Iron Ties

by Ann Parker

  Inez fingered the fabric, frowning. “Is there enough to go across the front outside?”

  “Five yards.”

  Inez leaned back in her chair. “That’s hardly enough to do the outside justice.” She brooded a moment. “So, what are Wyman and the Board of Trade doing for the Fourth?”

  Sol pushed his hat back, scratching his head distractedly. “Lessee, I walked right past them. They’ve got bunting all right. Lots of pine boughs. I think I heard one of the livery men talking…nearly every horse, carriage, and wagon’s been chartered for the day.”

  “Hmmph. Everyone’s leaving town. That’s not good for business here.” Inez thrummed her fingers on the table, looking bleakly at the material.

  “Ah, but you’ll have the actors, and they’ll draw quite a crowd,” said Bridgette. She dumped all but a small portion of the old coffee out of the pot before adding the fresh ground and water.

  Inez turned to Sol. “I’ve one more errand for you. Go to Braun’s lumberyard and see if he has any pine boughs we can use to decorate the exterior. We’ll save the bunting for inside, where it can’t mysteriously disappear in the night and end up gracing some other business. If things are still slow when you come back, you can start decorating the interior.”

  Sol picked up the scrap of rag that Inez had saved from the river. “You want me to hang this up too?” He grinned crookedly.

  Inez took it from his hand and smoothed it on the table. “It does have a patriotic cast. I found it not far from where Miss Carothers was injured. She’d mentioned something about a multicolored cloth. Seems a long shot, but I thought I’d show this to her.”

  “And how is the young miss?” asked Bridgette as Inez folded the scrap of material.

  “Getting better. We’re going to meet for supper tomorrow. She’s planning on going to the church picnic.” Inez shook her head. “If we weren’t open on the Fourth, I might consider it.”

  Sol settled his hat on his head. “I’ll see what I can rustle up for decorations, before it starts raining.”

  He eased out the back door just as the first large raindrops pattered into the dirt alley.

  Inez stood, gathering the blanket, the strip of cloth, and the blasting cap. “I’d best clean up. Thank you, Bridgette.”

  “Eating properly puts most things right, I believe.” Bridgette gave her a critical once-over. “You’ve got color back in your cheeks and a snap to your eyes. Now that good-looking Reverend Sands won’t be so worried about you.”

  “Worried?” She stopped, hand on the passdoor.

  “Well, jealous, more like. When Sol told him you’d left the saloon with a railroad man, oh my, the look on his face.” Bridgette plumped the bunting on a chair, put the tin dishpan in its place, and dumped the dirty dishes in with a rattle.

  “Jealous of the professor? That little monkey of a man?”

  “I never saw the man so didn’t have a chance to give a description, did I.”

  “What other railroader could I possibly—” Preston Holt flashed through her mind’s eye. “Ah-ha,” she said softly. “I think I understand. The reverend should have more faith in me.”

  Once in her upstairs office, Inez threw the blanket on her desk, causing a stack of invoices to cascade across the blotter, and hurried to her dressing room in the back. After putting the rag and blasting cap in her washstand drawer, she threw open the doors to her wardrobe and examined her work clothes—fancy and everyday—before pulling out an older dark blue princess polonaise. She slipped out of her riding clothes and underthings and draped them on a chair to deal with later.

  Splashing water into the washbasin, she glanced up at the mirror and caught a glimpse of herself in the altogether. Her face and neck were an unfashionable brown against the creamy olive skin below the collarbone. Her mother’s voice whispered disapprovingly, an echo of a scolding twenty years past: “Inez, you need to stop running around outside with your skirts pinned up like a young hoyden. It’s unbecoming for one of your station. And no hat! You’re becoming as brown as an Indian!”

  Inez grabbed a sponge, soaked it thoroughly, and scrubbed her face and neck. She wrung it into the basin. The pink rose painted on the bottom faded, as if obscured by a dust cloud. Her face was now of a shade more in line with the rest of her skin, but still nowhere as light.

