Silver Lies Read online

  "I’m sure you did everything you could."

  He rested his huge hands around the bulbous glass. "Thank you, my dear."

  Inez watched sympathetically as he drained the drink with hardly a pause. He sighed and wiped his mouth with a damp pocket handkerchief.

  "Ah, the medicinal properties of alcohol. Some call it the devil’s drink. Yet, I maintain it brings solace and strength to thousands." Doc moved to take up his hat. Inez held it to the counter.

  "Speaking of tragedy," she leaned forward, "you heard about Joe Rose?"

  "Ah yes. Yet another casualty of the violence that periodically boils out of this city. The coroner called me in for my opinion."

  Inez hesitated, then pushed on. "What happened to Joe? I was asked to identify him when they found the body."

  Doc eased his hat from her grip. "Not a pretty sight. But the trauma from a trampling never is. I saw it often in the War."

  "So he was run over by a cart? A sleigh?"

  "No evidence of that." Doc patted his chapped nose with the crumpled handkerchief. "Most likely a horse. Certainly equine. Straight and simple."

  She drummed her fingers on the wood, frowning. "Most horses would throw a rider before stepping on someone."

  Doc nodded and carefully refolded the limp white square of linen. "Yet, Mr. Rose did not suffer from an isolated misstep. He was thoroughly trampled and probably dragged as well."

  Inez clutched the collar of her faded flannel shirt. Behind her, she heard the musical tinkle of glass against glass as Useless lined up the bottles.

  "My God," she said softly. "Someone murdered Joe, dragged him behind our saloon, and left him there."

  Chapter Nine

  Her gaze switched to Doc. "I’d swear that Marshal Hollis thought we had something to do with Joe’s death. What you’re saying proves otherwise. Did you tell this to Hollis?"

  Doc settled his hat on his head. "I voiced my opinions to the coroner and the marshal, of course. The law will follow whatever course it deems appropriate. I suspect, in the end, Rose’s luckless demise in Tiger Alley will be just one more item in the ‘Breakfast Bullets’ column of the Chronicle." Doc patted her hand. "There, there. We’ll all do what we can to help Mrs. Rose. Take a care to the living, and so on. Will you be back in business by Saturday night? The evening’s the high point of my week, you know."

  Inez, focused on his previous words, flashed him an absent smile as she withdrew her hand to pick up his glass. "On the house, Doc. Of course we’ll be open Saturday. In fact, we’re hoping tomorrow, right Abe?"

  "Just need a handful of chairs and a couple more tables." Abe walked the limping physician to the kitchen door. "See you Saturday, Doc. Sooner, if you get thirsty."

  "Thank you, Mr. Jackson. Thank you." The doctor scrunched his shoulders at the doorframe, his hat nearly brushing the lintel.

  Abe walked back, looking grim. "I sure hope you’re not thinkin’ what I think you’re thinkin’."

  Inez said to Useless, "Go get the forty-rod that was delivered last week."

  Useless glanced from Inez to Abe, then headed toward the kitchen.

  Inez waited until he was out of earshot, then faced Abe. "You and Doc are always saying, ‘Take a care to the living, the dead take care of themselves.’ Well, I’m taking care of Emma and Joey by tidying up Joe’s business affairs."

  Abe crossed his arms. "I heard what you said to Doc. That Joe was murdered. Maybe so, maybe no. As long as the marshal leaves us alone, I say let sleepin’ dogs lie."

  "But what was Joe doing in Tiger Alley in the dead of night? Look down the block. There’s our place, a restaurant, a hotel, a dancehall, five saloons with the requisite gamblers and girls, and Cat’s place. The next block, the cribs get smaller and the drinks get weaker." The brass check flashed through her mind. "Abe, did Joe ever frequent the brothels on State?"

  "What in blazes makes you ask that? Think I’d know the man’s private business? Joe was a family man, plain and simple."

  She gripped the rounded edge of the bar. "Family men stray. It happens all the time. As you and I know well."

  The clanking of bottles heralded Useless’ approach. He bent, knee joints popping, and set the crate of whiskey on the floor. "Here y’are. Want me to put ’em on the shelves?"

  She turned a furious eye on him. "Go search out a hammer and nails. You can help Abe salvage some of the furniture."

