“So what’s going on outside, John? Have the sheriff and King given up looking for me?”
“I think so. Good you here, where no can see. Mr. King, he not worry anyway. You right ‘bout him. Sheriff, him good man. He listen much, say to let him know what you need. It good you decide to be dead.”
Randolph chuckled. “Thanks for keeping Johnson informed, John. Have there been any problems with you coming and going? Anyone ask questions of you at the mine head?”
John Woo grinned a toothless smile. “Me just old Chinky man going to work in mine. When I leave work gang, I say go to feed dragon. They think I go to piss in private place.”
Randolph nodded. “One day, John, I’ll be able to thank you properly. Now, what have you brought me to eat today?”
“You like Chinee’ dumplings? Sweet ‘n sour chick’n?”
Randolph’s laugh echoed in his chest.
“It’s almost worth getting hit on the head for this.” He opened the basket that John Woo handed him and sniffed the still warm food appreciatively. “Your wife makes the best steamed rice and sticky buns, John.”
John collected up the empty basket from the previous day and the bucket of night waste. He put another bucket down in its place.
“If you light lantern, listen well first before strike match,” he warned before he left the room.
“I will,” Randolph promised.
The light from John Woo’s lantern faded until Randolph was in complete and utter darkness again. He continued to sit on the edge of the cot, wondering not for the first time how John Woo had managed to drag it down here. He steadied his breath, calmed his thoughts, fought the fear of being alone in the dark.
He could do this. He must do it. He reached out, found the basket of food and started to eat. It was tasty and filling but he left some of it for later. John Woo could only come once a day, and sometimes not at all.
Randolph put the basket on the floor at the head of the cot and lay down on his side. The cot’s leather strapping dug into his shoulder and hip. He shifted about until he was reasonably comfortable. Although his skin had healed, he still had a lump at the base of his skull. It prevented him from lying on his back, but didn’t prevent the thoughts that chased each other around in his brain.
One company name Randolph did not recognize in the report from the Cold Creek Mine was all it took to set in motion a series of questions. Questions that could not be answered from his office at Buxton Hall. Wiring the Pinkerton Agency to begin enquiries into the Caster and Lennox Mining Corporation before he arrived in San Francisco almost immediately threw up another query, and then another. By the time Randolph met up with Agent Stuart Montgomery, one name emerged from the paper trail of cover companies and that name was Douglas King.
Montgomery had warned him to watch his back at all times, but neither of them had considered the possibility of someone using the cupboard in his office as a hiding place. Whoever hit him with enough force to almost split his skull had waited in there and attacked him. From sitting at his desk at the mine head office until waking up on the floor of this hell hole, he had no memories at all.
Deep in thought, Randolph ran his fingers through his beard. He had only ever once worn one and guessed from the length of it he must have been here now for at least ten days. And was fully aware of the reason for it.
He’d asked one question too many and gotten too close to the truth.
He shifted on the cot and sighed heavily. His father’s overseas gold interests had cost him dearly one way or another. Mostly they had taken him away from Buxton Hall and Serena. He thought of the last time he’d seen her, with her eyes blazing and her cheeks red with anger, her voice ringing with accusation.
“I don’t think you love me,” she’d said. He’d watched as her lower lip quivered and her eyes filled with tears. “I think you’re using Cold Creek as an excuse to run away from what is or is not between us.”
Running his hand over his face, he sat up. He couldn’t tell her what he suspected was happening at the mine, couldn’t hint at how dangerous it might be. She would have insisted on coming with him and how much of a liability would that have been? If his own safety was questionable, how could he guarantee hers? He hadn’t wanted to argue with her and had simply left.
He got up and paced the floor, comfortable now in the parameters of his underground prison. It suited his purpose better to stay dead. It would lull the perpetrators into a false sense of security. Restless and ready to leave, he respected John Woo’s concern for him and tried to be patient. One or two more days wouldn’t hurt in the scheme of things and would give him time to plan a strategy to unmask Douglas King and possibly George Stiles with him.
