by Julie Weston
Franklin Olsen, the proprietor of the Inn, peered down at Nellie from his lofty height. He was thin as a broom and dressed in black. When she announced herself, he nodded and handed her a card to complete and then a room key with a metal fob in the shape of a silver ingot. Still without words, he pointed to the stairs at the side of the lobby and she turned to climb them. On the stairs was a woman who made Nellie feel smaller still.
“I’m Mabel Olsen. You must be Nellie Burns. Do you want help up the stairs? You look too small to heft that pack and bag.” The speaker must have weighed two hundred pounds and she wasn’t any taller than Nellie herself.
“No, thank you. I can carry them.”
Mrs. Olsen immediately turned to the other two guests. “Mrs. Ah Kee. This is a surprise. You’ll be happy to hear your usual room on the second floor in back is empty.” The woman’s triple chins jiggled as she chattered. “Will Sammy take your bags up? Franklin will if you like. All right, Sammy will. He can stay in his usual place.” She flopped her hand toward a door off the lobby. “Breakfast is at 8 a.m. sharp. Do you wish a reservation for dinner?”
Without losing a breath, she turned again to Nell. “Goldie said you were coming. You’re on the second floor, too. Two nights she said, and dinner and breakfast both. Dinner is at 6 p.m. sharp. You’ll find the photograph place at the corner of Main and Elder, just a two-block walk. Now, Goldie thought you might need to work in the bathroom on your pictures, but I called the photographer and arranged a darkroom for you, 10 a.m. sharp tomorrow. Don’t be late.
“Tonight, we have a special treat, a Chautauqua all the way from Kansas City. We’ll take two cars. You too, Mrs. Ah Kee. You won’t have the same trouble as last time. Franklin will see to that!”
As Mrs. Olsen took Nell to her room, she continued to talk, this time in a whispery voice. “A woman from Ketchum went into a tirade about the Chinese and struck at Mrs. Ah Kee. It was most uncomfortable for all of us.” She opened the door. “Not that you would do any such thing, of course. You’re respectable. Goldie said.”
Once alone in the room, clean and bright with a window looking down on a wide street lined with shivering trees, Nellie lowered her bag to the floor and began to close her door. Sammy was just leaving Mrs. Ah Kee’s room. His face looked lively and intelligent. He saw her, and his mask, a servant’s mask, slipped back in place and the look of recognition in his dark eyes glazed and slid away from her.
From her window, Nellie watched motor cars puttering back and forth, people walking, and an occasional horse clopping by. Twin Falls felt like a city after Ketchum. She donned her robe over her slip to go to the bathroom to freshen up before venturing out to explore. The lavender sachets had become such an integral part of the robe, she hardly noticed their scent anymore, but in this small room, it spread across the floor and rose to the ceiling, filling the space like smoke.
As if they had coordinated timepieces, Mrs. Ah Kee stepped from her room at the same time. They stared at each other in blank surprise. They wore identical robes: black silk, silver and gold dragons, red tongues. Except Mrs. Ah Kee’s robe fit her perfectly.
Before Nell could say anything, Mrs. Ah Kee’s expression turned malevolent. The venom in her dark eyes was as startling as the discovery of twin robes. Without uttering a sound, Mrs. Ah Kee stepped back into her room and closed the door. Nellie trembled, as if the hatred she had just encountered were a palpable force. When she finished her ablutions, she listened for noises in the hallway, then poked her head out and scampered back to her room, her slippers beating a muffled tattoo on the wood floor.
While she dressed, Nell puzzled. Perhaps only Chinese were allowed to wear a robe like this. Maybe Mrs. Ah Kee knew the robe was stolen. Maybe Sammy made the robe for Rosy’s wife and—had Rosy’s wife been Chinese? Such a possibility had not occurred to Nell, not even when she found the robe and assumed it belonged to the dead woman.
Leaving the robe in the room troubled Nell. Anyone could take the key off the board behind the front desk in the lobby. She folded the robe carefully and placed it at the bottom of her carrying case. No, if someone wanted it that would be the first place to look. She emptied her photography pack, placed the silk in the bottom, re-packed, and walked out to look around downtown Twin Falls, taking the key with her. Her warm Chicago beaver coat—her one extravagance—enveloped her in short dark fur. In it, she felt rich, capable, and lovely, a feeling wealthy people probably carried without thinking. Money exuded its own self-confidence. She could only pretend.
