Leaden Skies (5 page)

Zelda sighed.

She’d originally told him that she was sixteen herself, slicing off those extra seven years as easy as if they were an unwanted blemish on an apple. She’d been playing the part of a young runaway at Flo’s. Gentlemen callers seemed to like pretending she was young and innocent.

Or maybe they really thought she was that way.

It didn’t matter and she didn’t care. The sham allowed Flo to charge a higher price, so they both made more money. Sometimes, with Reuben, Zelda even felt like she
was
sixteen. But other times she was painfully aware of the difference not only in her and Reuben’s real ages, but in their responsibilities as well.
If I were really sixteen, I’d say, “You bet!” when Reuben first asked me to run away, and we’d be halfway to California by now.

She stood up, the cold of the floor transferring from the backs of her thighs to the soles of her stocking feet. “I promised Pa I’d make grits. You’d better get dressed. You’ve got ten hours mucking ahead, so’s you’d best get going. Zed and Zeke won’t wait, if you look like you’re gonna be late.”

“Your brothers are crazy,” he muttered, grabbing his trousers and pulling them over his long johns. “They muck all day, come home, drink rotgut, and muck half the night too, so’s I hardly get any sleep anyhow.”

He glanced toward the corner of the room, at Zelda’s trunk from home. Underneath, Zelda knew, the loose floorboards covered a hole that, aided by a ladder, led straight down twenty feet before bottoming out and wandering in a southwesterly direction to an abandoned mine shaft.

“Well, they’re hopin’ to strike it rich again.” She crossed her arms. “Had all that money once, and then…Anyhow, you’ve heard Zed. He thinks this shanty’s sittin’ on top of a silver vein, and if they can sneak it out with the owner of that there claim no more the wiser, he’ll never miss it anyhow.”

The stink of burnt coffee, warmed over, drifted into the room. “Smell’s like Zeke’s got breakfast ready. You’d best get out there if you’re hopin’ to have some afore you go.”

She looked over at the trunk, thinking of her Sunday best dress, pretty plain, but clean and probably just the ticket for making her look the humble, hard-working, sober young woman she hoped to portray later that day. She moved over to the bed and rolled up the elegant dressing gown, then placed it tenderly in the trunk after pulling out her Sunday dress to let it air. “I gotta clean up once you-all are gone and Pa’s had his breakfast. Then I’m gonna put on my Sunday best from home, some new boots I got from Flo’s, and go find me a job.”

Reuben pulled the suspenders up over his sweat-stained long john top, foregoing a shirt or waistcoat. “What kind of job, Zel?”

She gave him a quick peck on the mouth, then said, “Tell you when I get it.” Zelda didn’t say that she had a very specific job in mind. A job she’d seen in one of the local newspapers, listed under “Wanted.” A job that, after much cogitation, she’d decided she could do as well as any man, given half a chance.
And if they don’t want to give me the chance, I’ll just have to find a way to change their minds.

Chapter Eight

Inez leaned forward in her chair, trying to project earnestness, not the desperation she felt. “Yes, I know this seems impulsive, Mr. Casey, and I’m sorry to have dropped by so early and without an appointment, but I’m truly ready to move forward. And I hope you will help me. There’s no one else I can turn to in this matter of divorce. At least, no one I trust.”

At the word “divorce,” William V. Casey, Esquire, had steepled his fingers. Then, as if realizing it lent him a judgmental air, he dropped his hands to the leather-bordered blotter on his desk. Unlike at Inez’s previous visit, there was no sunlight captured in his law office this morning. The muted gray of an overcast day filled the room, requiring the lighting of several oil lamps to beat back the uncharacteristic morning gloom. Inez felt as if she were suffocating in a gray land that offered neither absolution nor condemnation, but some indeterminate halfway hell.

She had decided simply to arrive on the lawyer’s doorstep that early Friday morning, taking a chance that she could talk her way into his office for a quick consultation before his regularly scheduled appointments. She’d certainly caught him before his usual business hours—Inez had spotted a linen napkin, hastily stuffed in his trouser pocket, as if she’d interrupted his breakfast.

But he’d not complained, and indeed had most graciously ushered her into his office, offered coffee, and then closed the door so they, or rather, she, could talk.

After Inez ran out of apologies and explanations, he waited a moment, and then said, “Mrs. Stannert, of course I’ll take your case. I told you that I would at our initial consultation, and I’m a man of my word.” He hesitated, then proceeded. “When we met previously, I had the distinct impression—not that my impressions are always correct, granted—that you were going to consider this for a while. In fact, if I’d been a betting man, which generally I’m not, I’d have wagered that you’d not return. Understand, that was just my impression on your leave-taking. As I am to now represent you, I’d like to understand what is the impetus behind your, well, rather abrupt decision to pursue dissolution.”

His leather chair squeaked on its swivel as he leaned forward over the desk. One of his perfectly manicured hands slid out over the blotter, then stopped short of the polished walnut surface of the desk, almost as if he was attempting to take her hand by proxy. “Of course, whatever you tell me is covered by attorney-client privilege. Your comments are as safe with me as with a priest in a confessional.”

