Leaden Skies

by Ann Parker

  The Hatchet, untouched, yanked the gun from her before the echoes had died. He gestured Kelly over, who grabbed Flo by the waist and hauled her to her feet, even as she swore and kicked.

  The tiny gun disappeared into The Hatchet’s pocket as he addressed his partner in a voice loud enough to be heard by the avid crowd. “Add assault on an officer to the list, Officer Kelly.” He turned to Danny. It wasn’t necessary to say anything to Flo’s doorman. He let go of his victim, after first mashing the hapless fellow’s face into the mud for good measure, and stepped back.

  Hatchet looked at the injured man and said, “Get up.”

  He got to his knees, coughing, hand covering his nose. Blood dripped between his fingers. Inez got a good view of the top of his head, the thinning brown hair streaked with gray.

  “On your feet.” The Hatchet hooked an armpit and hauled the battered man upright.

  Recognition dawned for Inez as she registered the face beneath the mud and blood.

  The man that almost got his head kicked in by Lucy last night. The man I saw behind Lynch’s during the fire.

  The Hatchet recognized him as well. “Cecil Farnesworth. That’s your moniker, right? You’re making maps for that fire insurance company back East.”

  “How, how do you know me?” His voice was faint with pain.

  “I know everything that goes on in this part of town and the folks that’re doing it. That’s my job. And if something’s going on that I don’t know about, I get real testy. I don’t like mysteries, like finding you here. So talk quick and don’t leave out anything. What’re you doin’ behind Flo’s burnt-up building with your hands all over a dead whore?”

  “The damage. To the structure. From last night’s fire. I came to see. Also, I need to finish my maps of the building.” Cecil dabbed his nose with his sleeve, attempted to straighten his muddy celluloid collar, half torn and hanging from its collar studs. “I’ve nothing to do with any of this.”

  His eyes darted toward Lizzie’s body, then over the crowd, pausing on Inez. He frowned, as if trying to place her. She thought recognition flitted across his face before he looked away, at the fire-scarred parlor house.

  “I was examining the building, then I saw the body. At first, I thought she was unconscious. I was searching for a pulse. That’s why my hands were—” He stopped and colored.

  Some in the crowd snickered. But most were silent, as rapt as in the presence of a circus performer swallowing a fiery sword or walking a high-wire. Inez found herself mesmerized with the rest. Is he telling the truth? Will Hatchet believe him? Or is he going to go down in blazes, right here, with us watching?

  Cecil looked at the papers scattered about the alley. “My maps. My notes.”

  Inez registered a board strapped with loose papers and a broken pencil by the coalscuttle. A page, one end trampled in mud, flapped against the toe of one of her galoshes. She extracted it gingerly with two gloved fingers. A neatly penciled sketch showed boxy shapes and lines, cryptic notations, and odd little symbols.

  Flo, still struggling in Officer Kelly’s grasp, cried, “You’re lying! I heard what happened last night when you came sniffing around. She humiliated you. You hated her!”

  Inez could have sworn that the mapmaker blushed, but it was difficult to tell for certain, what with all the filth on his face. He didn’t look at the ranting madam, focusing instead on The Hatchet. “I didn’t move her or touch her, except to check for a pulse.”

  The Hatchet nodded once. Noncommittal. “Still bunkin’ at the Clairmont?”

  “For a few more days.”

  The Hatchet shook his head. “You stay put ’til we get a handle on this.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. Here in Leadville, we lock up witnesses just to keep ’em around so’s they’ll be available to testify. I don’t know if a crime’s been committed here, but a woman’s dead.”

  “She’s not dead!” screamed Flo.

  The Hatchet squinted upwards, as if Flo’s voice had descended from the sullen gray clouds. “Wasn’t this one partial to the bottle, or was it the needle? Coroner’ll decide what done her in. You can cool your heels in the clink, Flo, until judge sets bail.”

  “You bastard! None of my girls drink. Or take drugs. How dare you even suggest—”

  And you.” He addressed Cecil. “If you set foot outside the city limits, I’ll know. I’ll know if you’re fixing to board a stagecoach, hop a train, or rent a horse. I’ll find you, have you detained in the same cell as Flo here, and tell the jailer to turn his back.”

  Hatchet turned to Officer Kelly. “Let’s go.”