At the corner of Main and Elder, she spied the photography studio, a converted house, and decided to visit before it closed for the evening. Already at four in the afternoon, darkness was almost upon the town and even Nell, with only a month-old sensibility, could sense rain or snow would fall soon. Before she could cross the street, the front door opened and Sammy stepped out from the brick structure. “This is really too much,” Nell said to herself. She hoped Mrs. Ah Kee was not in the place.
Sammy turned to walk up the street without looking across. He disappeared into another business and she entered the studio. A man with a neat, carefully trimmed beard, dressed in suit pants, white shirt, and no collar, sat at a table in what was probably once the living room, studying proofs through silver-rimmed glasses. He took her in, beaver coat and all, stood, and smiled. “May I help you?” His voice was pleasant. He looked more like a man of the city than anyone she’d met since she left Chicago, even if his dress was less than businesslike. A receding hairline emphasized his high, intellectual-looking forehead.
“Yes,” Nellie said, trying to match his pleasant tone. “I’m Nellie Burns. I think Mrs. Olsen may have called you about the possibility of my using your darkroom.”
The man laughed heartily. “I thought she was leading up to that point, but I could hardly tell.” He motioned to a chair. “Would you like to sit, Miss Burns? Could I hang up your coat?”
Nellie sat, not intending to stay long. She felt as if she were back in Chicago. Framed portraits of men, brides and grooms, family groupings and baptisms, filled the walls.
“I could not get a word in edgewise with Mabel to tell her that I do not let anyone use my darkroom.” He sat again after Nellie took the chair and began assembling the proofs he had been studying into a stack. “Was there anything else I could help you with?”
Nell could see that the photos were portraits of a man and a woman—not Chinese, so Sammy had not been there to select a proof. She picked one up by the edges and held it close to the light he had been using.
“I see you are using artificial lights. Do you prefer that to natural light?” She motioned to the photos on the walls. “Your portrait work is impressive. It reminds me of Stieglitz.” She stepped over to a photo of an ancient Chinese woman. “This appears to be natural light, and you’ve captured what looks like five centuries of age in her face, yet also a youthful cast to her eyes.”
The man’s expression changed from that of a helpful but “steer clear” professional speaking to a mere woman who couldn’t possibly be permitted to use a darkroom to play in, to one of curiosity. “You are familiar with portrait work?”
“I worked at the Scotto Studios in Chicago and received my training there.”
He cleared his throat. “My name is Jacob Levine. I know of Sebastian Scotto, of course.”
One would hope so, Nell thought. “Do you? Yes, he is, of course, famous in Chicago and points east but I didn’t know if his reputation was also known out here.” It was difficult not to imply that “out here” meant in cow- or sheep-town, U.S.A. She decided to take a stab in the dark. “Have you also photographed Mrs. Ah Kee? The angles of her face and the exotic tilt of her eyes would be extraordinary, I think, in a study.”
“You know Mrs. Ah Kee?” If anything, the level of impression in Mr. Levine’s voice deepened and broadened.
“Not well, of course. I live in Ketchum at the moment, and we rode the train together from Hailey. In fact,” Nell said, a
s if it were an afterthought, “I thought I saw Sammy leaving here just as I arrived.” She moved from her position by the Chinese woman’s photo back to the table, and noticed then a small envelope at the edge of the table.
“He brought in several negatives to be printed. Landscapes I gather from a cursory look. These are not the typical work I undertake.”
“What a coincidence!” Nellie exclaimed, hoping he did not detect how phony she sounded to herself. “I am doing landscapes at the moment as a change from portraiture. I’ve absolutely fallen in love with the area north of Ketchum. In fact, I have several I had hoped to print in your darkroom. There are no facilities in Ketchum, although I plan to establish a small darkroom and continue doing some portraits. Sebastian asked me to send prints of anything I think worthy.” “Sebastian” would have had a screaming tantrum to be referred to by anything other than “Mr.” in a breathless and adoring tone, and he certainly had not asked for samples. “I do understand, though. One’s darkroom is so personal.” She decided a pensive look was best.
