Silver Lies (20 page)

His expression was unreadable. She looked away first, out the large mullioned window to the towering A-shaped timbers of the main headframe. She’d heard about Harry’s window. Folks said he’d built it facing the mine so the men would know he was watching them and every ore bucket that rose

up the main shaft.

"Enough," Harry said to Renquist.

The yapping stopped.

Harry released his end of the map. It rolled up with a snap. "We’ll finish later, Jack."

Jack stroked his full auburn beard, looking unhappy.

"But sir," Renquist whined. "Your next appointment. What do I—"

"Have him wait. Mrs. Stannert," Harry indicated a plush chair on the far side of the desk, "please sit down." It was not an invitation, but a command. "I’ll be back in a minute."

Harry gathered the map and papers. Jack finally spoke in a deep rumble. "I’ll check those results again. We don’t want to blast if there’s any doubt. It’d be a waste of giant powder."

Harry shot a look at Renquist. "I need those figures before I leave tonight."

Inez twisted around and watched with satisfaction as Renquist scurried out the door to the reception area.

Twisting back, she saw Jack open a side door to a second room. She spotted an enormous safe inside before the door shut behind the two men.

Alone in the office, Inez sat back and allowed herself to look about more closely. Despite the large window, the room felt closed in with its ornate paneled walls. Harry’s rosewood desk and a cluster of chairs, including the one under Inez, floated on a maroon
Brussels
carpet surrounded by a sea of inlaid wood floor. Inez marveled that, considering how many filthy boots probably tramped in and out, the floor and carpet looked clean
. I’ll wager someone cleans it every day.
A brass parlor stove heated the room, and a large painting of the War Between the States hung opposite the window.

All and all, it fit Harry to a T.

Her attention focused next on the desk. He’d removed all the papers, leaving only a large blotter, several expensive pens, a silver-chased inkwell, and two standing leather photocases facing away from her.

Another rumor was that Harry had a wife, somewhere back East. A woman of delicate temperament, perhaps an invalid, who could not or would not face the rigors of the West. Yet, no mention of "wife and family" had ever entered their conversations.

Unable to rein in her curiosity any longer, Inez glanced at the side door, still closed, then used a gloved finger to rotate the larger of the two cases in her direction.

It did not yield the half-expected family portrait. Instead, a framed tintype showed two groups of uniformed men facing each other in front of a military tent. Shadows from a tree dappled the men in dark and light.

Inez reached for her reading glasses for a better look, then hesitated, looking around again.

Both doors were still closed. The only sounds were the ticks of the grandfather clock standing sentinel behind her and the subdued pulse and wave of heavy machinery outside.

Inez pulled her glasses out from her pocket, slipped them on, and leaned closer.

The officer in the dark uniform. Harry, without a doubt.
The angular profile and erect carriage were unmistakable. He had his hat tucked under one arm, his dark hair reflecting in the ferrotype like a mirror.
I wonder where this was taken. Harry never talks about the War.

The surrounding faces were somber. One, in particular, drew her attention. Close by Harry’s side, a young fellow stared into the camera. His belligerent expression, coupled with a mustache of grandiose proportions, made her smile.
What a ridiculous mustache! Remove it, he’d look no more than sixteen. A boy impersonating the men around him.
Mustache aside, there was something familiar about the face and eyes, about the way the boy stood at military ease with hands clasped behind him.

Harry reached over her shoulder and snapped the photocase shut, nearly catching her nose. He rounded his desk and dropped the case into the top drawer as he lowered himself into his leather chair.

Inez snatched off her reading glasses, feeling like a child caught sneaking change from the church offering. "Why, Harry, I don’t remember you ever saying you were an officer in the War. A colonel? A major? I could never keep the insignia straight." Inez listened to herself babble.

Harry sat back, fingers interlaced across his waistcoat. His tie was now straight; silver cufflinks winked at his wrists.

"I doubt you rode through the storm and burst into my office to hear war stories." His tone was mild, as if her transgression was a minor one. He didn’t smile, but an expectant air about him unnerved Inez far more than if he’d taken her to task for snooping.

While Inez pondered how to begin, he added, "Given up living with your ghosts?"

She stiffened. "I also didn’t ride all this way to discuss my son. Or my husband." She threw down the word
husband
like a gauntlet.

Harry let it lie. "So, Inez, why
are
you here?"

She cleared her throat, retrieved Emma’s much-folded note, and opened it before pushing it across the desk toward him. She could reach only halfway across the wide expanse of rosewood.

