Leaden Skies (18 page)

Hatchet turned to Bridgette and said, “Excuse me, Mrs. O’Malley. I’ve got business with Mrs. Stannert here. See you tomorrow at late Mass.”

“Oh yes.” She pinked high on both cheeks. “Well, the Devil loves idle hands so, back to the kitchen I go.” She batted her eyes, adding, “I’ve a multitude of things to do before confession this afternoon,” before beaming at him and displaying a missing incisor. “If you’d like more coffee, or some sausages, Officer, just let Mr. Isaacs know and he’ll tell me and I’ll bring them right out. Bless you, sir.”

“Thank you, Mrs. O’Malley. Much obliged.” He watched her go back to the kitchen, her ample hips swinging.

He ignored Inez for a beat longer as she drummed her fingers impatiently on the countertop.

Finally, he faced her, leaned over the bar, fist clenched, eyes narrow, jaw jutting forward. His words were completely unexpected. “What was your business with Flo Sweet at the jail this morning?”

Inez turned away to run a finger down a bottle of brandy gracing the backbar, giving herself a moment to collect her thoughts.
I might need more brandy than coffee to get through this conversation.

She returned to the mahogany and The Hatchet, and poured brandy into her own coffee, remarking, “I went as a representative of our church. Is that a crime?”

“Don’t see where any
proper
church is gonna care about the disposition of one of Leadville’s most brazen sinners.”

“It’s exactly these lost souls that need our help most,” she retorted. “‘O God, the proud are risen against me, and the assemblies of violent men have sought after my soul; and have not set thee before them.’”

His expression was hard as flint. “You’d best not quote the Bible at me, and you’d best stay out of Mrs. Sweet’s business. I seem to recollect saying something like this just yesterday. You must have a short memory, Mrs. Stannert.” He straightened up. “I’ve come for the fee for sale of liquor.”

“We paid the twentieth. As usual,” she said tersely.

“Can’t say I recollect such.”

“You must have a short memory as well, Officer Ryan.”

His fist, resting by the untouched coffee, clenched. Inez got the distinct impression that if she’d been male, she’d now be nursing a bloody nose for her impertinence.

“I’m city collector and an officer of the law. And I’m sayin’, you owe for July.” Dark violence threaded his voice.

The blatant lie just served to irritate her rather than set her quivering with fear. She glared back, not moving toward the cashbox under the bar.

“Something wrong, Officer?” Abe’s calming voice, at her back.

The Hatchet didn’t even acknowledge the question. Instead, he turned his back, rested his elbows on the bar, and leisurely surveyed the room. “Seems like there’s gambling going on over there.”

A small knot of men were playing cards. Another table was engaged in a loud and enthusiastic round of betting as to whether a fly would manage to swim its way out of a tumbler of whisky or whether it would drown.

“Your point being?” Inez asked coldly.

“Gambling’s illegal in the state of Colorado,” said The Hatchet. “Carries a fine of fifty dollars.”

Inez’s jaw dropped open. She snapped it shut with such ferocity that for a moment she was afraid she had cracked a tooth. “This is,” she searched for a polite phraseology, “absolutely ridiculous. If you were to fine every single person and place involved in gambling in Leadville, you’d have to collect from every man and a goodly number of women.”

It was almost as if The Hatchet didn’t hear her. He was examining the far end of the room, by the piano. “I understand you staged some theatrical-type entertainment over the past few weekends.”

“I believe you were here when one of the afternoon events took place,” said Inez.

“I’m suspectin’ this wasn’t a benevolent performance to help out your church. Guess you owe the city ten dollars a performance. Plus another fifty for sellin’ liquor at the same time.”

Inez stared. “Are you trying to drive us into ruin? To hell with it! I will not pay!”

Abe set one hand on her shoulder, a warning.

The Hatchet reversed his stance, towering over the bar once more. His pupils mere pinpricks. “Use of obscene language, that’s another fifty. And I recollect there’s a hundred dollar fine for assemblage of women for purpose of attracting customers to a saloon. You had an actress here for those performances. Add you behind the bar, that’s two women. Sounds like an assemblage to me.”

