Leaden Skies Page 6

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 t
o 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.”

  Casey moved between them, blocking Inez from Mrs. Clatchworthy’s intent gaze. “Mrs. Stannert is here on a legal matter.” There was a firm current of warning in his explanation, as if he’d raised a cane within the sight of a child who was pushing the limits of misbehavior.

  Serena raised her hands, as if in protest. “Mrs. Stannert, I am the soul of discretion. My business and Mr. Casey’s run on separate tracks. Much like our philosophies regarding—”

  “Mrs. Stannert was just leaving. Perhaps you might deliver your thoughts on women’s suffrage another time,” said Casey, not unkindly.

  “Well, then. Perhaps I will,” Mrs. Clatchworthy said. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Stannert. My brother is the best in the business. You’ve come to the right man.” She retreated across the foyer to a parlor opposite the law office.

  Casey ushered Inez over to a walnut hallstand holding Inez’s overcoat and umbrella. These items were now balanced on the other side of the center mirror by a furled purple umbrella rimmed with gold fringe, dripping into the umbrella pan. Purple kid gloves were thrown carelessly on the marble inset shelf beneath the mirror.

  Inez caught a glimpse of the parlor’s interior. Mrs. Clatchworthy, ostensibly warming herself by the painted firescreen, gazed at Inez with intense curiosity. A rocking chair held an open book, face down. Inez imagined the book whining at the mistreatment of its spine, cracked and in distress.

  “I’ll be back momentarily, Serena.” Casey hastily hung Inez’s coat over her shoulders, shoved her umbrella into her hand, and walked her out the door. He let himself out as well and closed the door behind them both.

  “My apologies, Mrs. Stannert,” he began. “Usually my sister’s morning constitutional lasts quite a bit longer. It must have been something truly unusual to bring her back so soon.” He stopped, his brown eyes taking in Inez’s stiff demeanor. “In any case, although we share an abode, I can assure you that Serena—Mrs. Clatchworthy—and my occupations do not intersect. She is completely dedicated to her printing press and her muses and chatters endlessly about work. I do not. She understands and respects the legal code of conduct that I adhere to.” He allowed a small smile to crease his face. “All in all, she’s quite harmless in her enthusiasms. Most likely, you’ll not cross paths again. I just wanted to reassure you that your story and our business remain confidential, as I assured you at the start.”

  “I’ll hold you to that, Mr. Casey,” said Inez, recovering her voice.

  “Your trust is well placed. Now, I’d better return to the office and prepare the paperwork I spoke of. Good day, Mrs. Stannert.”

  Chapter Nine

  “So, Mrs. Stannert, let’s drink to our partnership.” Frisco Flo held up a glass that, Inez approvingly noted, did not contain an anemic, watered-down version of whiskey, but, judging from its clarity and dark amber color, appeared to be a bourbon of the first class.

  Ignoring the shot glass on her side of the table, Inez pushed the two sets of legal papers toward Flo, along with a pen. “Not until we have your signature next to mine on these papers. A signature with your legal name, I should add. No ‘Madam Frisco Flo,’ if you please. I’m not about to celebrate handing over hard-earned cash on this deal before all the i’s are dotted and the t’s crossed. Miss Florence Sweet, isn’t it? Or is that an alias as well?”

  The silver bracelets on Flo’s arm tinkled as she lowered the glass and smiled sweetly. “Why, Mrs. Stannert. Do you really think so little of me that you suspect me of trying to pull the wool over your eyes? Here we are, two of the most successful businesswomen in town. Wealthy by our own efforts, at that. I’d no sooner cheat you than my own sister.”

  Her smile stayed intact as she picked up the pen and drew the ink bottle to her, dipping the nib. “And actually, Mrs. Stannert, it’s Mrs. Florence Sweet. Mr. Sweet being departed a long time now.”

