by Julie Weston
“Where’s the couch go?” Rosy asked.
Mrs. Bock pondered the question. “Telephone Missus Reedy. Maybe the dentist can use it in his waiting room. The carpet, too.”
“Them moths and carpet worms might give his patients fits,” Rosy said. “Then again, his patients might ’preciate a softer wait than those hard old chairs of his. Enough to break your butt.” He and Henry carried the heavy piece out the door.
Nellie rolled the rug gingerly, watching for worms that might crawl out, then brought in a bucket and mop and rags and vinegar and cleaned the rapidly emptying room. Even Henry helped scrub walls, standing on a stepladder for the corners, coming down with cobwebs caught on his hat. His cradle for the piano rocked a bit but permitted Nellie to move the heavy instrument around. The two men carried the carpet to the basement, and Nellie heard the landlady joking and the three of them laughing together as they descended rickety stairs. Moonie, apparently in Mrs. Bock’s good graces, followed down and up and back and forth, but finally settled in the parlor, watching Nell.
Everyone knew each other well in this town. Nellie envied the sense of belonging that must inspire. She couldn’t help comparing it to the cold relations most people had in the city. Or maybe she was the one who was the outsider everywhere.
While she worked, Nellie pondered what to do next. She could call the sheriff. Enlarge the photographs of the iceman, who now had a name, and the night. That would give her more information to work with. The shadow on the trees that she had seen in the studio on the contact print might be important. Or it might just be a shadow.
Her mind turned back to photographing and how to take Rosy’s photo. Not technique, but the sensitivity of it. What she wanted, she was certain he would not: A full-face picture, stubble and all, of both eyes and scar to show what mining and life in the West had done to him. Not to make a sideshow of his failings or physical defects, but to reflect this particular man and how he was or wasn’t handling the lot passed to him. With her landscape photos, she struggled with how to transform a pretty postcard scene to reflect the depth of feeling she herself had felt. Here it would be how to make an ugly scar reflect the depth of the man.
Mrs. Bock found extension cords for the lights the butcher had brought over upon their arrival from Twin. From the jumble of furniture, Nellie retained the piano and its bench, a curious three-seated chair in the shape of a pinwheel and upholstered in red velveteen—a “gossip chair” Mrs. Bock called it—two upright wood chairs, an end table, and the parson’s table for a desk.
In order to move the gossip chair to the alcove, she needed to shift the piano bench. To avoid scraping the parquet, she lifted one end and set it down at a forty-five-degree angle. Moonie stood and nosed the lid. When Nellie went to the other end to shift it, he barked. “What is it?” He nosed the lid again. She raised it, expecting to see music. And inside was a stack of sheet music but also a belt with a large buckle. It was as if her earlier thoughts had conjured up the object. She inspected it, feeling the bumps on the buckle. This must be the belt from the iceman. Now, she had something. But how did it get there?
Boots in the hallway caused her to drop the belt and close the bench with a crash.
The smell of alcohol preceded Rosy into the room. Nell could have sworn he had no bottle with him while he worked. He must have stopped at his car or nipped into one of the saloon-cum-cafes at the south end of Main Street. His familiar sullen look had returned, a marked contrast to the aiming-to-please expression of most of the morning.
“I earned my picture, girlie. Take it now.” His words almost slurred together.
“All right, Rosy. You have definitely earned a photo.” Certainly his disheveled appearance worked into her plans to reflect his life, but Nellie felt awkward taking advantage of Rosy’s state. “But wouldn’t you rather wait until morning when you’re all slicked up?”
“You don’t want no picture looking like you do now,” Mrs. Bock declared as she walked back into the room.
“Mine your own business, Goldie. Want my picture.” He sprawled in the three-seater, mumbling to himself.
Mrs. Bock harumphed and left, muttering, “Go to hell your own way you old . . .”
Nellie busied herself setting up her camera on its tripod, fixing the lights to shine on the alcove. The words “. . . boys . . .” and “. . . resting place . . .” and “. . . damned liar . . .” sifted out from the low grumble. “ ’Course I’m old as dirt,” was clearer. She placed one of the wood chairs where the most light shone. “Sit here, Rosy.”
