Iron Ties (14 page)
“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.”
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.
Terry’s voice trailed off.
Inez twisted around in her chair, just as Preston Holt said, “Pardon, ladies. Miss Carothers?”
Preston and Reuben stood nearby. Hats in hand. Preston continued, “Still clear for us to come in for that sittingr?”
“That’s right. I’ll be back in my studio by one thirty.”
Inez raised her eyebrows at Preston. “You’re having your portrait taken?”
He nodded. “Reuben’s turning sixteen today. Seemed a fitting thing to do.”
The boy fiddled with the brim of his hat, staring at Susan. Inez realized that both men had their hair slicked back and the usual dust and grime she associated with working out in the elements was missing from their garb.
Susan added, “Everything is already set up.”
“Thanks, ma’am. Much appreciated.” Preston turned a smile on Inez, replaced his hat, and began to move away.
“Stop by the Silver Queen, and I’ll stand Reuben a birthday drink,” Inez said impulsively.
Preston stopped and turned. For a moment, Inez thought he might decline. Instead, he responded, “Thank you, ma’am. We might do that.”
“There’s a poker game as well,” she continued. “Starts about nine in the evening, goes late—or early, depending on how you tell time. Tends to be high stakes, but if you feel lucky….” She realized with some annoyance that her face was coloring up in a way to match Terry’s.
The big railroad man gazed at her as if trying to determine what was really on her mind.
She hoped he couldn’t tell.
Preston smiled again. Briefly. “Guess we’ll see how my luck runs later.”
Inez smiled in return, watched Preston and Reuben leave, and turned back to the table to find Terry staring at her, wide eyes and open mouth.
“So.” Inez reached for a roll from the silver basket and placed it on her bread plate. “Did Susan perchance explain the business I’m in?”
“Nooooo. You work in a saloon? That sounds,” she hesitated, searching for the right word, “dangerous.”
“No more dangerous than being a schoolteacher,” said Inez, slathering butter on a bit of roll. “I recall an occurrence shortly after we arrived in town—let’s see, it must have been about two years ago. Two young ruffians, a boy and girl, decided they didn’t like their teacher for some reason or other. They went home at noon, armed themselves with revolvers, and marched up the street to the school, threatening to shoot their teacher on sight.”
Seeing Susan and Terry’s shocked faces she added quickly, “A student ran and told the school board. They out-maneuvered and captured the desperados, and put an end to the nonsense before the teacher returned from lunch.” She waved the butter knife dismissively. “Well, that was Leadville’s wild days. I’m certain you’ll have no such trouble now.”
***
“Inez, that was just plain mean,” Susan said under her breath.
Susan and Inez stood outside the restaurant, preparing to go to Susan’s portrait studio. Terry, who was headed in the opposite direction, looked fearfully around at the afternoon crowds walking past her without much more than a glance. She met Susan’s gaze. Susan waved goodbye; Terry waved back with a brave smile and hoisted her parasol aloft.
Inez felt a small pang of guilt, seeing the young woman square her shoulders and hurry away. “You’re right. It’s just….first, she asks if it’s possible for her to buy a cheap mine. Then, whether it is true that ministers of the gospel fight in the pulpit. And whether women can be lynched for singing.” She rolled her eyes.
Susan hobbled down the boardwalk, leaning on her cane. “I suppose all she had to go by was what newspapers back East report. And they say the most dreadful things about Leadville. As if it’s a den of iniquity.”
“Well, that all depends on where you go,” said Inez, thinking of her brush with Weston the previous day.
“And then, when she asked whether it was safe for women to walk on the streets without a pistol….” Susan paused at the top of a set of rickety stairs leading down to the next section of boardwalk.
Inez took Susan’s free elbow to steady her. “As you know, it’s my firm belief that a woman who doesn’t go armed and alert around here is living in a fool’s paradise.” Inez glanced at Susan’s set expression and added, “I know that’s not your opinion. But she did ask me.”
“Still, I can’t see that there was any need for you to actually take your pocket pistol out and show it to her.”
