Frank swung around. “Hold on, sister. I didn’t work up a sweat just to have you take the goods.”
She blinked once, her eyes shimmering with dislike for him. He hadn’t done anything to her to deserve her snub. “I beg your pardon?” she said in a tone lacking sincerity.
He didn’t miss the cool challenge in her voice. “A woman’s never begged for my pardon before. Begged for a few other things.”
Aghast, her brows shot up. “Well!”
“Well yourself,” he said, feeling the sun pour over him like hot buttered rum. “I ordered this piano three months ago.”
“So did I.”
“Fisk,” Frank shot over his shoulder, “is there another crate on this train from Rogers and Company?”
“I dunno.” The porter shrugged. “Is there, Hardy?”
“No.”
Frank gave her a polite smile with enough forced charm to set his teeth on edge. “Then that settles it. This piano is mine.”
She stiffened her spine to a ramrod, her brown eyes flashing a warning. “You’re sadly mistaken, Mr. Who-ever-you-are.”
“Brody. Frank Brody. Owner of the Moon Rock Saloon. And owner of this upright piano.”
“You may own that whiskey mill, but you don’t own this piano. I do. I am a piano teacher and I—”
“Weeping Angel doesn’t have a piano teacher.”
“They do as soon as I get my piano into my parlor.”
Frank didn’t like being burned at the stake by a woman he could easily picture with a rosary swaying in her hand. “Put your ruler away, sister. I’m not one of your pupils.”
Her mouth dropped open.
Grenville came forward. “I do believe this is an official matter for the ticket agent to handle. Might I suggest we bring this discussion inside and find a solution to the problem in the depot where it’s cooler?”
Frank was already walking.
The station house remained cooler, but not by much. Frank gave the large clock mounted on the wall enough of a glance to note the hour. 3:48 P.M. He had twelve minutes to get the piano to the Moon Rock in order to open on time.
He’d put his all into fixing up the saloon, sparing no expense on the decor to revive the western showplace of the sixties and seventies. The upright piano was his mail-order ace in the hole.
Lloyd Fairplay who owned the Palace four doors down and around the corner from the Moon Rock, had music—a discarded church organ. The instrument wasn’t in the best shape, but music was music. When Lloyd’s feet pumped the rubber-cloth bellows, passable notes burped up the done-for reeds. And depending on how many drinks a customer had, they could make out the songs and sing right along.
Lloyd’s organ was orchestrating Frank’s business down to virtual stragglers, basically just those who passed through Weeping Angel and didn’t realize the Moon Rock’s menu was minus musical entertainment until after they’d plunked down their two bits.
Without a piano, the Moon Rock Saloon would continue to play second fiddle to the Palace. Dammit, he needed a New American upright. He’d paid for one. He owned one. And woman or not, he aimed to fight her strings and keys for the crate.
Sliding a taxidermic hoot owl out of his way, Frank put his hands on the hardwood counter and drummed out his irritation. Miss Marshall came inside and stood a healthy six feet away from him.
Grenville slipped through a double-hinged door the same height as the counter. He made a big to-do about putting on a pair of half glasses with tarnished wire frames before fitting a green-billed visor on his head. His expression took on a professional air as he lifted his gaze. “Now then, do either of you wish to file a complaint with the Union Pacific for lost or damaged goods?”
“Cut the bullshit, Parks,” Frank returned, slamming both his hands down on the counter.
“Mr. Brody!” she exclaimed. “May I remind you, you are in the company of a lady.”
He might have taken a moment to remember his manners if she hadn’t been looking at him as if he were something she needed to scrape off the bottom of her shoe. “May I remind you to loosen your corset—you’re laced too tight.”
“Well!”
“Well yourself.” Frank turned his glare on Grenville. “Parks, I ordered a New American upright parlor piano from Rogers Pianos in Boston. I paid one hundred and fifty-nine dollars for it—not to mention the goddamn shipping.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Brody,” she disputed as if she had him over a barrel, “but why would you order a parlor piano?”