And then he would sell his holdings in the Cold Creek mine and go home to Buxton Hall and Serena.
Serena. He couldn’t shut out the sight of her lovely face and graceful form, the high firm breasts he loved to caress, the delight they both took in her response. He wanted nothing more than to hold her again, to feel the warmth of her body against his, a warmth that meant so much more to him than any of the cold gold this mine might produce. Their argument before he left had been vicious and it cut him to the core that she thought he didn’t love her. He sat back down on the edge of the cot and held his head in his hands.
He had started to tell her so many times why he couldn’t love her as completely as she wanted, wouldn’t give her the child she yearned for but, each time he tried, the words stuck in his throat. He couldn’t explain to her how his mother cried and shrieked in pain while giving birth to his brother.
No, he would never put Serena through that.
Chapter Seven
Douglas King tipped his chair back and put his heels on the edge of Randolph Buxton’s desk. He took a cigarillo from his pocket, lit it then watched the first satisfying curl of smoke spiral upwards. Oh, but this was good.
Very good.
He’d learned a long time ago that patience was a virtue and now all his pigeons were coming home to roost. There was only one pigeon left to deal with and how fortunate that she came to him. Her being so far away from home made everything so much easier.
Yes, Lady Serena was lovely on the eye and would look even better on his arm, for to whom else could she turn?
Frank Harris had been an easy mark. Suggesting that security and integrity counted more for his bank than profit, and then questioning if Serena really was Randolph’s wife was a master stroke of subterfuge. Once the seed was planted in Harris’ ear it practically grew on its own, and he was perfectly sure that Harris would not remember how he had come to think of it. The banker’s due diligence was a fortuitous piece of luck.
A knock on the door preceded Deputy Stiles’ entrance.
“Isn’t it a little early to be trying that on for size?” he grunted, nodding at the desk.
“Just feeling it out,” King replied casually. “I won’t move in here until Buxton’s body is found. You have found somewhere suitable for it, I hope?”
“Yeah, down at the...”
“I don’t want to know.” King held up his hands. “Then I can be honestly surprised when Johnson tells me.”
“And what about his fancy piece?”
“She’ll soon come around,” King said with quiet confidence. “She has no one else to support her.”
“Don’t be too sure about that.” A certain amount of smugness filled Stiles’ voice. “I just saw her going into the Eldorado looking mighty cozy with Maggie O’Connor and word has it the Sutton woman took her off the street when a few of the boys got rowdy.”
King dropped his feet to the floor, pushed the chair back and stood up. “The hell you say,” he growled. “That wasn’t in my plan.”
He paced in front of the desk then stopped by the window to watch the black bulk of a locomotive pull slowly away from the station. The line ended in the roundhouse where it would be turned for the trip back to Yreka. Twirling the cigarillo in his fingers, he turned to Stiles.
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“Just keep your ears open for now. If anything sounds interesting get word to me, but don’t come here again.” He put the cigarillo between his lips, drew on it and blew out a thin stream of smoke. “We wouldn’t want anyone to remember they’d seen you coming here the day Buxton disappeared, would we?”
Stiles stiffened and looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Is that some kind of a warning?”
“Take it how you please,” King said, his manner casual. “But you need to remember that we still have to be careful if we’re both to get the most out of this.”
Stiles hesitated for a moment, then pulled his hat down over his eyes and left the office. King watched him go with just a little disquiet niggling at the back of his mind. Smart enough to know which side his bread was buttered but not keen on taking orders, Stiles remained something of a loose cannon. King wasn’t sure just how much to trust him. He had his uses but ultimately would be expendable.
King returned to his seat, turning his thoughts from Stiles to the much more appealing prospect of Lady Serena Buxton. He chuckled. That was a bird he’d take great delight in plucking.
