Weeping Angel (12 page)

“Then I'll be enjoying your company for a few more weeks.”

She looked at him askance with liquid brown eyes. “You can't be serious.”

“I'm very serious.”

She kept her features deceptively composed, but he noted a lightness to her breathing. He didn't have time to dwell on her because Pap returned, and Amelia abruptly turned away from him as the bat-wing doors bolted open on either side, crashing against the walls.

Pap sucked in gulps of air. “T-Tindall didn't h-have your p-pen, M-Miss M-Marshall.”

Amelia gasped. “Mr. O'Cleary. You ran.”

“Yup.” He slid around the bar and snatched up the
glass Frank had just cleaned. He dunked it into a bin of melted ice and took a long drink. Wiping the water from his mouth with his hand, he smiled at Amelia. “I didn't want you to have to wait too long.”

“You needn't have gone to so much trouble, Mr. O'Cleary.”

“For you, Miss Marshall, I'd run clear to Boise and back if you wanted me to.”

She grew flustered. “Well, I don't want you to.”

Amelia left the bar and strode to the piano. Pap dashed from behind the counter and chased after her. “If I hear of anyone finding a pen in a blue steel holder, I'll make sure to get it for you.”

“You're too kind.”

“You're kind enough to let me.”

Pap stood next to her and Amelia stopped. He blocked her way to the stool, and she had to go around him.

Frank absently drank his coffee, thinking Pap was making an ass of himself. Swallowing the bitter brew, Frank reckoned if he had any sense, he'd get the hell out of here and go on over to the laundry to check on his clothes. He should have picked them up yesterday, but he'd been mowing Amelia's lawn and forgot.

He smiled in remembrance at the way she'd tried to conceal her embarrassment over him seeing her underwear in her bathroom. He hadn't really thought anything much on finding it in his way. He'd been more occupied by the way she kept all her toiletry articles in neat rows on the shelf of her cabinet. There was an efficiency about her that fascinated him. Why would anyone go to so much trouble to be so organized? He probably should be more like her. He was always losing things.

“I was going to begin lessons tomorrow,” Amelia was saying, “and wanted one good day of practicing, but if you and Mr. Brody—”

“Don't give us any never mind, Miss Marshall,” Pap quickly replied. “We won't get in your way. Go right on ahead. I've been wanting to hear another person play this piano besides myself. I was hoping we could do a duet.”

“I didn't bring any duet music with me.”

“Damn.” Pap snapped his fingers. “Next time you bring some, and we'll give these ivories what for.”

“I'll try and remember.” She stood poised by her bag a long moment, as if she was deciding what to do next. Frank saw her hesitation and felt he should say something to make her stay.

“Hey, Miss Marshall, you go on with your practicing if you need to. Pap has some things to do for me, so he won't be in your hair.”

She frowned. “I haven't played in front of an audience—”

“Since you played in front of me,” he finished.

“Damn,” Pap swore again. “Seeing as you played in front of Frank, you need to play in front of me, Miss Marshall. He said you up-and-downed real good.”

“Up-and-downed?” Amelia squeaked, giving Frank a wide-eyed stare.

“You know.” Frank placed his hands in the air like he was playing a piano, then he moved his fingers from left to right and right to left. “Up and down.”

“My scales.”

“Yeah. What did you think I meant by up and down?”

“To be sure, I wouldn't know.”

“Do your scales, Miss Marshall,” Pap urged, “and forget we're here.” He left Amelia alone and went to the bar. “What do you want, Frank?”

“I want you to . . .” Frank thought a minute. He really didn't have anything for Pap to do. “To clean my gun.”

“Clean your gun?”

“Yeah. Cobb was giving me some trouble last night. I just want to make sure it's in firing order.”

“I can't believe Cobb Weatherwax would be giving you any trouble. His brain cavity ain't big enough to start a fight.”

“All the same, could you oil the gun for me?”

“Sure.”

Pap came around the back side of the bar. He bent down at the waist, halting his movement midway. “What's your vest doing under here?”

“I pitched it there,” Frank replied casually.

“I told you not to be hurling your clothes and whatnot all over the place.” Pap grabbed the vest and folded it over his arm. “You've got to run a clean business. Junk all over the place ain't the way to go.”

