“Nothing?” someone called out. “It’s all real?”
“That’s right. The grand piano, the velvet hangings, the 140 bullet holes in the wall, the chandelier, the French-imported mirror—everything’s the real McCoy.”
The crowd murmured at the number of bullet holes and busily searched the walls for evidence. Caro, on the other hand, was watching Morgan’s strides carry him closer to the Bird Cage. It wasn’t old bullet holes she was worried about! She ducked behind a very tall man, making certain he was between her and Morgan.
Mr. Tall didn’t seem to notice Caro’s squirmings. “I don’t understand, Jackie,” he said solemnly. “How could everything survive so long?”
“Because of the owners—and the dry desert air. Tombstone’s silver days ended when the mines finally flooded. The whole theater was sealed and boarded up in hopes that the mines could be pumped dry.”
“Were they?” the man asked.
“They tried, but the technology just wasn’t there. So the Bird Cage never reopened. For over fifty years it sat forgotten—until the government finally recognized its importance.” Jackie’s voice rose dramatically. “The theater was officially reopened in 1934 as a historic landmark of the American West. That’s one reason for the theater’s fame.”
Caro watched Morgan approach the propped-open doors and peer in. She made herself shrink even more into the crowd as Jackie went on.
“… and before we go around the bar and downstairs to the theater area, I must insist that everyone keep their hands off the artifacts. To preserve this landmark’s authenticity, nothing is roped off. No camera flashes are allowed, either, though fast film is permissible. Anyone touching or flashing—the artifacts, I mean…” He paused in a practiced way.
Everyone laughed except Caro. A quick peek showed that Morgan was getting closer and closer.
“… will be asked to leave.”
Caro heard the group settle down a bit before Jackie continued.
“The second reason the Bird Cage is famous is that Wyatt Earp, Tombstone’s legendary lawman, met Sadie, his last wife, here. Josephine Sarah Marcus was an actress, and reportedly quite beautiful.”
“His last wife?” someone echoed. “Just out of curiosity, how many did Wyatt Earp have?”
“He reportedly married three times. He and Sadie were together for almost fifty years. Only Wyatt’s death separated them.”
“What about the second?” the same man asked.
“He had a woman he called his wife. Named Mattie Blaylock. She might have been common-law—history’s a bit hazy on that.”
“What happened to her?”
Caro’s black sense of humor emerged, and she wondered if Mr. Twenty Questions was a divorce lawyer or a philanderer.
“Mattie? She committed suicide.”
“Well, what about the first wife?”
Definitely a philanderer, Caro decided.
“Because of a typhoid epidemic, Earp’s first wife died very young.”
Caro prayed she wouldn’t be numbered among those who died young. For a moment it seemed as if her prayers had been answered. She was overjoyed to see Morgan bypass the open doors and continue down the street. She exhaled a heavy sigh of relief as Wyatt’s brother faded from view. Mr. Tall eyed her curiously.
“Just…drinking in the atmosphere,” she said with a forced smile.
“Shh!” someone else said.
Caro shushed.
“Sadly, despite three marriages, Wyatt Earp had no children.”
Murmurs of disappointment from the group.
“Now, you’ll need to follow me to see the third and final reason for the Bird Cage’s fame,” Jackie announced. “For this, we’ll be going around the bar to the left and down into the theater area. Please be careful on the stairs. And remember, people, no flashing!”
Caro grimaced as Jackie gave them all a broad wink. Obviously he was going for big laughs and bigger tips. But she was in no mood to be jollied along.
The group descended the narrow stairs single file. It was cooler in the theater than in the bar, but the coolness didn’t seem at all refreshing to Caro. Despite the old red velvet curtains, the theater stage, the orchestra pit with its piano, there was no sense of cheer, no lingering atmosphere of good times. She didn’t consider herself particularly sensitive to atmosphere, but there was an eerie, depressing feeling to the place she didn’t like.
In fact, if she’d had her way, she’d be outside in the sunshine. But safety and caution dictated otherwise. She forced herself to pretend a tourist’s enjoyment and appeared to hang on Jackie’s every word.
