by Ann Parker
“And?”
Flo took a deep breath. Her military-style gray wool bodice, relieved by a white fichu that spilled lace down the front of her bosom, puffed up like a pigeon’s breast, then subsided as she exhaled. “And he came back for a visit last night. He had quite a bit of money. Spent pretty freely buying champagne for the girls and was free with his pretty compliments. But when it came down to business, I asked him to leave.”
Inez kept her astonishment in check. “Really? Why? Spent too much on the champagne and didn’t save enough for services?”
“Oh, he had plenty more gold in that purse of his. No, it wasn’t that. He was looking to satisfy unusual appetites.”
Curiosity piqued, Inez said, “Unusual?”
Flo clamped her lips shut.
“Flo, I’m not exactly an innocent, for heaven’s sake. What are we talking about here? Whips? Boys? Girls? Goats? Spit it out.”
She shook her hair, blond curls springing left and right. “Let’s just say if he were involved with the death of the fortuneteller, the act of strangling her might have excited passions quite out of the ordinary, and leave it at that.”
Inez emitted a weak “Oh.”
Flo continued. “I told him he was not likely to find any who would help or oblige him, no matter how much money he offered.” She winced. “I actually said he’d have better luck satisfying his degenerate urges by prowling Stillborn Alley. Plenty of near-dead women to be found there. Not my exact words, but close.”
“I see.” Despite the warming stove, Inez felt cold, right down to the end of her fingertips.
Flo seemed repelled by the memory. “Imagine. The nerve. What kind of house does he think I run?”
“The nerve, indeed,” said Inez faintly. She recalled Woods’ nervousness in Stillborn Alley, his staring eyes, fixed expression, and hissed invocation to her that it would be best if they “forgot they ever saw each other.” Had he found what he craved in Stillborn Alley? In Drina Gizzi’s hovel? The silver and gold cords he had presented to Inez after his successful afternoon of selling at the Silver Queen, did they “tie” into his obsessions? Inez’s skin crawled. She resolved to never wear those laces, and indeed to throw them away as soon as possible.
Inez felt certain from the set on Flo’s face that she’d get no more information about the drummer. Since the madam seemed inclined to chat otherwise, Inez decided to test the waters on other locals of interest who seemed to have a connection to Drina either directly or tangentially.
“What about the Alexanders? He’s an undertaker. Have you heard much of them? They are new to me.”
Flo’s indignation subsided and she fluffed her hair absently. “Well, you know Mr. Alexander is a coffin-man. Goodness, Mrs. Stannert, what is this current obsession you have with death and the afterlife? Fortunetellers, coffin-men, spiritualists.”
“Spiritualists?”
“That would be Mrs. Alexander. The mister handles the stiffs while the missus talks with the spirits.” Flo laughed, a surprisingly nasty sound, then covered her mouth with her fingers. “Oh, pardon. I should be more sympathetic. Talk is the Alexanders lost a girl child before they moved to Leadville. In fact, I’ve heard the mister hoped the move would make a new start for him and his wife. Well, that didn’t quite work out.”
“What do you mean?”
“I gather she’s obsessed with their dead child. Since they arrived, in addition to regularly attending church, she holds séances to which she invites a select few. Seems she’s determined to find a medium, a channel to reach the other world and communicate with her child. It’s sad, really.”
Inez nodded, thinking this explained the connection between Mrs. Alexander and Drina Gizzi. “What about this physician who seems to be allied with Mr. Alexander, Gregorvich. Is he new to town as well?”
“Oh Dr. G. He’s one of the self-proclaimed ‘saints of Stillborn Alley.’” At Inez’s confusion, Flo elaborated. “Because of all the bad press about State Street and particularly Stillborn Alley, a group of do-gooders have taken it upon themselves to lift up the downtrodden and clean up the rows, but with Christian kindness and charity instead of just riding the unfortunates out of town on rails. Doc Cramer brought along Dr. G one night, and he’s been there ever since. There are others trying to help as well, for all the good it does them or State Street, for that matter.” Flo eyed Inez, as if expecting her to respond.