“Because I have a drinking parlor. And a man’s thirst isn’t at its prime unless he can drink his liquor while he’s listening to a piano player belt out obscene songs.”
Her lips parted in surprise.
Grenville shook his head. “Well, I can’t release the piano until someone can prove ownership. Does either one of you have a bill of sale?”
“Certainly.” She set her black-tasseled pocketbook on the counter, opened it, and produced the proper document.
“I didn’t plan on having any trouble,” Frank said, irked she would come so prepared. “I don’t have mine with me.”
“Ah ha!” she blurted.
“Sister, nobody your age should ever say ‘Ah ha!’ You just put ten years on yourself.” Frank ignored her offended gasp and yanked his hat off. “Parks, trust me when I say I have the bill of sale. It’s at the Moon Rock. Where I should be.” He swiped his hair out of his eyes before putting the panama back on. “I’ll concede, by some damn coincidence, both myself and the lady here have ordered the same piano from the same manufacturer. There’s apparently been a mix-up at the company, and they’ve only sent us one upright.”
“But only one of you has shown proof of sale,” Grenville said. “If you can’t produce your receipt, Mr. Brody, I have to give the piano to Miss Marshall.”
“I’ve got it at the Moon Rock,” Frank repeated. “I’ll show you the receipt after the piano is at my saloon.”
“No, that won’t do. Even if you do have a proof of sale, there’d still be only one piano and two receipts. Nothing like this is in the Union Pacific manual,” Grenville mumbled. “If we had a telegraph in town—which we don’t—this matter could be cleared up right away. But because this will have to be handled through the Wells Fargo, I can’t legally let either one of you take it.”
Miss Marshall gazed at Frank. “You’re right, there’s obviously been a dreadful mistake made at the factory. One that will take weeks, perhaps a month, to figure out. Time I don’t have to sit and wait. If you would be so kind as to give me this piano while—”
“Look,” Frank said in what he felt was an indulgent tone, “I don’t begrudge you your hobby—”
“Hobby!” she cried as if he’d paid her a paramount insult.
“If you want a piano as an ornament in your parlor for some kids to dabble on, that’s fine with me. In fact, I think lessons would be a good thing.”
“Well, thank you so much,” she snapped.
“I don’t think you meant that.”
“And I don’t think you meant what you said. You were maligning my intentions.”
“I wasn’t. I was trying to make a comparison here. Which is my point—there is no comparison. I need this piano, Miss Marshall. If I don’t get this piano, my business is going to be busted. So, you’re going to have to do your teaching on another piano when one arrives.”
She boldly met his eyes. “I can’t.”
“Why not? One good reason.”
Flushing, she grew very distraught; her fingers twisted the fringy stuff on her purse. For a moment, he thought she might cry. Wrong choice on her part. Hell, he could squeeze out some tears, too, if he thought of something to rip his gut. If he was so inclined to turn on the waterworks. Which he was not. Men didn’t cry. And smart women didn’t either. A fatal mistake because this man never surrendered to theatrics.
Frank rested his hip against the counter. “Are you having trouble thinking up a good reason, Miss Marshall?”<
br />
She showed no signs of relenting. “I don’t need any reasons, Mr. Brody. I paid for the piano and the piano is mine.”
Feeling every muscle in his body grow taut, Frank nodded and turned to the ticket agent. “Parks, I’ve been about as pleasant as I can, this being a hot day and all.” He pressed his palms on the countertop and leaned toward Grenville until they were nose to nose. Frank kept his tone level and low. “Just so we’re clear on this. I want my piano. And I’m going to have my piano. Not in a few weeks or a month. Now. Right now. As of”—Frank shifted his gaze to the clock and back—“four-oh-three, it’s mine. I think we’re clear on this, Parks. I know I am.”
Grenville’s eyes bulged, making them appear twice their size through the short lenses of his glasses. “B-But I’ve explained you can’t take immediate possession.”