“I ain’t sittin’.” He walked unsteadily to the chair and placed his foot on it. “Women sit. Men stand.” He leaned on his knee with his forearm, dropped his hat on the floor by the chair, and leered at Nellie. “This here is how I want it.”
She wondered if he knew his bad eye was closest to the camera. “It will take me a few minutes to get focused. Do you want to sit while I finish setting up?”
“Nope.” He continued to stare at her while she covered herself with the black cloth and studied him through the lens.
“I’m excited about this studio you helped with. Still, taking outdoor photographs is my longing. And I’d like to visit a mine, say, and take photos of the miners.”
“Can’t be done.”
“Why not?” She removed the cloth and made some adjustments to the lights, re-focused, and slipped in the film.
“No women allowed. Bad luck.”
Nellie removed the dark shade and used a shutter release to trip the shutter. At the sound, Rosy stood and gathered his hat and began to move toward the door.
“Come back here, Rosy. I’m not finished.”
“Yep you are. Only want one.” He disappeared out the door with Moonie tagging along.
Such a strange man. He hadn’t noticed the wedding photograph on the piano where she’d moved it. Probably a good thing. Nellie thought she would feel elated at getting her “studio” organized for business. Instead, a sense of loss filled her.
She peered around the doorway to make certain Rosy was gone and then retrieved the belt. Under the electric photo light, she examined it more carefully. The buckle had a musical instrument, she thought, outlined on it—a horn of some kind—and an engraving: something Band, 19 . . . 1918, maybe. On the reverse side were engraved initials difficult to read. By tilting the belt, she could make out “To J.B. with love forever.” The final initials were almost rubbed off, but looked like “I.K.” or “I.H.”
Nellie glanced up when she heard a soft sigh from the doorway. There stood Moonie with Rosy right behind him. “Thought you’d want your dog.”
“It’s your dog, isn’t it?”
“Not no more. You can have him. He likes a lady.” Although the light around Rosy was dim, Nellie saw a tear track down his face.
“Do you know a man named Three-Fingered Jack?” she asked.
A shade pulled down over Rosy’s good eye. “Did.”
“What is his last name?” She looked again at the belt. Surely Rosy saw it, too.
“Smith.” Rosy snorted. “Everyone’s name is Smith in these parts.”
He slipped back into the shadows and was gone. Moonie trotted over to her and mouthed the belt. What to do with it? Hide it, but not in her room. People walked in and out of there as if it were a department store—Marshall Field’s. She looked at the back of the belt again. “J.B.” This man was a Jack. Who killed him and Ah Kee? The deaths must be related. Find whoever hid this belt and she would know who removed the body from the cabin, and, in all likelihood, the murderer. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to hide the identity of the body. Who else but the murderer?
More footsteps in the hall. She shoved the belt deep behind the cushions of the gossip chair. That seemed safer than back in the piano bench.
Over the next two days, Nellie had little time to call the sheriff. She decided to do more investigation herself. The sheriff was one of the people who had been in and out of the ranch, walking around o
n his own. He was not free of suspicion.
Friends of Mrs. Bock’s trooped in to have their photographs taken. Bert the Butcher brought his wife and children and wanted a single photo of each, then a photo of Bert and his wife, and then one of them all together. Nell explained she usually took two to four photos of each subject in order to get the best pose of everyone.
Bert’s sister-in-law, the local schoolteacher, came next, a woman who seemed much too timid to control a roomful of children. Then Bert’s brother, who ran what used to be a livery station and now sold gas to the dozen or so cars in town and the hundreds who came through in summer on their way to the Stanley Basin so their owners could fish and camp and enjoy the great outdoors. His sheepskin vest, Levis, six-shooter slung around his waist, Stetson, boots, spurs, and chaps would thrill a magazine in the East. He was a nonstop talker and before she finished with his photos, Nellie figured she knew all the best spots for any kind of outdoor activity in the area.