“My vest isn't junk.”

Pap set the navy garment on the bar. “No, it ain't junk, but it don't belong with the glasses neither. I pity the poor woman you marry, Frank. She's going to have to be cleaning up after you every second.”

“Who said anything about marriage?”

“Every man wants to get married, whether he admits it or not. It's the natural way of folks to pair up.” Pap glanced at Amelia, who'd sat down and began running through her scales. “It takes some men longer than others to figure this out. You'd be smart to think about getting hitched while you're still good-looking enough to have your pick.”

Frank snorted. “I'll be damn sure to keep all your philosophy close to mind, Pap.”

Pap picked up the revolver and cleaning box, then went to a table and began taking all the paraphernalia out, all the while casting furtive glances at Amelia.

Frank leaned on the bar and watched Amelia, too. She hadn't taken a thing out of her coveted music bag, which she'd set on the floor by her feet. He figured she wasn't planning on sticking around too long.

Grabbing another glass, Frank set to work on the rest of the dishes, pondering Pap's advice. Frank had thought about having a wife every now and then. But the harsh realities of his childhood prevented him from thinking very long on the subject. Marriage and children were something he didn't think well of. His parents, Jack and Charlotte, had merely been spectators in his youth before leaving. The real adult had been himself, and the responsibility of the family had fallen on his shoulders. The fate of his brother, Harry, had been left up to Frank.

And Frank had failed.

From that day forward, reality had been caned into him. Life was cruel, and only those crueler would survive it.

He'd lived by that credo for as long as he had to in the orphanage, for without those words embedded in his mind, he would not have survived without Harry.

The music Amelia played softened, and Frank looked up. She'd changed directions in her scales and now ran through a beautiful melody. Some kind of orchestral piece. She was a damn good piano player, and he liked listening to the change of pace from Pap's tromping. Not that Pap couldn't hold an audience; Pap was the best. Amelia was just different.

Frank glanced at Pap, who tapped his foot on the floor to the tempo, a smile from ear to ear as he disassembled the gun. There was something about the harmony of the room that made Frank feel good. Not at all suffocated by the camaraderie.

He could have listened to the piano for hours. But Ed Vining burst in, and Amelia swiveled on the stool to see what Ed was babbling about.

“Miss Marshall!” Ed exclaimed. “I ran to your house and you weren't there. I was hoping you might be here when I heard the piano. I was right. I was—that is—I hope I'm not too late!”

“Slow down, Ed.” Frank slipped from behind the bar and went to Ed. “What the hell are you trying to say?”

Ed swept off his hat. “Beg pardon, Miss Marshall. It's just that I'm . . . I'm . . .”

“Spill it, Vining.” Pap had shoved the revolver aside to stand.

“I was sweeping off the boardwalks when I saw Mayor Dodge carry Mrs. Dodge into Doc White's office.”

“Narcissa,” Amelia gasped, her face going pale.

“I'm sorry, Miss Marshall,” Ed continued. “She was passed out cold. I went in to see if there was anything I could do, and Cincinatus hollered for me to go fetch you, Miss Marshall.” Ed crumpled his hat brim in his hands. “It looks bad. Real bad. I didn't see much, other than Mrs. Dodge's face was whiter than I ever seen a sheet. It . . . it looked to me as if she was dead.”

*  *  *

Dr. Francis White's practice was only two doors down from the Moon Rock Saloon, and Amelia entered the reception room with fearful images built in her mind. Mayor Dodge occupied the waiting area with his pacing. The normally impeccable center part in his pomaded hair was not so orderly; both sides ruffled above his ears.

Upon seeing Amelia, he nearly broke down and cried. His eyes were rimmed with tears, and his face was the color of ashes. “Amelia . . .” he choked. “The doctor won't let me be with her until he's finished his exam.”

Amelia clasped his hands in her own and squeezed. “What happened?”

“Narcissa came to the city offices to bring me lunch. I don't know if it was the heat, or the walk, or . . . I don't know. But she fainted in my arms.” Cincinatus pulled out his large handkerchief and loudly blew his
nose. “I carried her here, and as soon as Dr. White saw her, he ordered me to put her on the examining table and leave the room. That's all I know.”

