Leaden Skies

by Ann Parker

  She twisted away from the street scene to face the wall that held a small collection of Currier and Ives prints. Having plowed much of the saloon’s profits back into the business or savings, she and Abe, by common consent, had given the office only the essentials in furnishings and decoration.

  The gaming room boasted handmade rugs from Brussels and paintings in gilt frames. The office, on the other hand, had a braided rag rug, a secondhand loveseat, and inexpensive prints. She focused on two images grouped together. “Trotting Cracks in the Snow” showed horse-drawn sleighs dashing hither and thither. It drove her thoughts to her New York childhood, and to one memory, in particular, of riding in a sleigh with her father at the reins. She was very young. Hard kernels of snow pelted her cheeks; the runners hissed over the snow. She was exhilarated yet frightened by the speed at which they rushed through the freezing air.

  Inez shook her head. Seldom were memories of her father good ones. Yet, this one, despite the underlying fear, held echoes of laughter and euphoria.

  She fiddled with the tassel on her fan—a concoction of dark wood and lace—as her gaze traveled to the other print. “Prairie Fires of the Great West,” while rich in color, struck her now as foreboding, given the current round of arson in town and the still-at-large firebug. The yellow and orange flames of the print leaned in a high wind, dramatic plumes of purple smoke displacing vast prairie skies. The train steamed away from the fire, headlight piercing the dark. Behind, in the vast distance, miniature bison attempted to outrun the flames. It seemed unlikely the herd would escape.

  The image that next jumped to mind was of Flo’s bordello, the back in flames, the bucket brigade, the disheveled and drunk Lizzie. And the mapmaker, who seemed to appear nearly everywhere she turned. There was something unsettling about him, like a clock overwound, spring not broken, but far too tight.

  Was he really just looking around the building this morning? Or did he have something to do with Lizzie’s demise? And now, Flo’s in jail. And I’m linked to her, by hook or by crook, through that damned contract I signed.

  She turned away from the prints and her dark thoughts, glancing at her desktop, unusually clear of papers, bills, and invoices. A long evening glove lay to one side, its many pearl buttons giving a muted gleam, a rich cache on white silk. A single sheet of paper, ink nearly dry, lay centered on the blotter. She hoped Abe would find time to come to the office before the reverend arrived. She had to talk to him about the paper. The sooner the better.

  She had told Abe she needed to talk to him about “business.” He’d promised to be up as soon as Michael was squared away behind the bar. Michael had appeared promptly at seven, blond hair sleeked back, his fair-skinned face red from a scrubbing. He was attentive, polite, quiet, and, even more important from Inez’s point of view, he was the eldest of Bridgette’s five boys and knew how to smooth ruffled feathers and head off confrontations.

  Despite Bridgette’s declarations that her Michael had a great future at the smelter, Inez suspected that he’d jump at a chance to learn the bardog’s trade. However, Inez was not certain that she’d want to brave Bridgette’s wrath by offering Michael a permanent position.

  A knock at the door. “Inez?”

  She twisted in the chair to face the door. “Abe, come in.”

  Her business partner eased the door open and came in, loosening his tie. He stopped just inside the door. “Looks like you’re all set for the evenin’. I’d say no man would disavow that you’re the handsomest woman in Leadville, Mrs. Stannert.”

  She smiled thinly. “Thank you. But I find that a bit disconcerting. I’m not trying to attract attention. The fact that Reverend Sands and I are going to be parading around, arm in arm, amongst all of Leadville’s populace strikes me as unwise. But how can I demur?”

  The calico cat that had been curled up on the loveseat, ignoring Inez, hopped down with a loud maow of greeting for Abe. Abe closed the door behind him, scooped up the feline, and sat down on the couch. She settled in on his lap, purring, her claws working on the knees of his worsted trousers. “Well now. I think most of the folks tonight are going to be gawking at Mr. and Mrs. Grant, the governor, and the Tabors. What with all the talk about old Haw Tabor bein’ on the outs with his better half, people are gonna be far more interested in those two than who a man of the cloth is escortin’ around town.”

  “I hope you’re right. In any case, I’ll not call attention to myself by dancing on the tabletops, spitting, or swearing.” She smiled half-heartedly.