“Is there a band in town?” she asked him.
“You mean a music group? Used to be. Got dis-banded a while back.” He chuckled. “Miners who played in it mostly left town.” He pursed his lips and whistled two notes.
Nellie asked him if she could send his photo to a magazine, assuring him she would pay him something if she sold it.
“I’ll say so!” His smile broadened and he curled the end of his mustache. His customers surely told stories about him long after their vacations were finished.
Two elderly sisters, one who ran a small library from the back of the grocery store and the other a local seamstress, came early the second day, asking if they could have their photographs taken even though they didn’t have an appointment. They could have been twins, and perhaps they were, dressed alike in the latest Salvation Army fashion, their hair twisted into gray buns on top of their heads, and each with a touch of lipstick and rouge.
“We don’t have anyone who would want our photo—” began the librarian, adjusting her rimless glasses.
“—except ourselves. That’s all right, isn’t it?” The seamstress took off her glasses and peered myopically at Nellie.
“Of course.” Nellie arranged them in the three-seated chair so that they seemed to be mirror images. Only a close study of the photo, when printed, would reveal these were two different people. She liked the idea of an optical illusion that wasn’t. Neither used the third seat where the belt was hidden.
All the people who sat for photos thanked her and paid her a deposit. Nearly all of them said they would send in another relative or friend, mostly from Hailey. Mrs. Bock sold four pies. While Nell began to put away her camera and plan how she would develop the film—wait until she went to Twin Falls or use Mrs. Bock’s bathroom—a sharp knock sounded at the front door. Moonie, who had lain quietly near the tripod the second day, stood and barked.
Nellie walked to the door to forestall Mrs. Bock.
Sammy stood there, wearing a heavy coat, a coolie hat on his head. She should have known. Only this Chinese man knocked. Everyone else just entered. “Come, come.” He gestured for Nellie to come outside.
She stepped back. “No. What do you want?”
“Come. Take picture.” He wore his servile expression. Then he pointed inside. “Get picture-taker.” He motioned putting a camera between his hands and said, “Click click.”
Nellie sighed. Eastman Kodak cameras were everywhere. By then, Moonie had followed her and begun to growl. When Sammy reached to pull on Nellie’s sleeves, the dog barked and would have jumped on Sammy if Nellie hadn’t caught him. “No, Moonshine.”
The Chinese man leaned toward the dog, bared his teeth in a huge grimace, and said, “Chinee eat dog!”
Nellie slammed the door in his face as Mrs. Bock scooted down the hallway toward her. “What’s all the ruckus?” The smell of rosemary and garlic accompanied her.
“Sammy threatened to eat Moonie!” Nellie kneeled and put her arms around the dog, who continued to growl. “He wants me to go somewhere with him and bring my camera.” Moonie had never reacted that way to anyone, even with all the strangers trooping in and out. He hadn’t even minded the children trying to climb on him, and all day, he hadn’t growled or even barked.
Bang, bang. A hand pounded on the door. Mrs. Bock opened it. “Get outta here, you . . . you . . . foreigner!” She began to close it once more, but Sammy stuck his foot in the door. “Want Missee. Take picture honored father.” He prevented Mrs. Bock, who was not slight, from closing the door.
“Wait.” Nellie inserted herself between the landlady and Sammy. “I suggested to Sammy that I could take a photograph of his father, even though he’s, um, not alive.” Afraid Mrs. Bock would think she was entirely crazy, she added, “We used to do this in Chicago. The bereaved often want photos of their deceased loved ones.” It was easy to slip into the mortician-like phrases she had once used in funeral homes and in gloomy parlors of the survivors.
“Disgusting is all I say. People ought to be ashamed of their-selves. Pictures of dead people.” She followed up her disgust with a slap of her hands, from which flour fell in sprinkles. “You shouldn’t go anywhere with that Chinaman.” With that warning, she left.
Moonie growled, a long low rumble of sound, but he stayed by Nellie’s feet.
