Rewriting Rita

by Kristy Tate

  “Has he been arrested?”

  “How should I know? But he will hang. Boris Kidrick and Sheriff Calhoun are as thick as thieves, and if Kidrick claims he saw Roberts kill those men, then that is what the sheriff and judge will believe.” Clarisse’s voice turned hard. “It doesn’t matter how handsome and charming he is.”

  “You find him handsome?”

  “You do not?” Rita’s sworn nemesis replied haughtily and then flounced up the stairs without a backward glance.

  Rita waited for Clarisse to close the basement door before heading for the clothes rack. She wheeled it away and discovered only a black wall. Balling her hands into fists, she placed them on her hips. “I shall find you. You cannot hide in this basement forever.”

  “I don’t intend to,” a disembodied voice spoke from behind a large painted screen.

  Chapter 5

  I move in the best society, am 28 years of age, weight 168 pounds, height 5 feet and 8 inches, light complexion, heavy mustache, and would like to correspond with some young lady, object matrimony.

  Matrimonial News, January 8, 1887

  Rita whirled toward the screen and watched Christian Roberts step out of the gloom. He brushed invisible lint and dust off his spotless white shirt.

  She wanted to hug him but held back, fighting relief with an unreasonable annoyance. “What are you doing here?”

  “I would think that obvious. You said it yourself. I am hiding. Now you have a question that remains unanswered.”

  Rita’s thoughts skittered. So many questions. How had he escaped Seattle? How was she going to keep him away from Sheriff Calhoun and Kidrick? And now that he was here, how could she keep him with her? He wasn’t a sewing kit she could keep tucked in a pocket.

  “Miss Jones asked if you thought I was handsome,” he reminded her.

  “Of all the questions you could ask—that is of the smallest consequence.”

  “Only to you.”

  “Are you so vain that you would consider your beauty above your safety?” She didn’t mean to sound so cross—she was sincerely happy to find him, to find him safely out of Seattle, that is—but he had to realize and appreciate the dire situation before him. She stared at him and he stared back. The corners of his lips lifted, and she bit back her own smile.

  “Are you not just a little happy to see me?”

  “What is to be done with you? How did you get here?”

  “Your man Poke helped me into the trunk.” He nodded at the costume trunk. “I’m to be the new pianist.”

  “You, the pianist?”

  “Didn’t Poke say as much?”

  Rita thought back. “He said he would contact a player in Portland.”

  Christian smiled and jerked his thumb at his chest.

  “There is no call for levity. You shall surely be recognized.”

  “Poke assured me you were a master with makeup and costume.”

  Rita ran her eyes over Christian. He was so big. “You will not fit into any of Pierre or Phillip’s clothes.”

  “Perhaps not. But hair dye is a one-size-fits-all solution.”

  “You want me to dye your hair?”

  “And address me only in French, s'il vous plaît.”

  “You cannot just show up. You will need a story.”

  “I have one. I will gladly share it with you over a pot of face paint and silver of nitrate.” He turned his hopeful gaze on her.

  “I share a room with Clarisse. I can’t possibly dye your hair without the risk of discovery.”

  He smiled. “I will procure a room at the closest inn. Meet me there in an hour.”

  Rita’s mind raced. He was asking her to visit his room. To dye his hair. What would her mother say? Rita smiled and held up a finger before crossing to the costume trunk.

  “What are you doing?” She felt his eyes on her as she rifled through the dresses, cloaks and furs. She straightened and held up a top hat and a long dark cape. “For you, monsieur.”

  ***

  With a bottle of silver of nitrate, a pair of leather gloves and pots of face cream and powder in her satchel, Rita hurried down the busy Portland streets. Dust churned up by wagon wheels and horse hooves filled the air.

  Pulling down her bonnet to shield her face, Rita turned to the first inn she found. Her mother’s disapproving scowl flashed before her eyes, but Rita dismissed the image and quickly banished any warning words trying to play in her head. She was an adult, and she was through with her parents’ outdated social conventions.

