“Have you or have you not been residing in the well-known den of sin known as Hoyt’s Whorehouse and Hot Spring? Have you or have you not taken up with Buck Hoyt, the proprietor of that establishment? And are you or are you not one of his hens? I believe that is how one refers to the whores of the establishment.”
In a panic, Petra lifted her eyes and found Matt. He’d moved forward and away from the wall, and looked about to charge forward to carry her away.
Oh, how she wished he would.
“Come, come Miss Yurvasi, answer the question.”
“Objection. Objection, your honor, Mr. McManus hasn’t allowed the witness time to answer any of his questions. And where is the relevance?” shouted Mr. Rhodes.
The judge slammed his gavel down.
“Your honor,” Mr. McManus pleaded, “I’m merely attempting to demonstrate the unreliability of this witness.”
“I am aware of that, Mr. McManus. You have made your point. But you must give the witness time to respond,” the judge said.
Bravely, Petra lifted her chin and faced the judge, not Mr. McManus.
“Yes. Yes is my answer. I have been living at the hot springs in Mr. Hoyt’s house. He rescued me. He saved my life. I was deaf, near death and he took care of me. I’m grateful.”
When she looked back, she met Mr. McManus’s accusatory glare. It took everything she had not to blink and to remember to focus on the mole.
Trying to shake her, he jubilantly shouted, “Ha,” in her face.
The people in the crowd started to mutter and speak among themselves. With one cracking blow, the gavel came down on the judge’s bench and the crowd went silent.
Striding toward her with his thumbs in his lapels, Mr. McManus approached the stand and rested one foot on the ledge, then leaned in with his elbow on his knee. His face, so close to her own, Petra could smell the stale blend of whiskey and tobacco on his breath.
“And where are you now residing, Miss Yurvasi? With whom are you staying here in the city?”
“A friend. I’m staying with a friend,” she said, her chin up in defiance.
“Ah, yes, a friend. Don’t you mean a fellow member of the sisterhood of whores? Doreen Brown is your hostess. She is a whore, as are you, Miss Yurvasi, isn’t that correct? She too is one of Buck Hoyt’s hens.
“You were Kurt Laski’s whore, weren’t you Miss Yurvasi? It is what you do, is it not? You take men to your bed and they then become your protector?”
“No, no that is not true.” Coming forward, almost coming to her feet, she started to defend herself.
“Kurt Laski, my protector? That’s a laugh. I paid for him with my inheritance. I bought him with my home. I gave him my jewels and money to keep him. He betrayed me…used me…robbed me of everything I had. He threatened to kill me. I would be dead right now if Kurt and Beau Laski had had their way.”
Speaking over her outburst, Mr. McManus said, “No more questions.”
He walked away, leaving her shaking, gasping, gulping for air, choking on her outrage. Weak and ready to collapse, the sheriff came to her and helped her down from the witness stand with his arm around her waist. She took her seat, numb to the proceedings.
“It is nearly four o’clock,” the judge announced.
“Members of the jury, you will not discuss this trial with anyone, do you understand—not your wife, your husband, or your dog.”
The spectators snickered.
Their snickers subsided with the judge’s next announcement. “I have ordered the saloons to be closed until this trial is over. No liquor will be sold. For all intents and purposes, this town is shut down and will remain shut down until I say so. Court is adjourned until nine a.m. tomorrow morning sharp.”
He banged his gavel once and exited the courtroom without a backward glance.
People started to mill around and the voices grew louder and louder, becoming one big roar in Petra’s ears. All she could think, she had to escape. Find Gabriel and escape, run, run fast and run far.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Court had adjourned, but the spectators, with the saloons closed, were in no hurry to quit the courtroom; everyone stood talking, pointing their fingers at her, talking about her and giving her the evil eye.
Surrounded, there didn’t seem any way out. Sheriff Bollo took her by the elbow; Mr. Rhodes moved up behind her, putting his hand on her waist. Making a hasty exit, they passed through the same door the judge had taken to leave the courtroom.