  As if on cue, Kelly said, “Now, Mrs. Sweet, you stop kicking and I won’t hafta drag you down the street, with you making a spectacle of yourself.”

  Flo’s crazed eyes found Inez. “Mrs. Stannert! Help me! Have Danny take Lizzie up to her room. Second floor. Set the girls to watching over her until I get out. Keep her warm. She can’t be dead! Don’t let that drunk of a coroner touch her with his knife or I swear, I’ll take a knife to him myself!”

  Chapter Twelve

  Inez cursed the Fates that had brought her to this strange pass: Standing behind Flo’s parlor house, in the rain, shielding a dead whore from prying eyes. Flo’s plea rang in Inez’s ears as she waved her umbrella with menace at the crowd of men that simply refused to disperse. “Go! Don’t you all have something better to do than gawk? For shame!”

  Only a few of the men trickled out of the alley at her reprimands. Finally, Jed pushed his way forward to stand by Inez. He raised his pencil and pad, surveying the malingerers. “Let’s see, whom shall I say was at the sordid scene of the discovery of a prostitute’s body in Tiger Alley on this rainy morning of Friday, June twenty-third, the day after former President Grant’s arrival? Ah, Mr. Sketchley, is that you over there by the rain barrel? Care to comment, sir?”

  A mild-looking fellow, who had been stealthily working his way around to obtain a better view, pulled his hat low and exited the alley.

  “Mr. Warner, Mr. McClutcheon, won’t your wives be interested to read your names in this article. Say, since Mr. Sketchley demurred, would you have a few words I could include, a quote, a man-on-the-street observation?”

  The two gentlemen in question melted away, more quickly than snow in a summer rain. Jed cast an eye at the remaining idlers. They hastily withdrew to the mouth of the alley. With a flourish, Jed tucked his pencil and pad into his coat pocket with the air of a cavalier sheathing a rapier.

  “Coroner’s bound to be here soon,” he observed. “So, Mrs. Stannert, since Flo put you in charge, what will you do? Rather strange she’d turn to you, isn’t it?”

  Inez sighed. “Well, we attend the same church. Although it’s been quite a while since she’s been to a service.” She turned to Danny. “Do you know which room is Lizzie’s? Can we go through the back door?”

  Danny nodded mutely, then shook his head.

  “Barred from the inside?”

  Another nod.

  Inez sighed again. “Well, if you must carry her through the streets, she should be covered. You’ll just attract more unwanted attention otherwise. Be careful with her. Not that I believe she’s alive,” she hastily added. “Still. Is there something you can wrap her in? A sheet or a blanket?”

  Danny nodded and disappeared around the side of the brick building.

  “Lord save us,” muttered Jed.

  Inez puzzled, faced him. “What?”

  He was staring down the alley. The object of his attention, approaching them with soldierly intent, was nearly hidden beneath a large purple umbrella rimmed with soggy gold fringe.

  Inez caught her breath at the sight just before Jed announced through gritted teeth, “It’s Mrs. Clatchworthy.” His voice dripped with disdain.

  The approaching umbrella tipped back. The bird on top of the purple hat regarded Inez with its ebony glass eyes as if to say, “We meet again.”
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  Mrs. Clatchworthy turned her equally penetrating gaze on Jed first. “Mr. Elliston. I’m not surprised to find you at such a sorry spectacle, no doubt intending to make sport of this poor woman’s death.” She then looked at Inez blandly, “Well, Mr. Elliston, won’t you introduce us?”

  “Mrs. Stannert, Mrs. Clatchworthy, and vice versa,” grumbled Jed.

  “Mrs. Stannert, I don’t think we’ve met,” said Mrs. Clatchworthy, with a barely visible wink. “I’m the editor, publisher, reporter, and hawker of the Cloud City Columbia.” She whipped out a pencil and notepad, identical to Jed’s. Balancing the notebook in one hand along with the open umbrella, she poised the pencil above the open page. “Such a tragedy. Are you the proprietress, Mrs. Stannert?”

  Inez snapped, “Absolutely not! As Mr. Elliston can attest, the owner is Florence Sweet. Her current residence is the jail. Or at least, that was Officer Ryan’s intent when he took her away. He’s the city collector as well as a policeman, as you probably know.”

