By Monday mid-morning, Inez had steeled herself for the expected visitation from representatives of her church. She knew they would come, to offer clothes, food, and spare blankets to one of their own. Of course, the church women would not set foot in the saloon where she now lived, so they had harried their hapless husbands until three could be found to make the requisite call.
Inez, nursing her second cup of coffee of the day, rose when Sol brought them back to the kitchen area, and thanked them for their offerings. Bridgette interrupted their visit when she arrived breathlessly late that morning.
“Oh, ma’am! I’m sorry, but it took forever for me to get down the Hill and through town. The whole of the parish is buzzing with what happened last night.” She looked askance at the baskets of food and small bundles of used clothing and blankets on the table.
“Goodness, ma’am,” she said after the church members left. “Don’t they know I’ll be sure you eat well and proper and that you’ve plenty of clothes and such upstairs?”
Inez stacked the clothes on top of the blankets. “They’re just trying to exhibit Christian charity, Bridgette. It’s the thought that counts.”
And thought was all that was left to her this morning.
She turned the coffee cup around and around, its revolutions echoing her spinning thoughts. There was one person who could help unravel the last mysteries behind Lizzie’s murder. But she was, as far as Inez knew, still in jail. And Inez hadn’t the energy yet to go and see her.
Bridgette, hovering as she did, also added her own stream of commentary and inadvertent information. “Well, ma’am, it’s just so sad. Your home. And such a pity about Officer Ryan.”
“Yes,” said Inez, spinning the cup. She, the reverend, and Cecil Farnesworth had agreed. Until more was known, it seemed best to let people believe The Hatchet had died in the fire trying to rescue her. “I’ve no desire to pursue this further,” Inez had said wearily to the two men, while unlocking her office door in the dark after-midnight hours of Monday morning. “Who will believe us? We have no proof. And those who know won’t talk.”
Bridgette kept up a steady stream of comfortable chatter in the face of Inez’s silence. “On my way here, I was stopped by Mrs. Kelly. You know, Officer Kelly’s wife? She says, it’s just tragic, tragic, that Officer Ryan died in the flames trying to save you. Because, he told her once, soon after he came to town, about his little daughter. She had perished in a fire not two years ago.”
Bridgette paused, wiped her eyes, and crossed herself. “The missus apparently just never got over it. That’s why she and Officer Ryan…well, why she’s not up in Leadville with him. But, Mrs. Kelly says, Officer Ryan nearly died himself in trying to save their little girl, and ended up burned all over, lungs and throat damaged from the smoke. It almost took his voice. Not that one would know, since the fire didn’t reach his face. But it apparently caused him pain, every day. He hardly slept from the pain and the demons, I gather. And Mrs. Kelly’s brother was Officer Ryan’s physician, so she should know. I’m truly surprised that Officer Ryan never turned to drink, in the face of such an awful thing. He was a saint, a saint. Mrs. Kelly told me that he refused to take to the bottle, because her brother said that Officer Ryan found relief through chloroform. Chloroform, can you imagine? Thank goodness for miracles of modern medicine. Although Mrs. Kelly also whispered that Officer Ryan wasn’t above taking a wee bit of something else when the pain was too severe, on occasion.
Opium
, she said. Humph. She said her brother swore on the holy cross this was so. But only after she’d nearly forced him to say so, I suspect. Or maybe she made it up. I don’t know that I’d believe everything that Mrs. Kelly says. She tends to let her mouth run ahead of her thinking, if you know what I mean, ma’am.”
“I do,” said Inez, clutching her own aching head. “I do believe I know what you mean, Bridgette.”
All in all, Inez wasn’t surprised when, just before the saloon opened that afternoon, there was a light tapping at the back door, and when Bridgette opened it, Frisco Flo was there. The madam stood on the narrow back porch, outfitted in a severe and very proper walking suit, holding long skirts up with one hand to reveal mud-splashed galoshes, and gripping a wrapped bundle and an umbrella with the other.
“Excuse me, Mrs. O’Malley,” Flo said with great dignity. “I’m here as a representative of the church to extend my sympathies to Mrs. Stannert, if I may.”
“Well,” sputtered Bridgette. “Well now. She’s already had some church folk stop by—”
“Bridgette, it’s quite all right.” Inez rose. “Mrs. Sweet, please come in. Do you wish any coffee?”
Flo shook her head. “Thank you, but no need.”
“If you have a moment, I have something that needs to be returned to you. It’s upstairs in my office.”