  She didn’t need to live by New York society’s strictures. She didn’t need to worry about fussbudget madams telling tales or spreading rumors and lies. She could visit men in boarding rooms and sing and dance on the stage. She could even help a wanted criminal. Helping him, after all, even if her mother and the dowagers of New York would argue differently, was the Christian thing to do.

  She smiled at her own pun, but her smile and good mood faded as she passed a newspaper boy on the boardwalk. Fishing in her satchel for a coin, she purchased The Oregonian and scanned the headlines for word of the triple murder in Seattle. Her heart stuttered when she found a drawn likeness of Christian Roberts on the front page.

  Guilt settled in her belly. This was all her fault. If she had never dropped that chamber pot on Kidrick’s head, none of this would have happened.

  She tucked the paper beneath her arm as she pushed into the inn but faltered before the front desk. Had Christian been so foolish as to use his real name? She glanced down at the paper, and because she could see Christian’s likeness, she turned the page.

  “Ah, mademoiselle, enchanté!” Just the sound of Christian’s voice calmed her. Knowing he was near soothed her fears. He stood near the stairs, one hand extended. He looked ridiculous in his tall hat and heavy black cape. He had to be sweltering. Sweat had beaded above his brow, and his face was flushed.

  She felt heat rising in her own cheeks when she noticed the smirk of the balding proprietor behind the front desk. “Mon frère, avez-vous obtenu des chambres?” she asked Christian.

  He nodded and motioned for her to join him. Ducking her head, she followed him up the stairs.

  “So, I am your brother?” he whispered.

  “My Christian brother,” she said with mock righteousness.

  He chuckled. “We have great need of the good Lord’s aid.”

  “Do not laugh.” Rita watched Christian turn the key in the door. “I’m overcome with guilt knowing I’m to blame for your predicament.” She unrolled the newspaper.

  He paused in the doorway, and his expression darkened when he saw his likeness. “Oh, come now. They have me all wrong. I’m much better looking than that.”

  She swatted him with the paper. “How can you jest?”

  The door cracked open, and Rita scurried into the room.

  It felt no less odd to be in the tiny room with the sloped ceiling than she had felt in the crowded quarters on the boat. Rita tried to think of another man that she had ever shared such intimate space with. To cover her embarrassment, she pulled the lone chair away from the table and motioned for him to sit.

  He looked appalled. “How can I sit while you stand? Unless, of course, you intend to sit on the bed.”

  “I cannot sit on the bed and dye your hair. And if you do not sit, you will have a blond spot on the top of your crown.”

  Christian sighed. “I’m not sure I trust you.”

  “You should have thought of that before you rescued me from Kidrick’s cabin.” Opening her satchel, Rita lined up the tricks of her trade on the table.

  “You intend to do more than blacken my hair.”

  Reaching up to place her hand near his shoulder, she pushed him toward the chair. “Ensuring your safety is the least I can do.”

  Christian sat and crossed his legs. Looking up at her with serious eyes, he said, “You must stop blaming yourself for this situation.”

  “This situation is entirely my fault and may very well direct
ly lead to your death. As it is, it has cost you your freedom.”

  “My freedom?”

  “Yes, you’ve been ousted from your home and forced to live in disguise.”

  His lips quirked up. “If I am with you, there is nowhere I would rather be.”

  Rita sighed and drew back the covers on the massive bed that dominated the small, sparsely furnished room. She felt Christian’s gaze on her back as she pulled off a sheet. When she turned around, he was standing, looking puzzled.

  She motioned for him to return to the chair.

  He smirked. “For a moment I thought that you intended to reward my chivalry.”

  “Of course I intend to reward your chivalry.” She shook the sheet, and it billowed. “With a new hairstyle. And maybe a nose.”

  “I already have a nose.”

  “A very nice one.” She studied him. “A little too nice.”