“Mr. Scotto wants prints? Of your work?”
“He seemed quite pleased with my progress.” Nell didn’t want to simper. “But he was also interested in work from the West.” In fact, he probably had no idea there was even a state by the name of Idaho. “He’s always felt that Chicago had a rare opportunity to help open the West to true art.” She closed her coat, which she had opened but not relinquished. “I’m sorry to keep you so late. Perhaps I could come back tomorrow and look at more of your work? I’m always eager to learn what I can . . .” She let her voice drift, almost disgusted at herself for acting so much like a woman, although she knew her mother would approve.
“Indeed! Please come back. Perhaps, uh, you could come into the darkroom with me and we could do these landscapes and then you might watch while I take the portrait of one of the sheep ranchers. He is an irascible old man, but his face! Wait until you see his face. I rather doubt if the Scotto Studios have anything like him in their files.” Mr. Levine’s excitement extended to his fingertips, which he tapped on the envelope. “If you think Mrs. Win Kee—senior over there, the mother-in-law of Mrs. Ah Kee—looks old and young at the same time, you will be startled at Gwynn Campbell. His Scottish forebears stretch almost as far back as the Chinese.”
“I would love to, Mr. Levine, but I do need to find a darkroom for the work I’ve done. I want to see if I’m on the right track. A photographer in Pocatello might be able to provide what I need.” This was really a gamble. Nell did not want to return to Pocatello. It would have felt like going backwards. “And I do need supplies. I’m not certain I can find what I want here in Twin Falls.”
The man stood up and took Nell’s hand. “Miss Burns, of course you can use my darkroom. I thought you were an amateur—.” He stopped, dropped her hand, and began again. “Anyone trained by Scotto Studios is welcome here. And I could perhaps sell you some of my supplies. It is much easier for me to re-supply than for you to do so from Ketchum.” A telephone burred in the back. “Don’t leave,” he pleaded, as he left the room, pulled by the rings.
Nell had never been in a truer “saved by the bell” situation. She picked up the envelope with a Chinese character written on it and pulled out the negatives, three of them. And they were hers. The moonshadow photos were problematical, but she needed the one of the body back. Without stopping to think how Sammy came to have them, she slipped that one into her pack and replaced the envelope. She doubted if Mr. Levine would notice until he went to print them. Maybe he didn’t realize there were three, if he had only seen landscapes.
She moved to the door, hoping to depart before he returned, but he caught her.
“Ten o’clock, then? I will expect you.” Once again, he caught up her hand, as if he were going to kiss it. His hand was sweaty from holding the telephone, but his rather old-fashioned manner of speaking gave him a courtly air.
“Tomorrow. Ten o’clock sharp!” Nell heard herself echo Mrs. Olsen. Clearly, the name Scotto had more cachet than she had realized. That was something to think about, as were the photos in the possession of the Chinese. Mrs. Bock certainly would not have told Mrs. Ah Kee or Sammy of Nell’s presence at the boarding house, but someone else might have. Someone who knew she used the bathroom as a darkroom and had an incriminating photograph.
CHAPTER 8
“He’s gone!” Gladys Smith grabbed Rosy’s arm, her fingers digging in, as if she would pull him onto her bony lap.
“Who’s gone, woman?”
“My brother. What am I going to do? My own heart, the last of my family.” Her words were barely understandable because Gladys broke into quiet weeping. “We were orphans and now I’m alone.”
“For god’s sake, everyone’s an orphan when they’re old.” Rosy looked toward the dining room door at Mrs. Bock’s.
Gladys, who had been crouched over herself on a chair by the fireplace, straightened up. “Speak for yourself, you old cuss. I’m not old.” She tucked a stray gray lock behind her ear. “At least not as old as you are.”
“Did you tell anyone else he’s gone?”
“Who else would I tell? Who else would care?” She stood. “No one cares about my brother and no one cares about me.” Her back was to Rosy, but she turned her head with a sideways glance. “It’s your fault. I know what you did.”
