Silver Lies Page 26

  She couldn’t bring it together. But this much was clear: She and Abe were under suspicion. Marshal Hollis thought Mark was still alive. And someone was looking for something.

  Someone who’d searched Joe’s office and the bank, nailed a rat to the Roses’ house, and searched Emma’s belongings.

  They found it or didn’t, and Emma showed up at the wrong time. Is Harry after the same thing? Is that why he bought Joe’s office, why he’s so close-mouthed about his dealings with Joe and Emma?

  She finally got up and left, locking the office door behind her. Descending the stairs, she felt weighed down, as though fifteen pounds of lead shot were sewed into the hem of her dress.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  She grabbed Abe’s arm, stopping him mid-pour. "We’ve got to talk."

  "Inez—" The front door swung open. A group of miners entered, heavy bootsteps shaking the planks. "Shift’s changin’. It’s gonna be hell for the next hour or so. Useless not back from errands. It’ll have to wait."

  One of the group halted before Inez and Abe and tossed a folded newspaper on the countertop. A Cornish lilt underlined his words: "Mrs. Stannert. Are you the lady what gave Gallagher the devil evening last?"

  Intense brown eyes quizzed her from a face still streaked with gray, glittering dust. The speaker tapped the folded newspaper, the grime of long hours underground leaving a smudged fingerprint on the printed page. She picked up The Independent and swiftly scanned the indicated column. An elaborate description of the Silver Soiree including food, music, and who was and wasn’t there flowed on and on in Jed Elliston’s trademark turgid prose. The smudge marked two overlong sentences, twelve narrow lines of small type:

  "The magic strains of Strauss’ waltz apparently did not succeed in soothing at least one savage breast as this reporter observed a subdued, yet heated exchange on the dance floor between a well-known State Street saloon proprietor of the feminine persuasion and Silver Mountain owner H. C.

  Gallagher. The exchange culminated in said proprietor abandoning said owner mid-twirl, leaving him bereft of dancing companion and stewing in his own juices amid the many couples dipping and turning to the joyous musical circumlocutions of the orchestra."

  Inez dropped the paper. Not happy. Harry must be livid. Why did Jed do this?

  The answer came to her, as clear as the remembered rhythm of the waltz: Revenge. For the browbeating Harry gave him before Christmas.

  The speaker swung around to his mates. "Told you ’twas Mrs. Stannert. Had to be her or that other." He jerked his thumb downstreet toward Cat DuBois’ saloon and parlor house. He faced Inez again. "My money was on you. You seem the type to outstare the devil." He gazed over her shoulder. "I hear you’re selling faces on the wall."

  Not one miner had come forward to buy a drink. A tenseness about the group radiated like ripples on a pond. The noise level in the saloon gradually decreased as others became aware of the conversation.

  Inez nodded. "Ten dollars a face. Interested?"

  "Maybe. But not for me." He set his tin lunch bucket on the counter and leaned forward. His posture said, "This is just between us." But his voice reached to the corners of the room. "How much to put old Harry’s face on Satan?"

  Inez drew back.

  He pursued. "You need someone for the Devil. Who better than Gallagher? A man who grows rich off the sweat of those who toil in his workings. A man who won’t pay a living wage or agree to a reasonable shift." His voice rose. "Four dollars a day wouldn’t make a dent in his pockets. An eight-hour shift is only human. But then, old Harry isn’t the human sort, is he." He winked at Inez, conspirator to conspirator.

  Suddenly, she recognized him. She recalled the accusations of the Silver Mountain militiamen: Agitator. Organizer.

  Inez looked down at the newspaper. The idea of painting Harry as the Great Deceiver was unbelievably seductive. "I don’t believe Mr. Gallagher would sit for the portrait."

  One of the other miners spoke up. "I’ve seen his likeness at the Carbonate City Bank. In that new painting of the money men. The picture’s done by the same jack-a-dandy that’s workin’ on this one."

  Harry and the Carbonate City Bank. She stepped through the facts carefully, as if they might blow up and bury her. So, Harry owns my bank. He owns Joe’s business. He owns the marshal and half the town. And, if he could, he’d own my soul and the souls of these men as well.

