by Julie Weston
The sheriff took the pack off her shoulders. He wrapped his own coat around her, then placed the pack on the sled between the man’s legs, went back into the house, and clomped onto the porch again, pulling the door to. “Let’s return to the auto. Activity will help you. Go first.”
Nellie put one snowshoe in front of her, then the next. The coat smelled of used leather and sheep and man and smoke. It comforted her. With only the tripod, she could step faster. Her throat opened and her tears stopped. A pale star flickered in a break in the clouds, even though night had not yet descended, and the creak of snow as the man behind her pulled his heavy load became a winter sound. A lazy flake floated down, followed by another and another. Two men were dead and a woman as well, but a star still hung in the sky, and the earth turned and winter covered the land with a luminous light.
CHAPTER 13
Rosy knew he had a job to do, but he’d rather be back in the mines planting powder and setting it off than visit Mrs. Ah Kee. He wasn’t exactly afraid of her, although he’d seen her mad—at him and Ah Kee both. Mean as six snakes. He figured she’d as soon stab a body with a butcher knife as look at it. Tongs were supposed to be bloodthirsty. It must be the women in the background who thought up ways to let more blood and trundle up bodies in more ways than Genghis Khan ever thought of doing. Or maybe, she was a direct descendant.
After a late night washing up Bert’s butcher shop in exchange for his bed and some meals here and there, Rosy practiced what he’d say to Ah Kee’s widow. If she had her own name, he didn’t know it.
“Mrs. Ah Kee, you may not remember me . . .” No, she’d remember him all right. After the first scare with Lily, Rosy bought himself an automobile. He’d never walk again if he could help it. And then when Lily took sick, Rosy showed up at the Ah Kees at any time, day or night, to take the doc out to Last Chance Ranch. The town doc already said there wasn’t a thing he could do for Lily. He didn’t even try.
After Ah Kee sewed Lily back together again when the boy was born, Rosy was willing to lay her life in the Celestial’s hands. He’d saved her once already and it worked. Maybe the doc could eke out another miracle.
“Mrs. Ah Kee, I have bad news . . .” Why start there?
“Mrs. Ah Kee, the doc came out to the ranch to help out an old friend of mine . . .” Friend. Rosy spit on the floor he mopped. Well, he was once, wasn’t he?
Those were the days, though, back when the only war was across the seas and lead and silver prices jumped to the moon. All the old mines up and down the Wood River Valley had played out decades earlier. The two remaining—the Triumph and the Independence—couldn’t shove the ore out fast enough. Two, sometimes three shifts a day, stoked up the Idaho mountains, north and south.
Jack showed up in Hailey, said the Bunker Hill Mine up north was on strike. The miners were just butting their heads against a lead wall. He wanted work and someone sent him up to the Triumph where he joined Rosy’s crew that winter. Which winter? It was 1915, before the first boy, when Rosy fell for Lily.
He and Jack worked like dogs, then headed for a saloon. When they could, they caught a ride out to the ranch and bunked there. Otherwise, they found a pallet at one of the miners’ boarding houses. Jack played his horn, sometimes in the saloon, most often on Sundays in the town band. In those days, there were still enough people to attend concerts—a mix of miners and sheep people and their families. Rosy hung around Bock’s Boarding House after he met Lily at one of the big dinners Mrs. Bock prepared for boarders. When they married and moved to the ranch, he didn’t see Jack so much. Jack wanted to go to the war, see the world, but the avalanche up at the North Star Mine, a penny-ante operation, ended those plans. He was laid up a long time.
“Mrs. Ah Kee, I loved my wife more than life itself. Doc Kee saved her once . . .” How was that going to make it any easier? She didn’t like Lily at all, or any other woman near as Rosy could tell. Especially a woman who got to keep her kids with her, unlike Mrs. Ah Kee. Once, just once, he’d seen the old bat soften.
Lily had insisted Rosy bring the Ah Kees out to dinner. “Bring Jack, too,” she said. “Maybe Dr. Ah Kee”—she always called him doctor—“can help him with his bad back.” Rosy didn’t tell her what Jack thought about Chinamen, pretty much the same way all miners thought of them—as Chinks—but Rosy had been converted.