Entering a small antechamber, Petra hesitated, uncertain if she should go through the door to her right or go through the door straight ahead of her. Taking the decision out of her hands, the sheriff reached out, opened the door in front of her and waved her through. She had no choice but to go down a steep set of stairs, to descend into the basement.
Now late afternoon, the transom windows lining the upper walls at ground level afforded very little light. The sheriff moved ahead of her, ducking his head as they dodged a maze of overhead boiler and plumbing pipes, and sidestepped the assortment of packing crates and boxes stacked about on the concrete floor.
Two cots, a table, chair and lamp sat hidden behind a box of banners and holiday decorations. The flowery pastel colors in the star-patterned quilts on the little beds and the snow-white pillows stood out, at odds with the surroundings. Papers on top of the table, stacked in tidy piles, pen and inkstand placed just so, awaited the hermits who haunted this place.
She halted in her steps.
Mr. Rhodes came up behind her. “Our accommodations.”
She eyed the miserable little space and felt sympathy for the poor little man and the judge.
Mr. Rhodes cheerfully said, “When this is all over, I intend to take a room at the hotel and soak in a warm bath for an hour. I thought maybe I’d like to have my supper served to me as I soak. If not supper, I’d like a brandy and a good cigar, but for the time being, we leave the rats alone, and so far they’ve stayed clear of us. For myself, I feel safe down here. I’m not complaining.”
At the urging of the sheriff, they moved on, entering a dark, narrow hall. The sheriff didn’t seem to mind the darkness. Disoriented, discouraged, near panic, Petra wanted nothing more than a place to sit down and cry. Thankfully, they came out at the other end of the hall and passed through another door to enter a small room at the bottom of another stairwell. Light streamed into this space from a transom at the top of the stairs, causing her eyes to water as they adjusted to the brightness.
The sheriff nudged her. “Just a little farther, Miss Yurvasi, and we’ll have you safe at my house. My deputy, Pete, is waiting right outside the door up there to escort you. Don’t pay any attention to his bruises. He’s kind of bent over, but he’s a good man and he’ll take good care of you. Doreen, and my wife May, have Gabriel well taken care of. I’m certain of that. May loves babies.”
Petra stumbled on the first step. “Matt?” Her legs felt heavy, her feet cast in lead shoes. She stepped up onto the next riser.
“He’s probably already home waiting for you,” the sheriff answered.
It was enough to keep her going. Gabriel and Matt were waiting—she could make it. She’d survived freezing cold, childbirth, explosions–this was nothing by comparison.
With the sun setting and the deputy beside her, they followed a narrow path along a tall hedge of lilac for another block, then up a narrow alley before reaching the Bollo home through the back door to the kitchen. From the back porch Gabriel’s strong cries caused her milk to flow, and the front of her blouse became wet. She pulled the shawl closer about her.
She managed to hold herself together long enough to be introduced to the sheriff’s wife, who politely greeted her with a frosty smile. Petra thought May Bollo an attractive woman, with brown hair and warm brown eyes. But standing next to Doreen, so lively and pert, May was cast in the shade; the woman simply lacked animation.
Unable to help herself, Petra had already made up her mind about the sheriff’
s wife. She could be nothing but a foolish woman if what she’d heard was true, that she’d fallen for Beau Laski’s oh, poor me, act. Being a foolish woman herself, Petra had no problem recognizing the trait in a fellow member of her sex.
Wanting to escape, and sorry to be rude, she reclaimed her son, excused herself, and retreated to her assigned room at the top of the stairs. A lovely room, a room for a young girl, all pink and lace, it reminded Petra of her room in her father’s house. She sat on the bed to nurse, and Gabriel greedily enjoyed his meal. With tears streaming down her cheeks, Petra longed to see Matt.
Noticeably, Matt had kept his distance from her here in town. He’d come to her bed last night. She’d smelled the saloon on him, the cigar smoke and whiskey. By daylight, he’d disappeared again, to reappear in the courtroom. And now, with no sign of him, she felt his defection.
Now a marked woman, Kurt Laski’s whore, and one of Buck Hoyt’s hens. She told herself it might be better to face facts head on and not build up expectations that had no hope of coming to fruition. She’d done it before, and look where it had gotten her.
