What Gold Buys

by Ann Parker

  He stopped rummaging under the counter to nod at the far wall. “Dr. Gregorvich next door and I have such a relationship, to our mutual benefit. He knows much of the field and has made it possible for me to offer embalming along with customary undertaking services. I will say, however, I find Leadville, progressive though it is, to be reluctant to embrace the idea of an undertaker providing embalming as well.” Alexander pulled out a can of polish, several rags, a stack of newspaper, and a feather duster, lining them up on the counter. “But times change, so I must be patient,” he said, frowning down at the cleaning supplies.

  “What happens to the bodies of folks who don’t have family or nobody?” asked Tony. It was the question that had been burning in her heart and on her lips, and now, out it came.

  Alexander looked up from his brown study. “The indigent, you mean? And those who are not readily identifiable? For the truly indigent with no family, we—by that, I mean the undertakers in town—have contracted with the city to handle the disposition of the remains. We take turns, switching monthly, so it does not prove too burdensome for any one business. Right now, October, is my month. Most of the local churches here have collections to defray the cost of simple boxes. Sometimes, we provide them at no cost. We also hold those remains awaiting identification and in need of preparation. Or, if there has been a crime and a postmortem is required, we store those bodies as well.”

  “Do you,” Tony’s voice stuck in her throat, “have anyone here now? A body, I mean. Waiting.”

  The square lenses of Alexander’s glasses flashed as he adjusted them. “Why yes, I do. I have a poor unfortunate recently brought in from Stillborn Alley. I am waiting to hear whether a postmortem will be performed. It appears to be a matter of foul play, but whether the city decides to pursue the case or not, I cannot say.”

  “Can I…?” she couldn’t say it, and begged him silently to finish her sentence.

  He looked at her curiously. “Mr. Donatello, do you want to see the remains?”

  Mute, Tony nodded.

  “Very well, downstairs for a moment and then you need to get busy on your tasks. Perhaps tomorrow I can give you a more complete tour of the basement.” He picked up the kerosene lamp, relit it, and retraced his steps to the back.

  He stopped at the head of the stairs, and pointed to a staircase heading up to the second floor. “My wife and I live up there. I hope to eventually buy a home for us, but property has proven expensive in Leadville. Until then, we make our home above the business.”

  Tony wondered what the missus thought about living above all the coffin-boxes and dead corpses, much less being married to a man who rubbed elbows with Old Mr. Grim himself. As they descended the stairs to the underlevel, Tony hugged herself, partly from the cold, partly to steel herself for what might be waiting.

  Alexander said, “This is an unfortunate case. Well, they are all unfortunate, of course. I suspect eventually one of the churches will provide for a pine box, and we will lay the remains to rest in the free section of the cemetery, what folks commonly call the pauper’s field.”

  Downstairs were more gaslights, thankfully. Tony wasn’t sure if she could have stood that cavernous ice-box of a room, dank low ceilings, brick walls and wood joists, smelling of death, dirt, and stinging chemicals, if not for the gas lamps pegged to the walls. A set of livery-sized doors were along one side at the bottom of the stairs. He saw her looking at them.

  “That is where I take deliveries, the caskets and coffins, the supplies. Also, any remains. It wouldn’t do to have them carried into the front door, you know.”

  Sharp tools, tubings, and odd-shaped dark metal objects were lined up on a far table and hanging on the walls nearby. There was another door, smaller, just beyond that table, with a bright shiny lock. Tony realized it must go into the building next door. “Where’s that go?”

  Mr. Alexander looked to where her finger pointed. “Ah, just another door. Not used, really. I keep it locked up tight.”

  Off to one side was a table with the unmistakable shape of feet pushing upwards under a gray sheet. An odd box clamped down around the body, from the legs up. A metallic drip-drip echoed as water dripped slowly from two spigots mounted on either side of the box.

  “Is that?” Tony couldn’t say more.