Lily served Mrs. Ah Kee a Basque dinner of salted cod and home-canned peaches and beans and carefully prepared tea made from dried lavender. The doc’s wife had probably never been waited on in her life and she sent Lily a fabulous Chinese robe afterwards. Too big for Lily, but when she was sick, she hardly ever took it off.
Gawd, he missed Lily. The boys too, but Lily . . . What could he say to Mrs. Ah Kee? She’d had a whole life with her husband. Was that better or worse? He’d give anything to have Lily back.
Rosy knew the route to the Ah Kee house in the woods. Near the Big Wood River, the snow was wetter, harder to drive through. He carried a shovel in the boot in case he got stuck. By now, it had served all sorts of purposes. If a tool could hold memory, this one had too many. Maybe he’d toss it in the Wood.
The dead cottonwoods loomed over him, their bare branches clacking against each other in a late afternoon breeze. He’d take the bare open hills any day, even if they were dry as spit. Clouds scudded past the sun, creating moving shadows on the lands. Spooky in a way, like the shades of the once living, coming back to haunt him.
Rosy sat so long in his automobile, someone came out the door of the little house onto the front stoop and stared at him. Sammy. Rosy had forgotten about Sammy, a big strapping Chinaman. He might be more than Rosy bargained for. Mrs. Ah Kee was one thing—but two. Rosy shrugged, took a draught from his bottle, set it on the floorboard, and climbed out.
“ ’Lo Sammy. Is your mother to home?”
Sammy folded his hands at his waist and bowed so slightly, Rosy might have missed it if he weren’t watching every move.
Rosy waited, the two of them looking at each other. Another shadow passed by.
“I need to talk with her.”
“What about?” Sammy made no move to step aside or open the door.
“I’ll tell you both, but I won’t tell you first.”
After another silent moment, Sammy disappeared inside and the door closed.
“Well, hell.” Rosy waited. When nothing happened he headed toward the boot of his auto. Might as well not make it a wasted trip.
“Mr. Kipling. You wish to speak with me?” Mrs. Ah Kee stood where Sammy had stood. A shaft of sunlight struck her and Rosy realized she was beautiful. Pearl skin, almond-shaped eyes, black hair in a roll around her face framing its perfection. She looked old and young at the same time, like an Oriental cameo. He had never really noticed her face before and found himself making a slight bow of assent.
“Please come in.” She entered the house, leaving the door ajar.
Inside, Rosy wasn’t sure what to do. There was little furniture, only a table with chairs, and a small side cupboard with herbs on top. The air was thick with the smell of incense and something else, a memory. Sammy was nowhere to be seen. Mrs. Ah Kee motioned to one of the chairs. “I will give you tea.” She moved toward an electric burner—the whole valley had electricity because of the mines. Still he was surprised to see a burner back in the woods at a Chinese house.
A smile played around Mrs. Ah Kee’s mouth. “We are modern, too.” Her eyes, like black pebbles in a pool, did not smile.
“Wait, Mrs. Ah Kee. I have bad news.” He stood just inside the door, holding his hat in his hand, not the way he planned it. “Your husband . . . Doc . . . Ah Kee. He’s dead.”
Her expression froze in a half-smile.
“I buried him. Next to Lily. In the aspens.” Still nothing. “I’m sorry.”
Sammy came in from a side door, his face like broken rock, his hand around a huge knife. He glanced at his mother, who continued to stare at Rosy.
“You kill him.” Sam
my’s words carried as much menace as his weapon.
“Nope. I didn’t.” Rosy felt his breath leave him, as if he’d been hit. Sammy’s face came together again. “But I might as well have.” He sat in the chair. He wouldn’t have so far to fall if Sammy stabbed him, and his legs wouldn’t hold him up any longer anyway. Saying it out loud made it more true than all the carrying and digging and sweating and swearing had done.
Mrs. Ah Kee moved to another chair and sat down. “A woman killed him.”
“No. No, a woman didn’t kill him.” Rosy had seen the blow to Ah Kee’s head. No woman could hit with that kind of force.
Sammy raised his knife. Rosy waited for the blow. He wouldn’t fight it. He could almost feel the blade cross his throat, see blood gushing. He remembered the scent: lavender.
Mrs. Ah Kee raised her hand. “No.”
The word stopped Sammy. He turned to his mother.