“Reason number three for the Bird Cage’s popularity is… Are you ready?”
Nods. Caro gritted her teeth in frustration. Their guide’s big buildup was about as subtle as a mule kick in the head.
“Okay, then. How many of you have heard the song ‘She’s Only a Bird in a Gilded Cage’?”
Numerous murmurs of assent filled the room.
“That song was written about this place. Look far, far up.”
Everyone did, Caro included.
“See those compartments that look like theater boxes? Those were called the bird cages. Fourteen of them are suspended from the ceiling. From there, the men and their ladies of the evening could watch the show—or conduct their own.”
Jackie’s porcine eyes turned piggier. “The men merely stepped behind the seats and red drapes to the hidden beds.”
Through rips in the curtains, Caro could see the rusting frames and dirty, stained mattresses.
“The men could have a little fun with their ladies. There was even a dumbwaiter that sent drinks upstairs for those men thirsty after their…”
A pause.
“Exertions.”
Many of the people in the group chuckled. Caro wasn’t one of them. She could only think of the women and their sad jobs; women forced to survive, determined to feed their children after the death of their men. Caro knew from her reading that many of the women were once reputable and still maintained pride in themselves and their sons and daughters. Strange as it sounded, these very women had helped contribute to the town’s morale and physical health. Caro recalled that Tombstone’s early churches were built through donations from these women. And during epidemics, common with the unhygienic conditions of mining towns, they worked as nurses, instead of prostitutes, very often for no pay.
Caro looked at the theater boxes above her. Jackieshowing good sense, considering the black looks she and the other women directed at him—quickly launched into a more sympathetic speech.
“I should add that women had very little choice in those days. There were few jobs—cooking, sewing or washing laundry paid very little. There was no welfare, no public assistance of any sort. Widows often had to choose between suicide and scandal. For every working girl in the Old West, there were just as many who killed themselves. Most of the suicides buried in Boothill are women.”
“Death or prostitution? What a terrible choice!” Caro couldn’t help exclaiming. Then she became quiet again, sorry to have drawn attention to herself. After all, she wasn’t a member of the tour, and she certainly hadn’t paid admission.
“But understandable,” Jackie insisted. “Women weren’t allowed to work the mines. But they were allowed to charge the men any amount of money they wanted for their favors.”
Caro pivoted slowly, taking in the faro tables, the wine cellar, the dressing rooms and the poker room below the stage. Bullet-holed walls surrounded her; beneath her were wooden floors stained with ancient blood. Above were the fancy curtains and balconies of the “bird cages,” the filthy beds behind them ready to accommodate any liaison. For the right price.
She studied a sign that listed all the common names applied to prostitutes at the time—calico queens, fallen angels and ladies of the night; scarlet, painted and shady ladies; soiled doves and, finally, Tombstone’s own particular choice for its women. Hell’s belles. If nothing else, Caro mused,
she and the “belles” had one thing in common—they were determined to survive.
She decided it was time to concentrate on getting safely away from Morgan and his sidekick, Kimberly. The crowd, meanwhile, was growing restless, and Jackie switched their attention to a new topic.
“Come with me, people. Over here, we have Tombstone’s most valuable antique—the Black Moriah.”
“The what?” someone asked as the crowd moved forward.
“The Black Moriah, Tombstone’s official hearse.”
“A hearse,” Caro mumbled to herself. “Just what I wanted to see.”
“Trimmed in twenty-four-carat gold and sterling silver, this glass-and-black horse-drawn hearse enabled curious crowds to view the somber face of death.” Jackie’s voice dropped mournfully. “It was in the Black Moriah that residents made their last journey to Boothill.”
Caro felt a shiver go down her spine. The shadow-box effect of the beveled crystal, the use of gold to adorn the final transport of Tombstone’s unfortunates—it all struck her hard. In this sad, decadent place, she had a sensation of being surrounded by death, overwhelmed by it.
