Silver Lies (28 page)

"The one he tore out is only half-filled." Susan’s fingers danced over the pages. "Each job has a number that Joe used for tracking the process and results. The last ten jobs are for ‘C.D.’"

Inez hooked her reading glasses over her ears. Five C.D. entries appeared in the bound ledger. She looked a question at Susan.

Susan continued, "Joe’s very methodical, so it wasn’t hard to follow which tracking numbers were which. Eight of C.D.’s samples show up in the assay notes. Of those, five are recorded in the bound ledger and three appear on the ledger page Joe tore out. I’d guess the last two jobs, which are entered on the torn page, were never processed. At least, they don’t appear in his assay notebooks.

"The first five have a location. Fryer Hill. But the rest…" Susan shrugged. "No location mentioned. Well, to make a long story short, the Fryer Hill results are impressive, averaging nearly two hundred ounces of silver per ton. But the last three, with no location, came in over seven hundred!"

Inez stared at Susan in disbelief.
Figures like that would’ve been trumpeted from the rooftops.

Susan nodded as if Inez had spoken aloud. "If this information had been recorded and made public, all of Leadville would be traipsing after C.D. and digging in his footprints. And Joe knew it."

She pointed in the notebook, where Joe had underlined the numbers 743, 739, and 709. Under that, Joe had written in precise script: "Cut a deal with C.D."

"It all comes back to C.D. Maybe we should go talk with that prospector, Chet Donnelly. Wasn’t he missing some sample bags?"

Inez tapped the pencil against her lips and thought of the two bags of unassayed rocks in the saloon’s safe. All of a sudden, she was less anxious to track down Chet and hand over the samples. Less willing to break the last, concrete link between Chet Donnelly and Joe Rose.

Finally, Inez set pencil to the paper. "Not yet. First, we talk to Nils Hansen. Then, we visit the City Recorder’s Office. We start tomorrow."

999

Tuesday morning, Inez and Susan advanced through the maze of sacks labeled "Breece Mine" to the counter of Jay G. Kelley and Company’s Assay Office.

Inez nudged Susan, who said primly to the counterman, "Mr. Hansen, please."

The counterman peered at Inez, recognition chasing surprise across his face. She pegged him as one of Nils’ companions at Joe’s funeral. He disappeared into the back, shouting, "Hansen, you’ve got visitors."

Nils emerged, saw Inez, and stopped dead in his tracks. His aghast expression was easy to read; his tone merely confirmed his dismay. "Mrs. Stannert!" Catching sight of Susan, Nils controlled his voice, with obvious effort. "Miss Carothers."

Inez smiled. She’d counted on Susan’s presence to defuse the situation and keep Nils on his best behavior. Inez nudged her friend. Susan jumped and said, "Mrs. Stannert has a question."

Nils approached slowly. "She can’t talk for herself?" "She’s lost her voice." Susan thrust a strip of paper at him. "Here." He took the note gingerly. Inez had kept it brief: "Who bought your claim?"

Inez watched as his fair Nordic complexion flushed from his stand-up collar through his blonde beard to his hair line. Nils crumpled the note and glared. Not at Inez, but at Susan. "Tell her to leave me alone! It don’t matter anymore. Harry Gallagher owns it now." He flung the paper in a waste can.

Susan looked at Inez. Inez smiled sweetly at Nils before gliding toward the door with Susan at her heels. As they left, she heard the counterman say, "
Two
women! How do ya do it, Hansen?"

999

At the City Recorder’s Office, Susan presented the case that she and Inez had agreed to put forth. "I’m writing an article for
The Independent
on recent mining property transactions and thought it would be interesting to follow the activities of one person. Chet Donnelly, for instance, always seems to know where to dig. We just wondered, as a matter of public record, what property transactions he’s made. He’s, ah, difficult to find."

The city recorder extracted a small leather tobacco pouch and a pipe from his waistcoat. "Yep, Chet Donnelly’s been in and out of the office a lot this year. A busy man. When he’s not in his cups, that is."

He grinned lopsidedly around the pipe stem. "You ladies know how it goes. Fella stakes a claim, sinks a shaft, if it looks good he takes samples to an assayer." He scratched a match with a fingernail and lit his pipe. "If it assays good, he gets the claim surveyed and recorded. That seals legal ownership. Of the surface, anyways. Legally, though, whoever finds the mineral first, owns it. So, even if you’ve recorded, someone with more men, moving faster, can dig right under your feet and beat you to the silver. Nowadays, when fellas like Chet make a strike, their best bet is to sell out or join a consolidated. Chet likes to sell and move on. Keeps him in liquor, I guess."

"Recording a claim means listing the location, doesn’t it?" Susan pressed. "Suppose someone wanted to record a claim but not tell the world where it was."

He dropped the still smoking match into a tin mug. "If a fella found something promising late in the season, he might stake but not file. If the claim is in the middle of nowhere under twenty feet of snow, his secret’s probably safe until spring." The recorder puffed on his pipe, sending smoke signals into the still air. "But let’s see what we can find on Mr. Donnelly."

After two dusty hours, a picture of Chet’s recent activities emerged.

