Leaden Skies

by Ann Parker

  She grabbed the brandy bottle and slopped more brandy into her coffee cup. “That’s a fine way to start the day.” It wasn’t until she picked up the cup that she realized her hand was shaking. Willing herself to hold it steady, she gulped the coffee, no longer scalding but tepid with alcohol.

  “Easy, Mrs. Stannert. Gotta pace yourself this weekend.” Abe moved the bottle out of her reach. “There’ll be folks who’ll pay to have some of that fine brandy. Can’t sell it if you drink it all.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Inez was still smoldering over The Hatchet’s behavior, Flo’s strong-arm tactics, and the now out-of-reach brandy bottle when Doc showed up.

  Inez smiled mechanically, not really taking him in except to note that he was limping more than usual. “Hello, Doc. You’re here early. Aren’t you accompanying Grant and the rest on their excursions to the mines today?” She looked around for Abe, to get him to pull down the bottle of pricey brandy he’d placed up high on a shelf on the wall. “Are you thinking of a nip to get your day started?”

  “Just coffee, Mrs. Stannert. Just coffee.”

  His tone was so abrupt, so bereft of his usual jocular verbal circumlocutions that she stopped trying to get Abe’s attention and turned to examine him. Doc’s face was always loose in the skin, but today his face sagged even more than usual.

  “Rough night?” Inez asked.

  He hesitated, then admitted, “Not the usual house calls. In fact,” he scrubbed at his face, leaving it looking even more tired and wrinkled, if that were possible, “I didn’t sleep a bit after the call to Flo’s early this morning. I’m still bothered by certain aspects of the whole incident.”

  Inez leaned over and set a hand on Doc’s sloped shoulder. “Hold on, Doc. I’ll get you some coffee and something to eat. Why don’t you sit down over there?” She nodded toward an empty table, back by the kitchen, removed from the barroom’s noise and commotion.

  “Thank you, m’dear. I think I could take a seat. For just a moment.”

  Inez guided him to the table and went into the kitchen to retrieve a sizable mug of coffee and a plate with three sausages.

  She delivered them to Doc and sat across from him, with a fresh cup of coffee of her own. He set his top hat to one side and pulled the sausages toward himself, tucking the proffered napkin into his stand-up collar.

  “Thank you. This shall be the first food I’ve had today. I went from Flo’s straight to the coroner’s office.” He cut up one sausage into precise, vertical slices, neat as a surgeon. “I shall have to head directly over to the Veterans Hall in a bit, make sure things are in order for the reception. Grant and all the veterans, you know. Just all us old War veterans, for a bit of reminiscing. Very informal. Very last minute. You are coming to the banquet afterwards, aren’t you?”

  “Reverend Sands will be picking me up after the reception.”

  “Good. Good.” He was silent a moment, chewing. “It was a long night. First the public reception at city hall, then this business at Mrs. Sweet’s place. No sleep at all. Used to be, I could go for several days on just a nap here and there. Ah well. I hope I might find a chair in a corner and catch forty winks before the veterans gather. With that, the banquet and the inevitable speeches, it could be another long night.”

  She clutched her cup and prepared to lay her cards on the table. “Doc. I should tell you. I went to the jail this morning. The reverend wanted me to visit Flo, bring her a Bible, words of cheer, and so on. It turns out, Molly—she’s running the house in Flo’s absence—had just been there. She had delivered the bad news to Flo about Lizzie.” Inez took a deep breath, thinking that Flo hadn’t exactly said it was a secret, hadn’t asked Inez to keep a confidence. “I don’t know if you are aware of this, but Lizzie was Flo’s sister.”

  Doc set down the slice of sausage that he’d lifted halfway to his mouth, and lowered his eyes to his plate. For a moment, there was silence between them. He then said, “Thank you, m’dear, for telling me that. I didn’t know. However, I wondered about their connection. Flo spent a great deal of time worrying over Lizzie. Asking me questions, looking for advice.”

  “Advice on what?”