  Her hand balled into a fist, crumpling the newspaper. "Can you pay?" Her voice sounded abrupt and harsh to her own ears.

  The mining organizer grinned, opened his tin bucket, and pulled out a small leather pouch. He dumped the contents on the counter. Shiny pebbles of smelted silver rolled out on the mahogany wood.

  Inez examined them. "From highgraded Silver Mountain ore?"

  "We give our daily ten hours to Harry Gallagher. We pay ten times over, riskin’ life and limb." His eyes challenged her to say different.

  She cupped the pure silver beads in her hand. Weighing. Considering. "This pays for more than Satan. Where would you boys like to be painted?"

  The smile broke through, teeth made brighter by the surrounding dirt. "On the side of justice, Mrs. Stannert. On the side of justice."

  999

  "Damn it, Inez. What are you tryin’ to do, sink the business and get us thrown out of town?" Abe faced Inez in the unlit poker room.

  Inez could see Useless tending bar through the gap in the half-open door. She and Abe stood just inside, near enough to keep an eye on things, far enough away so no one would overhear them argue—she hoped.

  "What’s Harry going to do? Burn our place down? Sue us?"

  "He could."

  "He won’t. After that newspaper article and our…dis-cussion…Saturday night, he’ll probably never show up here again. Why didn’t you tell me about Jed’s article? You must have seen it this morning."

  "I did. But with what happened to Emma, it kind of slipped my mind."

  "Emma." She brushed her hand across her eyes. "Now that Useless is back, I’ve got to take Joey home. Doc’ll be by soon."

  "Yeah. Doc and that reverend. Wouldn’t want to miss him, now, would you?" Abe switched gears, back to their original disagreement. "Inez, I’m gonna ask—no, beg—that you not paint Harry as the Devil. Jesus, a portrait paid for with high-grade from his own mine. It’ll get back to him, Inez, and it’ll be nothin’ but trouble. The worst. Give those boys their silver back, let’s throw in a round of free drinks, and forget about it."

  "No." Inez felt her stubbornness rise. "If Harry doesn’t fancy himself as the Prince of Darkness he can pay to have his face removed."

  Abe stared. All she could see of him in the dusky room were the whites of his eyes, shirt sleeves, and collar. His waistcoat, skin, hair, all faded to shadow. "You’re not gonna turn away from this. Even though I asked."

  She crossed her arms. "The painting is mine. I can do with it as I please. You said so yourself." Even to her ears, it sounded childish.

  Abe shook his head. "I don’t understand the hold Harry’s got on you. You’ve pegged him as evil as Old Scratch, but he’s just a man. You say you want nothin’ to do with him and then you pull him back into our lives through the rear door. Paint him on that wall, he’ll be lookin’ over your shoulder every minute. Think about that, Inez. Think about what that means before you give any orders to that painter of yours."

  She tried to grab his arm. "The marshal said that Harry—"

  Abe pulled away. "Not now. I gotta calm down before we talk more. And you got some serious thinkin’ to do."

  He turned and left her standing in the dark room. Alone.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  "Then, Hollis accused me, Mark, Abe, and Joe of being party to some counterfeiting scheme."

  Dusk crept through Inez’s parlor as she gripped the reverend’s hands. Her own, icy with fear, searched his for warmth.

  "He said that Joe had something that ‘they’ wanted. I didn’t get the impression that Hollis even
knew what it was."

  Sands squeezed her hands encouragingly, then put an arm around her, drawing her close. "What do you make of all this?"

  She thought, resting her head against his shoulder. "I think Harry is in a race with the counterfeiters to find something Joe hid before he died. Someone must have been searching Emma’s house when she walked in. It must have been the counterfeiters. Unless Harry hired some scum to do his dirty work. Harry might." Inez thought of Hollis and the Silver Mountain militiamen.

  The reverend’s face was inches from hers. Up close, the color of his eyes, always on the line between blue and gray, seemed to shift subtly, becoming more colorless, more shadowlike. "Did Hollis say anything else?"

  "He pretty much said Harry’s trying to break the ring. It makes sense. Harry’s outspoken about ridding Leadville of the lower element. Then, Hollis said that Harry’s brought in an expert. Who do you think he means? Someone from the Treasury?"

