by Jo Goodman
Ramsey turned the ledger 180 degrees so that it faced Quill. “Look at it for yourself.”
Quill pulled his chair closer to the desk. “Will I know what I’m seeing? I am not an accountant.”
“This is not a balance sheet. These are production figures.”
“All right.” He examined the columns carefully, one for each mine. On the facing page there was also a month-to-month comparison of the previous year’s production to the current mine yield. He could see the steady decrease in the Number 1 mine’s production, a spike, and then a return to the earlier production numbers. There were fluctuations in the yields of the other mines, but Quill recognized that if he graphed the results over a year, even two, he would be able to draw a straight line between the points. The average yield remained the same.
“There is an upturn here in May when the new vein was found at Number 1, a slight increase the following month as expected, but then . . .” He looked over the figures again.
“But then?” Ramsey prompted.
“Production drops steadily. Slowly, to be sure, but steadily. It never reaches the previous lows, but it also does not reach the levels I would anticipate from a new vein.”
“Look at that. You do know what you’re seeing.”
“What accounts for it?”
“You know what accounts for it. The men. They are not digging at the expected rate, not so slow that it would be noticed right way, but over time, and with Frank’s attention to detail and how he set this up, the deceit of it all practically shouts out from the page.”
Quill expected that explanation and was glad to get it out of the way so he could examine other possibilities. It was unlikely that Ramsey would entertain them for long, but Quill believed it was a necessary function of his own job.
“What else accounts for it?” he asked.
“Not a damn thing.” Ramsey snatched the book back and twisted it around again. “This is the miners doing this. My company. My men. It is an act of betrayal. They have no loyalty.”
Quill waited for Ramsey to calm before he asked, “Can one man slow production on his own?”
“One? No. But one man can encourage others. That makes them all responsible.”
“What if the vein is not as wide or as deep as you were led to believe?”
“It is.” Ramsey closed the ledger and turned his head away as if he could no longer tolerate the sight of it. He closed his eyes briefly while he rubbed the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. “I saw the vein myself. I commissioned the survey. I know how to read a map, and before that I learned how to read a mountain. That’s how Stonechurch Mining came to be.”
Quill nodded. He knew the story of how Ramsey and Leonard Stonechurch came to make their first strike on Silver Knob following survey maps their grandfather made when he came through with Zebulon Pike in ’06. They were young men when they came across silver, later gold, and still later, silver again. Mines played out because in the early days there was no machinery to uncover the ore or bring it up, and when the machines were invented that could do the job, there were few men with the resources to purchase and operate them. Eastern consortiums owned many of the mines, but Ramsey and his brother poured their profits into their holdings and stayed in Colorado. Ramsey thought people should appreciate that, but as time passed, and he became more distant from the daily operations while living like the lord of the manor at one end of the town, there were grumblings. There were resentments.
From what Quill could tell, the antipathies were isolated, not widespread. In spite of being known as a coldhearted bastard by some, there were plenty of people in Stonechurch who thought the sun rose and set according to their town’s remaining founder. The help that Ramsey employed to run his house as efficiently as he ran his company were chief among them. It was Quill’s opinion that Mrs. Pratt, the housekeeper, and Mrs. Friend, the cook, were more likely to surrender their firstborn than say a bad word about Ramsey Stonechurch.
“The machinery?” asked Quill. “Is it in working order? Have there been breakdowns?”
“Something is always breaking down,” Ramsey replied. “I have no reports to indicate that there has been more maintenance at Number 1.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. He thrust his chin forward. “Go on. Try another one.”
Quill thought if Ramsey had been wearing gloves, he would have thrown one down. “All right. What about a recording error?” He raised both hands before Ramsey could speak. “I am not talking about Frank. You say he is meticulous, and I believe you, but he does not count the cars as they come up or weigh the ore or oversee the processing.”
“Do you think an error like that would be isolated to one mine?”
Quill admitted it did not seem likely, but it did make him wonder about another possibility. “What if something is being deliberately recorded incorrectly? What if the production is exactly what it should be, but it is being recorded as less?”
“Embezzlement, you mean? Of the ore?”
Quill shrugged. “Is it possible?”
“That would be quite an operation, and it doesn’t really matter to me whether the men are not bringing it up or whether they are bringing it up and hauling it off in secret. Either way, they are stealing from me. I want you to find out who is behind it and how it is being done.”
“That means I would be away from the house, away from you. You can’t decide to go off on your own if I am at the mines. We know what happened the last time.”
“You were gone for weeks then, not hours, and it doesn’t matter. This is important, and I want you to take care of it. Besides, I have Calico Nash here. I am in hands every bit as capable as yours.” He gave Quill a crooked smile. “And prettier ones, too.”
“Hmm.”
“Talk to her,” said Ramsey. “Tell her what I want, and tell her not to ask for more money.”
“I will tell her, but I am not responsible if she brings a bigger weapon to the table.”