  Leaning forward, she spoke into the mirror. “Hoyden indeed. I shudder to think what Mama would say now, if she knew my circumstances.” Inez toweled off and slipped into a clean combination with a sigh of satisfaction.

  Postponing the inevitable corset, she pulled the rag out of the drawer and unrolled it, smoothing it out like a runner on the washstand top. A blue bit at the top, surrounding a white star, a thin white diagonal stripe, a sea of red ending with a fray of threads. The weave was loose, like the Fourth of July bunting Sol had brought in.

  Fishing around further in the drawer, she extracted the blasting cap and the hexagonal bullet and copper percussion cap she’d inadvertently taken from Holt’s pocket, and arranged them on the cloth. She stepped back and stared at the collection of odds and ends. The reverend’s words drifted back to her: “You’re finding clues in trash.”

  She said aloud, “Blasting cap for giant powder. A hexagonal bullet for who knows what kind of gun. A percussion cap for nearly any kind of gun. A piece of cloth.” Guns. Explosives. A possible neckerchief, or perhaps a piece of flag or bunting?

  It was a discordant jumble that made no music she could recognize.

  She shook her head. If there’s a connection, it’s beyond me.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Thank you for seeing me on a Saturday at such short notice.” Inez perched on the edge of the leather chair, feeling like a schoolgirl confronting the headmistress.

  “Not at all, Mrs. Stannert.” William V. Casey, Esquire, squared the sheet of legal-sized paper on the blotter blanketing the polished top of his walnut desk. Sunlight from a side window reflected off the waxed surface straight into Inez’s eyes. She shifted in her chair to avoid the glare.

  Casey removed his half-glasses and continued, “I assume you’re searching for representation regarding a domestic issue. That’s what I do. Domestic law.”

  He enunciated clearly, as if she might have mistaken him for one of the more than one hundred Leadville lawyers profiting from claim-jumping disputes and mining litigation.

  He laced his fingers on top of the paper and waited for her response. Inez noted his hands were long-fingered, fingernails clean and squared off, with an inkstain alongside one finger.

  “Domestic issues. I assume that includes marital issues. Legal ones, I mean.”

  “You assume correctly.”

  His eyes, she noted, were kind, drooping at the corners as if in perpetual sympathy with the hapless clients he served on a regular basis. He added, again in the kindly-instructor tone of voice, “Divorces. Separations. Wills. Probate. Child custody. Those sorts of issues.”

  “I’m investigating the possibility of….” Her gloved hands strangled the satin reticule in her lap. “Divorce. I’d like to know what’s involved. The process and so on.” Her voice sounded strange, faraway, as if someone else were speaking on her behalf.

  He nodded. “I see. And how does your husband stand on this? Does he know you’re exploring legal options?”

  “I doubt it. He’s been missing for over a year. And honestly, I’m not entirely certain he’s still alive.”

  His eyebrows went up, but his gaze remained steady. “Well, we would proceed on the assumption that he is.” Casey put on his glasses, picked up one pencil from a neat parallel line of many that marched across the top of his blotter, and wrote three words on the paper before him. Inez wished she could scoot forward, without being obvious, and try to read what he had written.

  He looked at her over the top of his glasses. “How long have you lived in Colorado, Mrs. Stannert?”

  “About two and a half years.” />
  He made several more careful marks on the paper. “Good. The law requires that the plaintiff be a resident for at least one year.” He continued, not unkindly, “The basis for a request of divorce, in a case like yours, is usually on grounds of desertion.” His voice walked the line between statement and question, giving her room to respond either way.

  “Desertion.” Inez broke away from his gaze and stared out the side window. There was not much to see besides the painted boards of the house next door. The boards were so close that, were the window open, she could have reached out and touched them. “Are there other grounds that would apply?”

  He spread his hands. “Besides desertion? Habitual drunkenness. Extreme cruelty. Felony.” He hesitated, just for a fraction of a minute, before continuing. “Impotency. Adultery.”