  Alexander smiled. “What you see here is a corpse cooler and a cooling board. It is only necessary to freeze the trunk and the chest to halt the worst of decomposition.” He continued talking, walking to the head of the box. “Am I correct in guessing you are an urchin of the streets, Mr. Donatello? If so, it occurs to me that you might have light to shed on this poor soul. But if nothing else, you can perhaps rest easy as you work this evening, knowing that the deceased are nothing to be afraid of. They are, after all, simply dead.”

  With that, he took hold of the handle on the lid of the box, lifted it, and beckoned Tony forward. “Come lad. Have a look.”

  Arms wrapped tight around Ace’s loud checkered jacket to keep her heart from leaping from her chest, Tony ventured forward. She could feel the hard shape of Miss Carothers’ key bite into her ribs. Her eyes stung. Maman? Is it you?

  No voice answered in her mind.

  She stepped up to the head of the box, summoned all her courage, and peered in.

  The face of the drummer, Woods, peered back—eyes open and flat, lips stretched back in a frozen grimace, mocking her fear.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  For the rest of the evening, Inez had to endure Jed Elliston muttering about the difficulties he was having unearthing leads on the “underground anatomy classes” that he was certain were lurking in Leadville.

  “Did you see Gregorvich’s face?” Jed said, tossing his losing cards in with the rest at the end of a stubborn betting round between himself and Cooper.

  She almost hated to ask, but she did. “When?”

  “Earlier this evening, when I accused him of grave-robbing from the paupers’ section of the cemetery.”

  Doc, who had taken up a post by the warming stove, harrumphed. “Good lord, Jed, he is a respected physician! Yes, he is a tad overexuberant on matters of modern medical research as regards to cerebellum and particularly cerebrum, but that doesn’t make him a criminal in any sense of the word.” Then, to Inez and the others, “My apologies. I had no idea when I invited him to join us that he would hold forth at such volume and length.”

  Evan said, “No matter, Doc. We all have our obsessions not necessarily shared by others outside our professions. You should have heard Richard Oliver and me the other day as we dissected the costs and profit margins for stoves and tinware.”

  “Or when those of us in the legal profession gather to dissect the rulings and decisions of the court,” said Cooper.

  The door opened and Inez looked up. Reverend Justice Sands lingered on the threshold as if to take her in and lock her image in his mind. For Inez, that moment of seeing him in the doorway took her back nearly a year ago, to the first time she saw him. At first glance, he didn’t seem particularly extraordinary. He was a man of mid-height, mid-thirties, light brown hair, clean-shaven, someone who appeared well acquainted and at ease with hard weather and hard times.

  Then, she heard him speak. She, who loved music, who felt the melody, harmony, pulse and purpose of a piano composition down to the core of her being.

  Inez had to admit she was initially seduced by the warm timbre and sensuality of his voice. The rest inevitably followed.

  Much of what was then was now, only more so. He was, if anything, a little leaner, with a few more lines around the blue-gray eyes and a touch of sorrow shadowing his face.

  That, and the way he was looking at her now caused her heart to sink.

  She now knew it was true.

  He was leaving.

  The moment between them broke when Sands removed his flat-brimmed black hat and Doc exclaimed, “Reve
rend! Come in. How are Stillborn and Tiger alleys this evening? More of the destitute and unlucky seem to pour into the city daily, and with the coming of winter, I fear we shall lose the battle to help them all. And given tonight’s snow and wind, it’s going to be a difficult night for those without shelter or sustenance.”

  Sands moved inside, removed his heavy winter coat, a dense black wool, and hung his hat and coat on the cherrywood and brass coat rack off to one side, where they proceeded to discreetly drip onto the small rug placed beneath. He nodded to Doc and the players before heading toward the sideboard and the coffee.

  “Gentlemen, Mrs. Stannert,” he said by way of greeting, then added, “You’re right about that, Doc. I spent some time with your colleague as we tried to convince the most desperate to seek out the mission or, if they can make the trek all the way to Tenth, to Saint Vincent’s Hospital.” He poured coffee into a cup, saying, “It’s the children who suffer most.”

