Learning Her Lines

by Amelia C. Adams

  Learning Her Lines

  Cowboys and Angels Book 38

  by Amelia C. Adams

  With thanks to my beta readers—Amy, Barbara, Bonnie, Cheryl, Cindy, Dorothy, Joseph, Mary, Meisje, Renee G., Renee L., Robin, and Suzy.

  Cover design by EDH Professionals

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  Table of Contents:

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter One

  Creede, Colorado

  1893

  Catherine Ross glanced up from the table she was wiping and smiled when she saw Melvin Westcott enter the Iron Skillet. He was an eccentric type, as one might expect from the owner of a theater, and at times, he seemed even more unusual. He talked to himself quite a bit, muttering in a low growl that had startled her at first, but now made her smile. She recognized it as part of his process, as the way he used to sort through his thoughts.

  “Miss Ross, do you know what this is?” he asked, waving a booklet in the air.

  “I have no idea, sir,” she replied. “Dare I hazard a guess?”

  “You may.”

  She tucked her dishtowel into the waistband of her apron. “In that case, I guess that it’s something that’s causing you a great deal of consternation.”

  “You are correct.” He tapped the cover. “This is an abridged version of Romeo and Juliet created for the modern stage, and I’ve come to the conclusion that they abridged all the wrong parts.”

  “Oh, dear.” She picked up the tray of dirty dishes she’d collected from that table, then paused. “What do you mean, for the modern stage? Has the language been changed?”

  “No, not extensively. But it’s lost some of the antiquity, the flavor of fair Verona hundreds of years ago. I have a copy of each version, and I plan to go through with a pen and demolish them both.”

  “And you’d like your favorite table and a pot of coffee?”

  “You know me well, Miss Ross.”

  She glanced over to make sure that his table was free, glad to find that it was. She motioned toward it with a nod of her head, not feeling the need to escort him to it like she would if he were a new customer. Indeed, he could probably find that table in his sleep in the middle of a blizzard.

  She stepped into the kitchen just long enough to grab a full pot of coffee and a mug and delivered them to Mr. Westcott’s table. He was already deep in contemplation, scowling as he looked back and forth between the two booklets in front of him. She set everything in the center of the table, hoping he’d be more observant this time and not knock anything onto the floor. He did have the tendency to enter his own world and to cease being aware of reality.

  “I’ll check on you in a little while,” she promised. He didn’t reply, but she hadn’t really expected him to. She smiled again as she turned to greet the two new groups who had entered.

  With so many new good restaurants in town, competition was fierce, especially when some were run by people who had lived in Creede for a while and had built up a reputation. But business had been good at the Iron Skillet as of late, so good that Catherine sometimes wondered if she’d ever get a break from the hustle and bustle. She liked being busy—that’s why she agreed to move to Creede and help Uncle Samson with his new restaurant, but honestly, enough was enough when it was so many hours on her feet. It wasn’t difficult to remember the orders or to carry the trays—the difficulty was that it never ended. As soon as a table was cleared, it was full again, and she felt like she wasn’t making any headway at all.

  She seated her new customers and took their orders. She was on her way back to their table with a plate of bread when she heard Mr. Westcott growl and slam the side of his fist on the table. After delivering the bread, she approached him, wondering if she should be alarmed.

  “Miss Ross, I have a question for you.” His eyebrows were furrowed together into a tight line.

  “Yes, Mr. Westcott?”

  “This restaurant is called the Iron Skillet. Let’s say I wanted to borrow an actual iron skillet. Could such a thing be arranged?”

  She blinked. What an odd question, and not at all what she’d been expecting him to say. “I could ask the cook, if he’s not busy . . .”

  “Ask him if he’d mind if I used it to commit murder.”

  Catherine took a step back. “I don’t think he’d like that, sir . . . He’s very particular about his pots and pans and things.” Murder? Surely he wasn’t serious. Would a murderer sit in a place of business like this and discuss his plans so openly?

  Her customer lifted a hand. “I’m sorry, Miss Ross. I didn’t mean that. I’m just frustrated. No, I’m more than frustrated. I’m angered. Yes, that’s a much better word. Succinct. To the point. Without embellishment, and yet sufficiently powerful.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that, sir.” She took another step away, thinking to make her escape, but he kept talking.

  “It’s this letter.” He pounded the table again, and this time, she could see that he was actually taking his feelings out on a sheet of paper that was lying near his coffee mug. “I found this just now tucked between the pages of the book my director left me this morning. The coward—not even speaking to me about it directly.”

  “What sort of letter, Mr. Westcott?” She didn’t really need to ask—she knew he was about to tell her. But he seemed to need a bit of friendly encouragement.

  “Mr. Alfred Bloomberg, director of the Creede Theater and therefore, my employee, decided to leave Creede and take a job with an opera in San Francisco. As if he’s experienced enough to handle that kind of responsibility . . . He’s only directed the spoken word, nothing musical. And to be honest, I only gave him this job because he was so sincere about wanting it. He told me he’d apply himself and really make a go of it. More like, he applied himself to all the whiskey he could hold over at the Nugget. And now I’m left without a director, and he couldn’t even tell me to my face. He wrote a letter, tucked it into the book I asked for, and left it propped up against my office door.”

