by Ann Parker
Inez nodded without comment. It’s a long shot, but worth pursuing, at least a little further. And Flo’s house is far closer than Chicken Hill for a quick trip tonight.
“So, what do you think, Mrs. Stannert? Think I’ve been suckered by a lovely confidence woman?”
“I think,” said Inez, “that there’s no way to know right now. Although it’s certainly suspicious. While I’m chasing down a few things here, you should hurry to the stagecoach and railroad ticket offices, before they close. See if someone answering to Miss Thomas’ description might have purchased a ticket. I know the manager of the Denver and Rio Grande ticket office. If you get there and it’s closed, I’ll give you his home address. You can tell him I will forgive his tab at the Silver Queen if he cooperates. And, if you’ve time, I suggest you take your gun and engage in a little target practice. Because, if all this is for naught, you’re either going to have to buy your own ticket out of town or be down by the railroad tracks, pistol at the ready, tomorrow evening at six.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Everything seemed to be an immediate need. Everything had to be addressed right now. Like a pot on boil or bread rising in the oven, nothing could wait.
Between Jed and Flo, Inez felt she didn’t have time to breathe or even think. And, there was Abe’s comment about buying Flo’s bordello. Plus the very real press of men seeking to slake their thirst before moving on to other pleasures, whose comings and goings had both Harrison and State saloon doors swinging like metronomes with their steady in, out, in, out. It all made Inez feel that her head was close to bursting.
At about five-thirty, during a supper lull, Inez begged off, telling Abe and Sol that she had some errands for the church and for herself. She waved an empty envelope, which she’d addressed to her sister as an added ruse, and said she’d make a stop at the post office as well.
First stop, Flo’s boarding house. Inez pondered how to approach Molly and the others, who were probably as nervous and on edge as cats without Flo’s calming and firm hand. Lighting on an inspiration, Inez unearthed her girlhood prayer book, stashed away in her upstairs changing room, and returned to the kitchen to beg yet another basket of biscuits from Bridgette. “Another invalid?” Bridgette inquired, looking up, somewhat harried, from cutting out a slew of piecrusts. Five large cans of cherries stood nearby, at the ready.
“Must be some illness circulating through the congregation,” improvised Inez. “Poor woman, she has six, no, seven children. And a couple of nieces staying with her, I think. Husband working shifts as a blacksmith in town and down at the smelter to make ends meet. And you know Reverend Sands, always concerned particularly for the poor and struggling. He’s completely taken up with Grant’s visit, so—”
Bridgette had already excavated another basket while Inez was talking and was piling in the biscuits and tucking in a jar of jam. She pulled out half of a wheel of cheese and cut a large hunk, then extracted a cold chicken from storage and rearranged the things in the basket to make it fit. “I’d give you some stew, but heavens, ma’am. I can’t see you carrying enough for seven souls. But you be sure and let that lovely Reverend Sands know that anytime he needs a bit of sustenance for a Christian soul, he can count on me.”
“Thank you, Bridgette. Your generosity is appreciated.”
Inez watched Bridgette fly about the kitchen, now fully engaged in plunking pie crusts into a line of waiting pie tins. “Bridgette? Do you know a family by the name of Thomas up on Chicken Hill?”
“Thomas? Ma’am, there are any number of them. There’s Evan Thomas, George Thomas, Leroy Thomas—”
“A young woman named Zel…something? Zel Thomas, perhaps?”
“Oh heavens, ma’am. I couldn’t say. But I’ll try to think on it. There are hundreds of souls on Chicken Hill you know.”
“Of course, of course. Just thought I’d ask.”
Inez tied bonnet strings beneath her chin, gathered up the basket—How could Bridgette’s lighter-than-air biscuits weigh so much?—and headed out the back door of the saloon into Tiger Alley. The rains of the past few days had abated on Saturday, and a day of sun had baked an ankle-twisting crust onto the ooze.
By walking gingerly on the crust, Inez was able to get to Harrison without mud up to her ankles. She hurried around the corner of Harrison to State, and walked past her own saloon, head down, hoping none would recognize her.