  She shifted in her chair. “How, exactly, is desertion defined, if I may ask?”

  “Do you want the exact legal definition?”

  “Please.”

  He smiled, turned his back on her briefly to peruse the shelves of law books lining the back wall. She was treated to a view of the small bald tonsure on the back of his head. He stood and pulled a book down, paged through it, then smoothed it out. “‘In any case in which a marriage has been or hereafter may be contracted and solemnized between any two persons….’ Let’s see. Ah, here it is. ‘That either party has willfully deserted and absented himself or herself from the husband or wife without any reasonable cause for the space of one year.’” He glanced up. “I assume he has not provided for you in the interval? You did say you were unsure whether he was alive still.”

  “True,” she said bleakly.

  He closed the book and set it to one side. “One thing to consider is what course you would take should he return during the divorce process.”

  She stared in amazement. “If he hasn’t shown up after a year, what would induce him to appear now? Assuming he’s still alive.”

  “Well, for example, he may read the newspaper notice.”

  “Newspaper notice?” she sat up straighter. “What do you mean?”

  He made another short notation on the paper, set the pencil down in its place in the row, and leaned back in his chair. “Apologies, Mrs. Stannert. Let me explain the entire process. Once you decide to retain me or another lawyer as counsel, we notify the district court and a summons is drawn up for the defendant, that is Mr. Stannert, by the court clerk. The summons is usually served by the sheriff or a deputy of the county where Mr. Stannert is. If the summons is served within the county where it is filed—I assume you plan to file in Lake County—he has ten days to answer the complaint. If the summons is served outside of Lake County but in this district, he has twenty days to respond. If outside the district, he has forty days.”

  “Serve a summons on Mark? It’ll be a cold day in…that is, I can’t imagine a sheriff, a deputy, or anyone else will find Mr. Stannert. In Lake or any other county.”

  “Perhaps so. In which case, the clerk of the court may direct us to publish the summons in a public newspaper, published in this state, at least once a week for four consecutive weeks.”

  The muscles in her neck and back tensed as if in expectation of a knife being stuck between her shoulder blades. “A public paper? Here, in Leadville?”

  “Could be. Usually, a paper is chosen that is deemed most likely to give notice to the person being served. When the person’s whereabouts are unknown, but if we assume he’s in Colorado somewhere, that usually means a paper with a wide distribution, such as the Denver Tribune, Colorado Springs Gazette, some such.”

  “Is all this necessary? I thought, since he’s been gone so long, this would be quickly resolved.”

  Casey chose a different pencil from the row and rolled it between his fingers. “The law is a careful beast, Mrs. Stannert. All parties must have fair process.” He smiled wryly. “My previous practice was in Utah. You’ve heard the term ‘divorce mill’? In Utah Territory, judges will even accept collusion—an agreement to divorce between husband and wife. A married couple can appear in court, testify that they agreed to divorce, and receive a decree. All on the same day. Colorado is not Utah. In Colorado, if it appears that the two parties are engaged in collusion—for instance, that they have manufactured a charge of cruelty, simply to obtain a divorce—the judge will throw out the divorce request. Similarly, if both parties have been guilty of adultery, when adultery is the grounds for the complaint, no divorce will be decreed.”

  He said the last matter-of-factly, as if the statement were nothing more than another tangential point of law. But Inez wondered if the sudden image of the good Reverend Sands that burned through her mind like a white-hot fire did not, in some way, brand her face as well.

  Casey laced his fingers on the blotter and continued, “The laws differ state to state, territory to territory. I’ve handled many cases of desertion by husbands and wives. I can count on one hand the number of times an absent—that is, truly absent—spouse has returned in response to a newspaper notice. But it does happen occasionally, and the law wants to give the other side every opportunity to respond. Divorce is such a final step.”

  “Let’s assume Mr. Stannert will not appear. What then?”

  “Then it is an easy matter for the judge, and the divorce proceedings are conducted behind closed doors.”

  “And that’s all?”