So tired, her eyes burned, she laid her head back against the pillow. The lawyer’s questions were firmly imbedded in her brain, and his voice played over and over until she wanted to scream.
From the foyer downstairs, men’s voices drifted up the stairwell. Matt? She would know that voice anywhere. Gabriel had fallen asleep at her breast. She laid him on the bed, surrounding him with pillows. There were footsteps on the stairs. They stopped on the landing outside her door.
“I told you, I checked out the house, Buck, I didn’t find anything.” The sheriff’s voice. Petra went to the door and pressed her ear against the wood.
“I think we should go back tonight and really turn the place upside down. Beau Laski had to have kept records someplace.”
“He had plenty of time to destroy them, Buck. Maybe we should ask Petra. She might know where to look.”
“I don’t want to, she’s been through enough. That damned McManus, I’d like to string him up by his evil tongue. The son-of-a-bitch.”
Opening her door, Petra stepped out into the hall. “I’ll help you.”
The men broke apart, looking guilty and startled.
Petra put her hand on Buck’s arm. “Beau kept numbers, names and facts in his head, at least that’s how it seemed to me. I never saw him write anything down. Kurt wouldn’t know what to do with pen and ink. If there were something, it would be in the study. Beau had a desk in there. I never saw a book on any of the shelves. I remember a punching bag, a chaise lounge and a bar. You might look in the bar. I always wondered if there were some secret drawers or cupboards in it. Beau made the bar himself. When we go over there, I can help you look.”
In unison, the sheriff and Buck bellowed a resounding, “No.”
Her hands going to her hips, Petra set her jaw. “Let me understand this. You’re going over to a house where I lived, look around for something, you don’t know what, somewhere you don’t know where, and you aren’t going to take with you someone who knows what, and where. It doesn’t make sense, gentlemen.”
Buck had a rebuttal ready. “It makes more sense than risking your life. You aren’t stepping outside this house. You got that. It’s not safe. You could get killed.”
She had a ready answer. “So could you.”
Bollo chuckled. “She’s got you there, Buck.”
Frustrated and furious, Petra ignored the Sheriff’s snipe to lay into Matt. “Hoyt Mathias Van De Veer Buxton, I bought that house with my money. Kurt and Beau, of course, transferred title to their names. To their way of thinking, a woman certainly couldn’t own anything. And fool that I was, I let them have it their way. Well no more, I’ll not be shoved aside, held back or locked in my room by any man ever again.”
The sheriff had his mouth open, glaring at Matt. “Who the hell is Hoyt Mathias Van De Veer Buxton?”
Before Matt could explain, Petra remembered something. “I—I kept a diary. I have the exact dates and times of when I sent for more funds, when they arrived and how much—all of that is in the diary.”
The sheriff muttered something to himself and scratched the thinning hair on his pate. “I don’t suppose it would still be there?”
“I suppose it is, Sheriff. I doubt Kurt or Beau knew anything about a diary. I kept it on a top shelf in the closet in my room. I made the last entry the night before the explosion.”
Huffing with exasperation, Matt took her by the shoulders. “Petra, we have to have the diary.”
Nearly caving in to her aching need for his warm embrace, Petra put up her hands and reluctantly took a step back, moving out of his reach. Now was as good a time as any to back away—to wean herself off Hoyt Mathias Van De Veer Buxton. “I’m going with you tonight and help you search.”
Reaching out, he pulled her back into his embrace. “No, I said; you don’t go out of this house, not for any reason.”
She brushed his hands away. “Mathias Buxton, shouting at me isn’t going to change my mind. I’ll wear trousers, a coat and hat, and no one will know it’s me.”
Forcing herself, she ignored the hurt look on his face and turned to the sheriff. “Your deputy, Sheriff—Pete, I wonder if I could borrow a pair of his trousers?”
“You’re crazy.” The sheriff shook his head and groaned. “I’m with Buck, it’s too risky.”