She certainly didn’t look like any of the painted ladies of the red-light district, some of whom were strolling the boards even now, looking to whip up business for later that night. All male attention was focused on them, for which she was grateful. She caught snatches of come-ons as she hurried down the block. “Specialty is nice and slow.” “Clean and willing to do anything.”
Having reached the front of Flo’s imposing brick house, Inez paused to catch her breath. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to think about why she was there.
I need to find out more information about this Zelda. Learn what happened that night. See if I can find anyone who knows more about her. Where she might go when she’s not here, for instance. If she had a sweetheart, and whom. If she is, perhaps, the same woman as Jed’s typesetter. It would be such a coincidence. The odds aren’t good. But then, gamblers know that long odds and coincidences pay off more often than common folk believe.
Inez mounted the stairs slowly, raised a tentative hand, and knocked. It took a long time for someone to finally come to the door.
For all I know, they normally wake up at three in the afternoon and are just now sitting down for their “mid-day” meal. My timing with these biscuits may be just the thing to get me in the door.
Inez felt the rumble through the porch boards as a heavy tread approached. The door swung open to reveal Danny. Stoic, stone-faced Danny. Inez remembered Flo’s whisper: Danny’s the only one I trust entirely. He’s been with me…it seems like forever! If you need help, talk to him.
No sooner did these thoughts whisk through Inez’s mind than she heard Molly’s irritated whine. “Danny, who’s there? We’re not open for business yet.”
The red-haired virago pushed him out of the way. She wrinkled her nose, obviously puzzled. “Mrs. Stannert? What the hell?”
“Good evening,” said Inez pleasantly and stepped inside as if she owned the place. Which in a way, I do. She pulled off her bonnet, smoothing a couple loose strands of hair back from her face. “Miss Molly, I’m here on behalf of the church and Reverend Sands.”
“Yeah, I know the reverend,” Molly said with a sneer. “Likes to come and talk to us all. Doesn’t lecture about sin and fornication. Just invites us all to ‘visit’ some Sunday, or come down to the State Street mission. Just like we might drop in for tea or something. So what?”
“Well, the good reverend is, of course, worried about the well-being of you all. I brought a prayer book—”
Molly wrinkled her nose.
“But of course, food for the soul is often no match for…”
Inez peeled back the napkin and brown paper, releasing a warm cloud of steam bearing a smell that came as close to heaven as bakery goods could aspire. Molly’s pinched face softened. “I dunno.” She wavered.
“As you know,” said Inez conversationally, “Flo and I, we are not strangers to each other. I think she would appreciate the fact that you’ve extended courtesy to our helping hand. Shall I just come with you and leave these with the girls, with the reverend’s and the church’s blessings? I will be happy to put these biscuits, and the homemade jam, and the cheese and cold chicken in your kitchen. I need to return the basket, or I would just leave it with you and be on my way.”
Molly’s face grew younger as Inez listed the food items. “Well, if you’ve no problem bein’ in the company of whores,” she decided, and beckoned Inez down the hall.
Inez walked past the staircase into a narrow hallway that ran the length of the building. A door tucked under the staircase on the left faced a mar
ble statue of the Greek goddess of love, Aphrodite, on the right. The goddess was clothed in little besides her native beauty, with a stone cloth draped casually, and not particularly helpfully, over one cocked, voluptuous hip. There were paintings on the wall as well. Inez, no stranger to the oils that graced the walls of the better drinking establishments from New Orleans to Kansas City to Denver, nevertheless averted her eyes from the canvases depicting the detailed couplings of nymphs and satyrs, and Leda and the swan.
“This way.” Molly veered left into a dining room.
Inez noted a door at the end of the hall. A door leading, no doubt, to the torched section of the bordello.
About ten women of various ages and stages of dress sat around an elegant dining table littered with opened tins. They looked up at Inez in confusion.
Molly announced, “This is Mrs. Stannert. If you don’t know her, she runs the Silver Queen, the joint at the other end of the block. She’s here from Flo’s church.”
Inez meanwhile had set the basket on a corner of the table, after pushing back a clatter of empty cans, extracted the bundle of biscuits and peeled back the napkin and brown paper that cradled them. A chorus of soft oooooohhhhhhhhs lifted from the residents—a moan of culinary ecstasy.