  “Ah.” Mrs. Clatchworthy tilted her head to one side, eyeing Inez in the same beady manner as the bird atop her hat. “Just a passerby, Mrs. Stannert?” She clapped her notebook shut. Both pad and pencil disappeared into her pocket. She advanced up the step and set foot carefully on the blackened floorboards, craning to look around Inez’s wavering umbrella. “Poor young woman. Tragedies such as this occur daily. These poor souls are harassed by the police. Imprisoned and fined. Suffer. Die. While the men that bring them shame get off scot-free.” She pinned Inez with another penetrating gaze. “Does this seem right to you?”

  “Mrs. Clatchworthy,” said Jed. “You’ll find nothing here worth writing about for that bluestocking rag of yours. Best you run along and investigate the latest literary goings-on.”

  Inez found her outrage sliding from Mrs. Clatchworthy to Jed.

  “Blue?” Mrs. Clatchworthy looked down, plucked at the Turkish-style bloomers to raise one soggy trouser leg an inch above the rim of the muddied boot. “Last I looked, they were purple.”

  The stockings were indeed purple.

  Danny approached, a satin-trimmed peach-colored blanket in his arms, distress marking every step. He moved past Mrs. Clatchworthy, spread the blanket on the flooring, knelt, and gathered Lizzie out of the hole and into his arms, preparing to place her on the blanket. Lizzie lolled, limp as a rag doll, the flimsy white wrapper parting to expose pale mottled legs. The hand that had been tangled in the long skirt fell loose. Inez bit back an exclamation as an object—small, blue, with a flash of gold—fell from her hand and onto the blanket.

  Jed pounced before Inez could stir.

  “A-ha!” He held the blue bottle aloft, squinting.

  The gold paint, crosshatched on a blue bottle, betrayed the contents in generalities, if not specifics.

  He waved the empty glass container at Mrs. Clatchworthy. “So much for your ‘poor unfortunate.’ Looks like she poisoned herself. Overdosed. No hand but her own was responsible.”

  Inez snatched the bottle from him. “All we know is that this is a bottle that once held poison. Only the coroner or a doctor can tell us what really happened.”

  She pocketed the bottle, heard it clink against the barrel of her pocket revolver. Danny placed Lizzie on the blanket, and Inez moved closer. From that intimate distance, Inez finally recognized youth in the slack, unlined features. Lizzie’s face was mottled, discolored from bruises, soot, or dirt, Inez couldn’t tell which. White crescents showed under nearly closed eyelids. Holding her own breath, Inez leaned close to Lizzie’s face, searching for the slightest of exhalations.

  Nothing.

  She touched, then held the limp hand.

  Clammy. Cold as a clod of dirt.

  A twinge of melancholy sped through Inez at the contact. She compressed her lips, lay Lizzie’s unresponsive hand atop the blanket, and straightened. I’ve seen too much of death lately. Why else would I feel anything for this woman. A whore. A stranger.

  “Sisters,” whispered Mrs. Clatchworthy.

  Startled, Inez almost bumped into the woman journalist, who had moved to stand by Inez and was gazing at Lizzie with a keen, yet sorrowful air.

  “We women are all sisters,” Mrs. Clatchworthy said with finality. “All oppressed by the men who, in the end, run the world and our lives. Lest we actively choose a different path.”

  She drew away, raising her umbrella. “I’ll see what Mrs. Sweet has to say.”

  With a swirl of purple and gold, Mrs. Clatchworthy turned and marched toward State Street.

  Chapter Thirteen

  No sooner had Mrs. Clatchworthy disappeared around one corner than a huffing and puffing Doctor Cramer appeared around the other, accompanied by Molly. A limping scarecrow of a man, Doc made his way up the alley to Jed and Inez, leaning heavily on his cane. He stopped before them and set down his worn medical bag. “Mr. Elliston, Mrs. Stannert. I was heading home from a long night tending to several cases of pneumonia and one breech birth when I was stopped by Mrs. Sweet in the accompaniment of an officer of the law. She was quite hysterical, insisting that there was a woman in desperate need of my professional assistance. And then I bumped into Molly, who said there was a recently deceased woman here and would I please notify the coroner. I decided I’d better come and see the situation for myself.”