“Not yet.” She stood again, filled a tea kettle with water, set it on the burner, and turned it on. She brought out three handleless cups and a brown package from the wood cupboard. When the kettle whistled, she poured steaming water into a rounded tea pot. After a moment, she emptied the pot of its water, placed loose tea leaves into it, and then added hot water again.
No one spoke. Rosy heard the wind rising outside. Through a window at the back of the house, he saw the shadows darken. The silence didn’t threaten him, and Sammy stood still, a statue in coolie clothes.
When Mrs. Ah Kee had placed tea cups in three places, she sat down and motioned for Sammy to do the same. “A young woman, a photographer, killed him. A Tong in Chicago hired her to come. My husband would not suspect her. He is a man who loves women. Many women.”
Rosy sat up straight. He touched his tea cup and felt its warmth. Then he laughed out loud.
Sammy half stood up, reaching for the knife he had laid beside his place. “You laugh at my honored mother?”
Rosy raised his cup, so small in his hands he was afraid he’d crush it. He could pretend it was whiskey, he guessed, and slugged it down. He scratched his head. “I don’t know where you come by such a fool idea. That bit of a girl wouldn’t harm a flea.”
“She fooled you, too.” Mrs. Ah Kee lifted her own tea and Sammy sat back down.
CHAPTER 14
Nellie slept sixteen hours, disturbed by dreams. She forced herself awake in a dimly lit room. Beyond the window, snow fell in a dense curtain. Her half-formed plan to find the arm wasn’t possible now. This time, all traces of the macabre events at Last Chance Ranch would be obliterated. She hoped Moonie was on the porch or in the kitchen with Mrs. Bock.
Equal parts of relief and frustration battled within her. Her presence had neither caused death nor could she have saved anyone. The fate of the two men—Ah Kee and John Doe—hung on passions far removed from a Chicago refugee.
Her photographs made the mystery part hers. If she could solve it, then she would lose the jitters that caused her to grind her teeth at night, lose the dark circles under her eyes when she woke up in the morning, and lose the sense of unfinished work to be done. Most of all, taking some action might reduce her rising level of fright. Sheriff Azgo’s warning hadn’t helped. A spider dropped on a gossamer strand from the ceiling almost onto Nell’s bed. She watched it, thinking it was high time for her to move as well. But in what direction?
How could she hope to solve a crime in Idaho when she knew so few of the people and the relationships leading to murder? Hate, revenge, love, drugs—these were motives. Mrs. Ah Kee looked at Nellie with hate. Gwynn Campbell was said to want revenge for his daughter’s death—a connection to the Ah Kees. Nellie wanted revenge against Scotto, but she wouldn’t murder for it. All she lost was a job and her pride. Rosy must have loved his wife. Opium fairly hung in the air—yet another connection to the Chinese.
Sammy and his mother would not let the murder of father and husband remain unsolved nor would his death go unavenged. Nellie hoped they realized she had nothing to do with it other than to find the body. And until John Doe had a real name, whoever killed him might want Nellie out of the way. She had seen and photographed him.
Nellie dressed slowly. She took her copy of the photo of the dead man to the window, where the light was better, to study it again. There was the arm; the ice had begun to melt from the fire. There was the belt she had moved to hide the reflection. There was his messy hair. Wait. The belt. The man on the sled wore no belt. Nellie closed her eyes and pictured the sheriff’s “re-enactment” of ice. She only looked at the face. When the sheriff pointed out the missing arm, Nellie had seen no belt. She would tell the sheriff when she saw him next.
In the meantime, she had to take care of herself. If she didn’t begin to replenish her nest egg—part inheritance from her grandmother, part savings from her job, and part gift from her mother, who could ill-afford it—she would have to return to Chicago a failure. She could not let that happen. She liked being independent, and her only source of a relatively steady income to keep her independence was portrait photography.
Mrs. Bock, as usual, stood in her kitchen, this time rolling out pie crust as delicate as fine linen. A half-made red cherry pie waited on the counter, the empty preserve jar standing near as evidence of summer labors for winter rewards. “Miss Burns, I was beginning to worry. Thought maybe you died in your sleep.” Her fingers flew to her face. “I should never have said that.”