  Sands looked over her head. "Ready for bed, Joey?"

  Joey stood uncertainly at the parlor threshold, dressed in clean flannels. "Auntie, will you tuck me in?"

  She pulled away from Sands. "Absolutely. Now into bed with you." She noted Joey’s unkempt hair and thought with dismay that she hadn’t combed his hair all day.

  As they stood, Reverend Sands added in a low voice, "Hollis said he’ll have a man patrol your neighborhood tonight. Whether to make sure you don’t bolt or to protect you, it hardly matters. They’ll be close in case of trouble. Do you want me to stay?"

  She shook her head, avoiding his eyes. "I need to sleep. But come by the saloon tomorrow before we open. We can talk then. Perhaps you could take Joey out to the livery or the ice rink. Sitting in the kitchen all day can’t be much fun for a five-year-old."

  "I’ll be there." He glanced at Joey, then lifted one of Inez’s hands to his lips. A compromise. The light kiss, barely brushing her skin, made her heart race. "You’re both safe. Nothing will happen to you. I promise on my life."

  Inez locked the door after him and turned to Joey. He looked so small and pitiful, her heart went out to him. She gave him a ferocious hug. "To bed, young man."

  "Will you read to me? Like mama does?"

  She grimaced over his head, thinking of the Bible and all the trouble it had caused. "Of course, Joey."

  As she bundled him under blankets, he asked, "When will mama be better?"

  "As soon as Doc tells me, I’ll tell you." She picked up Emma’s Bible from the washbasin stand and paged through it, her back to Joey. A neatly folded piece of paper, scented of violets and wedged between pages, caught her attention. As if from a distance, Inez watched her fingers unfold the single sheet. The note was written in a careful and feminine hand:

  Dear Emma,

  I just read of Joe’s passing in an old copy of The Independent. I’m probably the last person you want condolences from, but I give them anyway, along with the following information.

  Joe left a locked box with me that I will hand only to you or someone you trust. It requires a key, which I do not have. If you decide to send someone, have them bring this letter as proof. You can seal the letter if you do not want to share its contents with the bearer. I will be discreet.

  With greatest sympathy,

  M. Silks

  P.S. I understand that your old admirer is a frequent visitor, if not resident, of Leadville. I trust he has been gentleman enough to keep the past to himself.

  "One moment, Joey." Inez hastened to the entryway and yanked open the drawer of the spindle-legged table. There, in the very back, was the brass check she’d palmed from Joe’s wallet. The check stamped "Good for one free screw. Mattie Silks, Prop. "

  "What can this mean?" She spoke aloud, perplexed.

  "Auntie?" The tone was querulous, tired.

  She grabbed a leather-bound book from the drawer and brought it into the bedroom.

  "I won’t be reading from the Bible, Joey." She spoke in what she hoped was a calm voice. "Your mother can do that when she’s better. I have something else here, one of my books. It, too, is about God and the Devil, heaven and hell, good and evil. I’ll read some to you every night until your mother is well."

  Inez opened to page one, Book One, of Paradise Lost and in a sleep-inducing cadence began: "Of Man’s First Disobedience, and the Fruit/Of that Forbidden Tree, whose mortal taste/Brought Death into the World, and all our woe,/ With loss of Eden, till one greater Man/Restore us and regain the blissful Seat,/Sing Heav’nly Muse…"

  999

  Inez and Doc sat in the parlor, brandies hardly touched. Outside, all was dark and soft with falling snow. Inside Inez’s heart, it felt like midnight. Doc tented his fingers as if in prayer. "So, my dear, to summarize, Mrs. Rose is in a bad way. She may not make it."

  Inez twisted the paired rings on her left hand, reviewing Doc’s interminable explanation: Lost the baby. Internal bleeding. No response. In God’s hands. "I must see her."

  "Give her a few days. Then we’ll see."

  "The marshal says I’m to blame."

  "Nonsense, my dear."

  "He said," Inez took a deep breath, "that Joe was involved in some counterfeiting scheme. And he pointed a finger at me, Abe, and even Mark. He said Joe had hidden something before he died. These people must have been in Emma’s house when she came in, and that’s why she—" Inez stopped herself from saying died.