Abe’s hand pressed down harder on Inez’s shoulder, a tactile caution. He guided her to the side, away from the escalating confrontation. “We’ll pay the fines and the fees, Officer. You just set down what we owe, an’ we’ll do what we gotta do to make things legal.” Abe slid a piece of paper over to The Hatchet, along with a worn pencil. “Just tote it up, there, Officer Ryan.”

The Hatchet scratched out illegible notations, before saying, “I’m letting you two off easy, with a warning. Two hundred fifty will cover it.”

“Done,” said Abe as Inez gasped. “Miz Stannert, let’s go on up and get Officer Ryan here the money we owe.”

Abe propelled her up the stairs to the office, pushed Inez inside, and slammed the door behind them. “Don’t say a word, Inez. Not a word. Now’s not the time to argue with the law. All he needs to do is whisper in the ears of the right people, and we’ll be shut down this weekend quicker ’n you can spit and you’ll be cooling your heels in the calaboose. And you know how they’s prone to forgettin’ where they put the keys to the cells when it suits their purpose. You could be there for a long time. A month, more, if’n The Hatchet gets a mind to call in some chips at city hall.”

“But, it’s outright robbery! It’s no different than if he were to pull a gun on us and take the cashbox! Except he’s wearing a badge, which somehow makes it all legal.”

“Inez, I hear you. Now, you hear me. We stand to make a hell of a lot more’n two hundred fifty this weekend alone, especially since we’ve decided to stay open on Sunday, this one time. Business keeps goin’ like it’s goin’ the past couple days, we’ll have enough to finish up your fancy gamblin’ room up here, buy Flo’s place, and who knows? Have extra to spare. I’m willing to give The Hatchet his due, and get him out of our way.”

“Abe, don’t you see? He’s punishing us—me—for talking with Flo. What right does he have?”

“He’s got all the right that the badge and the uniform give him. And that’s plenty right now. Not only is he city collector, he’s got most of the city council standin’ firm behind him, ’cause he’s doin’ a bang-up job collectin’ fees, fines, and such to fill the city’s coffers. That talk that Bridgette was makin’, it wasn’t just Irish blarney. It’s a real possibility that he could end up bein’ marshal come the next election.”

Abe spun the dial on the safe, clicked through the combination and opened it. Inez, arms crossed, watched grimly. He counted out two hundred fifty in mixed bills and coinage. “We’ll get a receipt for this,” he promised as he closed the safe and placed the money in an envelope.

“A lot of good that does,” she grumbled. “He just looks right through them when it suits.”

Back downstairs, Abe put the envelope on the bar. “Here y’go, Officer. You can count it, and sign off here.” He pushed the list of fines and fees so it lay side-by-side with the envelope.

“I’ll count it later.” The Hatchet scribbled an illegible scrawl on the list and pocketed the envelope inside his vest. He turned to Inez. “Keep your eyes on your own business, Mrs. Stannert. That’s my last warning.”

Inez deliberately turned her back on him, making a point of rearranging the pyramid of Old Crow bottles on display. She watched in the backbar mirror as The Hatchet headed toward the State Street door.

She grabbed the brandy bottle and slopped more brandy into her coffee cup. “That’s a fine way to start the day.” It wasn’t until she picked up the cup that she realized her hand was shaking. Willing herself to hold it steady, she gulped the coffee, no longer scalding but tepid with alcohol.

“Easy, Mrs. Stannert. Gotta pace yourself this weekend.” Abe moved the bottle out of her reach. “There’ll be folks who’ll pay to have some of that fine brandy. Can’t sell it if you drink it all.”

Chapter Twenty-nine

Inez was still smoldering over The Hatchet’s behavior, Flo’s strong-arm tactics, and the now out-of-reach brandy bottle when Doc showed up.

Inez smiled mechanically, not really taking him in except to note that he was limping more than usual. “Hello, Doc. You’re here early. Aren’t you accompanying Grant and the rest on their excursions to the mines today?” She looked around for Abe, to get him to pull down the bottle of pricey brandy he’d placed up high on a shelf on the wall. “Are you thinking of a nip to get your day started?”

“Just coffee, Mrs. Stannert. Just coffee.”