  “As part of the legal proceedings, it is reported in the newspapers. But amongst all the news of silver prices, the comings and goings of dignitaries, the stock offerings, the latest murder, such notices are not front page news.”

  Except for those who read every line of type, looking for scandal to dissect.

  “If I may inquire, do you and Mr. Stannert have children?”

  “One. A son.”

  He made another notation. “He lives with you?”

  “No. He’s with my sister back east.” Her lips had trouble forming the words. “He left last summer. Our doctor said he’d not last the winter here.”

  Sympathy filled his soft brown eyes. “I see. Any assets that must be considered?”

  Inez cleared her throat. “There’s our home. And a business.”

  Which we own in a three-way split with Abe. She suddenly realized that the particulars of that partnership had never been written down, much less signed and notarized. My God. There’s no proof that I own the Silver Queen in equal part with Abe and Mark. None at all. It felt as if her personal and financial situation was becoming as tangled and ephemeral as a skein of smoke.

  Inez rose abruptly. “I’d like time to think on this. I now see the need to consider this matter carefully. As you said, divorce is such a final thing.”

  He looked disappointed, then recovered. “Of course. If I can help further—”

  “I shall contact you directly. Yes, thank you.”

  Casey led her to the foyer. At the door he hesitated, hand on the knob, regarded her steadily, then said, “Mrs. Stannert, as you’re pondering, keep in mind: There are far worse things in this world than divorce.” He smiled ruefully and opened the door for Inez to escape.

  ***

  Inez paused at the street corner, waiting for a break in the traffic so she could cross. She covered her eyes, trying to shut out the questions and concerns spinning through her mind. Never mind the business. What of William? Will the judge think less of me for having sent William to live with my sister? Surely, the judge would grant his custody to me. Who else is there, besides my sister. And my parents. I could never, ever let them know about the divorce. Papa would find a way to take William from me, claiming I’m an unfit mother or unbalanced, or mad.

  She dropped her hand and stared west, across the broad, crowded expanse of Harrison Avenue, in the direction of Evergreen Cemetery. Anger at Mark—for being gone, for leaving her to deal with life and its burdens as best she may—boiled up through her. “Damn you, Mark,” she whispered fiercely. “Where are you? I wish to God that
you were six feet under and I knew exactly where.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The walk to the Tontine Restaurant gave Inez a chance to collect herself. Pausing outside, she checked her lapel watch and was gratified to see she was still “on schedule” despite her extended meeting with Casey.

  Don’t think of that right now.

  Squaring her shoulders, she pushed open the door at 140 West Chestnut. She spotted Susan Carothers straight away, seated at a table with a young woman with strawberry-blonde hair. The woman turned around, giving Inez a view of a bright, hopeful face with a nose that could only be described as “pert.”

  Inez approached the table and Susan, still seated, indicated an empty chair. A walking cane was hooked over the edge of the table. Inez raised her eyebrows, and Susan explained, “From Doc Cramer. He finally allowed that I could walk from the boardinghouse to my studio and back, provided I use this and stay off my feet as much as possible. Oh!” She turned to her red-haired companion. “Where are my manners? Miss Theresa O’Loughlin, this is Mrs. Inez Stannert.”

  Inez nodded, stripping off her gloves and settling down in the high-backed chair. “How do you do, Miss O’Loughlin.”

  “Theresa is going to be a schoolteacher here,” said Susan. “She’s new to Leadville and also boards at Mrs. Flynn’s.”

  Miss O’Loughlin’s smile made her freckles glow. “Please, call me Terry.”

  Inez slid the linen napkin from under the cutlery. “An unusual name.”

  True to her fair complexion, Terry blushed right up to the roots of her hair. “My father’s nickname for me. I thought it has the right sense of adventure for a place like Leadville. I was so excited when this teaching position came up. I was ready to leave home, although my parents would have preferred I stay in Boston.”

  As Terry chattered about the train trip west, Susan’s gaze, which had been taking in the room, froze at a spot over Inez’s shoulder and then slowly moved upward as if tracking someone approaching their table.