What Gold Buys

by Ann Parker

  “Someday I’d like to be able to play a piano,” said Tony, pulling on her gloves, “like you do, Mrs. Stannert.”

  The missus held the parlor door open for her. “It may look easy, but it takes years of lessons, ready access to an instrument, and much practice. Hours and hours a day.” She must have seen Tony’s disappointment, because her voice softened. “But who knows? It could happen, if you want it enough. In such cases, you focus on the desired outcome, plan your moves and make the right decisions at the right times. Of course, there are the wild cards—luck, chance, serendipity, things beyond your control—which can play the devil with your plans. That is when mettle and quick thinking come to the fore. I believe you have both of those qualities and determination as well.”

  They left the house and Mrs. Stannert locked the door behind them, saying, “Remember, your name is Annabelle Carothers. On our walk, keep your eyes on the ground if anyone should stop us. If you are asked a question, let me handle it. Best we take the ‘children should be seen and not heard’ approach.”

  With that, Mrs. Stannert gave Tony the carpetbag, took her other hand, and they started up the street to Harrison. Tony slowed. “Do we hafta go down Harrison? How about Pine?”

  “Recall, Annabelle, you’re new to Leadville, just off the train. It makes sense I take you down the main street of town rather than lurk on a side street,” said Mrs. Stannert. “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”

  They turned onto Harrison. Tony kept her eyes fixed on the weathered boardwalk planks. She couldn’t make herself look around. She was afraid she’d see someone she knew. A newsie, or maybe one of her regular customers. Or maybe Mr. Alexander, or—

  A door banged open, narrowly missing Tony. A hurried stampede of footsteps erupted, and a half circle of boots formed in front, blocking their path.

  “Good day, Messeurs Percy, Epperley, Balcombe, Tipton, and Quick,” the missus said politely. Her hand tightened on Tony’s, a warning. “Conducting a little business at the Board of Trade Saloon to start your day on the right foot?”

  “Not a bloody good day at all,” grumbled a voice that Tony recognized as belonging to the tall pale man called Epperley. Fear streaked through her limbs.

  “Oh now, Epperley.” Worthless Pisspot Brown sounded positively cheery. “Ignore him, Mrs. Stannert. He didn’t get his beauty rest last night and is just all at sixes and sevens and spreading doom and gloom today. I say, the usual poker game tonight, then? Usual time?”

  “Absolutely, Lord Percy. You’ll be there?”

  “With bells on, m’lady! I hope you have some high rollers attending, because I’ll be taking them to the bank!”

  “If you’ve got anything left to put on the table,” growled Epperley.

  “Oh stuff it,” said one of the others. “Percy’s treating, so buck up, boy-o. Where next, then? The Tontine for some proper food and to ogle the proper young matrons dining with their spouses? Hyman’s for the next round?”

  “Hyman and his bloody Bible by the door, no thanks,” said Epperley.

  “I don’t see you offering to buy the next round,” commented another unknown. “Let’s leave the decision to old moneybags over here, shall we?”

  “Oh, very well,” Worthless Pisspot Brown said. “Food then. A little ogling won’t hurt either. Then, I’m off to my silver mine to confer with the experts. I say, who’s this urchin with you, Mrs. Stannert?”

  Tony squeezed her eyes shut and leaned against Mrs. Stannert.

  “This is Miss Annabelle Carothers, niece of Miss Carothers, the woman photographer on Chestnut.” Mrs. Stannert’s voice became stern. “She’s from the Midwest, brought up a proper young lady. I’m afraid you all have probably scared her speechless and witless with your rowdy behavior.”

  “Oooooh, so sorry, miss.” A different voice, apologetic. “We’re visitors as well. From over the pond originally, but not any more. Proper misfits, we are. Enjoy your stay in Cloud City, missy, and don’t go adventuring down State Street. Toodle-oo, Mrs. Stannert! Hide the good wine and brandy for us for this evening’s fun and games, and keep the coffee hot!”

  The boots turned in a confused mass and stampeded away.

  Mrs. Stannert blew out a breath. “Well, that was unexpected. You did well, ‘Annabelle.’ Kept your wits about you.” She wiggled her entrapped gloved fingers and said, “You can ease up a bit. My fingers are going numb.”