  “There you go.” Abe smiled back, teeth flashing in contrast to his dark skin. “So, what’s on your mind, Inez? This ’bout Michael? Mebbe hirin’ him on? I think he’d be willin’. But Bridgette, now, she’d not be over happy about it. And we can’t afford to lose the best biscuit-maker in Leadville.”

  “I have been thinking about Michael, true. But I wanted to talk to you about something else.” She set her fan on the blotter and picked up the paper. “I went to see a lawyer this morning about getting a divorce from Mark.”

  A small frown creased his forehead. “Go on.”

  “I can almost read your mind, Abe. You think he’s dead. Why should I even bother? But, the truth is, I—we—don’t know what has happened to him. And I cannot move forward in my life until I settle this. Settle it so I can feel free to consider the future. Now, part of that has to do with making sure we have an agreement, on paper, as to how we view our partnership in the saloon.”

  Abe didn’t respond, but she could have sworn his face had turned from warm living flesh into cold stone.

  She continued, determined to have her say. “It simply comes down to this. We wrote nothing down. Nothing. When Mark won the saloon in that poker game, we all shook on it, remember? Three ways, he said. We were all partners, equal, and we’d divide it up equally, just as we did all the other winnings from the past. I’ve learned this is very suspect from a legal point of view. Even if it was written down that Mark deeded me a third of the business, a judge would probably scoff and dismiss it out of hand. If I only knew for certain that Mark was dead.” She sighed. “Well, ‘what ifs’ are useless. Abe, what we must do is clarify our business relationship, you and I. In writing.”

  She closed her eyes as a wave of longing washed over her. Not longing for Mark, but for the past. When things were simpler. When it took so little to laugh, to feel alive and free.

  “So you get a divorce,” said Abe. “I don’t see how that changes our business dealin’s. We never needed papers afore. Why now?”

  She opened her eyes. “It’s insurance. Let’s say I get a divorce, based on desertion, since we cannot prove Mark’s death. We need to have this down in writing, all legal, that this business is ours equally. Half to you, half to me. I don’t want anyone taking away what’s yours. Or mine, for that matter.” She tipped her head up, defiant. “It’s going to be complicated enough, what with little William back East. The more straightforward we can make our partnership, the quicker I can take care of this mess.”

  “And if’n he comes back?”

  Inez’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve always maintained Mark met with foul play. That he died, somewhere, somehow.”

  Abe nodded. “And it’s what I believe. But I’d be a fool t’ throw down every nickel I have on a blind bet. To speak straight out, I’m not sure that havin’ a paper statin’ that we divvied up the saloon, half ’n’ half, would look so good if it fell into the wrong hands. If Mark’s alive, it might look like we just took what was rightfully his. And if’n he’s dead? Lordy, I can see someone sayin’, hmmm, who stands to win by shootin’ this Mr. Stannert in the back and shovin’ him down a mine shaft? How about his widow and that nigger she’s in business with?”

  “It’ll not fall into anyone’s hands but our own. We’ll keep a single copy here, locked in the safe. Abe, I cannot imagine a worse nightmare than having Mark walk through that door, right now, saying, ‘Hello, Darlin’.” She did a dead-on imitation
of his Georgia drawl and continued, “Just as if he’d never been gone. If that happens, then, my God, what sort of man did I marry? That he would disappear for more than a year and not contact me during that time? I’m better off without him. I’m done. There’s nothing he or anyone else could say to make me return to the marriage.”

  Abe stared at her soberly. The cat in his lap butted his stilled hand, demanding that he resume petting her. He did. “Well now. Most like we won’t see him again.” His voice was gentle, as if he attempted to soothe her with words, as he did the cat with his touch. “If’n you feel better havin’ my mark on a paper contract, that’s fine with me, long’s we keep it locked up. Like you said, for insurance. And I got my wife to think of. Should somethin’ happen t’ me, I want Angel to get my share, for herself and the child.”

  He moved the cat to the seat cushion and rose, brushing cat hair from his lap.