  Christian tried to stand again, but Rita placed her hand on his shoulder and took a deep breath. “Sir, I must ask you to remove your cloak and shirt, unless you wish them to be stained.”

  He refrained from any wisecracks and simply untied the cape, tossed it on the bed and then unbuttoned his shirt.

  Rita wondered if he had the same sensations stirring in his belly as she had in her own. She tried to act nonchalant, as if standing in such close quarters with a disrobed gentleman were common practice for her. “Tell me what happened in Seattle.”

  “Kidrick told a story about mixing you up with his runaway wife, since you were both wearing the same cloak. Kidrick emphasized that there wasn’t any crime in taking his possession back.” He held up his hand and shook his head when Rita grimaced. “Possession was his word, not mine. Kidrick claimed he just made a mistake and didn’t realize it until he got you back to the cabin. Once he saw it was you, he let you go.”

  “It’s all a lie.”

  “I know that,” Christian replied. “But the only witness—you—had disappeared, and Kidrick greased the sheriff’s palm. The story was just plausible enough that people looked the other way.”

  Feeling ill, Rita slipped on the leather gloves and picked up the comb and the bottle of silver nitrate.

  Christian wrapped the bedsheet over his shoulders. “Are you sure this is safe?”

  “Nothing is safe, let alone you.” Rita had never actually used the dye before. Pierre used it not only on his head but also on his mustache—so how lethal could it be? “It most likely will stain dreadfully. We’ll need to be careful.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Rita’s thoughts flashed back to a memory of Pierre with a streak like an oily tear marring his face. “Try not to worry. I will return to Seattle to clear your name.”

  “Impossible.”

  He started to rise and she pushed his shoulders down. “Not at all. I’ll go as soon as I can book travel.”

  Christian bit his lower lip as if carefully considering his words. “You are not to blame for where we are and what has happened.”

  Rita uncorked the bottle of silver of nitrate, and a sharp metallic odor wafted through the warm room. “Oh, but I am.”

  “Without your interference, Kidrick would have continued beating Corinne. Would you have felt better witnessing the death of a hapless young woman?”

  Rita frowned as she poured the nitrate into a small mixing bowl. Dipping the comb into the bowl, she offered a silent prayer that the hair dye would work. It would be difficult to be anonymous if one had blue hair…or green. “Kidrick probably would not have killed Corinne.”

  “We both know he would have made her wish for death.”

  Rita steeled herself. “He is responsible for those three murders, not you,” she said, feeling the anger in her words. She drew the comb through Christian’s hair and let out a little breath of relief when his hair turned an appropriate shade of black. A small surge of confidence swelled through her as she dipped the comb back into the bowl. “I need to tell the sheriff what I saw and that Kidrick is to blame.”

  “You didn’t see what happened. The men might have killed each other. That was, after all, their original plan.”

  “Then why would Kidrick blame you?”

  “Because he’s sadistic.”

  Rita liked playing with Christian’s hair. Probably because it gave her a feeling of power in an otherwise hopeless situation. “Perhaps there is more to the story. Perhaps the murders weren’t as random as we suppose.”

  Christian bit his lip, thinking. “Are you suggesting that the men and Kidrick had a prior acquaintance?”

  “Not just an acquaintance but a falling out?”

  Christian shook his head and the nitrate splattered. Rita rapped him on the head with her comb.

  “Ow!”

  “Hold still.”

  “Are you almost done?”

  “Not at all. There is still the matter of the nose. Maybe it would be helpful to try to recall everything we can of that night. We should both write down everything we remember.”

  “And what would we do if someone should come across them? We can’t admit to having witnessed the murders.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “Your reputation would be destroyed,” Christian began.

  “You silly man! I devastated my reputation as soon as I stepped onto the stage.” She thought for a moment. “Or…you could keep them—write them in French and claim to be a novelist!”

  “A pianist and a novelist?”