Inez ran a mental finger down the list of people she knew who had connections to Drina: Labasilier, the Alexanders, possibly the drummer, and maybe Doc Cramer and Dr. Gregorvich. “Thank you, Mrs. Sweet. It sounds as if I have missed a great deal in my absence.”
“That you have.” The three words were laden with portent.
Inez frowned. “There’s more?”
“You haven’t asked about the one person I assumed would be the first name on your lips after our business was completed.”
Inez shuffled through her thoughts like a well-worn deck of cards and came up with nothing. “And that would be?”
“Reverend Sands, of course!”
Guilt stabbed deep. “Well, I know he’s back from his own travels. That he’s very busy.”
“So you don’t know about the brouhaha at the church?” pressed Flo.
Inez steeled herself. “I had heard rumors, but only rumors, that he might be taking another position elsewhere, farther west, away from Leadville.”
“You acted so unconcerned during our little chat. I was betting all this”—Flo gestured around the parlor in a vague way—“plotting meant you knew.”
Alarm grew, crowding out other thoughts. “Knew what?”
“Well, I didn’t think I would be the one to tell you this.” Flo set down the cup and clasped her hands tight in her lap. “A little birdy told me Reverend Sands received a telegram this morning. His new post has been confirmed. He’s going to announce it tomorrow at the service. The church will be gaining a new minister and the good reverend will be leaving within the week.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Inez set the teacup down gently. It felt that if she didn’t take care, the delicate china cup would shatter from the sheer force of her emotion. Loss raced through her like the ferocious winds that tore in over the Rockies from the north. “And who, may I ask, was this little birdy?”
“Telegraph office messenger.” Flo’s gaze was tinged with sympathy. “I won’t say he peeked at the message, exactly, but—”
Inez waved her hand in dismissal. She didn’t want to hear another word. Not now.
Flo, apparently ignoring or misinterpreting her gesture, continued, “I thought you must have your bags still packed. What with the schedule you’ve given me, I was certain that you and Reverend Sands had made plans.”
Inez stood up abruptly, cutting off further conversation. “Thank you, Mrs. Sweet. I have much to think on and much more to do. I’m certain you understand.”
“Of course.” Flo seemed at a loss for words. She finally shook her head. “Men. Always running off at the worst times and leaving us and our broken hearts behind. After Mr. Sweet left for greener pastures, I just told myself, Florence, the only one you can count on is yourself and you just damn well better keep that in mind. And I have.” She stood as well. “You and me, we make our own way in the world, and that’s all for the best, don’t you think? No palm-reading or card scrying to pin our hopes on, or moaning after some big strong man to save us from the big bad world. We build our own fortunes, forge our own futures.”
Inez was about to respond when a babble of women’s voices came floating into the waiting room, accompanied by the clatter of footsteps. “I do believe Miss Carothers has finished,” she said instead.
No sooner were the words spoken than Susan popped her head around the door. “Done, Mrs. Sweet. Individual portraits of each and I posed them as a group as well.”
“Thank you, sooooo
much,” Flo gushed. “I’ll arrange for July, August, and September’s sittings once I have a chance to see the results. I know the photographs will be lovely. We’ll hang them in the new drawing room. Won’t that be nice, girls?”
The girls chorused their approvals.
Flo continued to Susan, “And I apologize for them being such a handful. I will pay you extra for the general nuisance and for any damages. Didn’t I hear a vase hit the floor earlier? I promise the next group will be more sedate.” Flo shook a mock finger at the three young women. “In the future, save the high-jinks for the boudoirs, yes, ladies? Now, on with your coats and let’s go. We’ve taken enough of Miss Carothers’ time.”
While Susan left to unlock the front door, the three portrait-sitters squeezed into the room and converged on the coat tree which sprouted a number of small fashionable black walking hats and black, ankle-length good-quality wool cloaks. They busied themselves wrapping up, covering bright-colored outfits that were more appropriate for the drawing room than the street.
With a nod to Flo, who was extracting gold pieces from her coin purse, Inez moved out the parlor door to escape the welter of excited chit-chat and flutter of coats, hats, and gloves as the women all donned their outerwear at the same time.