Frank backed away and shrugged his shoulders in mock resignation. “Hell, then I’m just going to steal it.”
“You can’t let him!” Miss Marshall implored the ticket agent. Twirling toward Frank, her fancy skirts swished around trim ankles and sounded like a high wind in tall grass.
He tipped his head with a challenge. “Step outside and watch me.”
“You couldn’t possibly roll the crate over the boardwalk yourself!”
“I have thirsty men to help.”
“They won’t help you unless I tell them they can,” Grenville warned. “It’s like I said. We’re going to have to go through the Wells Fargo office. Until that time, I have to keep the piano here.”
“I’ll be damned if I’m going to let a perfectly good piano sit in a train depot,” Frank ground out. “It’s either coming with me, or I’m setting up my bar here. What’s it going to be, Parks?”
“That’s not at all acceptable to me,” Miss Marshall broke in.
Frank kept after the ticket agent. “What’s it going to be, Parks?”
Grenville ruffled the tidy edges of the Union Pacific manual. “My official ruling as a representative of the railroad is to organize an emergency town meeting to decide what to do. We’ve got ourselves a monumental problem.”
The only monumental problem Frank could see was standing in front of him with a hat of garden foliage and duck wings on her head.
Chapter
2
Inside the Christ Redeemer church, the flock of Weeping Angel gathered to decide the residence of the New American upright parlor piano. Paddle ceiling fans stirred the warm air under the guidance of five boys who’d been elected to pull the cords up and down.
As the congregation took their seats on the polished mahogany pews, there was murmured reflection as gazes lifted to the gesso—plaster-and paint-coated—winged angel, classically posed and based on the statue of Artemis at Versailles. She’d been put up with twenty lengths of clear fishing line, and only on those Sunday mornings when the dawn’s early light beamed through the stained-glass windows could a person see the strings holding her. After nine o’clock she seemed to be suspended by the will of God.
The angel meant a lot to the residents of Weeping Angel—they’d named their town after her. It had come about the day after a spring shower passed over the town, and Reverend Thorpe went to inspect his newly constructed church. He found the angel with what looked to be tears streaming down her face. He’d fled the hallowed hall, screaming that the Lord had given him a sign. Not fifteen minutes later, the whole of the town gathered in the church to behold the miracle. But it wasn’t until after everyone was huddled with awe around the weeping angel, that Oscar Beamguard had the bad grace to point out the steady drip coming from a leak in the roof and landing on the angel’s head to run down her cheeks.
There’d been a moment’s hushed quiet before the folks still proclaimed the event as a miracle. After all, God had made the rain, and even though the roof was at fault, the leak had as much power as the angel crying herself. They decided then and there they must name the town Weeping Angel in honor of the divine omen.
Retelling the story of how it had all come about was considered a privilege. The citizens took pride in relating the story, careful to keep the recounting accurate. A person couldn’t stretch the truth about the Lord’s work and not worry about penitence.
Not giving a minute’s thought to how the town was named, Amelia sat in the first row pew, along with Narcissa Dodge, Grenville Parks, Herbert Fisk, Lew Furlong, Hardy, and Mr. Frank Brody. She had more pressing things on her mind than the blessed angel.
Namely, gaining possession of the New American upright parlor piano.
Why couldn’t Mr. Brody let her have this piano and wait for a new one to arrive for his saloon? What was more important—nurturing the minds of the children or contributing to the delinquency of the town’s men?
Amelia leaned forward ever so slightly to regard Mr. Brody with a wary gaze. He sat on the end, next to Hardy, and had the poor taste to appear comfortable—this being his first time in the church. Resting his arm on the pew’s back, he’d propped one foot on his knee; his hat dangled from the toe of his boot. He’d seated himself as indolently as he’d eaten his peach, but the expression marking his profile gave him away. He was mad enough to eat hornets. She refrained from taking in his appearance further, mad herself, and more than a little offended because he’d called her sister in that tone. Why, everyone in town knew her family came from Methodists.