  Rita studied Christian’s hair. She loved the yellow of his hair, but this dark hair was a lovely contrast to his light blue eyes. He probably wouldn’t like to be called lovely, but his hair…it was beautiful. In fact, in the sunlight, it glistened. Was hair supposed to glisten? She bit her lip as her worry heightened. How could he possibly hide with incandescent hair? And did it look a little…purple? She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Maybe the dye would fade and soften.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Well, of course something is wrong! A great many things are wrong! We witnessed the murders of three innocent men. The villain Kidrick has framed you, and there is a warrant out for your arrest—and should you be caught, you will be hanged.”

  “I meant with the hair.”

  “How can you be so vain? Really, with so many weighty matters to concern one’s self with—purple hair should be the last of one’s concerns.”

  “Purple hair?” he roared.

  Rita pushed him down by the shoulders and spoke in measured tones. “Mon frère, shhh.” She picked up the face cream and powder and told herself that a misshapen nose and a few moles would be much easier to construct. She would make Christian as hideous as she possibly could and maybe then no one would want the wanted man as badly as she did.

  Eventually she gave up on the nose. Trying to reconstruct the same prosthetic every day for weeks on end would be too difficult—but the darkened skin— and the moles! No one should look good in moles! She tried to make them look like warts—why did they look like beauty marks? Men should not have beauty marks!

  Rita folded her arms across her chest, scowling.

  “What?” Christian demanded.

  Her scowl deepened.

  He rolled his eyes and repeated, “Quoi?”

  “That’s better,” she whispered, touching her handkerchief to his cheek to even out his swarthy skin tone. Why did he have to look like such a handsome pirate? She had tried for hideous Black Bart—how had she ended up with a fiendishly handsome Francis Drake? Was there something she could do about his light-colored eyes? He needed spectacles, but it was probably too late for that.

  “Remember, speak only French,” she said.

  “Only if you promise not to return to Seattle.”

  She squared her shoulders. “I am returning to Seattle on the next train.”

  “Then I have no choice but to accompany you.”

  “No, you mustn’t! Not until I have spoken to the sheriff!”

  “Your word against Kidrick will not
clear my name! Kidrick owns Calhoun! He is not going to listen to you.”

  “He will listen.”

  “He may listen, but he will choose not to believe.” Christian stood and faced her. “Should you return to Seattle, if I even think you have returned to Seattle, I will follow you.”

  Rita brushed off his spotless shirt, wanting to smack him. There was something he wasn’t telling her, she was certain of it. Frowning, she picked up his hand—a hand that didn’t know labor. Smooth, fair skin and short clipped nails—maybe she should take him out for a bout of gardening. “Are you sure you can play adequately?” She would find out shortly.

  ***

  “Is this the new pianist, then?” Ivan asked, coming behind Rita.

  Rita watched her fellow actors for flickers of recognition, and when she saw nothing but friendly curiosity, she said, “Ivan Connelly, let me introduce Emile Didier.” She leaned forward and whispered, “He speaks no English. It might be the language barrier, but I think he may be soft in the head.”

  Ivan’s eyes widened, and Christian’s eyebrows lowered.

  “Poke promised us a skilled pianist,” Ivan complained.

  “Let’s not judge him without hearing him.” Rita glanced over Ivan’s shoulder to gauge Clarisse’s reaction to the new pianist. Rita motioned for Christian to be seated. After Ivan had returned to his usual place in the prompt corner and Christian sat before the piano, Rita stood in the wings, wringing her hands. She had never felt this nervous before a performance, a performance that could save a man’s life. Or not.

  Clarisse had said she knew Christian Roberts, but it appeared that she did not know Emile Didier. From the way Clarisse kept running the tip of her tongue over her lips, Rita guessed that she very much did want to know him.

  When Christian began to play a stunning Bach fugue, the tightness in Rita’s spine loosened a fraction. He really could play. In fact, he played much better than Poke.

  Clarisse’s eyes shone with desire.