His tone was so abrupt, so bereft of his usual jocular verbal circumlocutions that she stopped trying to get Abe’s attention and turned to examine him. Doc’s face was always loose in the skin, but today his face sagged even more than usual.

“Rough night?” Inez asked.

He hesitated, then admitted, “Not the usual house calls. In fact,” he scrubbed at his face, leaving it looking even more tired and wrinkled, if that were possible, “I didn’t sleep a bit after the call to Flo’s early this morning. I’m still bothered by certain aspects of the whole incident.”

Inez leaned over and set a hand on Doc’s sloped shoulder. “Hold on, Doc. I’ll get you some coffee and something to eat. Why don’t you sit down over there?” She nodded toward an empty table, back by the kitchen, removed from the barroom’s noise and commotion.

“Thank you, m’dear. I think I could take a seat. For just a moment.”

Inez guided him to the table and went into the kitchen to retrieve a sizable mug of coffee and a plate with three sausages.

She delivered them to Doc and sat across from him, with a fresh cup of coffee of her own. He set his top hat to one side and pulled the sausages toward himself, tucking the proffered napkin into his stand-up collar.

“Thank you. This shall be the first food I’ve had today. I went from Flo’s straight to the coroner’s office.” He cut up one sausage into precise, vertical slices, neat as a surgeon. “I shall have to head directly over to the Veterans Hall in a bit, make sure things are in order for the reception. Grant and all the veterans, you know. Just all us old War veterans, for a bit of reminiscing. Very informal. Very last minute. You are coming to the banquet afterwards, aren’t you?”

“Reverend Sands will be picking me up after the reception.”

“Good. Good.” He was silent a moment, chewing. “It was a long night. First the public reception at city hall, then this business at Mrs. Sweet’s place. No sleep at all. Used to be, I could go for several days on just a nap here and there. Ah well. I hope I might find a chair in a corner and catch forty winks before the veterans gather. With that, the banquet and the inevitable speeches, it could be another long night.”

She clutched her cup and prepared to lay her cards on the table. “Doc. I should tell you. I went to the jail this morning. The reverend wanted me to visit Flo, bring her a Bible, words of cheer, and so on. It turns out, Molly—she’s running the house in Flo’s absence—had just been there. She had delivered the bad news to Flo about Lizzie.” Inez took a deep breath, thinking that Flo hadn’t exactly said it was a secret, hadn’t asked Inez to keep a confidence. “I don’t know if you are aware of this, but Lizzie was Flo’s sister.”

Doc set down the slice of sausage that he’d lifted halfway to his mouth, and lowered his eyes to his plate. For a moment, there was silence between them. He then said, “Thank you, m’dear, for telling me that. I didn’t know. However, I wondered about their connection. Flo spent a great deal of time worrying over Lizzie. Asking me questions, looking for advice.”

“Advice on what?”

Doc looked up. Hesitated. “Well, she’s gone now. And it’s certainly nothing new to the poor inhabitants on the line. Flo thought Lizzie was using laudanum, perhaps even eating opium. She was certainly drinking. Flo doesn’t allow this sort of behavior, it’s a point of pride with her that her women are clean and sober. So, she was desperate when she couldn’t trace the source of the suspected drugs or where Lizzie got her liquor. Well, it’s easy enough to come by all that and more, as a rule. But Flo runs a very tight house, you know. Flo is kinder to her women than most, and that’s admirable, but I did wonder why she took so much time and care with Lizzie in particular. Why she seemed so desperate to help the young woman, who obviously was wrestling with her own demons. Now, it’s clear. As I said, thank you, for helping me put the pieces together. I was intending to visit Mrs. Sweet next, to let her know what happened. I’ll be better prepared knowing what you’ve told me about that relationship and about Molly having already delivered the sad news.”

Doc tipped the brim of his top hat up off the table, as if to see if any other dark State Street secrets might crawl forth.

“Doc.” Inez pushed her cup to one side and leaned forward. “What happened last night? Flo swears up and down that a girl called Zelda killed Lizzie. Apparently, the room was locked, and it was only Lizzie and Zelda in there.”