Flo’s eyebrows went up a fraction. “I suppose I could take a minute, then.”
Inez herself took the madam’s umbrella from her and waited while Flo removed her galoshes. The two of them then left the kitchen and headed upstairs.
“I need to talk to you,” Inez said under her breath, while unlocking the door.
Flo stared straight ahead, clutching the wrapped parcel to her suit jacket. “It’s quite all right, Mrs. Stannert. I’d quite understand, if in the light of current events, you may wish to cancel our agreement.”
“Shhhh. It’s not that.” Inez opened the door, gestured Flo inside and to the loveseat, entered and closed it behind her, and moved toward the safe, talking. “You see, after we signed our agreements and you were detained by the law, I returned to your house and locked your front door.” She held up Flo’s house key and set it on the table by the loveseat.
“Why, thank you, Mrs. Stannert.” Flo picked up the key and dropped it into her purse.
“And one more thing.” Inez rose, went into her dressing room, and returned with Flo’s embroidered purple dressing gown. “Zelda asked me to return this to you.” She handed Flo the neatly folded bundle.
Flo looked surprised. “Zelda had this? She must’ve grabbed it when the fire broke out. Last I saw it, Lizzie had it on.” She smoothed the rich purple fabric on her lap, sadness sweeping across her face. “Lizzie and me, our last conversation, if you can call it that, we argued about this wrapper. I was so damn angry she’d stolen it from my room. She was always sneaking through my things.” Flo looked up at Inez, eyes haunted. “A stupid dressing gown.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Inez sat in her office chair. “I, too, have a younger sister. When I tried to imagine what I would have done in your position…I would have hunted down and killed whoever did that to her. Or tried to.” She rolled the chair back and forth, thinking how to phrase what she was about to say. “Flo, I have a question. Your third business partner. The Hatchet?”
Flo sighed. The release sounded like it came from her very soul.
“Why?”
Her mouth twisted. “It wasn’t my decision. He knew I ran the most financially successful brothel in Leadville. He saw a business opportunity. When I decided to move, he came and…” She stopped. Then, “He didn’t want anyone to know that he was part-owner of a whorehouse. Given his reputation in his church, his hopes for being elected city marshal, and who knows what-all.”
“Well, it seems you held all the cards, Flo. You could have exposed him at any time.”
“No.” It was said harshly. “He knew that Lizzie was my sister. He was supplying her with opium, laudanum, liquor. He just laughed when I confronted him. He knew I’d not have my own sister thrown into the streets or jail.”
Inez frowned. “Then why kill Lizzie? She was his guarantee. His insurance. I don’t understand.”
“While I was cooling my heels in the county clink, I had lots of time to think about Lizzie’s death. I couldn’t hardly think of anything else.” Flo looked down at the dressing gown and traced one embroidered butterfly. “I think she knew about my deal with The Hatchet. I didn’t tell her, of course. Lizzie could never keep a secret, even when she was little. So, maybe it was something I said, or something she found while sneaking through my stuff, or something The Hatchet said. Hell, it could’ve been Lynch next door that told her. He and The Hatchet were in cahoots in all sorts of schemes, and Lynch was soft on Lizzie. But however it happened, I think she found out, and then The Hatchet learned about it. He must’ve guessed she’d talk, sooner or later, and then his plans would be ruined.”
“But once Lizzie died, what held you back?”
Flo’s gaze slid to the photo of Inez’s own son, on the desk.
Inez sat back, sure at last. “The child. The baby in the picture in your home. Yes, Flo, I’m sorry. I did snoop. I went back for my glove and to see if I could find out the identity of your other business partner. But then, I saw the photograph. The half-finished letter. Is she your daughter? Is that what The Hatchet held over you, so that you couldn’t do anything about the deal or what he was doing to Lizzie? Did he threaten to tell your parents how you
really
make your money here in Leadville?”
Tears formed in Flo’s eyes, but did not spill over. Still, she didn’t look away from Inez. “Janie’s not my daughter. Not mine. Lizzie’s.”
Inez closed her eyes. Not knowing what to say.
Flo cleared her throat. “But I’m the one who supports her, loves her. It was just easier to say she was mine. Well, what’s one more little lie, after all?” She patted her blond curls absently. “I’m passing myself off back home as a successful Leadville dressmaker and laundress. Pretending to be Janie’s mother is easy, compared to that. Because I do love her, as I would love my own.”