  Doc looked up. Hesitated. “Well, she’s gone now. And it’s certainly nothing new to the poor inhabitants on the line. Flo thought Lizzie was using laudanum, perhaps even eating opium. She was certainly drinking. Flo doesn’t allow this sort of behavior, it’s a point of pride with her that her women are clean and sober. So, she was desperate when she couldn’t trace the source of the suspected drugs or where Lizzie got her liquor. Well, it’s easy enough to come by all that and more, as a rule. But Flo runs a very tight house, you know. Flo is kinder to her women than most, and that’s admirable, but I did wonder why she took so much time and care with Lizzie in particular. Why she seemed so desperate to help the young woman, who obviously was wrestling with her own demons. Now, it’s clear. As I said, thank you, for helping me put the pieces together. I was intending to visit Mrs. Sweet next, to let her know what happened. I’ll be better prepared knowing what you’ve told me about that relationship and about Molly having already delivered the sad news.”

  Doc tipped the brim of his top hat up off the table, as if to see if any other dark State Street secrets might crawl forth.

  “Doc.” Inez pushed her cup to one side and leaned forward. “What happened last night? Flo swears up and down that a girl called Zelda killed Lizzie. Apparently, the room was locked, and it was only Lizzie and Zelda in there.”

  “Yes, I was with Molly when she unlocked the door to Flo’s room. Danny, their doorman, had secured my services and brought me there.” Doc pulled on his lower lip. “It was a scene of carnage. Lizzie apparently had revived from a deep coma. It was I who had pronounced her dead initially, you know. A mistake I shall carry with me for a very long time. However, once Lizzie revived, someone cut her throat. It was a vicious slice, came close to decapitating her.”

  Inez winced.

  “When we opened the door, the girl Zelda was there.” Doc hesitated. “Odd, but I could distinctly smell chloroform. The anesthetic. She kept insisting that she did not kill Lizzie. That there had been a mysterious intruder. Could it have been a hallucination? Could Flo’s girls be indulging in a variant of ether frolics? It could be they’ve turned to that, since laudanum and whiskey are forbidden in the house.” He seemed to be talking to himself.

  “Ether frolics, I’ve heard of. But I had no idea that chloroform could be used in such ways.”

  “Ah, m’ dear. Chloroform, ether, opium, chloral hydrate, and even your good brandy and lesser whiskey can be used for good or evil. On the one hand, as a physician, I’ve had many occasions to bless the anesthetics, opiates, narcotics, morphine, even cheap rotgut, for bringing relief to the patient. And, on the other hand, as long as the world is as it is, with its pain, suffering, and disappointments, a certain percentage of humanity will become beguiled by opium, chloral, and other deadly drugs and develop morbid cravings.”

  “But chloroform?” She raised her eyebrows.

  He nodded. “Good for the surgery and for insomnia, chronic pain, asthma, and chronic cough. Why, I’ve found it offers a welcome respite to those suffering from miner’s consumption, when used properly. I prescribe it, in moderation, as do other physicians. To self-administer takes a steady hand, an iron will, and a thorough understanding of the drug’s limitations. It has a pleasant smell, rather like apples, and the sensation it provides has been described as,” he harrumphed, “intoxicating. Which leads some to indulge over and over. But the line between sedation and death is a thin one. It is not a drug to trifle with. If Mrs. Sweet’s women are playing with such, I must have a serious talk with them.” He shook his head. “Still. If Zelda took chloroform to perhaps calm her nerves, took overmuch and became comatose, how did she kill Lizzie? Perhaps she administered the chloroform to Lizzie first. But to kill Lizzie and then take the sedative herself? Any way I look at thi
s, it makes no sense.”

  “What happened after you unlocked the room and found Zelda?” Inez prompted, trying to steer Doc back to the story and away from his pharmaceutical speculations.

  “We prepared to detain her, but, well, she slipped my grasp. She was heading out of the bedroom. I caught hold of her shawl, but she was remarkably fast on her feet and escaped out the back.” He tipped his top hat again, releasing the darkness beneath. “Neither I nor Molly were prepared to chase her. I was left holding the shawl. And I tell you, the shawl was bloody, but it held the scent of chloroform. And that is what I cannot understand. There was no vial in the room. No handkerchief used to deliver the vapors to the face, as you might expect if someone were using it for entertainment. So, where did it come from?”