  Evan glanced at Elliston, whose turn it was to deal, and said, “I understand from one of the newsies that you take good care of those boys of yours, give them a place out of the storm. And not just your boys, but some of the others who don’t have a place to go.”

  Inez watched as Elliston flubbed mid-shuffle.

  Doc sat up straighter. “Is that so? Well, who says that newsmen are hard of heart and cold of temperament? Glad to hear that, Elliston!”

  Elliston gathered up the scattered cards, saying, “It’s only good business sense. I do what I can to keep them hale and hearty. My boys may not have brass-button uniforms like the Chronicle gives to theirs, but at least they have a belly-full in the morning to help them get through their day.”

  Now, more than ever, Inez was convinced that Tony must be one of the “boys” that burrowed away with the rest, benefitting from Elliston’s largesse.

  They all played one more hand, Inez aware of Justice Sands standing by the stove, talking with Doc, watching the game unwind.

  Inez was about to propose calling it an early night when Cooper, who won the modest pot, beat her to it. “Last call for me,” he said, gathering the coins before him. “It’s been a long day for me, and tomorrow I’m afraid it’s back to the office. Not the way I intended to spend my Sunday, but needs must when the devil drives.”

  Doc stood up and leaned on his silver-headed cane, saying what Inez and no doubt others had been wanting to ask. “Now, Reverend, is there any truth behind the rumors I’ve been hearing that you are leaving town?”

  Inez, who had gathered the cards, paused and watched as he turned to Doc and said, “You hear right, Doc, although I’d ask you to keep the fact under your hat until I inform the congregation tomorrow morning.”

  He surveyed the room, finally settling his attention on Inez. “As you all may recall, the position was initially an interim one. When the offer to make the post permanent arose, I stepped forward. However, there appears to be a greater need for me in churches other than the one in Leadville. Leaving is difficult, but I hope I will have occasion to return.” His words were polite, regretful, studied. But Inez heard what really lay behind them.

  She read him, just as she read the unspoken message that only surfaced when the left hand and right hand made a marriage of harmony and melody, pulling a perfect marriage from white and black keys of the piano keyboard.

  The others murmured sympathetic noises of shock and regret. Evan said, “If you were a drinking man, Reverend, I’d buy you a drink.” He came over, clasped Reverend Sands’ hand and said, “I’m not a church-goer, but in this instance I wish you Godspeed in all your future travels. I know, wherever you go, the folks will be lucky to have you there.”

  He nodded. “Thank you, Bob.”

  The others took their leave one by one. Elliston paused and said, “Promise you’ll drop by The Independent before you leave. I’d like to write a story up about you and all the good you’ve done for Leadville.”

  Sands said, “There’s no need for that, Jed. My works speak for themselves.”

  Jed shook his head. “That’s not good enough, Reverend. Surely you’ve heard the other side of the gossip floating around. There are those who said you weren’t focused enough on the congregants, that your extended leave while you traveled with Ulysses S. Grant on his recent trip West just showed how your allegiances were elsewhere.”

  Doc interrupted. “Lord in Heaven, man. We should identify those who spread these unfounded rumors and suppositions and show them up for the liars they truly are and—”

  “No, Doc.” Sands cut him off. “It doesn’t matter who blew upon the embers, fanned them into a flame. The fact is, the congregation feels I have completed my work here. When the people lose faith in their chosen leader, it’s time for someone else to lead them.” He smiled slightly. “In my work as an interim minister over the past few years, I stepped in often enough to fill the breach in such cases, so I know. True, I never expected to find myself on the other side of the situation, but life and God’s will can be strange that way.”

  He addressed Jed. “We can discuss the good the church as a whole has done this past year, but only on the condition that we don’t lend credence to any of what you just said by repeating it in print. By repeating and denying the rumors, we only breathe life into what I would prefer to see die.”