  “That’s terrible, Mr. Westcott. He should have spoken to you in person.”

  “Miss?”

  Catherine turned at the call. “Coming. I’ll be right back, Mr. Westcott.”

  “Never mind about me,” he said, waving his hand. “I’ll still be right here when you return, and still just as perturbed.”

  She felt sorry for him, she really did, but she was also amused as she moved off to take care of her other customers. He was nearly as dramatic as the actors and actresses he hired for his stage.

  “I’m sorry,” she said as she approached the kitchen counter and picked up the tray of meals waiting for her. “I have a talkative customer. Mr. Westcott’s feeling particularly melancholy today.”

  Titus looked up from the stove. “I just hope that food didn’t go cold waiting for you.”

  “Me too.” She could still see a bit of steam curling off the top, though, so she imagined it was all right.

  She delivered the plates to her customers, readied a table in the corner, and was relieved when she returned to Mr. Westcott and found him somewhat calmer.

  “You may tell your cousin that his cooking utensils are safe,” he said. “I’ve decided to be the better man and move on from this unfortunate experience.”

  “That’s certainly good news. Would you like to celebrate with some pie?”

  “Yes, I would. A large slice, please, with fresh cream.”

  “Of course. I�
�ll be right back.”

  This time when Catherine entered the kitchen, she almost ran into Ivy, Uncle Samson’s daughter, who had just arrived. She’d been married to Caleb Baker, the new photographer in town, for a short while now, and had seemed almost ridiculously happy ever since. She was an hour late, though, which didn’t make Catherine very happy at all.

  “I’m sorry,” Ivy said as she grabbed an apron. “Caleb needed my help mixing up some of his chemicals, and he said it would only be a few minutes, but it turned into a much larger project than he thought. How have things been today?”

  “Busy. I’m glad to see you—Mr. Westcott has been unusually strange today.”

  Ivy shook her head with a smile. “He’s always strange, isn’t he? What’s so unusual about him this time?”

  Catherine laughed. “All right, yes, he’s always strange.” That didn’t keep him from being handsome, though, or fascinating. She grabbed a plate, sliced an extra-large piece of cherry pie, and covered it with cream. “I’m trying to decide if being strange is always a bad thing.”

  “I think it’s bad only if it’s dangerous.” Ivy paused with her hand on the dining room door. “Do you think he’s dangerous?”

  “Absolutely not.” Catherine decided not to bring up borrowing iron skillets as potential murder weapons. That was the sort of thing that could create the wrong sorts of impressions about people. “He’s just creatively minded, considering that he’s in the arts.”

  Ivy grinned. “And perhaps you find him a little bit attractive?”

  “Maybe just a little,” Catherine admitted. “Could you open the door, please? He’s waiting on pie.”

  “Oh, this door? The door I’m blocking because I didn’t want you to escape before I was done questioning you?” Ivy grinned even wider, then stepped through and held it open for Catherine, whose hands were full.

  “Here you are,” Catherine said as she slid the plate in front of Mr. Westcott. “A very nice way to celebrate.”

  “Except I’m forced to ask, what are we celebrating?” He leaned back in his chair and looked up at her, something he did only fleetingly on most other occasions. “Yes, I’ve made the decision to move forward from this most inconvenient setback, but it doesn’t answer the pressing question of what I should do now.”

  “And I have no suggestions for you,” she replied. “But if you eat your pie, you might get some inspiration.”

  “Perhaps.” He picked up his fork. “Thank you, Miss Ross. This looks delicious. I shall soothe my battered spirit with pastry, and then I’ll get back to work.”

  “And I need to get back to work as well. Ivy will take your payment when you’re ready to leave, and I do hope the rest of your day goes better than your morning.” With a smile, Catherine excused herself from his table, feeling that if she didn’t act quickly, she’d be kept there the remainder of the day. She could definitely think of worse company, but there were dishes to be washed, and she could hardly be dawdling about.

  ***

  As Melvin Westcott walked back to the theater, he studied his feet, concentrating on their rhythm and consistency. Left, right. Left, right. As he walked, he measured his breathing until that was consistent too. Allowing himself to become flustered wasn’t good business, and it wasn’t good for his health. He’d had frustrating things happen before—he couldn’t allow this minor setback to throw him into such a tizzy.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Westcott.”

  He looked up quickly just in time to see Reverend Bing’s wife and his sister walking arm in arm along the sidewalk. He’d nearly plowed right into them without realizing it. Thank goodness they’d said something or it could have been frightfully embarrassing. “Good afternoon, ladies,” he said, tipping his hat. “Quite a nice afternoon, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes, it’s very nice,” Mrs. Bing said.

  “And we’re looking forward to your next production,” Mrs. McRae added.

  “Thank you. I’m rather looking forward to it myself.” He pasted on a smile. He would do everything in his power to stay positive. The show must go on, as his acquaintances in the circus world were fond of saying when something went wrong.

  The ladies continued on their way, and he was grateful that he wasn’t expected to interact any further. He generally enjoyed social gatherings and chatting with people, but he was so perturbed, he was sure he’d make a mess of any conversation he tried to have.