  Inez dipped the pen and held it out to him. She scooted her chair out of his way, small brass wheels screeching. Abe signed the paper without reading her carefully crafted words. Inez took the proffered pen, dipped it again, and signed her own name next to his.

  “We’re now legal partners,” she said softly. “Right down the middle. Equal, all the way.”

  Abe said, “We always were, Inez.”

  “Yes, but now no one, even the lawyers, can say different.” She rose from the chair with a rustle of silk taffeta and crouched down by the safe on the floor, mindful of her tight corset. She placed the paper in the safe—an offering to the black maw of the iron beast—and pushed the door shut with a clank, closing a door on her past.

  A knock on the office door immediately followed, a wooden echo of the metallic closure.

  “Mrs. Stannert?” Reverend Sands’ voice, muffled by the door.

  “Please, Reverend, come in.” She stood, smoothed the raspberry-colored satin panel of her dress and reached behind to adjust the complicated waterfall of bows and flounces.

  The door opened. The reverend paused on the threshold, hat in hand. “You outshine the stars, Mrs. Stannert.”

  Inez smiled and retrieved the stray evening glove. “Thank you, Reverend.”

  Reverend Sands nodded at Abe. “Mr. Jackson.”

  Abe nodded back. “Reverend.” He crossed his arms, the garters black slashes against the white sleeves.

  Inez took her evening cloak off the pegs behind the door and handed it to Reverend Sands, allowing him to place it around her shoulders. Ready to leave, she turned to Abe. “Thank you for taking care of everything. I imagine Michael will do well under your tutelage. And you do have Sol to back you up.”

  “Won’t be no problem, Mrs. Stannert. You have a fine time and we’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Inez and the reverend left through the Harrison Street door, Sands opening and holding an umbrella over them both. He steered her over to a waiting landau on the street corner, saying, “Surely you didn’t think I’d make you walk the four blocks to City Hall.” The driver, dressed for foul weather, hopped off his perch and pulled open the door. Inez gratefully allowed them to help her up, then Reverend Sands eased in beside her and the driver closed the door.

  “No, of course not,” said Inez. “But I didn’t think you’d manage a carriage and driver. I would have thought they had all been spoken for days ago.”

  “Never underestimate the influence of a man of the cloth. There are those who wager they’ll gain a few extra points at Heaven’s gates if they can rustle up transportation for a minister.”

  The carriage lurched forward, wheels churning the mud as the pair of horses strained forward.

  “Are you certain you want to walk into such an august gathering with a saloonkeeper on your arm?” she asked. “It’s bound to tarnish your image.”

  He shifted in the seat across from her, his knee pressing briefly against hers. That glancing brush had an immediate electrifying effect on her, an effect that she determinedly ignored.

  “Why bring this up now?” His voice was mild. “We’ve been through it before, and here we are, on the way to the reception. Still, I’ll repeat what I’ve told you many times. I’ve made my choice, Inez. To stand by your side. Forever, if you’ll have me. The ministering, the preaching, there are ways to serve God that do not require that I stand behind a pulpit.”

  An image of Preacher Thatcher, threadbare jacket, staring, unseeing eyes, beard a-tangle, flashed through her mind. She suppressed a shudder.

  The carriage lurched to a stop in front of City Hall. Inez and the reverend disembarked and joined the throngs of well-dressed people waiting patiently in the drizzle to enter.

  He tucked Inez’s gloved hand under his arm. “Ready to enter the lion’s den, Mrs. Stannert? It’s time to introduce you properly to Leadville society and the Grants.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Feeling conspicuous walking down State Street at such a dark and devious hour dressed in her ma’s bonnet and threadbare coat, Zelda kept her gaze fixed on the warped boards of the wooden walkway and the shoes and boots of the passing men. It was a time of night that no proper woman would be out, much less alone. Zelda tried to ignore the catcalls and whistles. She was afraid that if she looked up, she’d see someone she knew from Flo’s. Being so close to the brothel and having to pass by all the hurdy-gurdy of dancehalls, saloons, and questionable boarding houses in that first block, Zelda thought that the odds were good of bumping into a past customer.

  How’m I gonna tell Flo? Zelda swallowed nervously.