“I’m tired of damn oysters,” said one lovely with a heart-shaped face. She dropped her fork on the table and reached.
Another woman, who looked no more than eighteen, sniffed loudly. “The smell reminds me of my ma. She used to bake the best biscuits and griddle cakes.”
Eager hands reached out, grabbing, tearing, stuffing the still warm bread into painted mouths.
“And, here’s some homemade jam,” said Inez. “And butter, fresh from market this morning. And some cheese. And a cold chicken. Is there a plate perhaps for the cheese, butter, and chicken?” Three plates, none too clean, were pushed her way.
“I’ll be ever so glad when Flo is released from the joint,” said another woman. Tall and slim, she had sad doe-like eyes that no doubt broke hearts and pocketbooks throughout the business district. “I’m getting bored of living on canned sardines, tomatoes, and peaches. Flo always made sure we had fresh food. When’s she scheduled to post bail?”
Molly shrugged. “When the judge says. Probably not for a week or two, accordin’ to Officer Ryan.”
“Well, The Hatchet would know and Molly knows The Hatchet better’n most,” said the lovely pointedly.
“Shut your pie-hole, Blanche,” Molly snapped.
Blanche rolled her eyes. “I suppose we’ll just have to hold on and pray until Flo gets back.”
“I understand there was a death in the house.” Inez tried to make her voice sympathetic. “I’m so sorry to hear. As Reverend Sands might say…” She racked her brain for something appropriate, and ended up with, “Why did God promise to bless all men, and purpose to save them? Because, he is infinite in love, goodness and wisdom; and cannot do anything but what is for the good of his creatures.” What else. “And of course, ‘Love is an active principle and can never lie dormant; but is ever actively engaged in doing good to each and all.’”
There was a snicker from somewhere down the table. “Of course love doesn’t lie dormant. If we were to just lie there, we’d be out on the street in no time.”
Inez felt that she’d done her duty in proffering religion as comfort. “So, what exactly happened? I hear all kinds of rumors at the Silver Queen. Some are saying that if a girl can be killed here at Flo’s, it won’t be long before a customer will find himself stuck with a knife. That it’s a dangerous place to come for entertainment.”
Cries of “No! It’s not true!” chased about the table.
“It was a grudge,” asserted one raven-haired vixen. “Zelda and Lizzie, they always were at it. Claws out, like cats.”
“No,” said another. “Zel didn’t have it out for Lizzie. She just didn’t like the way Lizzie kept at her. Hell, I wouldn’t like it either. Lizzie could be a vicious bitch.”
“Well, why’d she cut her with a knife, then?” questioned a blonde, “and where’d she get that knife? They were alone in Flo’s room. Molly’d locked the door. Right, Molly?”
Inez stiffened. Flo’s room? That’s right, Doc said something about Lizzie being there as well. Yet, I distinctly remember Flo instructing us to put Lizzie in her own room. Was the switch a matter of convenience?
She studied Molly for her reaction.
Molly nodded absently, busy buttering one of the biscuits and sucking the melting butter that dripped onto her fingers.
“I didn’t think Zelda carried a knife.” That was from a mousy-haired woman with a slight overbite.
A chorus of derisive hoots, pffffffts, and eye-rolling commenced.
“Everyone carries a knife,” said another. “Don’t you? You gotta have that or a gun. And Flo won’t let us keep pistols. Even those little cute ones. The ones you can tuck between your titties or tie up high on your leg.”
“I don’t think Zelda carried a knife,” the mouse insisted stubbornly.
“So,” the blonde continued, as if the intervening conversation hadn’t occurred, “there’s no way anyone else could have done the deed. Look, when Doc and Molly opened the door, Zelda shoved them out of the way and ran off, all covered with blood. If she didn’t do it, why’d she run?”
“Because, you goose, given the situation, no one would have believed her protestations to the contrary,” said Blanche.
“Well then, you tell us, Miss high-n-mighty-once-a-school-teacher. How’d Lizzie die? Who killed her, if not Zelda?”
Blanche shrugged. “I’m not paid to try and fathom that mystery.”
Inez listened intently, tapping the edge of the prayer book against her gloved palm. “Where would Zelda go if she were in trouble?” She tried to sound as if she was just wondering aloud.