Recalling the rather loose-lipped impulses of several priests in the habit of imbibing too much of the blood of Christ during the weekdays, Inez didn’t find his assurance much comfort.
Still, I must give him at least part of my reasoning. It’s best if we proceed now, quickly, while the town is caught up with Grant’s visit. Perhaps the divorce could become final without fanfare or notice.

“What’s to understand?” Inez twisted the gloves in her lap. “Last week, I considered all you said and my circumstances. My husband has been missing for over a year. When we met, you told me a year sufficed for proceeding on grounds of desertion. Correct?”

Casey nodded.

Somewhat reluctantly, she thought.

She continued. “I truly believe he’s dead. When he disappeared, we were making plans to leave Leadville. To sell the business and move to San Francisco. I—we have a small child. William was not even a year old at the time. My husband Mark Stannert doted on him. There was no reason…no suggestion of any…” She held her breath for a moment, trying to force calm into her shaking hands and curb her fluttering heart where it beat against her corset lining like a panicked moth against a pane of glass.

She let her breath out slowly, and started again. “I can think of no reason why he would simply walk off. Yet, since I cannot prove he is dead, I have no recourse if I wish to get on with my life other than to divorce a ghost. I’ve lived with this agony long enough. So, how do we start?”

Casey had been studying her closely as she rattled on.

She saw doubt there. He suspected she was holding something back, she knew. Still, how hard would he push her, a frantic woman, who was begging him to take up her cause?
This is what he does for a living. He will surely not throw away this chance for an easy case. There’s no one to contest the divorce. No one to object.

Finally, Casey nodded. Decision reached.

“I have a standard retainer agreement I use,” he began matter-of-factly. “It includes the steps involved, what you can expect from me, what I expect from you, and the terms of payment. I can tell you that, if the case is uncontested, which it sounds like you believe it will be, this should be a fairly quick process and relatively inexpensive. I will have the agreement drawn up today and ready for you to sign first thing Monday.”

“Monday?” The weekend stretched before her, two days of uncertainty in which anything could happen. “But, I would like to sign you on now. Immediately. If I pay a retainer, could you, perhaps, draw up a simple agreement now and set the wheels in motion today? I will then sign the detailed contract next week when it’s ready.”

He regarded her. “This is unusual.”

“Forgive me, Mr. Casey.” She forced a note of apology into her words. “It’s just my way. Having made the decision, waiting is nearly unbearable. I will double your retainer, to recompense you for your trouble.”

He looked down at his blotter, nudged it so the bottom edge aligned with the edge of his desk. “It’s not necessary to double my retainer, Mrs. Stannert.” His voice was gentle. “I have been in this business for many years. I understand that the prospect of the dissolution of a marriage is difficult for the parties involved.”

Casey reached down to a lower drawer of his vast walnut desk. The small bald spot on the back of his head came into view as he bent to view the drawer’s contents. He straightened up and placed two blank sheets of paper on his desk, followed by a pen with a fresh nib, before pulling a crystal inkwell toward him.

“I shall set forth something simple for now, noting that you have retained me as counsel and have paid a retainer.” He dipped the pen and wrote a few lines in a decisive slanting script, dating and signing at the bottom, and did the same with the second sheet. He picked up a pewter sand shaker and sprinkled sand on the wet ink, remarking, “Once you sign these, I shall prepare the paperwork for the county sheriff.”

“County sheriff?” She frowned. “What is his role in this? I thought we would simply appear before a judge, and it would be done.”

Casey smiled. It was meant to be a comforting smile, but all it told Inez was that her assumptions were incorrect.

“Colorado law does allow divorce based on abandonment by one of the spouses. But first, we must conduct ‘due diligence.’ That means we must use maximum effort and resources to locate your husband and provide him with ‘due process,’ which means simply ‘notice and an opportunity to be heard.’ We need to notify your husband that you are filing for divorce, tell him of the court date, and allow him to attend that hearing to provide any explanation he might have for his alleged abandonment.”

Inez drew a deep breath. “Very well. How do we proceed?”

Casey said, “The first step is to have the sheriff to serve the divorce papers on your husband. Now, you last saw your husband here in Leadville, is that correct?”

“May of last year, yes.” Inez tried to put rumors of Mark’s appearances along the Front Range out of her mind.

Casey nodded. “If the sheriff or his designated representative cannot find your husband, then we place a notice in at least three newspapers. A notice in a local paper, the
Leadville Herald
or the
Democrat
would do. Or
The Independent
, if you prefer. At the same time, a notice in one with a larger distribution. One of the Denver papers, for instance.”

Cold apprehension nudged her at the mention of Denver. “Why not something in the
Fairplay Flume
? Is a notice in a Denver paper really necessary?”

“I would advise it for two reasons.” He leaned back in his chair. It squeaked, almost in sympathetic terror with Inez, as he rocked to and fro. “The Leadville papers are read up and down the Arkansas, into Colorado Springs, and South Park. We’d be treading the same ground with a notice in the
Flume
. Also, didn’t you mention last time that your husband might have been sighted in Denver?”