When she reached the front door, Susan, who was hovering beside it, stopped Inez, asking, “Do you feel ill? You’re pale all of a sudden.”
Inez forced a wan smile. “Much to think on, that’s all. Will you be here at your studio the rest of today?” At Susan’s nod, she added, “If your ‘niece’ comes around, I will bring her by. In any case, I shall see you at church tomorrow. Perhaps we can talk after the service.” Inez pulled the door open and hurried out, desperate for the sting of cold air to freeze the shock and dismay in her soul.
A familiar figure in an impeccable peacock blue frock coat with matching soft-crowned derby hat stood with his back to the building, apparently surveying the street, walking stick held loosely behind him.
“Mark!” Inez clutched her purse with its secrets to her waist. “What are you doing here?”
Mark Stannert swung around. “Well, Mrs. Stannert, I decided the only way I’d get to see you anytime soon was to—” He stopped and his eyes widened as Flo and her women spilled out of Susan’s studio, around Inez, and onto the boardwalk.
With choruses of “Helloooo!” and “Good day, Mr. Stannert!” the cluster of black-cloaked women flowed past Mark with small finger waves and wide inviting smiles. Flo, who was last, said demurely, “Why, Mr. Stannert, what a surprise.”
Mark who had nodded automatically at each of the spring months as they sashayed past, recovered himself enough to tip his hat to Flo. “Mrs. Sweet.”
Flo fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Mrs. Stannert and I just had the most interesting chat about the State Street building. I’ll let her tell you all about it.” With that, Flo moved on past, clucking after at her brood like a hen after its chicks.
Mark regarded Inez with some surprise and not a small amount of alarm. “You and Mrs. Sweet were confabulating? That sounds like a dangerous combination, akin to settin’ the fuse to a keg of giant powder.”
“I’ll explain, but first, you need to explain,” she countered. “Why are you here? Are you following me?” The idea that Mark might be dogging her every move was disturbing. Inez started to brush past him toward Harrison.
“Wait.” Mark grasped her elbow. “You said you were going to Miss Carothers’ studio, so I decided to wait and…Let’s walk a bit. Are you going back to the saloon or…? I know, don’t say it. I have no right to ask, but I have something I want to show you, and…let’s walk up Pine, shall we? It’s a bit more private than promenading up the main street of town.”
I have to deal with the here and now. And right now, the cards I have in hand involve ‘selling’ Flo’s State Street house, seeing what more I can discover about Drina Gizzi’s life and death, and doing what I can for her daughter. Inez’s swirling thoughts settled, and she allowed Mark to guide her to the corner of Chestnut and thence up Pine. It was then she realized he was talking a mile a minute, a sure sign he was nervous or afraid she might bolt or turn on him. “I don’t mean to spring anything on you,” he said, “but I want you to see this sooner rather than later. I don’t think I’m negating our agreement by sayin’ I hope I can find a way to convince you that there can be a new beginning for us. We’ve always worked well together, darlin’, a good team, in business and in life. We’d be fools to turn our backs and kick all that away.”
They had crossed State and now stood at the corner of the two-story brick edifice that used to house Flo and her women. Judging the time was right, Inez pulled Mark to a stop. “And I have something to tell you, Mark,” she said, then felt slightly ashamed at the hope that sprang into his face.
She hurried on. “When I came to Susan’s studio, she was finishing up a sitting for Flo’s women. Susan asked we not mention this around town, I’m sure you understand how that could impact her business. Anyhow, Flo said given her move to Fifth, this building,” Inez inclined her head toward the stolid two-story structure looming over them, “is for sale to the right buyer. She as much as said that buyer could be you. Or, rather, us,” Inez amended hastily, thinking an inclusive statement would arouse less suspicion.
“She did?” Mark swiveled to take in the imposing façade. “Interesting. Not so long ago, I made inquiries to Flo about this very building and was told there was already a buyer in place.”
Inez shrugged. “She did mention a deal falling through. In any case, it’s solidly built and in a prime location, so any offer would need to be generous, I suspect.”