So, word of dead bodies must have surfaced, even if their names weren’t known. “Never mind. I’m alive and much too full of sleep.” Nellie filled the kettle, placed it on a stove burner, and switched it on. “I’m ready to photograph portraits. I need your advice.” She did not want to talk about the dead.
“I don’t know nothing about taking pictures.” Mrs. Bock held the pie plate above the rolled crust to measure the size. “Now, cooking—I could advise you all day long and into the night, too.” With practiced ease, she rolled the fine crust onto the rolling pin and then unrolled it on the pie. A look of sweet pleasure crossed her face.
“I need that, too, but not today. Today I want to find the best place to set up my camera and open for business—some place with as much natural light as possible, with electrical outlets and enough room for extra lights and my tripod, preferably with a small waiting room and a room with a sink attached where I could at least develop negatives and make contact prints. Several sizes of chairs would be helpful, too. I thought Hailey would—”
Mrs. Bock’s chuckle turned into a full-blown laugh. “You don’t want much, do you, as Rosy would say.” A strip of dough fell neatly around the pie as she cut the lap-over with a paring knife. Her laugh quieted to a chuckle again while she crimped the pie edges.
“I’m just trying to list the best of all possible places,” Nellie said, a little abashed. She could catch the train to Hailey, but the only souls she knew there were Mrs. Ah Kee and Sammy. Remembering the woman’s warning, Nellie cringed.
The tea kettle whistled. Mrs. Bock removed it from the stove as she opened the oven door to the side of the hot burner. She had already heated the oven by setting the levers for the oven at 400 degrees. In went the pie. For a moment she fussed with two cups of tea, then sat with Nellie at the kitchen table.
“Maybe this won’t work,” Nellie said. Disappointment welled up, surprising her. “Are there any jobs to be had here in winter?” She couldn’t cook or sew or type. Maybe a waitress job in Hailey or even Twin Falls. How embarrassing if Mr. Levine saw her.
“Don’t backslide before you start,” Mrs. Bock admonished. “Can’t never did anything.” She folded her hand and placed it on her mouth with her thumb rubbing a small mole on the side of her face. “Let’s think.”
Nellie’s mother would have agreed with Nell and sunk into discouragement. A list of reasons not to do something would have splashed out and spread wide. Nellie didn’t want to fall into the same habit. She kept her mouth closed so the negative inclinations wouldn’t leak out.
“My p
arlor might work, but it’s cold in there, being on the north side of the house. Light is good, and on sunny days, it warms up for a few hours. Doesn’t no one use it on account of the fireplace in the dining room.”
“Oh, I couldn’t—” Nellie wanted her portrait studio to be an official one, like Mr. Levine’s. Otherwise, people might think she was just dabbling at a profession.
“Hang on now. You and me could agree on certain times for you to use my bathroom so the roomers wouldn’t be upset like last time. What you need more’n anything is customers. You got me, Bert, Bert’s sister, their passel of young ones—you’d have to give them a special price—and Henry, maybe Robbie and Mrs. Smith. The schoolteacher. Maybe even a—” Mrs. Bock hesitated, and settled upon a euphemism that made Nell smile “—fancy lady. I doubt Rosy would want his picture taken. That eye of his bothers him—how it looks. He hates himself as it is. There’s Jack Lane and a few others. But you’d need folks to come up from Hailey.”
A gleam shone in Mrs. Bock’s eyes and she rubbed her hands and wiped them on her apron. “Why, I could set up for nice dinners two or three days a week—same days as the train—at a fair price of course, and we could take pictures, serve tasty food, maybe rent a room or two—”
“These ideas sound wonderful.” The ideas sounded like pie in the sky instead of on the table. “But who could afford all this—train fare, photos, meals, and even a room? Won’t that be too much?” Still, her landlady’s enthusiasm was catching.
The older woman stopped, thought again, and began more slowly. “There’s the sheep ranchers—they’re mostly down in Twin and Jerome but some come to Hailey and Ketchum regular. And other business owners, new babies, teamsters, and a few miners with money to burn. We get Sammy Kee up here—you might have to do him for free—and maybe he’d bring up them Chinamen from Twin. Still a few opium dens there, I hear. Every one of them has a chest of money hid out.” Apparently Mrs. Bock’s prejudice didn’t extend to money.