  He, released his hat, leaned back in his chair, and stared at Inez. “Zelda is a little thing. Short of stature. She did not appear to me to be the sort who could wield a knife with such strength as to cut deeply with one pass. So, I’m troubled. Troubled by the whole incident. But, this could be no more than an old physician’s doubts and cautions catching up with him. Back when I was a young physician, we were embroiled in war. The War. There was no time for pondering when the patient lay screaming beneath the saw. There was never enough ether, or chloroform, or whiskey for the tasks at hand. We had to move fast, finish the procedure, and move on to the next.”

  Doc stopped, then continued, “Lizzie was killing herself by degrees, for whatever reasons. She will most likely not be mourned by any besides Flo.”

  He glanced down at the remains of the sausages. “Thank you, m’dear. Perhaps I can put it out of mind for now. There is so much more to do today.”

  He looked at her and smiled, obviously trying to inject some of his old heartiness back into his voice. “We will see you tonight. And,” he shook a finger at her playfully, “I warn you. I’m still maneuvering behind the scenes to bring the general by your establishment for a shot of Old Crow or a hand of cards. Old soldier that he is, I think he would appreciate both of those things, with a good cigar, more than all the full-dress banquets and grand balls put together.”

  ***

  Shortly after Doc left, Bridgette bustled off to church and confession, promising to return as soon as she could. “It’s really important I go today, ma’am, since I’ll be working on the Sunday tomorrow and missing Mass. No, no, ma’am, it’s one time, I understand, and I really don’t mind. But it is a neglect of my Sunday obligation and a sin. I’ve not missed Sunday Mass in years, so I want to let the good Father know so I can get busy on my penance.”

  A while later, Sol ushered a cadaverous fellow over to Inez, who was completing negotiations with their liquor wholesaler over an incoming shipment of California wines.

  The fellow set his worn leather bag on the bar with a clank. “Mrs. Stannert?”

  She smiled. “Mr. Lang! You’re here to resuscitate the patient over by the wall? I warn you, this one’s not nearly as hearty as my parlor grand at home.”

  He adjusted his pince-nez. “Some think they’ll become rich by finding silver. They should take up the piano tuning profession. The burgeoning interest in the musical arts along with the dry air and extreme changes of temperature keep me busy. I never have a moment’s rest, and my bank account thrives.”

  Inez ushered him over to the upright, commenting, “She’s seen better days.”

  “Let’s see what I can do.” Lang played various scales and tested the action of the pedals before opening the top of the cabinet and peering inside at the workings. He pulled a variety of tuning hammers, wrenches, and mutes from his bag, and set to work.

  An hour later, he approached Inez, who was wiping up a spilled glass of beer. “Mrs. Stannert, why don’t you try her now?”

  Inez wiped her hands on her apron, slid onto the piano stool, and ran through the scales, testing the piano’s range. “Lovely, Mr. Lang. At least, as lovely as she’s ever sounded. You are a true artist.”

  His dour face creased into a rare smile. “More in line of a physician, I’d say. But thank you, Mrs. Stannert.”

  “Mr. Jackson will pay you,” said Inez. “And have a drink on the house.”

  “Much obliged.” He settled his hat and moved to the bar.

  Inez tinkled through a bouncy rendition of “In the Evening by the Moonlight.” Emboldened by the piano’s improvements, she moved into more demanding terrain. The opening chords of Chopin’s Waltz Number Seven flowed unbidden from her hands to the keys. She allowed herself to drift on the melody line. But the music insisted, her hands required, that she pay attention. She bent her head to the keyboard, and focused. The music moved slow, faster, faster, then drifted again. All else receded. The voices in the room, the smoke in the air, the hollow hammer of boots on the floor, the opening and closing of the nearby door. The music seduced her, as it always did, with the brilliance of fire, the surety of a flood.

  As the last notes died, there was a smattering of applause. A nearby voice said, hesitant, but approving, “Nicely done.”

  She swung around.