  He was concentrating so hard on measuring his steps that he almost walked right past the theater instead of entering it. He shook his head, frustrated at his absent-mindedness. It was time to solve the problem and find a new director, but how? The play was supposed to open in two weeks, and he didn’t know anyone else in Creede who could take over. Then again, he hadn’t met everyone in Creede . . . perhaps he should go over to the newspaper and place an ad. He might be pleasantly surprised.

  When he entered his office, he expected to be alone, as the door was locked and he’d just used the only key. But he was brought up short to find an older woman in a flowing purple velvet gown standing in front of his desk, a reticule dangling from one wrist.

  “Hello?” His greeting sounded more suspicious than he’d intended, but then again, he supposed it was natural to sound suspicious. After all, this woman had gained entry into a locked room—she had performed some sort of magic trick to accomplish it, or committed some sort of crime.

  “Mr. Westcott, I presume,” she said, stepping forward and offering her hand. “I apologize for arriving unannounced, but I’m afraid it couldn’t be helped, given the circumstances. I’m Claudia Van Dyke, and I’ve been sent to help you in your hour of need.”

  He took her hand, but only out of courtesy. He was too surprised by her comment to do anything else. “My . . . my hour of need?”

  “Yes. Oh, come now—don’t be shy. It will do no good to keep secrets from me. I’ll find them out anyway.”

  The little hairs on the back of Melvin’s neck started to prickle. “Mrs. Van Dyke, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but . . .”

  “You find yourself without a director, do you not?”

  What on earth . . . “I do, but how did you know?”

  She shook her head, looking slightly exasperated. “How does one know anything? Is it the conviction one feels deep in one’s heart, a fleeting thought in the mind . . . Knowledge is a curious thing, Mr. Westcott. It can propel us, it can slow us . . .”

  “I’m not talking about universal knowledge, Mrs. Van Dyke. I’m referring to how you knew I needed a director.”

  “It’s all the same thing.” She made a small waving motion and turned toward the window, her dress making a swishing sound on the floor. “All knowledge is linked together, as is truth.”

  He was getting absolutely nowhere. Fine—he’d change tactics. “Are you here to apply for the position?”

  “Me?” She turned back to face him, and her hand flew to her ample bosom. “Oh, my dear sir, I’m so flattered. My aspirations have always been for the stage, but as an actress, not as a director.”

  “So, you’re an actress, then?” Little by little, he’d get her figured out.

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly. I’m far too busy with my real calling—I wouldn’t be able to find the time.”

  He sighed. “And what is your real calling, Mrs. Van Dyke?” He was getting a headache—he didn’t have time for this.

  “Me?” Again, her hand went flying. “I thought it was perfectly obvious, but then again, I suppose not. I, my dear sir, am a guardian angel.”

  He chuckled. “I see. And which play is your character currently featured in?”

  “Character?” She seemed astonished. “Oh, no, my dear sir. I am an actual angel.”

  “An actual angel?” He crossed the room and took a seat behind his desk. This wasn’t the sort of conversation one could have standing up—one needed to be completely relaxed in order to rebuff such ridiculous claims. “Have a seat and please tell me, Mrs. Van Dyke,
how I should go about believing that you’re an actual angel. That’s not a claim you hear every day, and I’m unsure how to accept it.”

  She perched on the edge of the chair in front of his desk. He noticed how carefully she smoothed down her skirt, as though a wrinkle would be the worst thing she could possibly experience.

  “You’d like to know how you can believe me? Well, we don’t carry identification or credentials—although, now that I think of it, we might consider it. You’ll just have to trust me. That’s what belief is, anyway—trust.”

  She said this as though it not only made perfect sense, but it should answer all his concerns. Instead, it only made them worse. How was he to trust a woman who believed herself so above reproach? He never trusted anyone strictly on their say-so—people lied about themselves all the time.

  “You don’t have any references?”

  She tilted her head to one side. “You’d like me to provide you with references from people who have seen me at my angelic best? Perhaps from someone whose life I saved? Or maybe from my supervisor? Oh, dear, Mr. Westcott, you must understand that it simply doesn’t work that way. I don’t ask people to sign my autograph book or some such thing.” She sighed. “You realize, don’t you, that this is the part where we always waste the most time?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She waggled her fingers in the air. “This. Right here. Me trying to convince you that I’m real, you insisting than I’m not . . . Every single time, no matter who I’m working with. If we could somehow skip over this part and move on to where you finally believe me, we could solve your problem twenty percent faster. That’s an estimate—I haven’t done the actual math because I didn’t have a pencil at the time I first thought of it, but if you’d care to lend me one, I could give you a concrete figure now.”

  Melvin leaned back in his chair and studied her, his mind whirling. “That’s all right. I can work with estimates.”

  “Good.” She smiled at him benevolently. “Now, are we ready to discuss why I’m here? Or do you need more time to question my sanity—and possibly your own? I can give you about ten minutes for that, but no longer. Time is a luxury so few of us have. Perhaps you could pretend to believe me for now, and then little by little, it will become true.”