Amelia bowed her head and tried to calm the waves of apprehension running through her. “It's all my fault. I should have insisted she see the doctor before this. I knew something was wrong with her, but she denied feeling ill. She said she was suffering from her age.”

“Balderdash!” Cincinatus blazed. “My Narcissa is not feeling her age at all. She's spry and lovely and . . . and—” His voice broke off in a pitiful crack. “If anything were to happen to her . . . I wouldn't want to go on living.”

“Don't talk such nonsense.” Amelia lifted her chin and looked the mayor in the eyes. “She's fine. She has to be. I'm sure it's nothing more than . . . the heat. I know I've been feeling the effects of it.”

“What's taking so long?” he asked, wiping his eyes with his pocket kerchief. “Doc's been in there forever. Why doesn't he come out?”

“I'll see.” Amelia rushed passed the handsomely appointed furnishings and raised her hand to knock on the closed cherrywood paneled door.

“Dr. White?” Her voice sounded distant to her hear ears. “It's Miss Marshall. I've come to see about Mrs. Dodge.”

After a moment there was a click, then the door opened, and the doctor admitted Amelia.

The consultation room was large and the east window covered with sheer curtains to filter the light. Amelia went straight to the overstuffed chair Narcissa occupied by the doctor's pigeonhole desk. She was fully dressed, sitting up, and quite conscious—though her color was anything but rosy.

“Narcissa!” Amelia exclaimed, and knelt to take her friend's hand in her own. “You gave us all quite a scare. My goodness, Ed Vining said you were dead!”
She laughed a little hysterically. “Remind me to reprimand him for frightening me so.” Putting soft pressure on Narcissa's fingers, Amelia smiled. “I told you to take better care of yourself. Why didn't you listen to me?”

Narcissa said nothing, and it was then Amelia noticed the far-off smile on her friend's mouth. The mayor's wife was anything but distressed. Although she didn't appear to be in exceptional health, she was taking the whole matter in stride. Actually, Narcissa looked almost giddy.

“Narcissa . . . ?” Amelia whispered. “What's wrong with you?”

Dr. White sat at his desk and picked up his ink pen to scribble notations on a piece of paper. He looked over the wire frames of his glasses at Narcissa and, with a scholarly nod, remarked, “You can discuss your condition with anyone you please, Mrs. Dodge.”

“I'd like to tell Amelia,” Narcissa said in a dreamy voice. “But I have to tell Cincinatus first.” She looked at Amelia. “You'll understand once you hear. Can you get him for me?”

“Of course.” Amelia stood and went to the door and opened it. “Mayor Dodge, your wife wants you.”

Cincinatus came running into the room, leaving the newly arrived Ed Vining behind.

Ed seemed perplexed, but asked, “You want me to get Titus Applegate, Miss Marshall?”

“Good heavens, no! We have no need for the undertaker.”

“Titus'll be sorry to hear that.”

Amelia gently closed the door in place and walked toward the leather exam table, frowning at the mention of Mr. Applegate. He'd laid out her aunt Clara in a tasteful fashion, but few others had surrendered their lives since. Titus's funeral parlor was starved for customers, so he'd gone into the furniture business to tide himself over until someone else passed on. It was
a good thing he'd ventured into retail, because Amelia was sure he wouldn't get Narcissa for a long, long time.

Dr. White remained sitting, but stopped writing and removed his glasses. Narcissa embraced her husband and put her cheek on his. Tears shimmered in her blue eyes, and Amelia felt like an intruder. She wanted to slip away, and even moved a step toward the door, but Narcissa stopped her.

“No, stay, Amelia.”

Cincinatus pulled back slightly and caressed his wife's shoulder. “What is it, dear?”

She smiled genteelly, a lovely woman with her auburn hair and matronly features of her figure. “How many women desire a firstborn love?”

“You are my first love, my dear.”

“Yes, but not my firstborn love. I'm speaking of the idol of a woman's waiting heart—a soul which shall be begotten within, clothed with my own nature—and yours,” she spoke softly, “and yet immortal.”

“I don't know what you mean, dear.” Cincinatus placed a wispy curl behind her ear and stroked his thumb on her cheek. “What are you trying to say?”