“Have you asked the sheriff about this?” She couldn’t imagine that Sheriff Azgo would give his permission for such a bizarre request.
Sammy bowed. “Come. Come.”
Nellie hesitated. She knew Mrs. Ah Kee hated her but she didn’t know why. If she went, perhaps the Ah Kees would understand that Nellie had nothing to do with the Chinese man’s death. She wanted to know more. The Chinese pair knew some of the answers, she was sure, but a squiggle of caution told her they might know because they were directly involved. “All right, but my dog is coming too. Wait here. I’ll get my things.”
The man slipped into the hall, now seeming a mere shadow, and followed Nellie into her studio. She was surprised he was so much taller than she was and tried to think if she had stood beside him before. It was almost as if he were a shape-changer.
She pointed to one of the lights. “Bring that, too. Where are we going?”
“Cold room.” He gestured to the out of doors. “Mother wait auto.”
The presence of Mrs. Ah Kee offered more danger than Sammy, Nellie thought. She decided to go anyway. The sheriff presumably would be at hand. She couldn’t forget, either, that she had been certain it was Sammy who attacked Jacob Levine, despite the sheep rancher’s word to the contrary. Nellie found more film and loaded up her gear. “Don’t touch this until I return.”
“Come, Moonie. I’m getting my coat.” In her room, she thought hurriedly what to do with the Chinese robe. If she left it alone, someone might take it, although she would be with the person she suspected. Finally, she decided to leave the dog instead of taking him. He would guard her room. This whole thing might be a ruse to lure her out of the house. She also left her moonshadow photos but brought the negatives, placing them in a small purse that she tied around her waist under her dress. They were too valuable to leave. Then she decided to change into her long pants. At the last minute, she placed the robe under her mattress, just in case. “Bye, Moonie. I’ll be back later.”
Before Nellie returned to the studio, she found Mrs. Bock and told her she was leaving to take a photo. Mrs. Bock frowned at her. She must have known that Nellie was going with the Chinese man. Nellie was not sure why she herself had agreed to go, given her dread of Mrs. Ah Kee. Still, she knew what it felt like to lose a father. When Nellie returned to the studio, she studied the equipment and decided that nothing had been moved. Sammy stood exactly where she’d left him.
“Where dog?”
“He is guarding my room and will bite anyone who tries to enter it.” Nellie lifted the pack with her camera and motioned to Sammy to bring the tripod and the lights. “Mrs. Bock knows where I’m going.”
Outside, snow fell again, draping the town
with a soft mantle. Lights shone from a window or two, but otherwise the street was the dreamlike combination of black and white that snow lent every scene. Once again, Nellie felt the urge to photograph, to continue her experiments in transmitting light and dark onto celluloid. She stopped to study a composition from the boarding house porch across to the schoolhouse and on up the street, taking in two Model-T Fords that seemed, at that moment, to be sorry substitutes for fringed carriages pulled by horses. Nothing marred the blanket. When she turned to look in the other direction, Sammy urged, “Come. Come.” The door of one of the Model-Ts opened and Mrs. Ah Kee peered out.
Cold Smoke, Nellie had heard one of the miners call powder snow, repeating an Indian term, he said. Each step she took raised a white cloud, as if she were walking along a sky lane. Even the object of her journey could not erase her delight. Mrs. Ah Kee did that.
CHAPTER 16
Rosy studied Nellie while he helped move and tote, load and store. She reminded him too much of Lily, who seemed so close to him now. They didn’t look a bit alike. It was their “I’ll show the world” attitude, even if the world didn’t give a damn.
Maybe she did fool him, just like Mrs. Ah Kee said, but he knew it wasn’t about murder and mayhem. Maybe he invested too much in her spirit because he needed to. He wanted her business to succeed. He wanted her to show the world. He couldn’t say why. He was probably just an old man in his cups.
All morning, he and Henry and Goldie helped Nellie. Rosy felt like they were in a booster club, like the one that used to hold dances in the school gym and get the band together to play, raising money for some poor sod who was on the verge of ruin. A new business in town raised all their spirits.