  Useless disappeared to the back again.

  "Inez." Abe gripped the broom handle so tight the knuckles of his dark skin paled. "I know you don’t cotton to advice. But I’m serious here. I don’t see any advantage in pursuin’ this accident."

  "Trampling, dragging, hardly seems like an accident. And it’s very peculiar that he argued with Harry Gallagher just before he died."

  "Now why don’t you let that man be?" Abe sounded impatient. "Harry’s a payin’ customer, a regular on Saturday nights. Been a model of courtesy since that business last fall. Let bygones be bygones, Inez."

  That business. The unspoken veered into the open. Inez abandoned cleaning the bar and glared at Abe. "How can you say that. Harry nearly swindled us out of the Silver Queen. I admit I was stupid, blind, to fall for him like I did. I let my guard down, what with Mark gone and sending William east. When he started coming around I thought… well, you know what I thought. But how could that even begin to explain his behavior?"

  Abe’s face closed as if somewhere inside a door had slammed shut. "That ain’t the way it happened, Inez, and you know it. All I’m sayin’ is, you’re followin’ a road best left untraveled."

  A metallic symphony drew their attention. "Oh jeez." Useless knelt to gather the nails that had rained from the box when he’d tripped.

  Abe hunkered down to help Useless. Inez, fuming, turned her back. In the past, flare-ups between herself and Abe had always been mediated by Mark, who knew how to smooth the ruffled feathers and lead them to middle ground. Since Mark’s disappearance, it often seemed that she and Abe were tiptoeing around each other, careful not to start something that neither would know quite how to stop.

  Until now, they’d scrupulously avoided any mention of "the business" with Harry since its denouement. Their first and last discussion on the topic had occurred on an Indian-summer morning in September, the day after Harry had left on a month-long business trip. She’d been working on the books on the second floor, the air sweltering, even with the window open. Abe had folded his long frame down onto the horsehair couch before delivering a short, gruff speech: "Harry Gallagher stopped by on his way out of town. He wants to buy my share of the Queen. Said you and he had an arrangement. Now, he didn’t say what kind of arrangement, but I’ve got eyes. He offered a price more’n fair, wanted me to sign right then." Abe had shifted on the couch, uncomfortable. "Wish you’d talked to me about this, Inez. It put me in a real awkward position with a man who doesn’t like ‘no’ or ‘maybe later’ for an answer. I’m willin’ to sell and move on, if that’s what you want. But I gotta hear it from you. Not Gallagher."

  Inez’s cheeks stung at the memory. What a fool she’d been. And it had taken Abe to rip open her eyes so she could see.

  The flowers. The gifts. The words. All lies. That day at Twin Lakes most of all. It still hurt, how she’d opened her heart to him. Her heart and more.

  All he wanted was the property. And if that meant taking me in the bargain….

  "Useless." Abe picked up a chair leg that Useless had split while attempting a repair. "Why don’t you help Mrs. Stannert with that crate."

  "Sorry." Useless looked miserable. "I never was much of a carpenter."

  "Well, it just ain’t your talent, son, that’s all." Abe picked over the sticks of furniture, found another leg, and pounded it into the chair seat as if he could hammer down the silent walls that lurked in the room.

  999

  The day’s work done, Inez trudged down State Street, ignoring the jostling throngs of humanity. Miners coming off shifts on Fryer Hill and Str
ay Horse Gulch mingled with workers from the smelters. A few women moved through the crowds, lugging parcels home from bakeries and butcher shops, small children clinging to their coats. Occasionally the sea of bodies would part, allowing a brightly dressed denizen of the street to glide past. The men admired. The women averted faces. The children stared.

  Inez glanced up as she turned onto the alley that ran behind her home. The afternoon sky shaded from pearl gray overhead to beige at the horizon. Doc’s right: More snow’s coming.

  Nearing the Roses’ property, she heard the whack of wood on wood. Joey stood behind an outbuilding, whipping at a spindly fir with a stick and a vengeance.

  Inez called, "Joey." He looked up warily. "It’s Auntie Inez. Want to visit the livery?" He nodded. "Go ask your mother." A few minutes later, he joined her, slipping his mittened

  hand into her gloved one. "Mama says I have to be home in half an hour."