  "Now, now." Doc patted her hand.

  She flexed her fingers and looked over at the piano. "This whole situation is incomprehensible. It reminds me of when I was a child, learning the scales. I would look at my mother’s sheet music. I could pick out a note here and there, but mostly it looked like a page filled with random scribbles and dots. I feel like that child right now. All this is just squiggles on a page. I’ve got to find a way to hear the music, to put it all together."

  Doc looked distressed and stopped patting her hand. "Leave it to the professionals who know about these things. You have Joey to take care of. And, you ought to prepare him and yourself for the worst."

  The worst. Her mind absolutely refused to think on it, preferring to dwell on other matters instead.

  "Doc, when you say professionals…Hollis said Gallagher has brought in an expert."

  Doc was now patting his waistcoat. He finally pulled out his pocketwatch. "Professionals. Experts. Treasury people are probably in Denver looking into this, I assume. Denver has a Pinkerton office too, I believe."

  "No. It sounded like he meant someone up here." She caught his eyes at last. "Do you know who it is?"

  He took a breath and let the air out between rubbery lips in a frustrated ttthppp. "My dear, I’m your family doctor. Take this old man’s advice and don’t think about this other business. It will all work out. The suggestion that you’re involved is preposterous. I don’t believe anyone but the marshal takes it seriously."

  "But why would anyone think Joe is involved? And Abe? As for Mark, that’s truly strange. He’s been gone since May."

  He stood. "Pray for Emma. She’s the one who needs your help."

  999

  Inez soft-pedaled the Bach partita, holding back, focusing on the waterfall of notes and the interaction of melody and harmony, left hand to right. With another, more distant part of her mind, she examined the facts and surmises.

  When the piece was done, she sighed and covered the keyboard, music dying in her ears. I still don’t hear it.

  She reached into her pocket for the key with the horseshoe worked into the handle and turned on her stool. Joey’s rocking horse sat nearby, her only audience. "Let’s assume, for a moment, Joe was involved in counterfeiting." She wagged the key at the horse. "Storing the bills, providing a conduit for distribution from Leadville to Denver, something. He must have been under duress. I can’t imagine he would be involved of his own free will."

  The horse was silent.

  "Maybe," she continued, "he found a way to buy his freedom. Maybe he had some evidence that he was going to hand ov
er to the Treasury office in Denver, after he, Emma, and Joey left Leadville. Suppose, on his last Denver trip, he left this evidence with someone he trusted. Suppose, what everyone is looking for is really in Denver. In the strongbox with Mattie Silks."

  The carved eyes of the horse looked vaguely astonished at her line of reasoning.

  "Then this," she held up the key, its wrought iron handle for the horse to see, "must be the key to the box in Denver."

  She looked at the horse’s blank eyes. "Then again," she said slowly. "Maybe not."

  She got down on her knees before the rocking horse and ran her hands over the polished wood as if blind. There, in the carved bridle, her fingers found a wooden echo of the key handle’s horseshoe-shaped design. Feverishly, her fingertips ran over the rest of the horse—the saddle, the legs. She finally turned it on its side and looked at the belly.

  The seam outlining the hidden panel was nearly invisible. But she saw the keyhole, between the back legs.

  Holding her breath, she placed the key in the lock and turned. A small click, and the panel pulled away.

  She plunged her hand into the hollow body of the horse. Her fingers touched rough straw, stuffed in for padding, and something else. Paper, a small bundle, tied with what felt like thin rope or twine. She pulled out the bundle. A fifty dollar bill stared from the top.

  She righted the horse and rocked it violently. With a thumpety-thump and a flutter of straw, the horse gave birth to bundle after bundle of greenbacks and finally, a small unadorned silver key.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  After a restless night with the money under her bed and her revolver under her pillow, Inez greeted the first light of sun with dawning realizations. She hustled Joey to the saloon early. Bridgette clucked and fussed and fixed them breakfast while Inez prepared to go to the bank.

  "Can I come?" Joey asked, without much hope.

  "No, Joey. This is business." And it might get unpleasant.