“If the sight of such a small gun makes her faint, then perhaps she needs to reconsider her decision to stay in Leadville,” Inez said with finality. “However, I’ve no desire to scare the wits out of her. She’s obviously a young woman with pluck. I can see why you two struck up a friendship. I’ll apologize, should I see her again.”
The two women moved into the shelter of a bookstore doorway to allow a river of small boys, shouting and laughing, to flow past. Amid the sea of bobbing caps, intent expressions, and scuffed shoes, Inez spotted a firecracker gripped in an urchin’s hand.
Susan sighed. “I would appreciate that, Inez. It’s important that Terry and the other teachers think well of me and my friends.” She commenced walking again, hobbling faster. “Now that my view camera is destroyed and I’m not able to photograph landscapes—I’d hoped to make a name for myself doing those—I need to redouble my efforts to build my portrait business to buy a new one. I put nearly all my savings into that camera. It was the very latest design, used dry plate chemistry, and was small enough for me to handle on my own.”
She looked forlorn for a moment, then shook her head as if to clear her thoughts. “Anyway, I’m expanding my portrait clientele. In fact, I talked up my business to the other women at the boardinghouse and have nearly all the teachers scheduled for sittings. Even Mrs. Flynn wants to schedule a session.”
“Fancy that!” Inez said, thinking of the proper young matron.
“And,” Susan brightened, “I had this other idea. With the railroad crews coming into town on paydays and Sundays, I’m hoping some might want to have their pictures taken, if I price it right. All I need is a few satisfied customers to spread the word.”
“Ah. That explains the two Mr. Holts.”
Susan flushed and blew a breath upward, fluffing her curly bangs. “The older one, the one who asks questions, showed up at my studio yesterday. He said that nothing more is being done about the…accident. He was nice, but he made it clear the Rio Grande hasn’t time to chase after ghosts. He didn’t put it quite that way, but close. Anyhow, he asked about portraits and prices. I don’t know. Maybe he felt sorry for me. It doesn’t matter. It’s business.”
“Well, if the Holts tell others there’s a pretty woman photographer who will take their pictures—”
“I’d rather they be impressed with how the photograph looks than just come to see a photographer in skirts. But whatever brings them in.”
“Hundreds of men work for the Rio Grande. Susan, you may have struck pay dirt.”
Susan stopped by her front door and dug in her pocket, finally producing a key. She said, “I hope so. And as soon as I get some new images, I’ll replace those.” She nodded at her display window. A selection of landscape photographs sat front and center, below the stenciled “Carothers’ Photographic Portraits: Best Prices and Quality Work.” The Sawatch Range, the Arkansas River with the railroad tracks featured against a sweeping view westward, and a silken waterfall were all positioned artfully on a purple decline of satin.
“It won’t do to advertise services I can no longer provide.” Susan gazed at the photo of the Arkansas River. “If I had the money, I’d hire a buggy and driver and see if I can find proof that I didn’t make it all up.” She switched her gaze to Inez. “I think I’ve convinced Mrs. Flynn I’m not some foolish young woman who dallies alone on public highways, drinks on the sly, and is prone to hallucinations. But I can’t quell the rumors entirely.”
“Reverend Sands and I went out there and searched the area thoroughly.”
Key in lock, she turned to Inez. “Did you find anything?”
“Nothing.” The strip of cloth flashed through her mind. “Well, maybe something. I don’t want to get your hopes up. A strip of colored cloth.”
She shook her head. “I don’t remember anything about a piece of cloth. Well, bring it to church tomorrow.”
“Can’t. Fourth of July. We’re going to be open. Early, and all day.”
“You’re going to miss the church picnic?”
“Most likely. If I manage to escape, it wouldn’t be until the afternoon. And then I’d have to ride down by myself. What a bother.”
“If you can get away, there’s a group of us planning on leaving town later, at about two. We rented a wagon, and there’s plenty of room. I don’t usually schedule sittings on Sunday, but I have a couple families scheduled right after church. Every dime and dollar counts right now.”
“We’re hoping some of that silver and gold showers down on us as well.”
“Good luck, to all of us, then.”
Inez murmured, “Good luck indeed.”
Maybe I’d better go to that picnic. I’m not sure I trust luck will keep Birdie from sinking her talons into the good reverend.