  Inez loved the smell of the livery, the dusty smell of hay mixed with the sweet scent of horses. They entered the cavernous barn, moving slowly toward the back stalls.

  A small, dark shape darted in front of them. "Ugh!" She jumped backward. "A rat!" Joey clutched her hand tighter. The rat zigzagged across the hardpacked dirt before scoot-

  ing between nearby hay bales. "It’s all right, Joey. It’s gone now." Joey peered up through the gloom. "Are you scared of

  rats, Auntie?"

  "Scared?" She stamped her feet, trying to rid herself of the feeling that traveled up her spine. Almost as if little rodent feet were skittering up her back. "No. I just don’t like them. I suppose I’ve spent too many nights lying awake, listening to them scratch around."

  They went deeper into the livery, Inez aware of the whisper of horses: a snort here, a swish of tail there. She finally stopped, whistled softly. A black horse, ears pricked, approached from the back of a stall. Joey retreated. Inez noted the wariness on his face. I wonder if he knows how his father died.

  She lit an oil lamp hanging from an iron hook on the wall and retrieved a curry brush from a peg. "Why don’t you stay by the gate while I brush her, Joey."

  He climbed the gate’s wooden slats and hung his arms over the top. Inez advanced with the curry brush. Lucy whickered.

  "Uncle Mark…" Joey stopped, then forged on. "Uncle Mark told me Lucy’s the very devil. She’s not. Is she?"

  Inez chuckled, then frowned. "Oh, Joey. It’s a joke. Her real name is Lucifer."

  "Why’d you call her that?"

  "I didn’t. Her previous owners did. They didn’t treat her right, and she, well, she gave them the devil for it. Lucy’s one of God’s creatures. Handle her with respect, she responds in kind."

  Joey swung on the gate, mind obviously elsewhere. "Auntie?"

  "Yes?"

  "Papa’s not dead." His face in the half-light was serious.

  Inez paused, the brush on Lucy’s neck. "Whatever do you mean?"

  "Mama said," he hesitated. "She said Papa and Uncle Mark are in Heaven. But they’re not. They’re gonna be here for Christmas."

  Inez was at loss for words.

  Joey crossed his arms on top of the railing, looking so much like his father that Inez felt she’d entered some strange twilight world. He continued, "Uncle Mark and Papa promised me a pony for Christmas. A real one." His eyebrows drew together. "But then, Papa brought me that rocking horse and said it was my pony. He said it would bring us luck, and we’d ride it to a new home."

  He looked up, pleading for understanding. "Uncle Mark and Papa are coming back, Auntie. And they’re gonna bring a real pony. They promised."

  Inez came over and hugged Joey, staring over his head at the dancing oil flame.

  His voice was muffled against her jacket. "Papa said not to tell Mama. But he didn’t say I couldn’t tell you."

  "I’m glad you told me." Inez untangled herself from his small arms and hung the brush back on its peg. "We should go. Your mama needs you." Subdued, she gave Lucy one last pat before leading Joey toward the waning light outside the livery. I should tell him the truth. That his father is gone forever. That there will be no horse at Christmas. But who am I to say this, when I myself listen night after night for Mark’s footsteps at the door.

  Chaper Ten

  Inez stood outside the door, jangling the ring of keys Emma had given her. JOSEPH ROSE, ASSAYING OFFICE was inscribed in gilt-edged black letters on the narrow-paned window.

  Susan Carothers nudged her. "Inez, open the door."

  Inez lingered, taking in the mid-morning aspect of upper Chestnut Avenue. Prime real estate. The sale of this building should provide well for Emma and Joey.

  Susan jiggled Inez’s elbow. "I need to be back at my studio in an hour."

  Inez inserted a key. There was a click, and the door swung inward. The two women entered, long skirts swishing. Subdued light filtered into a small reception area. Down the passageway, a dimmer light glimmered from the rear of the building.

  Susan breezed past Inez, making a beeline for an unlit kerosene lamp. "Now what are we looking for again?"

  Inez peered about, struggling against her unease. "Joe’s books, his ledgers, accounts receivables, client lists, assay notes, whatever sheds light on the condition of his business. If he’s got assaying half done in the laboratory, maybe you can determine what he was up to."

  "I’m not sure how much help I’ll be. The chemistry for assaying is not at all like that for photography. What about his assistant? The Swede? He would know."

