by Ann Parker
Birdie’s voice wavered: “Papa wondered…you looked as if you were leaving, and we thought…Reverend Sands, you called for a board meeting after the service, don’t you remember? A meeting to discuss the pews and the picnic social. We, the picnic committee, still want your suggestions on the menu. There are questions about the price of strawberries, the musical entertainment, and whether there are enough carriages and wagons….” She trailed off as Reverend Sands clapped a hand to his forehead.
He turned to Inez. “It’s true. I scheduled that meeting myself, two weeks ago. I plain forgot. I’m sorry.”
“Church business, Reverend,” Inez said with a tight smile. “I quite understand. No need to apologize.”
His expression said she wasn’t fooling him in the least. “I’ll see you at Miss Carothers’ boardinghouse later this afternoon,” he said.
“We’ll see.”
Apparently emboldened by Inez’s retreat, Birdie plucked at the reverend’s sleeve. He threw a last apologetic glance at Inez before allowing himself to be drawn toward the back of the church.
Steaming, Inez watched them walk away.
“Brazen the way she chases after him. Most unladylike.”
Startled to hear her own thoughts spoken out loud, albeit in an undertone, Inez whirled around. Mrs. Warner’s two companions lingered by the church entrance, staring with open disapproval.
At her.
Inez had had enough. She headed straight for the women, who hastily sprang apart, leaving her a clear shot out the door and down the steps.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” Inez snarled. She hurtled past them, head high and back straight. Strangling her reticule with one hand and her coat collar with the other, she headed at a fast and most unladylike pace up the street toward Susan’s boardinghouse.
Chapter Fifteen
Inez kept up a rapid clip until her Sunday-tight corset and the altitude forced her to slow down. As she approached the block where Susan lived, she slowed further, contemplating her next move. Inez had not visited Susan at her place of boarding before. The two women most often met over a cup of tea or a meal at the Tontine Restaurant, at Inez’s house, at church, or at Susan’s portrait studio. Susan had not, of course, ever been to Inez’s saloon—such a thing would have been viewed as most improper. For this visit, Inez had fully expected Reverend Sands to pave the way past the boardinghouse door. She’d counted on his credentials as a man of the church to gain them both easy entrance past the formidable Mrs. Flynn. Now, it appeared she would have to negotiate entrance on her own.
Inez stopped two buildings away from the cream-painted boardinghouse. From that angle, she could see it was two stories high, but presented an elaborate three-story false front to the street. Intricately turned porch pillars and an ornate porch railing competed with gingerbread detailings dripping along the eaves like lace on a Sunday collar. Her own lace collar, Inez realized, was in definite need of a starching after her brisk trot. In fact, her entire dress felt wilted, the gray silk sticking to her arms from the summer’s warmth.
She looked back up at the house, bristling with architectural minutiae, touched the small knot of hair at the nape of her neck, and squared her shoulders. What could be more proper than arriving as a representative of the church?
Inez opened her reticule and pulled out the brown package of biscuits and a calling card. She passed through the hairpin fence guarding the pocket-sized front yard, her long skirts swishing against the pebbled path, and up the three stairs to the porch. She checked the buttons on her gloves to be sure they were all properly fastened and twisted the brass bell turn by the front door. A raspy clatter sounded deep within.
The door was opened by a tall, slender woman wearing an uncannily familiar dress. Inez took an involuntary step back. Same basque bodice, same gray moiré and faille silk combination, same narrow skirt, mid-length banding, and pleated ruffle at the hem. The only difference Inez could detect from her own Sunday outfit was that the woman at the door had opted for a jabot collar, graceful as a lace waterfall down the front of her bodice, in counterpoint to Inez’s now-limp collar of ruched ivory threadwork. Inez was willing to bet that once the woman turned around, the same complicated draping, bows, and pleats would appear at the back.
The woman looked young. Too young, in Inez’s estimation, to be the boardinghouse proprietor. Based on Bridgette’s mutterings, Inez had drawn a mental picture of the penny-pinching Mrs. Flynn as a parsimonious widow with sunken cheeks, gimlet gaze, and steel-gray bun wound tight to her head. This stylishly dressed young woman with blonde hair and limpid brown eyes must, she decided, be one of the half dozen schoolteachers who boarded with Susan.