“Last winter.” Inez said, cursing herself silently for having mentioned that particular event to Casey and cursing Casey for his good memory. “But nothing was heard after that. It was a very tenuous identification. The person admitted that it was at a distance. Is it truly necessary to reach all the way to Denver? Seems such a waste of time. And money.”

“Nevertheless.” The squeaking intensified with a last squawk as he quit rocking and leaned forward again, earnestness washing over his round face. “Consider this, Mrs. Stannert. The person who must be persuaded to grant you a divorce is not I—you don’t have to convince me of your good faith attempts to find your husband—but the judge to whom we will present your petition for the dissolution of your marriage. If we can say to him that, yes, we made every attempt to find Mr. Stannert in Leadville and in the surrounding territory, and, yes, we made good-faith efforts to locate him—within reasonable means, of course—in the greater Colorado area, including the capital city where he was supposedly last seen…” He spread his hands wide and raised his eyebrows in a gesture of openness. In an attitude that indicated a willingness to hear and a wish to be heard, an attitude of presenting the truth and then being willing to negotiate.

Inez had to admit that, had she been the judge, listening to Casey and his earnest speech, watching him as he walked through the points of her desire to find her husband and her inability, despite all she’d done, to uncover his whereabouts, she’d be nodding and affirming his every word.

“So.” His hands retreated to the blotter, bracketing the abbreviated contracts. “It behooves us to do the best we can to be sure that our efforts to find Mr. Stannert extend beyond Leadville, and in a significant way. Not merely in a nearby paper, or in some insignificant, unknown broadsheet that is passed up and down by hand in Ten Mile Canyon.”

Casey tipped the sand off the contracts into a wastebasket, picked up the pen, and dipped it in the faceted inkwell. He handed the pen to Inez and turned one sheet to face her. “Mrs. Stannert, if this is the road you wish to take, I’ll be your guide, your advocate, and your protector.”

Inez gripped the pen so tight her fingers spasmed. Without reading the contract, she signed. Afraid that if she hesitated to read the legal verbiage her courage would flee and she along with it.

Without a word, Casey replaced the sheet with its twin.

She signed the second copy.

Casey stood, went over to a sideboard, opened one of its cupboards, and removed a bottle and two shot glasses. “I know it’s early in the day, but I always offer after the signing of a contract. Do you wish—” He held up the bottle, which, even at a distance, she saw held the label of a very fine Scotch.

“I think not, but thank you.” She stood, surprised to find that her trembling limbs would hold her erect. “I have other errands to attend to. Thank you for seeing me without an appointment. I do hope I haven’t impinged on your schedule.”

“Not at all.” He placed the glasses and bottle on the desk, extracted an envelope from a drawer, and folded a copy of their contract neatly into thirds before sliding it in. “I shall start the wheels of justice turning. This morning, I shall see what strings I can pull to have the court clerk draw up a summons for Mr. Stannert right away. If we serve the summons inside the county, he has ten days to respond. Outside Lake County but in the district, forty days. I’ll see if we can’t have the summons limited to the county, given your desire for a quick resolution. Perhaps I can arrange to simultaneously publish the summons in the newspapers, even as the county sheriff is doing his search. If we publish in Leadville and Denver, that might give us leverage for pursuing both avenues simultaneously. An unusual procedure, but not entirely unheard of.” He seemed to be talking to himself, preparing his arguments.

His gaze, which had been absently wandering over the legal volumes along the office walls behind Inez, returned to her. His focus sharpened. “It’s entirely likely that the county sheriff will pass the task of serving the summons to a deputy, things being as busy as they are right now, with General Grant in town.”

“Yes. Thank you. I appreciate your promptness in addressing my circumstances. More than I can possibly express.” She gathered her gloves. “My overcoat?”

“In the entryway,” he reminded her.

She realized she’d been in such a state on arriving that she had no recollection of removing her coat or hanging her umbrella.

Casey had just gripped the knob to open the door for Inez when the door flew open of its own accord, accompanied by a burst of excited female chatter. “Oh, Willie! I witnessed the most interesting incident while taking my morning constitutional—”

Inez was treated to a view of a purple hat in which a bird with beady black eyes nested. The bird was quite dead and stuffed in the bargain. Then, the hat tipped back, and a pair of brilliant eyes, a startling blue verging on amethyst, speared Inez.

The woman stepped back into the entryway. From her height, Inez would have thought the woman was perhaps a child. Except, her lower limbs were enveloped not in long skirts, but in a reform outfit, complete with purple bloomers and short purple skirt.

“Excuse me,” she said with her crisp no-nonsense elocution. “I had no idea. Isn’t it early to be having visitors, Mr. Casey?” She then reached past him to Inez, held out a hand, and said briskly, “Allow me to introduce myself. Mrs. Serena Clatchworthy.”

Responding automatically to the strange woman’s forthright manner, Inez reached for the hand, saying, “Mrs. Stannert.”

After a single hearty shake, Mrs. Clatchworthy withdrew her hand adding, as if an afterthought, “Editor, publisher, reporter, and hawker of the
Cloud City Columbia
.”