“Yes, I was with Molly when she unlocked the door to Flo’s room. Danny, their doorman, had secured my services and brought me there.” Doc pulled on his lower lip. “It was a scene of carnage. Lizzie apparently had revived from a deep coma. It was I who had pronounced her dead initially, you know. A mistake I shall carry with me for a very long time. However, once Lizzie revived, someone cut her throat. It was a vicious slice, came close to decapitating her.”

Inez winced.

“When we opened the door, the girl Zelda was there.” Doc hesitated. “Odd, but I could distinctly smell chloroform. The anesthetic. She kept insisting that she did not kill Lizzie. That there had been a mysterious intruder. Could it have been a hallucination? Could Flo’s girls be indulging in a variant of ether frolics? It could be they’ve turned to that, since laudanum and whiskey are forbidden in the house.” He seemed to be talking to himself.

“Ether frolics, I’ve heard of. But I had no idea that chloroform could be used in such ways.”

“Ah, m’ dear. Chloroform, ether, opium, chloral hydrate, and even your good brandy and lesser whiskey can be used for good or evil. On the one hand, as a physician, I’ve had many occasions to bless the anesthetics, opiates, narcotics, morphine, even cheap rotgut, for bringing relief to the patient. And, on the other hand, as long as the world is as it is, with its pain, suffering, and disappointments, a certain percentage of humanity will become beguiled by opium, chloral, and other deadly drugs and develop morbid cravings.”

“But chloroform?” She raised her eyebrows.

He nodded. “Good for the surgery and for insomnia, chronic pain, asthma, and chronic cough. Why, I’ve found it offers a welcome respite to those suffering from miner’s consumption, when used properly. I prescribe it, in moderation, as do other physicians. To self-administer takes a steady hand, an iron will, and a thorough understanding of the drug’s limitations. It has a pleasant smell, rather like apples, and the sensation it provides has been described as,” he harrumphed, “intoxicating. Which leads some to indulge over and over. But the line between sedation and death is a thin one. It is not a drug to trifle with. If Mrs. Sweet’s women are playing with such, I must have a serious talk with them.” He shook his head. “Still. If Zelda took chloroform to perhaps calm her nerves, took overmuch and became comatose, how did she kill Lizzie? Perhaps she administered the chloroform to Lizzie first. But to kill Lizzie and then take the sedative herself? Any way I look at this, it makes no sense.”

“What happened after you unlocked the room and found Zelda?” Inez prompted, trying to steer Doc back to the story and away from his pharmaceutical speculations.

“We prepared to detain her, but, well, she slipped my grasp. She was heading out of the bedroom. I caught hold of her shawl, but she was remarkably fast on her feet and escaped out the back.” He tipped his top hat again, releasing the darkness beneath. “Neither I nor Molly were prepared to chase her. I was left holding the shawl. And I tell you, the shawl was bloody, but it held the scent of chloroform. And that is what I cannot understand. There was no vial in the room. No handkerchief used to deliver the vapors to the face, as you might expect if someone were using it for entertainment. So, where did it come from?”

He, released his hat, leaned back in his chair, and stared at Inez. “Zelda is a little thing. Short of stature. She did not appear to me to be the sort who could wield a knife with such strength as to cut deeply with one pass. So, I’m troubled. Troubled by the whole incident. But, this could be no more than an old physician’s doubts and cautions catching up with him. Back when I was a young physician, we were embroiled in war.
The
War. There was no time for pondering when the patient lay screaming beneath the saw. There was never enough ether, or chloroform, or whiskey for the tasks at hand. We had to move fast, finish the procedure, and move on to the next.”

Doc stopped, then continued, “Lizzie was killing herself by degrees, for whatever reasons. She will most likely not be mourned by any besides Flo.”

He glanced down at the remains of the sausages. “Thank you, m’dear. Perhaps I can put it out of mind for now. There is so much more to do today.”

He looked at her and smiled, obviously trying to inject some of his old heartiness back into his voice. “We will see you tonight. And,” he shook a finger at her playfully, “I warn you. I’m still maneuvering behind the scenes to bring the general by your establishment for a shot of Old Crow or a hand of cards. Old soldier that he is, I think he would appreciate both of those things, with a good cigar, more than all the full-dress banquets and grand balls put together.”