  The mapmaker stood there, board and papers clutched to his sack jacket. His eyes shone above his purple, swollen nose. “Chopin Valse Number Seven. Opus Twenty-seven. I particularly enjoyed how you played Part A. Very nice.”

  She smiled, then stood. “Thank you. Do you play? You sound as if you know something of music.”

  He hemmed and glanced uneasily around the room in general and back at her. “I have done my share at the keyboard.”

  “Well then?” She gestured to the stool, the invitation implicit.

  After a pause, he placed his board and coiled tapeline on the staircase and approached the stool. He sat. Stood and corrected the height. Sat again. Ran his hands tentatively over the keys.

  He had, she noticed, unusually long fingers. After a little wandering, he launched into the same waltz. But with a difference. The waltz snapped with aggression and a very controlled pedal.

  She’d never heard the piece, usually rendered romantically, played in such a fashion. When he finished, she applauded, noting, “The counter melody within the arpeggio. Very clever. As was that left-hand variation.”

  “My own interpretation. I’m surprised I still remember it.”

  “You have a rare talent, Mr. Farnesworth.”

  He seemed abashed by her praise. “Once, I thought on being a concert pianist.” He looked at the keyboard and said under his breath, “But it is no way to make a living.”

  “Why, we could use a part-time pianist here. Are you interested?”

  He stood hastily. “I haven’t played since—” He stopped. Then, at her inquiring silence, finished. “Since my fiancé died.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  A furtive look flitted across his face. “It was a long time ago.”

  Inez injected a brighter note into her voice. “Well, in any case, Mr. Farnesworth, it’s good to see you again. Last I saw you, you were—” She stopped, realizing that in her desire to take the conversation in another direction she may have inadvertently strayed into another mine field.

  “—having my face ground into the mud,” he finished bitterly. “I had nothing to do with that woman’s demise. In fact, the local police told me this morning that I am exonerated of her death. She apparently was still alive yesterday.”

  He gathered his papers and his tapeline. “I’ve got to finish the job I was sent to do. Mrs. Stannert, may I see the upstairs?”

  ***

  After tapping walls, measuring windows, asking about the construction of the building, and examining the ceilings, Cecil seemed satisfied. “Thank you.”

  “And have you finished all of State Street now?”

  He shook his head, somewhat despairingly. “This block is a warren of shanties back by the alley. Getting access to them, and even to some of the larger buildings, is proving difficult. I still haven’t completed my examination of that brick structure, the boa
rding house at the corner of Pine and State.” A grim expression crossed his countenance briefly, like the shadow of a passing cloud. “I’ve no choice but to complete the job. That’s what the Johnson Fire Insurance Company has hired me to do.”

  He was following Inez down the stairs when Bridgette came in. She looked up at Inez with a broad smile that faded as her eyes widened. Cecil Farnesworth, focused on his notes, glanced at Bridgette, then back down. Inez paused at the bottom of the stairs, watching as Cecil made his way through the saloon to the State Street door, shoulders squared, board clenched to his chest. A strange sputtering sound caused her to turn to Bridgette, who had her gaze glued to the mapmaker’s departing back. “Do you know him, Bridgette?”

  “Well, not exactly, ma’am. He’s a stranger to me. Not someone of the parish.” She played with the fringe on her shawl, staring distractedly at the now swinging door. “But, he’s of the faith. You see, I saw him. That man. At confession. I recognize the nose, poor fellow. He was before me. And, I don’t listen, ma’am, that isn’t seemly to listen to another’s confession, but he was loud and…he was crying, ma’am. Crying in the confessional. It was the nature of the sound that caught my attention. I don’t know what demons haunt his soul, but from the sound of it, I’d say it will take more than a stray confession in a passing town to bring him any lasting peace.”

  Chapter Thirty

  After the dinner rush, Jed showed up, enormous circles under his eyes. He was immediately besieged as he walked in the door.

  “Hey! Elliston! Good issue!”

  “That bit about that upstart Wesley. How’d you come by that?”

  “Sources that wish to remain anonymous,” he said mechanically.

  “Ya sure scooped the competition. Not a word of this anywhere else.”

  “Say, what’s this about a lewd photograph? You gonna share the details if I buy you a drink?”