~*~*~*~
Serena spent her morning sketching costume designs and now knew how many yards of silk, satin and different coloured fabrics would be required. Maggie had said much of it might be purchased at a dress emporium behind the Lucky Strike Saloon. Was this going to be possible? She hadn’t even begun to consider what it might cost or if the store would have the fabrics she required. It seemed a hopeless task, but she dressed in her burgundy suit and left the hotel to find Maggie.
When she walked out of the front door she heard her name called, and her heart sank. Douglas King was the last person she wanted to see. She turned and forced a smile to her face.
“Mr. King. How nice to see you.”
“Lady Serena.” King doffed his hat. “I hoped to catch you. I wondered if perhaps you would care to join me for dinner this evening in my club. We offer dining as fine as any Mrs. Vanderberg can put on her table, and a selection of good wine that I know she can’t match.”
“How kind,” Serena murmured, “but I think not. If your club is similar to those of which Randolph is a member, ladies are not admitted. And, if they are, then they are not ladies.”
“As it is my club I am permitted to take some liberties, but I take your point, Lady Serena. My apologies. Perhaps six-thirty at the Eldorado would suit you better?”
Serena desperately searched her mind for a good reason to refuse. None came to her, but she realized it was an opportunity she couldn’t afford to miss. Perhaps King might inadvertently let something slip about Randolph.
She inclined her head in agreement. “Until six-thirty.”
King smiled at her and she experienced a chill as if she were being hypnotized by a snake. He lifted his hat again, turned on his heel and walked away from her.
Serena made her way along Main Street. She kept well away from the Lucky Strike and crossed the street further along, much closer to the bakery and coffee shop. The shop smelled as delicious as yesterday, but Maggie wasn’t there.
“Try over at the boarding house,” the young woman behind the counter said. “Mrs. O’Connor sometimes doesn’t come in until later in the day. You should catch her there.”
Serena thanked her and trudged back across the street, pleased that she had thought to pack her rubber Wellington boots. The warmer weather had continued, making the street a quagmire.
Intent on reaching her destination, she barely noticed the old drunk until she was almost on top of him. He squatted down against the side of the building, covered in what once had been a colorful blanket but was now a threadbare and torn rag. He looked up and a salacious smile spread across his face. Serena shuddered and stepped around him. He reached out and caught the hem of her skirt. She quickly tugged it out of his hand. His laugh was more of a wheezy cackle as he let go.
“Feed the dragon,” he croaked as he peered blearily up at her.
Serena hurried on, her heart pounding. Whatever did the old fool mean? Feed the dragon, indeed. What dragon? She looked back once when she reached Maggie’s door, but Trader had gone. An uneasy stab of intuition told her he’d been waiting for her, but that couldn’t be. It must be a coincidence.
She straightened her shoulders and opened the boarding house door on which a ‘Room to Let’ sign hung. She found herself in a small foyer, far less opulent than the Eldorado, but clean and smelling of lavender polish. Maggie came bustling out from a back room and smiled when she saw Serena.
“Ah, I wondered if I’d see you today. Come on back to my parlor.”
Serena followed her along the hallway to a cozy room at the back. Comfortable looking chairs upholstered in green velvet sat on either side of a hearth in which a hearty fire blazed. Steam rose from the spout of a flame blackened kettle set on a trivet and a waiting teapot warmed beside it.
“Would you like a spot of something the doctor ordered in your tea?” Maggie asked with grin.
“At this time of the day?”
“Now’s as good a time as any, me darlin’.” She reached over to a side cupboard and took out a bottle of gin, holding it up in a silent question for Serena’s preference.
“No, I don’t think I will, but thank you all the same,” Serena said. “I have an invitation to dinner this evening and I’m going to need a clear head.”
Intrigued, Maggie leaned forward expectantly. “Who’s been so bold as to invite you out?”
“No one to get excited about.” Serena took her un-doctored tea and sat back in the chair. “Unfortunately, Douglas King caught me just as I was leaving the hotel.”