Smiling in the neutral but polite manner of one well-bred woman to another, Inez said, “Good day. I’m Mrs. Stannert from Miss Carothers’ church, come to see how she’s doing after her—” Inez swiftly picked from among a number of words— “recent ordeal. Is Mrs. Flynn about?” She held out her card.
“I’m Mrs. Flynn,” the elegant young woman replied, smoothing her skirt in a perhaps unconscious effort to wipe the wrinkles from Inez’s own outfit. Mrs. Flynn took Inez’s card, then glanced toward the interior of the house. Inez became aware of voices decidedly unfeminine in timbre. When Mrs. Flynn looked back, a small frown had creased her otherwise unlined face. “Miss Carothers has visitors with her, but I believe they are finishing up.”
“I have no wish to tax her health. Perhaps you might pass on my wishes for her speedy recovery, as well as….” Inez held out the biscuits to the landlady. “To help her recover,” she finished lamely.
Mrs. Flynn hesitated, looked down at Inez’s card, and moved aside to let Inez enter. “Mrs. Stannert, please come in. A visit from a church representative might be a good idea. Things are so unsettled right now. I don’t think the atmosphere is a healthy one for my girls.”
Inez couldn’t help but find Mrs. Flynn’s maternal tone strange, given the landlady was probably younger than many of her “girls.”
Mrs. Flynn turned—Inez saw that, yes, the back of the dress was cut exactly the same as her own—and motioned Inez to accompany her.
Lowering her voice Mrs. Flynn said, in obvious displeasure, “I have no idea what possessed Miss Carothers to take such a foolish course yesterday. Miles from town. Unescorted. Not only was it the height of impropriety, but also shows an extreme lack of common sense. And dangerous besides. Why, only two weeks ago, there was that dreadful business north of Granite. Very unfortunate.”
Inez nodded politely, recalling the “dreadful business” alluded to: the good citizens of Granite, sixteen miles south of Leadville, had chased, caught, and hung an alleged horse thief. “Alleged” only, since his guilt had been determined in haste, in advance, and without the benefit of a legal trial.
Mrs. Flynn murmured, even softer, “The deputy federal marshal is here. Questioning Miss Carothers. He wouldn’t wait until she’d recovered. Said he had to speak with her today, this minute, right here. Appalling, don’t you agree?”
Inez murmured in reply, debating whether Mrs. Flynn was appalled at the marshal’s insistence on interviewing a recovering invalid or appalled that he’d insisted on conducting that interview on her premises. Mrs. Flynn’s next words resolved that question.
“I’ve never, in all my years of running boardinghouses, had any of my young ladies come to the attention of the legal authorities. It gives such a poor impression. I run a well-respected boardinghouse, none better in Leadville for young, well-bred women. My girls all come from good families that expect me to shelter them and protect them from baser influences.” She shook her head. “This dreadful business with Miss Carothers. Very unfortunate.”
“Very,” murmured Inez. It was not lost on her that Mrs. Flynn had used the same tone and words to describe Susan’s hapless situation that she’d used to describe the hanging of a horse thief.
Mrs. Flynn paused at the entrance to the parlor. Inez lingered a prop
er couple paces behind, out of sight in the hallway. Mrs. Flynn announced to the parlor’s interior, “Miss Carothers has a visitor from her church, and she mustn’t be tired, on order of the doctor. Perhaps you can talk further when she is recovered and able to come to your office, Marshal?”
Inez heard the creak and shuffle as someone rose from an overburdened chair. “We’re finished, ma’am,” came a smoke-roughened voice. “Thank you muchly for allowing this intrusion.”