She resumed her position with a straight back. She needed to have this piano or she wouldn’t last through the winter. She had withdrawn most of the money from her savings account—one hundred and fifty-nine dollars—and put it toward the piano. Of course she still had her aunt Clara’s nest egg hidden in the broken-handled coffee mill on the top shelf of her pantry. But it was fast becoming too small for even a hummingbird to sit on.
If only she hadn’t spent two hundred dollars on the Legacy Collection—the complete Bible spelled out in twenty-five marble-edged Italian leather volumes for easy reading.
Amelia hated to think about Jonas Pray, the book and Bible salesman from California. He’d been the handsomest man she’d ever seen. Like fine honey, he’d been golden, smooth and sweet with words. What a naïve fool she’d been.
She’d been raised to believe young ladies only acquainted themselves with respectable men while they waited for a marriage proposal. What more earnest occupation than a Bible salesman? She’d learned the hard way that a man’s calling card wasn’t enough to spell out his character.
After her public humiliation, she’d immersed herself in the upkeep of her home and the tending of her yards because she’d also been taught that the greatest cause of misery and wretchedness in social life was idleness.
Her aunt had instructed her on the laws of physiology and hygiene. Her mother had cultivated in her a spirit of independence. Yet with all this knowledge at her disposal, Amelia had only been trained to be a wife, not how to transact business and be a financier. So it was with horror that she reacted to the news from Mr. Hartshorn, the manager of the bank, that her account was on the verge of collapse.
It was the second most humiliating day of Amelia’s life.
After great consideration for her predicament, the only dignified way she could think to salvage herself from poverty was to teach piano lessons.
She had eight confirmed pupils—all girls. At twenty-five cents a lesson, and lessons being held once a week, she would be supplementing her diminutive savings with two dollars every seven days. She could have had an extra two dollars and fifty cents and would have had ten more pupils—boys—if she’d been able to convince their mothers the importance of musical awareness for a son as well as a daughter. But she’d exhausted her speech on the matter and had had to settle for the eight girls.
Eight girls she wouldn’t have if she didn’t get her piano.
The town’s mayor, Cincinatus Dodge, took up the pulpit to direct the meeting. He’d gone beyond the prime of his life, the spark of his youth starting to fizzle out. But he was still a man of much character and
had aspirations of becoming a renowned orator. He’d been trying to recite the whole of the Declaration of Independence since last Fourth of July whenever he had the authority to hold the town captive. But he hadn’t gotten past “all men are created equal” before someone interrupted his recitation. Because he’d memorized the document from the order in which it had been written, he’d have to start over to gain his momentum back. And by then, his audience had grown wise to him.
“Come to order, citizens,” he called in a clear voice freshly sprayed with saline water from his atomizer. The church full of people didn’t readily cease their steady whispers. “It has come to my attention—quiet, please—we have a monumental problem.”
There were numerous nods of men’s heads and women conspiring in hushed tones behind their gloved hands.
“Now then—quiet, please. Quiet, please!”
The room instantly fell silent as a graveyard.
Mayor Dodge’s brows rose a fraction as all eyes focused on him. He kept his appearance neat and tidy—as would a mayor in his late fifties. The part in his pomade-oiled silvery hair was so deep and exact, Moses couldn’t have done a better job with his staff. His tailor-made clothes were respectable and fit him well. He glanced at his wife, Narcissa, who sat at Amelia’s left. She gave him a frown and discreetly shook her head no. He placed his right hand into the fold of his jacket and took on a Jeffersonian pose. “When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the laws of nature and of nature’s God entitle them—”
“What about my entitlement to the piano?” Frank broke in, his voice heavy with impatience.
“—entitle them to a piano . . . to a piano?” Mayor Dodge crinkled his nose. “Horse feathers! That’s not right!”
Frank stood, panama in hand, and headed toward the pulpit. “Slide over, Dodge, I don’t have time for high jinks.”
Weeping Angel Page 2