She turned to the bundle beside her, saying, “Thank you for the key. Now, this is for you.” She handed it to Inez and clasped her black-gloved hands together. “It’s a small thing. But when I heard about your house, about The Hatchet…You saved me, Mrs. Stannert. It’s a token of my thanks and gratitude.”
Inez picked at the plain brown paper and string, finally revealing a neat stack of piano music. She leafed through it, amazement growing. “Chopin. Beethoven. Mozart. Oh, Mrs. Sweet, I don’t know what to say.”
“Well, you know, the gentlemen who come by for comfort and companionship, they really prefer the lighter variety of popular music,” said Flo, busy rearranging her hatpins so that her small black hat sat at a jaunty angle. “I looked at all that this morning, after they released me and I returned to my girls. What a mess the house has become in my absence! And, of course, Molly has disappeared. Took my best clothes and some of my jewelry, damn her eyes. Thank goodness the jewelry was mostly paste. I keep the real diamonds hidden in my home. In any case, I thought, who better to put these to use than Mrs. Stannert?”
She cocked her head to the side, smiled brightly, and stood, holding the rolled-up dressing gown under one arm.
Inez rose with her, clutching the music close. “How can I thank you?”
“It’s I who must thank you.” Flo tweaked her gloves, lining up the buttons. “I really must be going now. So much to do. Don’t trouble yourself, Mrs. Stannert. I’ll see myself out.” She fluttered her fingers at Inez. “Toodle-oo. Until later. Partner.”
Inez begged off the opera that night, much to Bridgette’s dismay. “But ma’am, he’s the
president
. You’d get to see him, say hello.”
“Bridgette, I played
poker
with General Grant, and he skinned me alive. Believe me, attending an opera and sitting somewhere in a distant box, listening to all that singing, would be very anticlimactic.”
However, when Reverend Sands dropped in to see how she was doing, she insisted that he attend. She also asked that he stop by the Silver Queen in the early hours so she could accompany him to Malta, where Grant’s party and the reverend were to catch the four-thirty morning train.
***
The sky was still dark when Inez and Reverend Sands disembarked from the hired hack in Malta to say good-bye.
They stood on the outskirts of the group that had come to see General Grant off on the next leg of his Colorado tour—a much smaller group than had greeted him a mere five days ago.
Five days. An eternity. Five days in which lives were lost, reputations ruined. On the other hand, lives were also saved. Jed is still alive. Zelda and her beau are on their way to California and a new life.
There was the dark, and there was the light. There was water—she held out a gloved hand to catch a few new raindrops—and fire.
The private car attached to the D&RG train waited, door open to receive the travelers. The reverend gripped her hand tight. Inez could sense his reluctance to let go of her.
“I could stay another day. Help you get settled, and catch up with them later. This is a bad time for me to leave you.”
“I’ll be all right. You said yourself you’d be back in two weeks. Besides, you can hardly deny a direct request from the general himself. And I have Abe, Sol, goodness, Bridgette will be feeding me non-stop in the hopes that her cooking will mend not just my aches and pains but my sorrows as well. I’ll be busy at the saloon, and busy seeing if there’s anything salvageable from my home. I doubt it though. My piano is gone. William’s baby things, my music, my books. Some of them I’ve had with me since I first left home. They cannot be replaced.”
“Perhaps it’s time for you to look forward and cease looking back.”
Inez shook her head, not willing to admit how much the loss of her things—mere things—distressed her.
There was a time when I could fit everything I had in a carpetbag or two. When traveling light was the rule of the road for Mark, Abe, myself. Now, it appears I’ve set down roots, somehow, when I wasn’t looking. Even with everything up in smoke, I could no more pick up and leave than I could chop off my right hand.
She looked at the departing party, her eyes automatically identifying now-familiar faces. General Grant. Mrs. Grant. Former Governor Routt. Horace Tabor, minus his wife. Kavanagh, off to the side.
“Where are the Wesleys?” she asked Reverend Sands.
“They left yesterday. Quietly. No fanfare. That’s to be expected after the revelation about young Wesley. It’s a shame that his appetites got out of hand. Although, for the voters’ sake, I suppose that bringing his political beliefs out into the light for scrutiny is all for the best. I’d not fault him for pushing for women’s rights. I think that will come eventually, when the times are right. As for Chinese immigration…” He turned to her and smiled. “Well, you don’t care about politics as you’ve said many times, so I’ll not bore you with my views. Particularly now.”
“Another time. I’m thinking I shouldn’t cut myself off so much from the machinations of politicians, suffragists, and so on. After all, so many of the men I know drive the engines of commerce and plot the future of Leadville and the state. I don’t want to be cut short by a change in the political winds.”