"He’s almost cleared off of Fryer Hill." The city recorder referred to the claim records they’d retrieved. "Sold five claims in that area, just this fall alone. Three bordered Gallagher’s Silver Mountain Consolidated. Old Harry, he’s got that side of the hill almost sewed up. There’s one bit that, far as I know, hasn’t changed hands."

He shuffled through the records. "Yep. That’s Chet and the twins. Zeke and Zed. They must be holding out for a higher price."

Inez whispered, "Chet was in Roaring Forks area. Anything recorded from there?"

The recorder shook his head. "Kinda makes you wonder, doesn’t it?" He drew on the dead pipe, then tapped the ash into the tin mug. "If I had the time, I’d go buy Chet a few beers and get him talking about his summer. Or," he grinned, "I’d go buy a few beers for his assayer."

"How about Nils Hansen?" Inez whispered. "He sold a claim last fall."

"Doesn’t ring a bell. If he only made a couple transactions, it’d be like looking for a needle in a haystack."

Inez removed her reading glasses.
So Chet’s the "holdout" Harry and Cooper were discussing. And there’s no record of Chet’s bonanza, except in Joe’s notes. Could Chet have killed Joe to keep his find a secret until spring?

She envisioned Chet, reeling down State at his worst. Meaner than a mad bear and roaring drunk.

Dusk did not come slowly; it slammed down like a fist. People didn’t tarry on the streets. Most hurried home or to other places offering a drink, a meal, and some form of human companionship. No matter how meager the comfort, it was better than being caught outside in the dark where the cold pressed hard as iron.

Inez, walking as fast as the rest, stopped outside a window display of hats, fans, and other feminine accoutrements. The sign overhead, swinging slightly in near dark, announced: "Elisabeth T. Hoffman. Dressmaking and Millinery. By appointment only."

The previous day had fired her with a new resolve to set things right without delay. In the relative silence of the saloon office, Inez had reviewed Joe’s books, missing ledger page in hand, and verified that Chet Donnelly’s two ore samples were the only unfinished work. Once they were returned, she would have fulfilled her obligation to Emma.

It should have brought a sense of closure. Instead, Inez felt irritable, as if there was an itch she could not reach. Joe was dead and so was Nigel. The loan papers were missing.
Yet everyone wants me to just let things be.

She focused on the light flickering from the upstairs shop window.
If I’m going to get something for the Silver Soiree, I’d better speak with Mrs. Hoffman tonight.

Once inside the building, Inez shook out the hem of her snow-crusted skirts and ascended the stairs to the shop. A murmur of women’s voices grew louder until she heard a contralto drawl: "I don’t give a damn what you think, Mrs. Hoffman. I’m paying the bill."

Cat DuBois?

On the other side of the door, Mrs. Hoffman snapped, "It’s completely inappropriate. It’s worse than vulgar."

"To whom?" Cat sounded amused. "The gentlemen will approve. They’re the only ones who matter."

Gritting her teeth, Inez twisted the knob and entered.

Elisabeth Hoffman stood against one wall, measuring tape draped about her narrow shoulders, arms tightly crossed. Cat DuBois stood at the opposite end of the room, arms also crossed. Between them, Angel stood motionless on the dress-maker’s platform. A silver and cream evening dress hugged her from torso to toe, shimmering in the lamp light and accentuating her coffee-colored skin.

Upon seeing Inez, a flicker of surprise crossed Angel’s face. The emotion passed, leaving her expression as remote as if she stood on a distant mountaintop.

Cat swung toward the open door. "Well, well, Mrs. Stannert. Good. I could use an unbiased opinion. This dress," she waved her closed fan at Angel, "is for the Silver Soiree." Her green eyes glinted. "I don’t imagine you’ll be there, given that the extended absence of your oh-so charming husband leaves you without an escort."

Inez bit back an acerbic reply.
I won’t give her the satisfaction.
Instead, she turned to the dressmaker. "I’ll come back tomorrow."

"Please wait." Mrs. Hoffman sounded desperate. "We’re almost finished."

Cat watched Inez with the gaze of a feline predator scenting something tantalizing but not quite definable in the air. "Well, well," she murmured. "So you
are
going. Saloonkeepers and Cyprians. The respectable women will be absolutely horrified."

Cat glided up to Angel, grabbed her arm, and pulled her off the platform to face Inez. "I told that sorry excuse for a seamstress to make the bodice lower. Like so." Cat tugged down on the tight-fitting gown.

Mrs. Hoffman jumped as if Angel’s breasts had spilled out the top. "That’s indecent!"

"The idea, Mrs. Hoffman, is to display the wares to their greatest advantage so the buyer knows what he’s getting."

Mrs. Hoffman’s pointed nose quivered. "I will not tolerate—"

Cat laughed. "Oh, for the right money, you will." Her gaze shifted to Inez. "Money talks. Don’t you agree, Mrs. Stannert? It buys a percentage in a silver strike or a choice lot in the business district. Without it, you better have something else. A highly prized face and body, for instance." Her gloved hand slid up the young woman’s bare arm, lingered at the neck, brushed back the long black hair.

"That’s enough!" Inez found her voice and her feet. She walked up to Cat, forcing her away from Angel. "You have no right to speak to Mrs. Hoffman or treat this girl that way. She’s not your property."