  They walked quicker now. Mrs. Stannert seemed anxious that they complete their journey, and Tony was no less anxious to be off the streets, where she felt as if everyone was staring at her.

  It wasn’t until they turned the corner onto Chestnut and Mrs. Stannert said, “Not far now,” that Tony began to relax a bit. She hoped that this Miss Carothers was nice, would understand, wouldn’t mind if she used her place to change for the job at Alexander’s.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Stannert.”

  Startled by the deep, familiar voice, Tony looked up and then quickly looked down again. It was Dr. G, the sawbones who came to the row with the others to “do good deeds” when all anyone in the row wanted was to be left alone.

  “Good afternoon, Dr. Gregorvich,” Mrs. Stannert tried to steer past Dr. G. Tony kept her face turned to the boardwalk. The doctor’s polished black boots, splattered with dried spots of…something…shifted to block them.

  “And who might this be with you?” his gentle voice prodded.

  “Annabelle. Niece of a friend. Just visiting.” Mrs. Stannert sounded polite, but firm. “Annabelle is quite tired, just got off the train this morning. I think the journey was a bit much for her, what with lost luggage and all the excitement on the streets, so if you’ll excuse us.“

  “Of course, of course. Just a moment. Miss Annabelle?”

  She didn’t want to look up. She didn’t want to see his eyes, or have him see hers. A black-gloved hand appeared and, gripping her chin, forced her face up.

  His long, drawn face, distant and clinical, came into view. Eyes the color of gunmetal bored into hers. His gaze felt like a knife, slicing through her disguise to reveal who she really was beneath. She started shaking. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I see.” He released her chin. She quickly lowered her head.

  “Symptoms include pale skin, sheened with perspiration, dilated pupils, pale lips, trembling. I confirm your astute diagnosis of exhaustion, Mrs. Stannert. Possibly exacerbated by altitude. Not unusual, when journeying to ten thousand feet. All that aside, train journeys can be wearying, particularly for the young. Miss Annabelle needs rest.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” Mrs. Stannert took a step to the right, nudging Tony closer to the buildings. “We are on our way to be sure she does just that.”

  “I understand you have a card game on Saturday evenings? I am most interested.” His voice persisted, even as his boots stepped to the side.

  Mrs. Stannert paused mid-step and turned toward him, pulling Tony behind her. “Yes, that is true. You are, of course, welcome, but I warn you, it is peopled primarily with high rollers who don’t mind throwing their gold and silver around rather freely and don’t mind losing. Although, of course, everyone would rather win.”

  He gave a laugh that sounded like it came from a chest as deep and hollow as a mine shaft. “That is no problem for me. You see, I am a student of the workings of the mind and brain, and I believe I could learn much by observing and participating in your game.”

  “Certainly, just no dissections upon the felt,” she said.

  There was a long pause. Tony felt Mrs. Stannert shift. “Apologies,” she said, finally. “I was talking to a newsman recently about the rumors of—”

  “Anatomists in town.” His voice wasn’t so gentle now. “Yes, Mrs. Stannert. I, too, have heard the rumors, and was one of the unfortunates interviewed by Mr. Stein of the Chronicle, under false pretenses, I should point out. He was followed in short order by
Mr. Elliston of The Independent, who at least didn’t try to pass himself off as someone he is not. I tell you what I told them both: all medical physicians are students of anatomy. Every time we probe a mysterious ache, test a fever, set a broken limb, address a gunshot wound, we bring to the fore what we know about human anatomy, and through our diagnoses and actions, we shed light on what we have yet to learn.”

  “Apologies again,” Mrs. Stannert sounded more meek than Tony had ever heard her.

  “Accepted. Looking forward to this evening, Mrs. Stannert.” The footsteps receded, blending into the general bedlam of the street.

  “That was interesting,” said Mrs. Stannert. They started walking again. “I do believe we shall get you a pair of tinted glasses, nothing too dark, to mask those eyes of yours. Lovely as they are, they are also distinctive.” Tony thought she sounded worried, even though the words were casual.