  Elliston’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. Obviously he was loath to let it go. “But the truth,” he sputtered.

  “We tell the truth, give the facts. We don’t repeat lies and half-truths that would cause harm to the church or draw suspicions onto any of its congregants.”

  Elliston glanced from Inez to Sands and back again. The light finally dawned, and he actually had the grace to flush a little. “Well, yeah. Of course not. I mean, of course. See you Monday, then? Monday would be good. I can get it into the mid-week edition. Good night Rev, Mrs. Stannert.” He pulled on a coat, wrapped a scarf tight around his neck, and grabbed his hat.

  Inez said, “Jed, stop by the bar and tell Sol or Abe to load up any leftover biscuits, ham, and beans into a couple of large tin lunch buckets we have back in the kitchen. Take them for your newsies and bring back the buckets when you can.”

  “Thanks, much appreciated,” he said gruffly, and left.

  Inez and Sands were alone in the room. He took a step, whether toward her or his coat, she didn’t wait to find out. She held up a hand. “Wait.”

  He looked at her, questioning.

  She repeated. “Wait. Give me twenty minutes.”

  After a moment, his expression softened, and he nodded.

  She hurried to the office, did a quick count of the night’s take from the game and shoved the moneybox into the safe. From thence to her chambers. Her past life on the road with Mark and Abe came to the fore, the times when they had to pack light and move fast. Those nights, while terrifying, were also exhilarating as they sped away from the consequences of whatever deeds caused them to race away by the light of the moon and stars.

  It took less than ten minutes for her to pack a carpetbag with clothes and shoes appropriate for church the next morning. She pulled her Sunday winter cloak from the wardrobe, where it had waited, unused, all through the glorious summer months and all through the early months of autumn, when she’d been down in the shadow of Pikes Peak in Manitou Springs. The poignant smell of cedar wreathing the heavy smooth weight was a reminder, a whisper of the long, cold winter months ahead.

  She wound a thick cashmere scarf around her neck and head, tucked a fur muff under one arm, and turned, last, to her nightstand. A brass key glinted, still, solitary, on the marble top. She picked up the key to the blue-sky house on Fourth Street. Her house. Extinguishing the light in her chambers, she walked out, secured the door, and headed to the waiting Reverend Sands without a backward glance or a shadow of regret.

  ***

  “Inez, where are we going?” His voice was close, pi
tched low, for her hearing only.

  They walked the Harrison Street boardwalk, both bundled into unrecognizable forms in scarves and outwear, just like the other late night revelers and workers hurrying by in this, the first deep snow of the season. Inez, with her hood pulled low over her head and her voice muffled by the scarf, only said, “Wait.”

  She withdrew one hand from her fur muff, entwined her fingers with his, and drew their clasped hands into his overcoat pocket, hidden deep between them. He tightened his grip on her fingers and she responded in kind. Warmth enveloped her. Their clasp was a haven from the never-ending clatter of wagons, carriages, the shouts of drivers and riders, the snorting and huffing of beasts of burden, all sharp-edged sounds now muffled in the falling snow.

  She nudged him to turn onto West Fourth.

  He obliged and tried again, gently, “Inez?”

  “Wait.”

  They walked toward the west, the snowcapped peaks of Elbert and Massive showing like ghosts between the whirling dancing snow that swirled around them, obscuring, then parting.

  She stopped him before the new-built home, its blue hue unseeable. Inez felt his body tighten beside hers. Leaning toward him, she pulled down the scarf that covered her lips and whispered, sending her warm breath into his ear. “Did you know this was here?”

  “No. I’d not been down this street since I returned.”

  “It’s mine,” she said in response to the unspoken question. “Mine alone. I have the only key.” Inez had thought carefully about this, about bringing him here, but had concluded there was no other place they could be together and away from prying eyes: not her saloon chambers, not his rectory, not a hotel. This was the space that chance and serendipity had offered, so she took it.