For the very first time in her career, Caro wondered if she’d taken on more than she could handle. But before she could answer that question, Mr. Tall suddenly swore. Someone, it appeared, had pushed him out of the way.
Jackie frowned. “Is there a problem?”
Caro’s chin jerked up. She deliberately backed into the deep shadows cast by the massive Black Moriah.
The newcomer was Deputy Morgan Bodine.
CHAPTER EIGHT
JACKIE’S LITTLE PIG EYES fluttered as Morgan grabbed Caro’s arm and pulled her out of the shadows. The crowd was frozen in that strange, unnatural moment of stillness before the storm breaks.
It broke hard as Caro yanked herself free. A younger man shrieked in surprise as Caro smashed her boot heel down on Morgan’s toes. Morgan grunted, a sound that was cut short as the heel of her hand pistoned into his sternum, then curled into a fist for a hit dead square on his abdomen.
Morgan staggered but stood his ground. He grabbed for her attacking arm, but Caro was prepared for that, too. She made a grab of her own—for the freestanding metal sign that demanded in both Spanish and English, “Please do not touch the artifacts.”
She aimed for his stomach and shoved. Morgan staggered again, but this time he lost his grasp on her wrist. Caro backed away, her advantage lasting only a few seconds. The deputy was up and advancing, tourists screaming or snapping pictures, and Caro searched desperately for a more effective tactic. She wasn’t giving up without a fight.
She grabbed the metal stand like a baseball bat, took the at-plate stance and stood ready to swing at the Black Moriah.
“Touch me again, Bodine, and you can kiss your precious town relic goodbye.”
“I don’t think you’ll do that,” Morgan said over gasps from the crowd. He even advanced a single step, holding his stomach with one hand.
“Don’t think I won’t,” Caro warned, shaking her makeshift bat. “One good swing will shatter this to pieces. And I don’t plan on stopping there. The gold on the frame goes next.”
“Let’s talk about this.” Morgan took a second step toward her.
Caro refused to back down. “Guess who had the highest batting average in the girl’s high school softball league for three years in a row?”
Morgan dared to take a third step.
Caro tensed, muscles ready. Her eyes were narrowed, her voice harsh. “I’ll spread your tourist attraction all over this floor—if I don’t aim for your lying mouth first.” She meant it.
Morgan stared. The crowd stared. And Jackie stared at Caro with dawning recognition.
“You aren’t with this tour! You didn’t pay your admission!” Jackie slammed his hands on his pudgy hips and faced Morgan. “Arrest her!”
“Do, and you’ll be picking up glass for the rest of the day.” She shook the sign again in warning.
Morgan stopped his advance. “What do you want from me?”
“I want you to leave this building, you corrupt excuse for a lawman!”
“I won’t leave. But I will back off.”
He made good his words. All eyes focused on him, then shifted back to Caro. Only she had no idea what to do next—and Morgan knew it.
“It appears we have a standoff.”
“Better than your trying to kill me.”
There was a hushed murmur from the crowd. Mr. Tall giggled nervously. Jackie directed a verbal tirade toward Caro. All the while, Morgan was talking to her, talking nonstop, but she didn’t hear a word.
Because Wyatt had entered the room. She’d never felt so relieved, so grateful, in her life. She was so happy she could have kissed the man. Heck, I just might kiss him anyway!
Wyatt positioned himself between Caro and Morgan. “Give me the sign, Caro.”
She did, for the posse was here. Despite her earlier misgivings about the sheriff, she felt safe next to him. She felt even safer as Wyatt immediately pulled her to his side and held her close. His calm, deep voice was the voice of reason.
“Care to tell me what’s going on here?” he asked.
Caro was only too willing to oblige. “Your brother showed up. He cut my saddle cinch and—”
“I didn’t cut your cinch!” Morgan yelled. Wyatt held up his free hand, and Morgan was silent.
“Go on,” he urged Caro.
“I took your stallion and ran, but he followed—I don’t know if he took your mare or his Jeep…”
“I have the Jeep,” Wyatt replied, his arm still around her waist.
