridgette clapped a hand to her broad bosom, beaming. “What wonderful news, ma’am! And just think. You’ll be able to take the train nearly all the way to the Springs.” Her eyes clouded a bit. “Although the stage might be safer. I’ve heard terrible things about the trains, ma’am. How they fall right off the tracks in those narrow gorges.”
“Piffle,” said Inez briskly. “They are as safe as anything else—think of all the stagecoach accidents we read about—and much, much faster.”
“Well, you got time to work that out,” said Abe. “Right now, we got the piano tuner comin’ to bring that old upright back into shape later this afternoon. Just thought I’d remind you ’bout that, so’s you can be here when he comes.”
“Thank you, Abe. I had forgotten. Too many things going on.” She picked up a fork and pushed a sausage around the plate, drawing patterns in the congealing grease. “I’d better go help Sol. He had a lineup at the bar when I came through. It’s bound to be a very busy day. A busy weekend.”
“Afore you head out there, Mrs. Stannert , I’ve been thinkin’. About Frisco Flo’s place. She was hopin’ to move anyhow, last I heard. And now that young gal, Miss Lizzie, some sad business there. Flo’s in jail….”
“And?”
“Just mebbe,” Abe said. “We’re in a position to strike while the iron’s hot.”
“Meaning?”
“C’mon Inez.” He leaned forward, bracketed his empty plate with his elbows. “I know you’ve had your eye on that piece of property for a long time. Could be, we could swing it now. Talk to Flo, see if we couldn’t increase her liquidity a tad and buy the building at a good price. Everybody’d win. She could move to that Fifth Street pleasure palace she’s been talkin’ about. We could open another place at the other end of the block. What d’you say, partner?”
“Ummm.” Inez thought of her secret deal with Flo. The signed contract in the saloon’s safe. The kitchen suddenly felt unbearably warm and close.
Sol threw open the door to the kitchen and without preamble said, “Mrs. Stannert. Good. You’re here.” He glanced nervously over his shoulder. “The Hatchet, uh, Officer Ryan is here. He wants to talk with you, ma’am.”
Inez’s stomach—sausages and all—did an uneasy lurch. “Tell him I’ll be right out.”
Bridgette brightened. “Oh, it’s Officer Ryan? I had no idea he came here so often. That’s what comes of being in the kitchen all the time. Tell him I’ll bring him a cup of coffee with cream, the way he likes it, Mr. Isaacs.”
Sol nodded and retreated.
Bridgette bustled around, remarking, “ Officer Ryan, he’s such a hardworking man. He’s doing wonders cleaning up State Street from all the sin, may the Lord and all his angels be on his side. I know you and Mr. Jackson grumble about him collecting the taxes, but he’s only doing his job. Which is more than can be said for others on the force! I don’t know why you dislike him so much.”
Inez laid her knife carefully crosswise her plate.
Oh dear. Apparently Abe and I haven’t been careful enough about what we say and where we say it. If any of the things we mutter about The Hatchet should get back to him, he could make life very difficult for us. Even more so than he does already.
She debated how to phrase a caution to Bridgette, but Abe spoke first.
“Well now, Bridgette, just ’cause we get crosswise of Officer Ryan from time to time don’t mean he’s all bad. I’d not be spreadin’ around what Mrs. Stannert and me say in the back rooms, if you catch my drift.”
Inez threw a grateful glance at Abe as Bridgette shook the long-handled fork at Abe like she was preparing to attack the Devil himself with one of his own instruments. “Mr. Jackson, I’d never! And besides, none would believe me. Those in a position to know say, when the plate is passed, those twenty-dollar gold pieces come from none other than his own pocket. Why, he’s listed in the parish newsletter as one of the seraphim. And that doesn’t happen with a penny-in-the-plate-on-Sunday churchgoers. And he’s there every Mass. At least, that’s what I hear.”
Inez shook her head. “How many masses does your church have?”
“There’s one every morning at six and two on Sunday. And, there’s the Rosary. He’s always at the Rosary on Monday nights when I go.”
Inez went to the wall of pegs holding a welter of overcoats, hat, aprons, and umbrellas, asking over her shoulder, “Mr. Jackson, please refresh my memory. We
did
pay our fees this month, did we not?”
“On the twentieth, same’s always,” said Abe. “I handed him the money myself. Want me t’ cover your back whilst you’re facin’ down the law?”
She paused, deliberating. “It might not be a bad idea for you to be nearby. Within earshot. Particularly since you were the one who ponied up for the fee this month.”
Abe grinned. A flash of white teeth, slightly feral, against dark brown skin. “Understood, Mrs. Stannert.”
Inez tied the apron around her waist and pulled her favorite coffee cup off from a shelf. Bridgette, who was preparing a cup of coffee on the table, jug of cream nearby, jumped forward, enormous enamel coffee pot in hand. “Coffee, ma’am? I was just pouring for Officer Ryan. How full would you like it?” She sounded anxious to make up for her verbal misstep.
“Half will do.”
“Only half?” She sounded disappointed.
“For now.” Inez held out the cup.
The Devil’s own dark brew hissed out the spout.
“Cream, ma’am? I have some right here.”
“No thank you, Bridgette. I’ll top this off with something a bit more bracing to help me face Officer Ryan and whatever he may want.”
Bridgette pursed her lips—her way of showing displeasure when she knew better than to voice it—doctored The Hatchet’s coffee, and hurried out the passdoor to the saloon.
Inez sighed. “I had no earthly idea that The Hatchet was a papist. Much less, such a devoted one. Did you, Abe?”
Abe stood and carried his dirty plate to a nearby dishpan. “Nope. But I know plenty of men who found religion at about the same time as they found political ambition. If’n The Hatchet is gunnin’ for the city marshal spot next April, he’s doin’ all the right things, gettin’ hisself known in church circles, droppin’ big coins in the plate, bein’ kind to widows and orphans. Now, if he’d just give us a break on those taxes and fines he seems so eager to collect between fee days, I might just vote for him, too.”
Inez snorted. “I’d not elect him for dogcatcher. Even if I could vote. He’d probably tax the poor dogs every time they howled.”
Abe held the kitchen door open for her, and she walked out into the main room of the saloon, with all the dignity and poise she could muster.
The Hatchet stood, one foot on the rail, his cup of coffee steaming before him. Bridgette was chattering, hands wandering along the top buttons of her dress, patting her gray hair, done up in a functional bun. Sol jittered around on the other side of the bar, looking nervous as the saloon’s cat, which Inez noticed was squeezed into the thinnest of spaces between the out-of-tune upright and the wall.
She slid behind the bar and set her cup of coffee opposite The Hatchet’s mug. “Officer Ryan, what may I do for you?”