* * *
“Come in,” called Calico, responding to the knock at her bedroom door. She was fairly certain that it was not Ann because she had left that young woman in the front parlor with a book. “You will have to decide if anything in all of literature has been as influential as this,” she had explained, opening it to the first chapter and setting it in Ann’s lap. “‘In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.’ I would be hard pressed to think of a better opening than that, although ‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,’ is very good, too.”
Calico paused unpacking her trunk to see who opened the door and was careful not to let her dismay show when she saw it was Beatrice Stonechurch. The woman stepped inside the room and then hovered there as if uncertain of her welcome. Calico decided to put that to rest.
“Please, won’t you come in?” She pointed to the trunk and the clothes laid out neatly on the bed. “I am only unpacking. What can I do for you, Mrs. Stonechurch?”
Calico observed that upon taking another step forward, Beatrice clasped her hands together. The gesture made her small stature seem somehow even smaller. Her narrow shoulders appeared to collapse as she squeezed herself into a tinier space than she was meant to occupy. It was difficult to judge the woman’s age, but Calico suspected she was younger than one might think at first blush, perhaps as much as a decade younger than her brother-in-law. The fine lines at her eyes and mouth were likely prematurely carved by her constant state of worry. It was the same with the creases in her forehead. They were always present but deepened when she raised her eyebrows. Her brown hair was thick and might have been called lustrous if it had been allowed to breathe, but Beatrice maintained it in tight topknot that contributed to her perpetually pinched expression. Calico would not have been surprised to learn that the ivory combs securing that knot were anchored just beneath her scalp instead of against it.
Beatrice h
ad a trim, doll-like figure, curved precisely in the manner society—and Calico—admired, and in spite of her state of perpetual anxiety, or perhaps because of it, Beatrice Stonechurch looked out at the world through blue eyes that were unusually bright and attentive. Her smile, though genuine, was also tentative and faltered easily, but when it showed itself, it had the capacity to transform her features and leave the impression of a handsome, even lovely, woman in its wake.
Calico waited expectantly for Beatrice to speak. When the silence stretched for what seemed an inordinately long time, Calico prompted her with, “There was something you wanted to tell me, Mrs. Stonechurch?”
“Yes. Yes. You must call me Beatrice. Did I not say that when I came to take you to Ramsey’s study earlier? I should have. I meant to. Leonard called me Bea. That is B-E-A, not B-E-E like the insect, although sometimes he would say it should be B-E-E because I moved so quickly from one thing to the next that he was sure he heard me buzzing.” She stopped abruptly to take a breath and then continued. “Please call me Beatrice.”
Expecting there would be more after that pause for breath, Calico waited two full beats before she spoke. “Thank you, Beatrice. And I hope you will call me Katherine.” It was less difficult to say than usual. Calico supposed it had something to do with the dress. Her experience had taught her that in some small way you became the person you were pretending to be.
“Yes. Yes, I will. That will be splendid.” Another fine line appeared between her eyebrows as she pulled a frown. “You will not allow Ann to adopt that informality, will you? You are her teacher, not her friend. I helped my niece with her studies for many years, and while I love her as I would my own child, in the classroom our relationship was different, not that she did not always call me Aunt Beatrice—it would have been absurd to do otherwise—but she knew I was there for the specific purpose of instruction.” A deep breath, and then, “I hope I have not offended.”
“No,” said Calico. “Not at all. I would be foolish not to value your opinion. I have been wondering if perhaps you see me as an interloper. My presence here cannot help but change your role in Ann’s education. It would be natural if you felt some resentment.”
Beatrice unclasped her hands and clasped them again. “No. No resentment. Perhaps someone without Ann’s best interests at heart, someone who did not want her to be happy, might feel that way, but I am not that person. She reviewed her curriculum with me before she showed it to her father, and I approved it, knowing all the while that I could not be the teacher to help her move on. I encouraged my niece to pursue her plan. Encouraging Ann in any endeavor has always been my role. I do not see that changing.” She took a quick breath, uncertain again. “Do you?”
“No. I certainly do not.”
Beatrice exhaled softly, and her hands fell to her sides. “Good. That is very good. Excellent.”
Calico waited a respectful beat, and when Beatrice merely continued to hover, she pointed to the clothing lying on the bed. “I wonder if you would recommend a dressmaker. I was not certain what I could expect when I left Falls Hollow.”
“Oh, yes. Yes, I am happy to tell you that Stonechurch has two fine dressmakers: Mrs. Birden and Mrs. Neeley-Brown. I engage them alternately because their feelings are so easily hurt, and I do not want either one to think I have snubbed her. You might consider the same as it will go a long way to tempering tensions, and they will compete to offer you the best garment possible.” Her smile appeared, and this time it was wily. “At least I have always found it to be so.”
Appreciating Beatrice’s craftiness in getting the better of the dressmakers, Calico chuckled. “I will certainly seek them out. Ann has offered to show me the town, or show me off to the town. I am not sure which it is.”
“A little of both, I should think, although you must not imagine that my niece presents herself in a superior fashion about town because she is the daughter of Ramsey Stonechurch. Ann is modest and retiring in public. I do not know if she would engage in more activities in the community even if her father would permit it.”
