Leaden Skies (21 page)
Knowing laughs and nods at the table followed that remark.
The schoolmarm continued. “Zelda looked fifteen, but she had to be over eighteen. Flo doesn’t take in anyone younger.”
“Except Lizzie,” someone said under her breath.
“Lizzie was a special case,” said the schoolmarm. “Flo had a soft spot for her. Otherwise, why bother? If anyone else would have smart-mouthed Flo like Lizzie did, she’d be out in the alley. There was something between the two of them.”
Molly, two biscuits in, seemed to come to her senses about the surrounding babble. “That’s enough!” she said. “Let the dead rest in peace.” She twisted in her chair and hollered toward the hallway, “Danny!”
The giant appeared, a silent solid block in the entry to the dining room. Molly slanted a glance at Inez. “Girls, thank Mrs. Stannert. She’s leaving.”
A chorus of thank-yous followed.
Inez smiled and inclined her head, wondering what a blessing from a whore would count for in Heaven.
Molly reached for another helping of jam. “Danny, take Mrs. Stannert out, okay?”
He stood aside and let Inez pass. The door to the dining room closed softly behind them, shrouding them in darkness.
Inez spoke quickly. “Danny. You know that Mrs. Sweet and I were talking. We’re partners now. She’s in trouble, and I’m trying to help. Can you show me the room where Lizzie was killed? It’s important.”
Danny turned and walked down the hall toward the front door. Inez’s heart fell. Then he paused, unmoving, by the statue of the love goddess.
Finally, he turned to the right. Inez saw the glint of a key in the muted light of the hallway. A rasp of key in the lock, and the door beneath the stairs swung open. He moved aside, allowing Inez to enter.
Inez stepped inside, set her basket down by the door, and looked around. She’d expected a scene of grisly blood and gore, but someone had been at the room and cleaned it up. The clean bedclothes were rumpled, as if recently slept in.
Inez shuddered. Who would sleep in this room so soon after the gruesome murder? She forced herself to walk toward the bed. “This is where she died?” The coverlet was rose-colored satin, made for a much narrower bed.
Danny’s large bulk materialized beside her. He nodded.
Inez walked the perimeter of the room, not certain what she was looking for. Some clue, perhaps, as to what had happened that night or where Zelda might have gone.
She had her eyes cast to the floor or else she might have missed the four long, parallel scratches in the gleaming waxed floor. She stopped, allowing her gaze to follow where the tracks led. The French-style armoire stood demurely upon clawed feet, four feet down the wall, its three mirrors reflecting blood-red light around the room from the waning sun. Inez looked back at the gold and dark blue striped wallpaper, right above where the tracks began, and frowned. A darker area showed that, indeed, the armoire had once resided there for long enough to shield the wallpaper, after which it either walked on its own or more likely had been dragged down a length of wall.
But why?
Inez looked back at Danny, curious as to how much information he might be willing to impart.
“Did you move this armoire recently? Was it where it is now before Lizzie’s death?”
Danny shook his head emphatically. No, and no again.
Curious, Inez walked up to the large piece of furniture, set a shoulder against the side, and pushed experimentally. The armoire ground over the floor more easily than she would have guessed, adding a few more streaks to the once-impeccably polished floor. She opened the main wardrobe door, and frowned again.
Either Flo packed her clothes away or someone has been into her things since she’s been gone.
The wardrobe was nearly empty.
Inez closed the door softly, pondering.
She returned to the length of wall where the armoire originally was located, running a hand over the stripes.
Her fingers explored a seam. A seam that appeared to run deeper than a mere panel of wallpaper. She followed the break up and over as it made a ninety-degree turn.
“Danny?” Molly’s voice.
Danny made a quick hand movement—
stay
—and left the room, closing the door.
Inez heard his heavy footsteps head toward the dining room. A moment later, the footsteps returned and passed her by. She could hear them again, much muffled, heading up the stairs to the second story.
Inez bit her lip, debating. Sneak out and let herself out the front door or stay where she was until Danny returned?
Suppose the resident of the room comes in while I’m still here? I could hide under the bed if I heard the knob turn, but what if she starts her toilet for the evening and things go from there? I could be trapped, hiding here all night under the bed.
It was more of a chance than she wanted to take.
She opened the door a crack, and listened. All she heard was the chatter of the women in the dining room. She grabbed her basket, slipped out, noiselessly shut the door, and started down the hall.
The massive front door suddenly swung open, flooding the long hall with outside illumination. Stabbed by the light, Inez gasped, clutched the empty basket tighter to herself.
A tall silhouette, crowned by the unmistakable flattop shape of a policeman’s cap, stepped over the threshold. With every step he took toward Inez down that long, long hallway, his identity, never a doubt in Inez’s mind, became more certain. The Hatchet’s slit-eyed gaze never left Inez as he wordlessly bore down on her, every tread ominous. He pulled his sap out of a pocket.
“Pat!” The surprised squeak behind Inez was Molly’s.
Inez risked a quick look over her shoulder. Molly stood at the back of the hall by the dining room entry, a cluster of wide-eyed women behind her, like a Greek chorus arranged to chant the closing lines of a tragedy.