Turning her back on the two of them, Petra opened the door to her room, and over her shoulder she said, “Well, I’m going and that’s that,” and shut the door on their unprepossessing faces.
»»•««
Buck, on the sofa in the downstairs parlor, had fallen asleep shortly after supper—relieved Petra and Doreen had retired early, but concerned as well. With the sound of the hall clock announcing the hour of one o’clock, he opened his eyes.
Thinking of Petra, missing Petra, longing to be with her, holding her, loving her, he laid in the dark. During supper, she’d avoided looking directly at him and withdrew each time he tried to touch her. He didn’t understand her anger. He knew he was thickheaded, but he couldn’t figure out what he’d done, other than try to protect her.
Without as much as a word to him, she’d gone up to her room as soon as she and Doreen had helped May clear away the supper dishes. She hadn’t said anything more about accompanying them on their expedition to the Laski house. He had an uneasy feeling about that. It wasn’t natural for a woman to give in so easily.
A little over an hour ago, he’d heard a bit of scuffling going on upstairs, but it didn’t surprise him. Because of the extra bodies, the sheriff’s daughter had to bunk in with her little brother. He’d heard giggling and scrapping and figured the kids were tussling, squabbling over having to share their room, and didn’t think anything of it, not even coming fully awake to investigate.
Having Doreen here had put a strain on the sheriff’s marriage; the animosity hung in the air like a dense fog. Settling down in the front parlor, Buck had overheard May vocalizing her objections while they were alone together in the kitchen. May Bollo, a polite but cool hostess, had made it clear she wasn’t keen on having to accommodate—her words—“a prostitute, a lose wonton half-breed and the proprietor of a brothel, exposing her children to riff-raff. I don’t know how I’m going to explain any of this to the church ladies, Raphael.”
Buck had to shake his head, the sheriff hadn’t gone out of his way to relieve his wife’s mind any saying, “They’ll think you’re a good wife whose duty is to help her husband in any way she can to see justice is served. When this is all over, you and I are going to have a long talk about those snooty, pious church ladies you think so much of. There are going to be some changes around here.”
After that threat, Buck heard nothing but silence. The couple soon emerged from the kitchen and proceeded upstairs to their room. Buck had kept his eyes closed, pretending slumber.
A creak on the stairs alerted him someone was coming, and about time. He hadn�
�t removed his clothes, and now all he had to do was slip on his boots and he was ready to go.
In the shadows, Buck made out the sheriff, holding his boots in one hand, his gun and holster over his arm. Without a word, the sheriff sat down in a chair and put on his boots. They left the room in darkness, not wanting to attract the attention of anyone who might be keeping an eye on the house.
Outside, standing in the shadow of the lilac hedge, the sheriff finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “I guess Petra didn’t make it.” In the dark, he chuckled
“After the day she had, I’m not surprised. I tell you, the woman can be a handful when she puts her mind to something. I’m kind of surprised she surrendered so easily.”
A rustle of the lilac bush caused them both to fall back into the shadows. They stood with their guns drawn as a slender boy ducked under the branches and stopped right before them.
“I thought you two would never come out. I’ve been waiting here for half-an-hour.”
It took Buck a second or two to realize it was Petra standing there in breeches, a slouch hat and oversized coat. Her face was in shadow, but it was her voice.
“Damn it,” Buck said.
The sheriff hissed. “Shit-fire.”
Buck saw red, he exploded. “Petra, get in the house.” He grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and propelled her toward the back stoop.
“Let me go, you big dumb oaf.” Batting at him, finding nothing solid, she tried to kick him in the shins. “I’ve already been to my house and back. You want to hear what I found or not?”
The sheriff stood right behind them. “Where’d you get those clothes? Did Pete give you those clothes? I’ll have his hide. How the hell did you get out here?”
Petra stuck her chin up, and for the first time, Buck could see her eyes, they were swimming in moonlight, and he had to remind himself to breathe. Tossing her head back and forth, she said to both of them, “Doreen gave me these clothes. I guess they’re hers. I climbed out the bedroom window. Your daughter, Sheriff, told me she does it all the time.”
Dance Hall Road Page 19