  “The anatomists, are they bodysnatchers?” Tony tried to recall what Ace had told the newsies about the article he’d seen in the Chronicle. “Do they steal bodies from the graveyard and cut them up?” A horrible possibility rose in her mind: her Maman, pulled from a pauper’s grave, cut up like a sheep under the butcher’s knife.

  “Rumors only. No one has found evidence that such happens. However, I will say that I regretted that so-called witticism as soon as it left my lips. Goodness, it’s been a long time since someone has looked at me that way. Highly unpleasant. Ah, here we are. It’s safe to look up now,” she added.

  Tony looked up just as Mrs. Stannert pushed a door open. A small bell tinkled overhead. A woman came out of the back, not as tall as Mrs. Stannert and younger too, with black shiny hair done up in back and a fringe of curly hair across her forehead. Her solemn face broke into a welcoming smile. “Inez! You are here, and at a good time. It is quiet and I was thinking of turning the sign to CLOSED and perhaps doing some work in the darkroom.” She looked at Tony with warm brown eyes. “So this is my niece! Welcome to Leadville, ah, what is to be your name?”

  “Annabelle Carothers,” said Tony quickly.

  “Annabelle. Lovely name. May I?” Miss Carothers came forward and gave Tony a quick hug. The gesture almost put Tony in tears. The last real hug she’d had was from Maman. She’d tried to hug her during their last, awful argument. At the memory, tears did spill over. Tony turned her back to dry her eyes on a sleeve.

  Miss Carothers patted her shoulder and said, “Why don’t you go down to the room on the left? It’s a showroom, displaying examples of my photography. You can look around while Mrs. Stannert and I talk.”

  Tony headed in the direction indicated. The two women’s voices floated soft and low, like the murmur of a river. Once in the showroom, Tony dropped the carpetbag on the small rug and looked around. Big pictures, little pictures, pictures of people, even pictures of the mountains and of waterfalls. They all looked so real she felt if she touched them her fingers would encounter real skin, cold water.

  Footsteps came up behind her, and Mrs. Stannert’s hand landed on Tony’s shoulder. “I must be on my way. You are safe with Miss Carothers. You can come to her, to me, if you have any trouble. I’m not happy about you spending the night wherever it is you plan to go, but we can talk about that further tomorrow, Sunday. Miss Carothers and I attend the same church, so we shall come by the studio after the service. She is going to give you a key to the back door. You are responsible for keeping track of it. She said you can come in and stay at any time. You can trust her,” Mrs. Stannert said again and gave Tony’s shoulder a little squeeze. “Be safe, Tony. Particularly tonight, at Mr. Alexander’s and after.”

  For a moment, Tony was tempted to turn around and give the saloonwoman a fierce hug. Tony turned, but Mrs. Stannert was already moving away. Tony said, “Thank you. I don’t know why you’re doing all this for me, you and Mr. Stannert and everyone, but…thank you.”

  Mrs. Stannert just smiled and left.

  Miss Carothers came in and said, “Well, since we are relatives, Annabelle, you must call me Aunt Susan. Can you do that?”

  Tony nodded, examining a picture of a dead woman in a casket, surrounded by flowers. She looked asleep, not dead at all. Next to that was a picture of a baby, eyes closed, sitting on a woman’s lap.

  “Are you hungry?” Susan asked.

  Tony shook her head, then asked, “You take pictures of dead people?”

  Susan picked up the photo of mother and baby. “Yes, I do, when asked. These are special kinds of photographs, called memento mori. They are remembrances of loved ones, and meant as a comfort to those who are grieving and must go on.”

  Tony swallowed hard and heard herself say, “My maman is dead. She’s gone, and I don’t have a picture of her. Not one.”

  Susan looked at Tony as if she might cry too. Finally, she said, “You carry a picture of her here.” She touched Tony’s forehead. “In your mind, in your memories, you can remember her in many ways, not just in death. Pick the picture you love most, and then you can pull it out any time, day or night. Good memories are the most precious memento mori anyone can have.” She put the picture down and said, “I was about to develop some photographic plates in my darkroom. It’s almost magical, how the images rise out of the glass plates, like ghosts made real. Would you like me to show you how it’s done?”