Answers flowed around her like the babbling of a creek over small stones.
“She’d get out of town, quick. That’s what she’d do.”
“No, she’d not leave her pa! She said he couldn’t see.”
“She had a boyfriend. The young buck with long hair? I’ll bet they ran off together.”
“I still don’t think she’d leave her pa,” said the dissenter stubbornly. “Besides, Molly, didn’t you say she’d been bragging about that she’d got a job in town with a newspaper? That she was leaving the screwing business altogether?”
Inez almost dropped the prayer book, hardly believing her ears or her luck. Bless Bridgette and her biscuits for greasing the wheels of conversation!
Molly stirred a finger in the jam pot. “Dunno. Zel, she liked to make things up. Mebbe she just said that. She ain’t workin’ there now. If she stuck around, she’d be in jail for sure. And believe me, if they put her in with Flo, I’d not bet on Zel seein’ mornin’ light.”
“What did Zelda look like?” asked Inez.
“A pretty little thing,” Blanche volunteered. “Very curly dark hair. Lovely skin. No pox or anything. I’d kill for skin like that.” She fingered her own pock-marked complexion wistfully. “Brilliant blue eyes. Had a natural figure, on the slight side, but made her look young. Some customers like that. They fool themselves that they’re taking a virgin. You play along and it’s always good for an extra tip. Plus, they get so excited they can’t hold back long.”
Knowing laughs and nods at the table followed that remark.
The schoolmarm continued. “Zelda looked fifteen, but she had to be over eighteen. Flo doesn’t take in anyone younger.”
“Except Lizzie,” someone said under her breath.
“Lizzie was a special case,” said the schoolmarm. “Flo had a soft spot for her. Otherwise, why bother? If anyone else would have smart-mouthed Flo like Lizzie did, she’d be out in the alley. There was something between the two of them.”
Molly, two biscuits in, seemed to come to her senses about the surrounding babble. “That’s enough!” she said. “Let the d
ead rest in peace.” She twisted in her chair and hollered toward the hallway, “Danny!”
The giant appeared, a silent solid block in the entry to the dining room. Molly slanted a glance at Inez. “Girls, thank Mrs. Stannert. She’s leaving.”
A chorus of thank-yous followed.
Inez smiled and inclined her head, wondering what a blessing from a whore would count for in Heaven.
Molly reached for another helping of jam. “Danny, take Mrs. Stannert out, okay?”
He stood aside and let Inez pass. The door to the dining room closed softly behind them, shrouding them in darkness.
Inez spoke quickly. “Danny. You know that Mrs. Sweet and I were talking. We’re partners now. She’s in trouble, and I’m trying to help. Can you show me the room where Lizzie was killed? It’s important.”
Danny turned and walked down the hall toward the front door. Inez’s heart fell. Then he paused, unmoving, by the statue of the love goddess.
Finally, he turned to the right. Inez saw the glint of a key in the muted light of the hallway. A rasp of key in the lock, and the door beneath the stairs swung open. He moved aside, allowing Inez to enter.
Inez stepped inside, set her basket down by the door, and looked around. She’d expected a scene of grisly blood and gore, but someone had been at the room and cleaned it up. The clean bedclothes were rumpled, as if recently slept in.
Inez shuddered. Who would sleep in this room so soon after the gruesome murder? She forced herself to walk toward the bed. “This is where she died?” The coverlet was rose-colored satin, made for a much narrower bed.
Danny’s large bulk materialized beside her. He nodded.
Inez walked the perimeter of the room, not certain what she was looking for. Some clue, perhaps, as to what had happened that night or where Zelda might have gone.
She had her eyes cast to the floor or else she might have missed the four long, parallel scratches in the gleaming waxed floor. She stopped, allowing her gaze to follow where the tracks led. The French-style armoire stood demurely upon clawed feet, four feet down the wall, its three mirrors reflecting blood-red light around the room from the waning sun. Inez looked back at the gold and dark blue striped wallpaper, right above where the tracks began, and frowned. A darker area showed that, indeed, the armoire had once resided there for long enough to shield the wallpaper, after which it either walked on its own or more likely had been dragged down a length of wall.