He smiled and released her hand. “I’d better board.”
The various trunks, hatboxes, and cases were being loaded.
Inez glanced at the hack that waited patiently to take her back to town. “I’ll stay until the train leaves. Send me a letter or two on your travels through the Gunnison country.”
The reverend seized her hand and brought it to his lips.
She smiled. “God speed, Reverend.”
She moved closer to the train as he boarded first.
No doubt looking for hidden explosives, assassins, who knows what. But it’s the assassins without knives, who use words as weapons, who seem the most insidious. How does one guard against them?
Someone at her elbow discreetly cleared his throat.
She turned to meet Kavanagh’s wide smile.
“Just wanted to bid you adieu, Mrs. Stannert.” He removed his hat. “It’s been a pleasure.”
Below the courtesy, she sensed irony, beckoning, daring her to ask.
So she did. “What are you doing here? I heard the Wesleys left Sunday. I would have expected you to be with them.”
“So you would.” He glanced at the milling party by the train. The ladies were boarding, navigating the steps slowly with fashionably tight skirts. “But I’ve been instructed to thank you by my employer. And, as you know, I am forever the obedient, faithful servant.”
More irony. This time, thick as snow in winter mountains.
She crossed her arms. “What earthly reason have the Wesleys to thank me? I was the one who resurrected the evidence that brought John Quincy Adams Wesley down in disgrace. Not that he didn’t deserve it.”
“Did he?” Kavanagh’s smile broadened.
Inez narrowed her eyes, dissecting his enjoyment. “What do you mean?”
She felt that familiar drop in her stomach, the sense of dread. The certainty that she’d been played, bluffed from a winning hand. “Are you saying it isn’t true? But, I talked with Mrs. Clatchworthy. Heard Lucretia Wesley with my own ears. Young Wesley and his mother were sympathetic to the suffragists.”
“Mrs. Stannert.” It was said in the tone of a tut-tutting school teacher scolding a star pupil for missing an easy question. “One third truth doesn’t make the whole. Simple logic. But emotion, particularly when carried by an entire populace, can be a powerful thing. People see what they want to see. What they want to believe.”
She stared at his grinning face. Understanding struck. “You? You wrote the immigration letter?”
“Among my many talents as a ‘Pink’ in the agency long ago, I found a knack for forgery very useful.”
“You had access,” she gritted through her teeth. “You took the stationery.”
“Like taking candy from a baby.”
“That photograph. Yours?”
“Money can buy anything. A scandalous picture. A few words dictated and scrawled on the back. Money buys silence.”
“Whose money?” she demanded. “Lucretia paid you to keep charge over her son. Not that you did a very effective job of that! Her son paid you to look the other way.”
He leaned toward her, appearing to enjoy every moment. “They paid me well. But someone else paid me better. Someone who saw a way to kill two birds with one stone. Politics. Money. C’mon, Mrs. Stannert. My employer says you are clever for a woman, although not so bright when it comes to treating powerful men right. I say that you’ll figure it out. You’d probably have figured it out much earlier, except for the fire and all the rest of that State Street business. The train is leaving, Mrs. Stannert. Don’t force me to tell you. I’d be very disappointed. We’ve a small wager on this.”
Politics and money. Who stands to profit by casting Wesley into political limbo? Who stands to profit by tarring Harry Gallagher with the brush of being on the side of Chinese immigration? Who is powerful enough, thinks he knows women, wants me to understand and see how he has maneuvered events, wants my attention, is someone I might have slighted…
She felt the color drain from her face. She turned toward the train, took two steps forward.
The women had boarded the train, as had all the men except for…
Horace Tabor stood on the steps, as if to take a last look around the area that held the silver mines that had made him millions. Mines he continued to accumulate, amassing enough power to, by all accounts, eventually propel him to Congress.
If none more qualified stands in his way.
His wandering gaze finally landed on Inez, before switching to Kavanagh. Kavanagh raised a hand, waved. Tabor shrugged and glanced at Inez once more, a small smile nearly hidden beneath his walrus mustache, then disappeared inside the train.
Kavanagh turned to Inez. “Thank you, Mrs. Stannert. I’ve won my bet. I’d better board and collect.”
Like Tabor, he looked reflectively about, his gaze settling on the mountains. “Nice place, Leadville. Lots of opportunities for a fellow like me. Might be, you’ll see me again sometime. Maybe you won’t mind standing me a drink for old times’ sake.”