***

Shortly after Doc left, Bridgette bustled off to church and confession, promising to return as soon as she could. “It’s really important I go today, ma’am, since I’ll be working on the Sunday tomorrow and missing Mass. No, no, ma’am, it’s one time, I understand, and I really don’t mind. But it is a neglect of my Sunday obligation and a sin. I’ve not missed Sunday Mass in years, so I want to let the good Father know so I can get busy on my penance.”

A while later, Sol ushered a cadaverous fellow over to Inez, who was completing negotiations with their liquor wholesaler over an incoming shipment of California wines.

The fellow set his worn leather bag on the bar with a clank. “Mrs. Stannert?”

She smiled. “Mr. Lang! You’re here to resuscitate the patient over by the wall? I warn you, this one’s not nearly as hearty as my parlor grand at home.”

He adjusted his pince-nez. “Some think they’ll become rich by finding silver. They should take up the piano tuning profession. The burgeoning interest in the musical arts along with the dry air and extreme changes of temperature keep me busy. I never have a moment’s rest, and my bank account thrives.”

Inez ushered him over to the upright, commenting, “She’s seen better days.”

“Let’s see what I can do.” Lang played various scales and tested the action of the pedals before opening the top of the cabinet and peering inside at the workings. He pulled a variety of tuning hammers, wrenches, and mutes from his bag, and set to work.

An hour later, he approached Inez, who was wiping up a spilled glass of beer. “Mrs. Stannert, why don’t you try her now?”

Inez wiped her hands on her apron, slid onto the piano stool, and ran through the scales, testing the piano’s range. “Lovely, Mr. Lang. At least, as lovely as she’s ever sounded. You are a true artist.”

His dour face creased into a rare smile. “More in line of a physician, I’d say. But thank you, Mrs. Stannert.”

“Mr. Jackson will pay you,” said Inez. “And have a drink on the house.”

“Much obliged.” He settled his hat and moved to the bar.

Inez tinkled through a bouncy rendition of “In the Evening by the Moonlight.” Emboldened by the piano’s improvements, she moved into more demanding terrain. The opening chords of Chopin’s Waltz Number Seven flowed unbidden from her hands to the keys. She allowed herself to drift on the melody line. But the music insisted, her hands required, that she pay attention. She bent her head to the keyboard, and focused. The music moved slow, faster, faster, then drifted again. All else receded. The voices in the room, the smoke in the air, the hollow hammer of boots on the floor, the opening and closing of the nearby door. The music seduced her, as it always did, with the brilliance of fire, the surety of a flood.

As the last notes died, there was a smattering of applause. A nearby voice said, hesitant, but approving, “Nicely done.”

She swung around.

The mapmaker stood there, board and papers clutched to his sack jacket. His eyes shone above his purple, swollen nose. “Chopin Valse Number Seven. Opus Twenty-seven. I particularly enjoyed how you played Part A. Very nice.”

She smiled, then stood. “Thank you. Do you play? You sound as if you know something of music.”

He hemmed and glanced uneasily around the room in general and back at her. “I have done my share at the keyboard.”

“Well then?” She gestured to the stool, the invitation implicit.

After a pause, he placed his board and coiled tapeline on the staircase and approached the stool. He sat. Stood and corrected the height. Sat again. Ran his hands tentatively over the keys.

He had, she noticed, unusually long fingers. After a little wandering, he launched into the same waltz. But with a difference. The waltz snapped with aggression and a very controlled pedal.

She’d never heard the piece, usually rendered romantically, played in such a fashion. When he finished, she applauded, noting, “The counter melody within the arpeggio. Very clever. As was that left-hand variation.”

“My own interpretation. I’m surprised I still remember it.”

“You have a rare talent, Mr. Farnesworth.”

He seemed abashed by her praise. “Once, I thought on being a concert pianist.” He looked at the keyboard and said under his breath, “But it is no way to make a living.”

“Why, we could use a part-time pianist here. Are you interested?”

He stood hastily. “I haven’t played since—” He stopped. Then, at her inquiring silence, finished. “Since my fiancé died.”