Rosy flinched. “Damned right I don’t care about your brother, not after what he did.” When Gladys’s face crumpled, he added, “Didn’t I see you found a place to live? After that devil’s mate clobbered the living daylights out of you. Why do you care if he’s gone?”
“He’s my flesh and blood. Blood is thicker than water. And you—”
“What’s going on in here?” Mrs. Bock bustled in. “Rosy, are you making her cry, again?” She rounded on Gladys. “For heaven’s sake, Gladys. You’re like a pump that needs a raindrop of priming and then you pour out water all over the place. Get hold of yourself. Now what’s wrong?”
Gladys flushed. “My brother has disappeared.”
“Well, thank your stars for that! If he’s not on a binge, or worse, he’s roughing up someone. You moved here to be quit of him. Now isn’t that the truth? Good riddance, I say.”
“But he didn’t even say goodbye.” Gladys’s wail marched up a chromatic scale of hysteria.
Mrs. Bock circled Gladys with her arm and pulled her toward the kitchen. “That’s enough, Gladys. You can tell the sheriff and post a notice on Bert’s board. Maybe someone knows where he is. Land sakes. You’ve lived here nigh on to a year and I doubt you’ve known where he was the whole time. Nor cared, either.”
Rosy watched them go. He had to admire Gladys. He’d known some cold-hearted women in his time, but ice clanked in her veins. Orphan, his foot. She had broken all ties with that black-hearted brother of hers and laughed about it besides.
“Can’t a fellow get some sleep around here?” Henry’s voice trailed down the stairs.
“Not unless you’re dead,” Rosy called back. He’d had enough and stomped out, only to be met by driving snow. Sometimes when the weather was bad, he slept in a back room at Bert’s, who had a heart big enough for ten people. It didn’t suit him that night. He found an empty stool at the Casino Club and nursed a whiskey for an hour or two, thinking about summer and when life was better. Four Basques played mus around a table, winking and scratching and shouting over their cards. All they did was drink, gamble, and hang around, waiting for spring when they would take the sheep back up into the mountains and be alone. What good would summer do him?
Fields of lavender swayed in his memory with the kind of summer breeze that ran along the mountains like a flute trilling. Long, dirty days with a sledgehammer and pick in the flickering light of candles in the mine were the price he paid to give Lily a home.
In the spring, bands of sheep traveled along the road in front of the small ranch, herded by dogs and Basque horsemen. Lily knew them all. Rosy mostly ignored them and watched her wave. The
sheep hooves clicked on rocks in the dirt road and the hordes of animals filled the air with the smell of lanolin. One horseman stopped to hand her two leather pouches. Seeds, he said.
“Look.” She spilled the seeds into her hand.
“What are they? This soil won’t grow much but sage, grasses, and wildflowers.” He turned around, wishing he could make things grow for Lily. Ground squirrels skittered back and forth like comic creatures, standing to sniff the air, then dropping down to pick at seeds and chomp at green sprouts.
“I don’t know.” Lily took a finger and stirred the seeds in her palm. “I’ll plant them. They’ll grow along with me.” She grinned at Rosy and he couldn’t help but laugh back. “We’ll see what comes first.” Then she rested on her haunches and absorbed the sweet aroma of white and yellow lupine.
From the wellhead in the cabin, she pumped water into cans and carried them to the patch under the kitchen window to tend her raked rows. Rosy built a wire fence to keep out deer and elk, and tied red cloth strips to wave in the wind and scare away smaller creatures. They both waited and watched.
Before long, green heads peeked into the early summer. Soon, buds hung from green stems; pale lavender nodules appeared above dusty leaves. By mid-summer, poppy heads and lavender buds dotted her patch. The strong lavender scent drifted across the sage and into her kitchen. Red and purple flowers colored their lives.
And gold. Rosy’s summer sojourn into the mountains where the sheep grazed and the sheepherders spent long, lonely weeks, yielded hidden treasures. He filled pouches and brought them to her.
The other seed grew. Lily placed Rosy’s hand on her own mound when movement began. With gold and sweat, they built onto the ranch. As late October snows returned, he descended into the mine again, while the kitchen garden paled and died. One day when Rosy returned from work, Lily lay in the bed upstairs, lathered in sweat and moaning.