Mark pushed his hat back a bit to get a better look at the building. “With this, we’d own both ends of the block. It would make a fine gentlemen’s club, limited to highrollers and uptown visitors. It could be right profitable. I’ll arrange to talk to Flo about it.”
“Abe should be in on the deal, if he’s interested,” Inez said, determined that the Jacksons share some of the windfall.
“Goes without saying, darlin’. After all, it’s always been the three of us together, through thick and thin.” Mark looped Inez’s hand tighter into the crook of his elbow, and they continued walking. “I know some of those times were mighty thin for the two of you while I was gone. I’m going to make amends for that.”
“We’ll see,” Inez said under her breath.
“Ye of little faith,” he replied.
They continued walking. Mark finally said, “I know you get tired of me spinning words, and need hard evidence that I’ve changed my ways.” They neared the corner of West Fourth Street. “Perhaps what I have to show you will restore some of that broken faith,” added Mark as he turned up Fourth.
Inez balked, not wanting to walk up the street where their home had once been. Since their house had burned down earlier that summer, she’d avoided going anywhere near the blackened plot of ground that held little but ghosts of memories, a timber or two that hadn’t been consumed to ash, and a few hardy weeds that had taken root in the thin red soil. “Oh no. I’m not going this way.”
“Keep walking, Mrs. Stannert,” he urged. He moved his hand to her back, encouraging her forward. Partway up the block, a man, dressed for business, came out of one of the buildings, and started toward them. Inez recognized him as Mr. Robitaille, a near-neighbor and well-known Leadville architect and builder. Stopping short, he removed his hat and beamed. “Mr. Stannert, Mrs. Stannert. Good to see you returned from your holiday.”
Just how many people knew we were away together? The whole town? Inez mustered a polite rejoinder. “Mr. Robitaille. Good to see you as well. How is the missus? And business?”
“Both are well.” His bright eyes fixed on Mark. “Has she seen—?”
“Heading there right now.”
“Good. Good. Don’t let me stop you. Madam,” he addressed Ine
z, “I hope you are satisfied with the results of our endeavors. If there are any changes you wish, we shall comply.”
“Satisfied with—?”
“We shall certainly let you know, and thank you again,” Mark said. With a firm pressure at her back, he set walking again.
“Mark, what is going on?” She stopped, catching sight of something she never thought to see. On the burned-out lot were not the expected weeds and crumbling rubble, but a proper two-story clapboard house, freshly painted a vibrant blue with light gold trim. A small, covered front porch sported turned posts and a spool and spindle porch frieze. Drapes pulled across windows to either side of the porch and on the floor above made the house appear asleep as if waiting for the magic words to call it awake.
Inez managed to say, “How? When?”
“I commissioned Robitaille shortly after I returned, and he came up with a set of plans. I wanted to confer with you first, but you weren’t exactly in a conferrin’ frame of mind. Then, when you made plans to visit the Springs, Robitaille said he could have it all done, down to the spit and polish, by the time you came back.” He turned to Inez. “It’s a dandy little home, Inez. And it’s yours.” He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket, pulled out a shiny brass key, and presented it to her. “For the front door. And I’d be a liar and a thief if I didn’t say that, although I built it for you, I’m hoping there will come a time when it’ll be ours.”
She was still staring at the house. Only when she turned to him did she realize the blue of his suit matched the blue paint of the house, almost as if the man and the abode were one. Looking down at the key, she had the awful premonition that, if she took the key from his gloved hand, at some level, she’d be making him a promise that she would later have to break.
“Mark.” She covered her eyes, trying to arrange her thoughts. “Why now?”
Just then, a small determined voice said, “Where’s Maman?”
She looked up to see Tony standing just beyond Mark. She almost didn’t recognize the youngster—gone was the red cap, the oversized wool suit jacket. Taking their place was a derby and a checked sack coat. The mismatched eyes, tousled hair, and thin, pointed face were the same, although the eyes looked red and puffy, the face tighter, as if holding in overwhelming sorrow. Tony added, “Where’s my gun?”