Calico intended to inquire about Beatrice’s own activities in town, but there was no pause for breath this time, and Beatrice went on, returning to the subject of Calico’s clothes.
“If you would rather,” said Beatrice, “I could arrange for what remains of your wardrobe to be sent here. I would be happy to do it. Falls Hallow, did you say?”
“Hollow. Falls Hollow.”
“And you were previously engaged there?”
“Yes.” She did not elaborate. “As much as I appreciate your offer, I am set on having some new dresses. I do not think I will miss what I left behind.” Which, in fact, was nothing.
Beatrice looked uncertain. “Very well, if you think that best.” She brightened a bit. “I could accompany you and Ann tomorrow. I should like to visit Mrs. Birden myself about a new shirtwaist blouse. It is her turn to be engaged, you understand.”
“I do. It will be a pleasure to have you come with us.” Calico thought it was a wonder the lie did not stick in her throat. She was warming to Beatrice Stonechurch, but not to the idea of sharing Ann with her on the walk around town. Beatrice’s presence would interfere with everything from conversation to introductions. Still, there was no polite way to refuse her. Calico heard herself say, “I would be grateful for any advice you could offer me.”
When she witnessed Beatrice’s sincere, uncomplicated smile, she was glad she had said it. It was only after Beatrice had departed that Calico wondered who she was becoming.
* * *
Feeling put off her stride in the aftermath of Beatrice’s visit, Calico struggled to find a polite tone when someone knocked at her door not more than thirty minutes later. Polite, she realized when she heard herself, did not equate to welcoming.
Quill stepped in the room.
“Oh, it’s you.” Calico turned back to the dresser and placed a pair of rolled stockings in the uppermost drawer. She removed another pair from on top of the dresser, gently rolled them around one hand, and placed them in the drawer as well.
“Settling in?” asked Quill.
“Trying to. I am besieged by interruptions.”
“Really? I saw Ann in the parlor, and I know Ramsey is in his study because I came from there.”
Calico chose another pair of stockings, but she did give him an over-the-shoulder glance while she wound them. “Beatrice . . . and now you.”
Quill’s approach was quiet, but not so quiet that Calico did not hear him coming. She spun around and threw the ball of stockings at him. He ducked and managed to catch them anyway. “Do not try to sneak up on me. I don’t appreciate it.”
“What’s wrong?”
She blinked. “I told you. I don’t like people sneak—”
Quill shook his head, stopping her. “You snapped at me before that.” He handed back her stockings. She squeezed them in a fist. “Was it Beatrice?”
Calico sighed. She relaxed her fingers and began to roll the stockings, smoothing them as she wound. “Since it seems it cannot possibly be you, then yes, it was Beatrice. But not precisely Beatrice. Her visit made me question what I am doing here.”
“I thought that after speaking to Ramsey, that would be clear.”
“The job is clear, but I’m not talking about that.” Her eyes slipped away from his and she looked around the room. “I suppose I am saying I was more comfortable in Mrs. Fry’s cathouse than I am here, and it was a burr under my saddle when I was only thinking it. Hearing it aloud, saying it to you, makes that burr a goddamn briar patch, and I am not thanking you for it.”
“Do you want to back out?”
Insulted, her head snapped up. Her answer was swift. “No. I don’t do that. I gave my word.”
“All right.”
“You should not have asked. If you knew me better, hell, if you knew me at all, you would not have asked
.”
“I apologize.”
She shrugged, put the stockings away, and shut the drawer. Feeling cornered against the dresser, she slipped out sideways and moved to the bed. Quill did not follow. “Why are you here? Won’t it raise someone’s eyebrows if you are found in my room? I am painfully aware this is not Mrs. Fry’s establishment, but are you?”
“‘Painfully aware’ describes it pretty well.”
“Then?”
“Mind if I sit?”
She gestured toward the window bench. “Suit yourself.” She waited until he was seated before she perched on the edge of the bed and turned slightly in his direction.
“There has been some concern about the operation of one of the mines for a while.”
“The Number 1. Ann told me that there is trouble there, something to do with sharing in the profits, she thinks. She pays attention, you know. It makes me wonder what she else she has heard.”
“The threats, you mean.”
“Yes, and how you and I figure into them. She has one ear to the ground.”
Quill leaned back against the window, stretched his legs, and crossed them at the ankles. He folded his arms against his chest and regarded Calico thoughtfully. “Ramsey wants to get to the bottom of why Number 1 is not producing ore at the level he expects. He will not listen for long to any explanation that is contrary to the one he believes is correct. He thinks there is one man who is rallying the others to slow their work, and if I can identify this man and move him out of the way, the mine will begin producing again.”
“Move him out of the way? How will you do that?”
“I haven’t gotten that far. I want to see if he exists first. There might be no single man leading the way. Ramsey never said the word ‘union’ in regard to this, but I have to believe it is at the back of his mind. He has educated himself about the growth of the organizations and the steps being taken to stop the formation of unions. He knows it’s happening in other parts of the country. I have seen him pore over stories from Eastern newspapers, and he has strong opinions about it.”