  Tony nodded.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  “Ma’am, a hot Scotch whisky sling?” The stranger on the other side of the bar had a sprinkling of snow decorating the shoulders of his heavy ulster. He tapped a fifty-cent piece on the counter and removed his hat on which the dusting was beginning to melt and soak into the felt. “I asked the first two people I met off the train where to get a proper whisky sling. They both pointed me to the Silver Queen.”

  Inez smiled automatically. “Lovely. And welcome to Leadville. Your first time here?” She hardly registered his polite “Yes ma’am, it is,” as she turned to pull the kettle of hot water, still steaming from the big stove in the kitchen, and a hot water glass off the back bar. She scanned the better brand of liquor on the top shelf and selected one. Into the glass went a portion of water from the kettle, a lump sugar, a piece of lemon peel, and a proper quantity of Scotch whisky. Round and round it all went with a spoon, with Inez’s thoughts equally awhirl.

  It was well past the hour that the drummer Woods had agreed to arrive and set up shop. There was a disgruntled crush of customers milling about where he was supposed to be, nursing their drinks and asking, “When’s he comin’ back?” with irritating regularity, as if asking would change the promised arrival time. Inez had changed her response from “Soon, no doubt,” to “Perhaps he’s been held up, what with this wet snow and his heavy trunk.” She was running out of excuses, assurances, and patience. Although she smiled and nodded at each inquiry, inside she was just as disgruntled as the would-be-purveyors of delicate ladies’ goods. In her mind, the certainty grew stronger and stronger that he wouldn’t show at all.

  To Inez, it was inconceivable that the drummer would turn his back on such a lucrative proposition as selling his stock of sought-after unmentionables inside the warm and inviting saloon…unless he had a damn good reason.

  Earlier, in preparation for the drummer’s arrival, Inez had paged through his receipts, which she’d secured in the saloon’s safe until his promised return. A quick mental calculation of the totals at the bottom of each verified that the monies he’d given her the previous evening were indeed five percent of his total take. Woods had not cheated her of a penny.

  Was it really just last evening?

  So much had happened in the past twenty-four hours that Inez felt she was no more in control of events than the bit of lemon peel gyrating in the hot drink.

  She placed the savagely mixed sling before the waiting customer, who prodded, “Nutmeg?”

  “Ah!” She hunted the cluttered backbar until she found the grater and the small
, pit-sized nut. She grated furiously, the spicy warm, fragrant tones of nutmeg conjuring memories of winter holidays long past and the uncertainties of winter yet to come.

  Where will this winter find me?

  Despite the warmth of the room, her fingertips went cold.

  “Uh, ma’am, that’s plenty.”

  She returned to the present with a shake of the head and sprinkled the proper amount of ground spice on top of his drink. “If you want a refill, we now have more than enough ground nutmeg. In fact, I feel a chill coming on, so I do believe I’ll join you.” She pulled a second hot water glass off the bar and proceeded to mix herself a sling with a generous portion of Scotch.

  He nodded. “Winter’s coming on.” He dropped two silver Seated Liberties on the counter to make an even dollar and tipped his cup to her. “To your health, ma’am.”

  “And to yours,” she replied, touching her glass to his with a small clink. She took a sip, savoring the warmth of the water, the fire of the Scotch, the sweetness of sugar warring with the bitterness of nutmeg. With a sigh, she set the drink down, letting her cold hands linger on the warm glass as her insides slowly unclenched. Chet Donnelly took that moment to wedge his girth up to the bar in front of Inez, nearly causing the traveler to spill his drink.

  “He ain’t comin’, is he?” rumbled Chet. “And here I brought these fellas.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of his two companions. “Told them all about them lacy things. More customers.” He squinted at Inez. “So, where’s the drummer man?”

  Inez lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I’m not his keeper. Maybe he found greener pastures elsewhere.”

  “Or mebbe browner ones in Coon Row,” sniggered one of his cohorts.

  “Enough of that talk.” snapped Inez and glanced toward Abe, halfway down the bar. Had he heard, he would have bestowed more than a frown on the clutch of men. Her gaze switched back to the speaker as the meaning of his comment sunk in. “You saw the drummer in Stillborn Alley? When?”