Mrs. Flynn proceeded to the front door to let Deputy U.S. Marshal Cy Ayres out. Inez gripped the luckless biscuits tighter as the marshal came into view. Marshal Ayres was no stranger to her, having the good taste to spend a portion of his earnings at the Silver Queen whenever he happened to be in town. She hoped that, under the circumstances, he would not pause to inquire “How’s the firewater business, Mrs. Stannert?” or “Cards runnin’ lucky this week?” She steeled herself for a quick nod and polite greeting. Marshal Ayres’ overgrown eyebrows—gray and tangled like his weedy mustache—shot up at the sight of her. But he merely shifted his dusty brown bowler to his other hand, uttered a perfunctory “Ma’am,” and continued toward the front door.
Inez exhaled in relief, turned back to the parlor, and collided with Preston Holt.
He quickly put a hand on her arm to steady her as he stepped back. He let go nearly as soon as he’d taken hold, but the brief touch, to say nothing of a full-body, face-to-face collision, brought the blood rushing to Inez’s face.
“Pardon, Mrs. Stannert. Wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“My fault entirely, Mr. Holt.” She was sure the biscuits were nothing but crumbs now.
He’d looked solemn, even a tad grim, when she’d first registered his face, but she thought she detected a twinkle in his eyes as he added, “We keep running into each other.”
She hmmmed noncommittally and glanced toward the boardinghouse vestibule. Mrs. Flynn had finished saying goodbye to the marshal and was now watching them, eyes narrowed and questioning. Inez hoped the low-toned conversation had escaped her ears, which were most likely attuned to any hint of “improprieties” on her premises.
Turning her back on Mrs. Flynn, Inez offered Holt a slightly apologetic smile and said with a meaningful tip of her head in the landlady’s direction, “Excuse me, sir, but I’ve business with Miss Carothers, and I’ve no desire to keep her longer than necessary.”
His eyes tracked over her shoulder to Mrs. Flynn, then back to Inez. He seemed to perceive her intentions and offered an appropriately respectful nod before continuing to the front door.
Inez ordered the butterflies in her stomach to stop fluttering as she entered the parlor. The room was just as she suspected it might be, given her admittedly very brief glimpse into Mrs. Flynn’s determination to battle the “lower standards” a mining boomtown might try to insinuate into her “young ladies.” Several end tables, legs modestly covered with tablecloths, held oil lamps, their chimneys delicately etched, and china statuettes, predominantly angels and shepherdesses. The tables, a small pianoforte, and a display cabinet squeezed in as best they could among several overstuffed chairs, two curved-back rocking chairs, and a single small sofa smothered with antimacassars. Heavy draperies repelled the sun while a modest fire crackled tastefully in the fireplace throwing out unneeded heat in the stuffy parlor. The entire room bristled with decency, respectability, and decorum. Inez began to sweat and despaired of the condition of her clothes.
Susan, seated in a chair by the fire, looked up with dread, as if expecting a lecture on propriety from Mrs. Flynn. She had one leg propped up on an ottoman, a throw blanket covering the limb.
Her bruised face filled with relief. “Oh Inez, I’m so glad you’re here!” She motioned Inez forward, her relief sliding into distress. Once Inez was close enough, Susan grabbed her wrist. The wrapped biscuits fell from Inez’s grasp and tumbled to Susan’s lap. Susan ignored them and pulled Inez closer, whispering frantically, “They don’t believe a word about what I saw yesterday. They cleared the railroad tracks…and found nothing!”
Chapter Sixteen
“But surely you found something.” Inez stared down Deputy U.S. Marshal Ayres, as if he was trying to bluff through an exceedingly poor hand. “There must have been some sign of foul play. Maybe the bodies were removed.”
Marshal Ayres sighed, leaned his elbows on the battle-scarred desk, and laced his thick fingers together. His firm but doleful expression gave Inez the impression he was praying she would simply acquiesce to his point of view and depart.
“Now, Mrs. Stannert,” he began again. “It’s like I said. The railroad called me in double quick. I was in South Arkansas, not more than a few hours ride, when the news of the slide came over the telegraph. I got there first thing yesterday morning, talked with the railroad’s men, including that feller Mr. Holt, some of the surveyors, and the crew and their boss. The crew was working on the tracks. There was lots of damage, sure. Tracks, siding, two supply cars, pretty well gone. Lots of rocks, dirt, dust, some broken timbers, bits from the cars, and a piñon tree or two. No dead men. No dead nothing, unless you count the trees.”