“Hmm.” Maggie nodded thoughtfully as she sipped her tea into which, Serena noticed, she poured a healthy measure of gin. “He’s not a good one to cross, that man. You watch yourself around him. And he’s taking you to his club, I don’t doubt.”
Serena shook her head. “That was his first choice, but I refused. We’re to dine at the Eldorado.”
“That didn’t sit well with him, I’ll bet.”
“No, it didn’t. But I am curious as to where he got the money to buy a place like the Men’s Club,” Serena mused.
Maggie shrugged. “Like us all, he has his secrets. Now, what did you want to see me for?”
Serena opened her mini-valise and pulled out her sketches. Maggie’s eyes opened wide when she looked at the first one.
“That’s hardly what an audience at the club would expect.”
“I know.” Serena grinned. “I thought I’d start by looking and sounding as demure and proper as possible. If I’m covered from neck to ankle, then I can remove bits of my costume throughout the performance. That’s why I want this dress constructed in parts.”
For the next hour they discussed the cut and line and types of fabrics that would be needed to create the multi-purpose costume Serena envisaged.
“We can’t do anymore until we go over to Hetty’s,” Maggie decided. “Biggest problem I see is getting all these pieces actually made.”
Serena put her sketches away and wandered to the front of the house while Maggie fetched her coat.
“Hetty is going to be just tickled with this.” Maggie linked her arm into Serena’s as they walked out into the street. “She makes just about everything from lingerie for the girls in the cat houses to evening gowns for the high and mighty church ladies.”
“Cat houses?” Serena queried. “Does Lorelei own more than one?”
“Heavens, no.” Maggie held Serena back at the corner of the block while a wagon drawn by two big Belgian horses trundled by. “Just along the road from Lorelei’s is Dollie Cook’s house, but that’s pretty much the end of the road for both the girls who work there and the fellows who use them.”
“I see,” Serena said quietly.
“Do you?” Maggie quirked an eyebrow. “In most towns there’s a pecking order between the bordellos. You get the likes of the Men’s Club used by the toffs, some of the
miners too, but not many. Next there are places like Lorelei’s and at the bottom of the barrel are places like Dollie’s.”
“What happens if any of the girls want to leave?” Serena asked, curious about a way of life so different from her own. She couldn’t imagine living that life but, if Randolph didn’t return and her singing didn’t support her, was it something she would have to consider? She shuddered. The thought of anyone other than Randolph touching her made her skin crawl.
“All Lorelei’s girls have contracts,” Maggie told her. “She puts quite a bit into looking after them, so she does. She wouldn’t want any of them running away or going off to get married, especially if they owe her money. Here we are.”
A bell tinkled above her head as Serena followed Maggie into the dress shop. Floor-to-ceiling shelves covered each wall, and bolts of different types of fabric loaded each shelf. Several dressmaking dummies stood to one side, some of them with half-made garments on them.
“Hetty!” Maggie thumped the counter top. “You have customers.”
She went behind the long counter, where a length of lavender wool with pattern pieces pinned to it was spread out on its surface, and opened a door.
“Hetty?” she called again.
“I’se coming, ya’all, nothing to get excited ‘bout.” A fine-boned black woman came through from the back room. Her gold hoop earrings gleamed against her dark skin but the frown on her face was hardly welcoming. “So what c’n I do for ya’, Maggie O’Connor?”
“We’d like you to take a look at these,” Maggie said as Serena took out her sketches again and handed them to Hetty who studied them carefully.
“Need lots of fabric he’ah.” She looked up at Serena. “This all for you? You a danc’ah?”
“No, I sing,” Serena saw a frown crease Hetty’s face. “Will it be difficult? I really tried to make my drawings as basic as possible.”
“Well,” Hetty turned and looked at the bolts of cloth on the shelves. “Could use some o’ these fabrics, but I figure most of it will have ta come from Yreka. How soon ya’ll going to need these?”
Cold Gold Page 5