Inez turned around to face The Hatchet, and forced her voice to a pleasant register. “Why, Officer Ryan, we meet again.”
He closed the distance between them and, without preamble, gripped her upper arm and squeezed, as if prepared to drag her to jail, throw her to the wall, or both.
“I warned you. Twice.” The statement came across cold, pointed, dangerous.
Inez held up the basket in one hand, the prayer book in the other and fought the quaver from her voice. “More errands for the church,” she said, glad for the props. “With the recent death in the house and with Mrs. Sweet…um…detained, we of the church are always trying to reach out to those less fortunate.”
Pounding footsteps came down the stairs faster than Inez could imagine someone of that size moving. A thundering crash at the bottom, as Danny took the last three stairs in one.
Inez could see Danny now, behind The Hatchet and approaching.
The Hatchet’s murderous gaze finally left Inez’s face. He glanced up at the women behind her, as if just realizing they were there. He turned slightly, maintaining an iron control of Inez’s arm as he contemplated Danny, right behind him. Danny, Inez noted with some alarm, held a shotgun crosswise his body.
Hatchet released her arm. Tingling pain flooded down to her fingertips.
“Get out.”
He didn’t make any pretense of courtesy.
Inez pulled her long skirts close, to avoid touching any part of him, and edged around his unmoving figure, anxious to obey.
Danny had, during this short exchange, retreated as well, and was holding the front door open for her quick exit.
As Inez scooted down the hall, anxious to make good on a rapid departure, she heard Molly say, “Mrs. Stannert! What were you doing still here?” Her voice had slid from surprise to aggressive suspicion.
“Just leaving. I was admiring your works of art.”
Wincing to herself at this lame prevarication, Inez nearly dashed out the door and down the steps, pulling the bonnet down low to hide her face.
It wasn’t until her shoes hit the boardwalk that she realized The Hatchet had entered the fortified brothel without the doorman present to unlock the door from the inside.
She didn’t have time to ponder this development long before she was hailed from the saloon next door. “Mrs. Stannert! Ah, the very lady I was hoping to speak to.” Lynch was leaning on the open entryway to his saloon, wielding a toothpick among his large, unevenly-spaced teeth.
Still shaking over the encounter with The Hatchet, Inez said stiffly, “Good evening, Mr. Lynch. I’m so sorry, I’ve no time to chat right now.”
“Sure, sure, ’tis a busy time. For us too.” His joviality and attempt to draw them together in some common bond, saloonkeep to saloonkeep, rang false. “Won’t take a minute. ’Tis business I wish to discuss. Come on in, I’ve some fine brandy to break out while we palaver. I understand you’ve an uncommon knowledge of bottled Napoleons.”
“Mr. Lynch, I really cannot right now.”
His face reddened. He crossed his arms, causing massive shoulders and biceps to bulge. With his bald head, he looked ready to take on an opponent in the ring. “Well then, we’ll conduct our business in the street as we stroll along. For this is something that cannot wait.”
He glanced back into the bar, roared, “Jack McCarthy! That’s right, you! You’re in charge. Be back in a shake.” And fell in step beside Inez.
“You see, Mrs. Stannert, I’m in negotiations to buy Frisco Flo’s building.” It was a blunt quick jab to the head.
Inez walked, hands folded over the basket, staring straight ahead at the sea of bobbing hats.
He’s lying.
“Well, Mr. Lynch, I wish you all the best in your negotiations.”
He laughed, without humor. “No, no, ma’am. You see there’s been a complication. A derailment. In what were very very delicate discussions, even from the start. And that complication is you.”
A solid punch to the solar plexus.
Inez’s breath caught in her throat.
She decided the best way to address this was to take the high road, remind him that she was not only a lady, but what
kind
of a lady. A lady not to be trifled with. The queen of State Street. Holding her head high, she turned toward him with a regal revolve. “Explain yourself, sir. I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Your to-ings and fro-ings with Mrs. Sweet do not concern me.”
Lynch still had the toothpick in his mouth. It worked furiously up and down, like the antenna of a small wiggling insect he was devouring.
Revolted, Inez commenced walking. “I really must be getting back to the Silver Queen. Good day.”
Lynch continued to pace her, seemingly untouched by her frosty, dismissive attitude.
“Well then, Mrs. Stannert. I’ll take off the kid gloves and tell it to you plainly, since you seem not to be heedin’ the finer words I’d been rehearsin’ to say over a friendly snifter or two.” The lilt of Old Erin was stronger than ever in his voice as his attacks became more direct. “I’ve seen you and Jackson sneaking ’round these past few days, each of you, walking back and forth, front and alleyway, looking the place over. I mean—Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—I just observed you go in and not half an hour later, come out. So why, Mrs. Stannert, is someone the likes of you spendin’ so much time in a cat house?”
They’d reached the State Street door of the Silver Queen. Inez set one gloved hand upon the planks. “Really, Mr. Lynch. I was there on behalf of the church. If you doubt me, ask the girls. They’ll tell you I brought food and spiritual comfort.”