  Flo had always been kind to her. At least, as kind as her kind ever got. And she’d told Zelda, early on, that if Zelda ever found another job and wanted to leave “the sisterhood,” she’d give her blessing. Still, Zelda suspected that Flo wasn’t going to be happy about losing a girl right now, what with all the bigwigs in town. The night trade was probably jumping.

  A faint smell of smoke still lingered about the brick three-story bordello. Zelda knocked, her heart pounding nearly as hard as her knuckles. The door opened. A wash of sound, women’s and men’s voices, someone playing the piano, streamed around Danny, who blocked egress. Warm, overscented air, with a hint of burnt wood undertones curled out the door to greet her.

  “Hey, Danny.” Zelda took off her bonnet. Her hair was in full frizz, unchecked by the pomade and encouraged by the damp air. “It’s me. Zelda.”

  “Who’s there?” Molly’s sharp voice pierced the darkness behind the doorman. He stepped aside and Molly materialized, glimmering in white satin and pink silk, her dark red hair piled high.

  Zelda stared. “Molly, you wearin’ Flo’s new evenin’ dress?”

  Molly grabbed Zelda’s wrist and dragged her inside. “Where’ve you been?” Her whisper sounded near hysterical. “You’re late! And what’re those rags you’re wearing?”

  Zelda jerked away. “These ‘rags’ are my Sunday best. Where’s Flo? I gotta talk to her, right now.”

  Molly laughed, a short bark. “Well, if you gotta talk to her, you’ll have to go down to the jail, ’cause that’s where she is.”

  Zelda’s spirits sank. “Jail? What’s she doin’ there?”

  “Shut up. Keep your voice down,” Molly hissed. “Follow me.”

  She disappeared to the back of the house. Zelda followed.

  Molly pulled open the door to the ruined kitchen. “We can talk here.”

  She left the door ajar, allowing light from hallway sconces to penetrate the dank room, and faced Zelda. “You missed all the hullabaloo this morning. Lizzie’s dead, and Flo jumped Officer Ryan, the copper that’s city collector. So she got thrown in the clink, and I’m in charge. You get some proper clothes on and get into the parlor, now.”

  Zelda jammed her bonnet back on. “Not me. I got a real job with The Independent newspaper, settin’ type. They’re payin’ me good, too. So, you kin tell Flo, I quit.”

  “You can’t.” Molly gripped Zelda’s shoulders so hard pain stabbed up Zelda’s neck. Zelda
could now see that the pink ball dress—which she had much admired on Flo just a week ago—hung loose on Molly’s angular frame. “You’re stayin’! At least for the weekend! If you don’t, I’ll make sure the newspaper finds out you’re nothin’ but a whore, dressed up in your mama’s old Sunday hand-me-downs. How long d’you think you’d keep your fancy job then?”

  “You do that, I’ll scratch your eyes out!” Zelda considered slapping Molly’s face good and proper, but reconsidered at her crazed expression. “Where do you get off bein’ all high-falutin’ anyway? Flo always said, if I found somethin’ better, she’d give me her blessings. You really want her t’ know how you made me stay, and how you’re wearin’ all her things while she was gone?”

  “Who knows if she’ll ever get out?” Molly sneered. But she stepped away, folding her arms protectively as if to hug the dress to her or keep herself warm. “Okay, listen. I won’t tell anyone about your new job and you don’t have to screw. But you gotta keep watch over Lizzie so I can put Polly to work.” Her small eyes gleamed in the near dark, like a weasel’s.

  “Keep watch on Lizzie??”

  Molly shrugged, impatient. “Keep watch, wake, I dunno. Flo’s orders. Flo says Lizzie’s not dead. Flo’s crazy. Doc Cramer came around and said otherwise, but I know Flo, and I’m not gonna cross her on this. You wanna help Flo out, like she’s helped you, then watching Lizzie is the least you can do, if you aren’t gonna help with the fucking.”

  Zelda sighed, thinking maybe she could at least get a little sleep. Hope she’s not all beat up. I won’t be able to sleep if she’s real beat up. “Where is she?”

  Molly jerked her chin toward the hallway. “Flo’s room.”

  “You put her in Flo’s room?”