“But I found those two horses, saddles and all, wandering near Disappointment Gulch,” she insisted. “Riderless. One was Elijah Carter’s, from his own livery. Now why would he abandon his horse by the Arkansas River? That makes no sense.”
At Carter’s name, Inez saw Ayres’ patiently suffering expression alter subtly with a shift of his gaze, a slight frown.
She pounced. “Marshal. Is there something about Mr. Carter?”
The chair squawked as Ayres leaned back, brushing at his moustache as if removing crumbs. “A local constable mentioned this morning that Carter was asking around for me whilst I was out of town.”
“When? When was this?”
“Friday late,” he said reluctantly.
“That would be just before he left town on Saturday! What did he want?”
“Didn’t say. Asked where I was. When I’d be back.”
“What business could Mr. Carter have had with—” She looked anew at Ayres. “Could he have been headed to South Arkansas to find you when…?”
The chair squawked again as Ayres leaned forward, replanting his elbows on the desk. “Now, Mrs. Stannert. Carter probably went on a bender in Granite or somewheres. Probably show up next week or two, asking what happened to his horse. I doubt anything nefarious is going on. Much less a shootout on the railroad tracks outside of town.”
“Miss Carothers wouldn’t have made up such a story,” Inez insisted.
“She had a pretty hard knock on the head. She doesn’t remember anything about the rockfall and is kinda sketchy about what happened before that. Too,” he stopped, looking uncomfortable, then continued, “there’s the liquor.”
“The what?”
Ayres held up a hand as if to forestall a pummeling.
“Now I understand she’s a friend of yours, Mrs. Stannert, but there’s no use pretending you didn’t smell it on her. You found Miss Carothers, after all. And I didn’t just go by what the railroad men said. I had a talk with Doc, he noticed it too. He said he didn’t think she’s the drinking kind, so the liquor probably hit her pretty hard, might’ve addled her along with that rockfall.”
Inez finally caught up to his argument and didn’t know whether to be amused or indignant. “Susan was not drunk!”
“Well, according to all, she was pretty well soaked in the stuff.”
“Soaked is exactly right. I found her, used my kerchief and the contents of my canteen, which happened to be high-grade brandy, by the way, to clean the scratches on her face. I also had her take a couple sips, to revive her.”
The marshal’s eyebrows dipped up and down with his nod. “I understand, ma’am,” he said in a tone that, to Inez, sounded very much like a dismissal. He pushed back his chair and stood. “We can always talk more about this later. I’m sorry if it seems like I’m rushing you, but
I’ve some other business—”
“And I have no intention of delaying you.” Inez pushed her own chair back and, ignoring Ayres’ outstretched hand, stood and gathered her parasol. “I know you will be thorough in your investigation. Dead men don’t just walk away. Particularly when they’ve been crushed by a landslide.”
Back out on the boardwalk, Inez took a deep breath, then yanked a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and clapped it over her nose. Dust, stirred up by the Monday morning throngs of carts, wagons, coaches, horses, mules, and pedestrians, stung her nose and made her eyes water. The sun cut through the haze with the sharp clarity of light in the high mountains. The still-cool morning air warred with the burning intensity of the sun. Apollo would win this battle, Inez knew, at least until afternoon thunderclouds marched in over the high mountain crests like a well-trained battalion.
And the saloon will fill with men trying to stay dry or wet their whistles.
Anticipating a busy day, Inez walked as fast as her long narrow skirts would allow. Ayres’ patent disbelief of Susan’s story stung Inez’s pride nearly as much as the dust hovering in the air stung her nose. Still, without a body, Inez knew nothing much would be done. Unless Elijah Carter or the unknown railroad man were reported missing. Which seemed unlikely.
She frowned, wondering how carefully the marshal examined the location of the slide. Did he go up to the ridge top? Or just meander along the track? I ought to go myself. She glanced at the sun, assessing the time. But not today. Perhaps tomorrow morning. Perhaps the good reverend might see fit to accompany me.