  Inez watched, trying to quell a niggle of misgiving, as Flo dipped the pen and signed twice. Inez was still uncertain what force had propelled her to this particular circumstance. Only a few days earlier, Flo had flounced into the Silver Queen’s kitchen, proposing that Inez join her in a “business deal” to move the high-class brothel to a better part of town. “Closer to the mines, the business district, and all that money,” was how flo had phrased it. Inez had put the offer aside.

  Or so she’d thought.

  But in some faraway corner of her mind, a little voice had begun whispering, so faintly Inez had barely noticed it in the wide sweep of events before Grant’s arrival. The voice said, You think you own a portion of the Silver Queen. That was a handshake deal between yourself, your missing husband, and his business partner. So, you want a divorce? What happens when you open this particular Pandora’s box? Will anyone believe that you, or Abe, own any part of the business? Suppose the law decides the business belongs to your husband’s heir, your son, now living with your sister? Or suppose Mark reappears? You could end up with nothing. You need something of your own. Something “just in case.” And what better business in Leadville than one that caters to men’s desires and impulses?

  On and on the voice whispered, seductive as a forbidden lover. And then, with her visit to Casey, all those little misgivings flashed over into doubt.

  When Flo’s doorman had appeared at the Silver Queen shortly after Inez arrived from her meeting with the lawyer, the whispers rose to a crescendo. So, she went. Splashing along in her galoshes, she ignored the chores awaiting her inside the saloon, wondering what deal Flo might offer. Her impulsive decision to accede to Flo’s request for a visit paid off. Flo was ready to move out of the State Street building, but she needed cash. Inez wanted the State Street building, but Flo was reluctant to part with it entirely. They haggled. Inez had, in short order, driven what she thought was a very good deal indeed. Their signatures, drying on the duplicate contracts, made her a silent partner, owning a third of Flo’s business, in exchange for a stake in the building on State and eventually sole ownership.

  “I’d only sell the building to someone I can consider a partner. A person I can trust,” she’d explained.

  Inez pondered this. “You trust me?”

  “Thanks to you, I was able to take over the boarding house and business last winter,” Flo pointed out. “You essentially
ran the previous madam out of town. I’m grateful for that, even though I know your actions had nothing to do with me. Still, I always thought that we had the same goal—to become independent businesswomen. Am I wrong?”

  She was not.

  As for the moral implications of being part-owner of a brothel, Inez pushed them aside to ponder at a more convenient time.

  “One for you and one for me.” Flo slid a copy of the agreement toward Inez. Inez noted that Flo had a hand that would do a schoolmarm proud: the ink showed a careful, controlled pressure on the pen, all the letters even and well-shaped. Even the flourishes looked as if they’d been practiced until perfect.

  Flo took her copy and vanished into the back room. When she reappeared, she sat across the table from Inez, brushing her hands together as if to say, “And that is that.”

  “Are you ready for that drink now?” Flo asked.

  Inez picked up the tumbler. Flo raised hers. The glasses clinked sweetly in crystal harmony. A single sip, blooming in sweetness and vanilla, assured Inez that Flo had chosen to honor their partnership with a good bourbon.

  “Thank you for coming here,” Flo added. “I don’t usually conduct business in my own home, but last night’s circumstances made it necessary.”

  With the bourbon’s aftertaste lingering in her mouth and the alcohol spreading its heat down her throat, Inez glanced around the small parlor, absentmindedly smoothing her glove in her lap. A glance was all that was needed to take in the sparse furnishings. The ubiquitous warming stove, the table, two straight-backed chairs, a rocking chair by the window. No pictures, no extra furniture, no rugs, only the most basic of curtains to block out light and a lamp to increase it. The room was bare of anything that might make a house a home. Flo’s home—little more than a two-room cottage, a block away from her bordello—put Inez in the mind of a hotel room. Easily vacated, with no hint of personality left behind, once the occupant had left.

  Flo, wearing a simple maroon gown, fanned herself with a loose sheet of paper. The air stirred her slightly frizzy hair, damp from a recent rinsing and still streaked from the soot of the fire.