  "Nils Hansen. Useless tried to track him down. Turns out, no one’s seen him for days."

  Feeling like an intruder, Inez walked around the counter and approached Joe’s desk. It seemed a likely place to start. A dozen pigeon holes gaped on either side of a writing surface. A bottle of ink stood in the inkwell, capped. An unmarked blotter, empty. No papers, no clutter.

  Inez remembered how particular Joe was about keeping everything in its place. By closing time, he’d have surfaces cleared, glassware washed and arranged on the laboratory’s shelves, the delicate scales used to weigh the final precious metal extracts pristine in their glass cases, and chemicals locked away inside tall glass-doored cabinets.

  While Susan lit the lamp and adjusted the wick, Inez sat at the desk. The swivel chair squeaked as she explored the pigeon holes and drawers. Extra bottles of ink. Pens. Pencils, sharpened and ready. A stack of printed assay certificates. She examined one, its empty lines waiting for the number of ounces of gold and silver per ton to be filled in, and wondered how many inquiries she’d have to make in a town where fortunes rose and fell depending on those numbers. She folded it and slid it into her pocket.

  "He must have had a ledger," Inez muttered. The bottom drawer appeared empty as well. Exhaling in frustration, she slammed it shut only to hear a muffled thump. Opening the drawer again she saw, leaning at an angle, the familiar rectangle of a bookkeeping ledger.

  It must have been pushed up against the back wall of the drawer. Inez opened it on the blotter. Pressed between the cover and the first page was a bill of lading from the Denver Mine and Smelter Supply Company. She squinted at the date and winced. Joe’s last trip to Denver. Inez turned her attention to the first page: columns of dates, names, initials, and numbers, inked in Joe’s small, controlled handwriting.

  Her reading light faded as Susan carried the lamp toward the laboratory. "Susan, I found his ledger. Could you bring the lamp over?"

  Susan’s footsteps halted. "Inez! Come quick!"

  Holding the large record-keeping book, Inez moved as swiftly as her skirts would allow through the narrow passageway to the rear of the building.

  The alternate source of illumination became obvious as she stepped into the assaying laboratory. The rear door hung ajar, held half open by a drift of snow on the plank floor. Wavering lamplight sparkled off the windblown snow and smashed glass. The scales were a tangled mess of metal, their casings broken. The air smelled acidic, and the tall cabinets gaped open, glass doors destroye
d. Notes and paper littered the floor. Drawers yanked from under countertops and emptied lay every which way. Only a medium-sized black safe, tucked in one corner, appeared undisturbed.

  Inez closed her eyes, unable to keep the Silver Queen’s recent disarray from crossing her mind. "Oh no!"

  Susan grabbed her arm. "Who would have done this? We’d better get the marshal."

  "And what do you think he will do?" Inez retorted. "Nothing! We’d better look around now, while we have a chance."

  The lamplight danced over the walls. "What do you think happened?"

  "My guess is someone was looking for something. Whether they found it is hard to say. The office is untouched, and the safe looks secure."

  Inez spied a trash barrel under the sink, still half full. She pulled it out and tipped it over, spilling debris and adding to the chaos underfoot. Digging through bits of rubbish— rubber tubing, paper, rags—she touched something more solid than the rest. Inez pulled out a loosely wrapped bundle. The paper gave way and a stiff black form thudded at her feet.

  Susan’s shriek was loud enough to break any remaining glassware.

  "What is that?"

  Inez clutched reflexively at the revolver in her pocket, her palm damp in the leather glove. She forced calm she didn’t feel into her tone, as if she were trying to soothe a panicked

  horse. "A rat. A dead rat."

  "Ugh!"

  Inez gingerly nudged the rat with the toe of her shoe.

  "Inez, what are you doing?"

  This rat hadn’t keeled over from cold or starvation. A gash pierced its plump body, stomach to back. The brown fur was stiff with dried gore. The eyes were sunken, nearly gone. Small yellow teeth shone dully.

  Far behind them, the front door banged shut. Both women jumped.

  "Who’s there?" a gruff voice demanded.

  Inez slid into the shadow of the rear door, revolver trained on the hall. Susan gripped the lamp tighter as a shape materialized from the corridor.