“I tried to hide in here with the tour group—”
“You owe money, young lady!” Jackie interrupted. He, too, was silenced with one hard look from Wyatt.
“When your…deputy showed up, I did what I had to do to keep him at bay.”
“By threatening a valuable historical treasure!” Jackie squealed. “This could cost me my job!”
“She’s jumping to conclusions!” Morgan shouted.
“Did you find anything in the mine? Like gold? Or more corpses?” Caro asked. “Maybe that’s why he tried to kill me.”
“For the last time, I didn’t cut your damn cinch! You have no proof of anything! And I don’t know a thing about any gold or corpses!”
“I think we should move this outside.” Wyatt spoke tersely.
“I want my money back!” one tourist demanded.
“Me, too!” another seconded. “I came here for a vacation—not to see riffraff and crooked cops!”
Caro felt Wyatt flinch. His arm tightened around her waist, and there was pain in his eyes at the blow to his badge, his character, his town.
Jackie started wringing his hands. “Please, people, Tombstone is a safe town. Let’s just finish the tour.”
Damn, I can’t leave the poor man like this, Caro thought with sudden compassion for the tour guide—and more than a little guilt.
Despite her fear, she reached for Morgan’s hand and pulled him against her other side so that Morgan, she and Wyatt were lined up in a row.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said in a loud, theatrical voice, “may I present my two fellow thespians? These are—” Caro racked her brains for a couple of stage names. “—Tom and Dick Dollar. Please give them a warm round of applause for their performances today.”
The audience gasped, then smiled and applauded. Wyatt immediately got into the act by removing his Stetson, waving it toward Caro with a big flourish and acknowledging her “performance.”
“Harriet Silver, ladies and gentlemen,” Wyatt said, as she did a little curtsy. Caro took over from there.
“And now, a round of applause for the fourth member of our little acting ensemble, your tour guide. Jackie hired us to make your visit to the Old West the most exciting it could be.” Caro gestured toward Jackie, who, she decided, was the best actor of the bunch. He smiled and accepted the tourists’ praise with nary a hint of confusi
on. The man’s a trouper. I’ll say that for him.
“Before our tour continues,” Jackie began. “Now’s your chance for photos of our little ensemble,” he said without missing a beat. “Remember, folks…”
Caro silently groaned.
“No flashing!”
Caro noticed Wyatt signaling Morgan to leave with a jerk of his chin. Caro guessed it was because Morgan was in official uniform, while Wyatt was not. Some of the tourists started to protest, but Wyatt silenced them.
“Our deputy has another gig, ladies and gentlemen. But my leading lady and I can stay. Come on, Harriet,” he said to Caro, “let’s give them a good photo op.”
First he pulled his Stetson low so his own face was in shadow. Then he grabbed Caro, swooped her across his arm and outstretched thigh and proceeded to kiss her senseless. His kisses were a delightful blend of dramatic license and genuine passion that hit Caro like a kick to the head—and heart.
Damn, I could get used to this! she thought, kissing him back—and putting on a show had nothing to do with it. High-speed film recorded their images as Wyatt lifted her upright again.
“Tom, Dick and Harriet Silver Dollar?” he murmured with amusement as he nibbled her ear.
“Hey, it was the best I could do on short notice!” She giggled, but her laugh had an edge to it.
Wyatt frowned and smoothed back her hair. “You okay?” he asked.
Caro nodded a yes, then shook her head for a more truthful answer. “My legs feel like rubber…” And I just may be sick all over your shoulder.
“I saw your cinch. Aftershock?” Wyatt whispered as he kissed her neck, camera shutters still clicking while tourists backed up to include as much of the Black Moriah in their photos as possible.
“Of course not! It’s just been a while since I’ve ridden a horse. I’m out of shape, that’s all.” Caro, you liar. “Can we go now?” she whispered, nervousness warring with the pleasure at his caresses. “I need some fresh air.”
“You got it, lady.” Then to the crowd, “Last chance for pictures, folks!”
Anne Marie Duquette Page 12