He snorted and spat to the side. Inez marveled that the toothpick stayed intact through these ejections. “Sure you did, sure you did. And next you’ll be telling me that’s why you visited Flo in the jail the other day. And surely as I stand here, I saw her talking to you after the fire. You two are in cahoots. So, I thought I’d just let you know, in a friendly, businesslike sort of way…”
Lynch removed the toothpick from his mouth, and pointed it at Inez, a tiny wooden sword.
“Stay away from Flo. Stay away from her girls, and the building. I have friends on the force. Friends that could make your’s and Jackson’s lives very difficult. If you don’t stop, you and your
partner
,” said with a sneer, “will find yourselves cryin’ in your beers, because that’s all you’ll have left. “
Having delivered his knockout punch, Lynch replaced the toothpick, wheeled around and walked back down State Street, leaving Inez staring after him, clutching her empty basket.
“How’d the church business go?” The question to Inez was delivered absentmindedly, as Abe collected a welter of dirty glasses from the end of the bar.
Inez felt a twinge of guilt as she looked around the frenetic saloon.
I haven’t been pulling my weight these past few days .
Her only comfort was that Bridgette’s eldest, Michael, was present, working a second shift at the saloon after a full day at the smelter. With his slicked-down hay-colored hair, ready smile, a bounce in his step as he collected a dishpan of dirty dishes from Abe, and the cheery “Good evening, Mrs. Stannert!” he threw in her direction, it was hard for her to believe he’d just finished eight hours of hard, physical labor.
“Mrs. Stannert.” Abe again. He’d paused in his whiskey pouring. Nine glasses were lined up, three abreast, like soldiers in parade formation. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“It’s nothing.”
Nothing I can tell you without spilling everything.
Abe shook his head, obviously not believing her. “Well. Got someone here who’s been waitin’ for you the past half hour or so. That mapmaker fella. Over there.” He pointed with the now empty bottle in the direction of the piano.
Inez stepped away from the crowded bar and saw Cecil, sitting at the piano bench, his inevitable surveyor’s board on the keyboard lid. Cup of coffee resting on top of the upright. She felt a pang of annoyance. “What does he want? Did he forget something?”
Abe shrugged. “Guess you’d better ask him. He’s not talkin’ to me.”
He started sliding the shots down the bar, straight into waiting hands.
Inez wended her way through the packed room to the mapmaker. “Mr. Farnesworth. Can I help you?”
He looked up from his survey notes, startled, then stood. “Mrs. Stannert. I’m glad you’re here. I almost…” He faltered.
She finished the sentence to herself.
He almost lost his nerve to come here. To wait. This isn’t about maps. This is about something else.
He confirmed her hunch when he added, “Is there someplace private we can talk?”
“Of course. There’s the office upstairs, as you well know.” She softened the sharpness of the remark with a smile and added, “You measured its dimensions, as you might remember.”
Halfway up the stairs, Inez turned to look down and try to signal her intentions to Abe. From that vantage point, she saw a mass of crowns—hats and heads—at the bar, at the tables, filling the spaces in between. A haze of smoke from cigars and pipes covered everything with a light fog. Abe and Sol moved back and forth at their respective ends of the bar, hands moving fast, pouring, collecting money, picking up and replacing bottles on the back bar, tossing dirty glassware into dishpans under the counter, pulling out fresh, wiping up spills. They looked like tin windup toys wound to their fullest tension, set into frenzied motion.
Inez continued up the stairs, unlocked the office, and motioned Cecil inside. She moved around, lighting two of the available lamps, remarking, “You understand, I don’t have a lot of time. It’s a very busy evening for us.”
“I know.” He sounded apologetic. Almost sad. “And I’m sorry. But, I didn’t know who else to talk to. I’d hoped, given that you seem to be a confidante of Mrs. Sweet’s, I could talk to you.”
Inez checked herself and stared at Cecil.
How is it that everyone seems to know—or suspect—that Flo and I are in league?
He addressed his surveyor’s board. “I’ve been doing some soul-searching. I had fallen away from my church and faith. But I am trying hard to find my way back.” He sighed. A soft, defeated sound. “In any case, I want to show you something. I’m showing this to you because, well, the woman who died at Mrs. Sweet’s place. At first, I was falsely accused. The pain was unbearable. And now, I believe someone else, a young girl named Zelda, has been falsely accused.” He looked up, eyes haunted.
Inez sank into her office chair. “For the sake of argument, let’s set aside the question as to why you’d think Mrs. Sweet’s and my interests intersect and focus on this Zelda. My understanding is that she was found with the body, in a locked room, with the weapon. Locked door, locked windows. It looks pretty damning to me.”
“There is another way into the house besides the doors and windows.” Cecil smoothed out a paper on the board, and passed it to Inez. It was a sketch, light pencil marks, crosshatching, strange hieroglyphics.
“I can’t decipher this. What am I supposed to be looking at?”
“Here—” He pointed to two general shapes, a square and a smaller rectangle. “The square is Mrs. Sweet’s building. The rectangle is the building next door. See this?” His pianist’s hand traced a faint line connecting one to the other.
“Yes?” said Inez intrigued. “What is it?”
“A tunnel.”