"I’m here on behalf of Mrs. Rose. I’m certain you’re aware of Joe Rose’s untimely demise. She asked me to reconcile her husband’s accounts. I have some questions about your business with him."

Harry shifted his gaze to the activity outside the window. Five ticks of the grandfather clock sounded in the silence. Finally, he opened a side drawer and extracted a cigar. He clipped the cigar and lit it. The paper lay, untouched, in the no-man’s-land between them.

When he looked back at her, the expectant air had evaporated and his pale eyes were colder by degrees.

"You’ve enlisted help in your endeavors."

He must mean Elliston. Damn Jed and his "discreet" inquiries.

"Joe’s books are incomplete, a mess," she improvised. "The last entry for
Silver
Mountain
was two months ago. But there are gaps in the accounts, so I can’t be certain who is waiting for assay results or who owes money to him. Or his estate."

"So you can’t close the books." He rocked in the swivel chair and exhaled. A blue cloud of smoke obscured the air between them. "I might be able to spare Renquist Monday. He knows the mining businesses around here. Could help you tie up loose ends."

The very thought of Renquist in proximity to her twisted Inez’s stomach. Her aversion must have been apparent, because Harry quickly lifted a hand, and said, almost wearily, "Do it your way, Inez. You’re obviously set upon a course of action."

"Renquist is…" She couldn’t think of a term appropriate for polite company.

"Renquist is exactly what he appears. A crack man with the numbers."

Determined to steer the conversation back to Joe, Inez said, "I didn’t come here to beg for help. I’ll be frank. It’s clear something happened between you and Joe. You were his primary client. Until October. Then, there’s the night he died. As you probably recall, I was present when he came into my saloon and shouted that you ‘owed him.’"
And called you a son of a bitch.

"So, what did you owe him, Harry? And why weren’t you at his funeral this afternoon?"

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Is that what this visit is about?"

He glanced over at the grandfather clock, impatience filling his face. "You’re wasting your time and mine.
Silver
Mountain
has no outstanding business with Rose. His books are correct on that point. As for the funeral, I have a business to run. As you do." He began to stand, obviously expecting her to take the hint.

She stayed seated.
If I’m going to get anything from him, it’s got to be now.
She leaned forward, tapping Emma’s note for emphasis. "The Roses are destitute. According to Mrs. Rose and Nils Hansen that’s in no small measure due to you."

Harry froze, half out of his chair, then sank back down.

She continued, "You met with Mrs. Rose. At your hotel. It must have been at your instigation. You threatened to ruin Joe and you reduced her to tears." Inez knew she was making tenuous connections, but she had to say something. Something that Harry would deny, or qualify, or—

"She said that?" There was the anger, at last.

Harry picked up the note, penned in Emma’s delicate handwriting. He read it as if looking for clues.
Or trying to decide what to say next.

He tossed the stationery on the desk and leaned back again.

More smoke.

When he spoke, his voice was deliberate. "Joe Rose was a liar and a cheat. He falsified his assay reports. That’s why we stopped doing business. I couldn’t trust him."

"How…" Inez couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t think where to proceed from there.

Harry watched her steadily, as if he knew the directions her mind raced. "We had suspicions. Then Hansen came to me. I double-checked his story, split some samples, just to be certain. When I got the results, I had a talk with Rose." His colorless eyes had all the warmth of a glacier.

"As for this ‘rendezvous’ you’re accusing me of, Mrs. Rose requested that meeting. Her husband was out of town, she was low on household funds and thought
Silver
Mountain
was delinquent. Rose’d apparently left her in the dark." Harry extinguished his cigar. "I told her exactly what I’ve told you. Without mentioning Hansen."

She closed her eyes.
This can’t be true. But if it is, it explains a great deal. Why Emma lied about meeting Harry. Why she wants the books balanced with as little fuss as possible. And why she wants to leave Leadville. It might even explain why Joe took out the loan. Maybe he was trying to cover costs, so Emma wouldn’t find out.

"Mrs. Stannert. If I might offer some advice." Harry’s tone made clear he thought the odds of her accepting it were low. "You’d be doing Rose’s widow a favor by dropping the matter. If Rose had creditors, they would have found you by now. The more you dig into his life, the more unpleasantness you’ll find, I guarantee. That’s not to the family’s benefit. And, although you persist in thinking the worst of me, I did take his family into account. Rose and I had a deal. He agreed to leave town, I agreed to not press charges. How he explained himself to other clients was," Harry shrugged, "not my concern."