  Doc rubbed a splayed hand over his drooping countenance, as if to awaken dulled senses. Two years ago, Doc had been a mountain of a man with a belly that would have been at home on a captain of industry who regularly indulged in quail, oysters, and fine port. But hard work and high altitude had shaved weight from his physique, leaving him with loose-skinned limbs and jowls befitting of a bloodhound. He bent his gaze to the figure on the blanket.

  “At first guess,” he said, “I fear Molly is right, and this one is beyond my help.” He knelt one knee on the charred flooring, picked up a bone-white wrist, held it for a moment, gently set it down, and equally gently, as if not wishing to disturb a deep sleep, pulled up an eyelid to examine the orb beneath. He blew out one long, tired breath. Doc opened his medical bag and rummaged around, finally extracting a stethoscope.

  “Pardon me,” he said. Whether the apology was directed to the figure, Jed, Inez, or Molly, it wasn’t clear. Inez turned away as he slid the listening instrument beneath the wrapper to position it under one breast.

  “Doc?” Molly sounded anxious.

  “As I suspected. Too late.”

  Inez turned back in time to see Doc coil the instrument loosely before setting it back in his bag.

  He used his cane to help him rise. “I’d guess exposure to the elements. There was frost on the ground this morning, before the rain picked up again.”

  “I saw her here in the alley last night, quite drunk,” Inez offered.

  Doc nodded soberly. “Alcohol, this weather, no proper clothing. That would account for it.”

  “There’s also this.” Inez pulled the cobalt-blue bottle from her pocket and handed it to him.

  Doc’s expression grew graver as he peered at the bottle, then sniffed its rim. “I thought Mrs. Sweet did not allow her women to drink or take drugs. Not even laudanum.”

  Molly moved up, hands on hips. “That’s right. She always said if we drank or became opium eaters, out on the street we’d go.”

  “What is it, Doc?” Inez asked.

  “Tincture of opium. The smell is distinct and lingers in the bottle.”

  He gazed down at Lizzie. “So young.” Then looked somberly up at the three. “I’ll talk to Mrs. Sweet and contact the coroner.”

  “Flo wanted Lizzie laid out in the house. No coroner,” Inez said.

  Doc retrieved his bag. “Very well.”

  Inez, watching him picking his way out of the alley, thought his posture more slumped, the set of his shoulders more dejected, than before.

  Danny lifted Lizzie, cradled her wrapped form, and began his journey to the front of the brick house. Molly hov
ered at his elbow, talking in a low and earnest undertone. Inez and Jed followed at some slight distance.

  “Is a dead prostitute more newsworthy than the visit of a former president?” Inez asked, somewhat irritated that Jed still trailed along, scribbling frantically.

  “Grant’s yet to make a public appearance today. Besides, scandal sells. The death of one of State Street’s fallen angels draws attention from all sides. From the gentlemen who knew her, and from the proper women who tut-tut and feel superior to her. Good copy. Now, this chap Danny. What’s his last name?”

  “What makes you think I’d know the names of Flo’s hirelings?” Inez inquired coldly.

  “Well, you’ve been here on State Street a long time. You know Flo. I just thought—”

  “You can stop thinking right there,” snapped Inez, angry that she might have inadvertently tipped her hand in some way.

  Danny veered around the corner onto State and approached the front of the parlor house. He mounted the short flight of steps to the front porch and shifted Lizzie’s weight to pull keys from his pocket. A muddy, bare foot escaped the confines of the blanket, swinging limply. He unlocked the door and pushed it open. A distinct odor of smoke drifted out. Molly entered first, holding the door for Danny and his burden. As Inez and Jed made to enter, she stepped forward, barring the entrance. “Lizzie’s our burden to bear,” she said defiantly. “She’s not your business anymore.”

  She shut the door in Inez’s face. The latch fell with finality.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Inez left Jed standing on the State Street boardwalk, disappointed at being locked out of the bordello, and began a rapid return to Flo’s house. As she hurried along, clutching her umbrella with a bare hand, she presented her arguments to herself. I’m going back for my glove. I put it on my lap to sign that blasted contract. Then, Molly came, Flo ran out, I followed and…

  They are my favorite pair.

  She could almost picture the orphan glove, lying crumpled under the table in Flo’s front room.

  But the glove wasn’t the only reason she was retracing her steps.