by Ann Parker
First, there was the fact that Mrs. Pace was here for her health. Inez picked up the tonic bottle, turning it this way and that. It was brown, not as small as the ones Harmony had received that morning for her and William, more of a mid-size. The label identified it as belonging to Kirsten Pace. According to the conversation on the stagecoach, it had held at least a day’s worth of tonic. Mr. Pace had taken it all in a single gulp. How many doses did it hold? Four? Five? Could it be that simply taking that much in one swig was enough to kill him? I shall have to ask Mrs. Pace how often she takes it and how far apart the doses should be. If she is at the concert tonight, perhaps I can talk with her.
Could he have simply died of some sudden heart ailment? In Leadville, it certainly happened. Young men and old, the rarefied air could send an otherwise healthy man keeling over with nary a peep. It seemed the luck of the draw, sometimes, that did it.
Inez tipped the top of the bottle toward her. The wax on the top of the cork was a bit darker than that on the side, perhaps, she thought, due to dirt. Or bootblack of some kind. She thought back on the valise it had been pulled from. Perhaps some of Ayer’s Cherry Pectoral had dripped onto it. She rubbed the top of the cork with her thumb, but the color seemed to be in the wax itself. She set the bottle aside to consider what else she knew.
Assuming for a moment that the fatal dose was for Mrs. Pace, what reason could anyone want to have her sicken and die?
She was against her husband investing in Manitou. Investing in the Mountain Springs House. Would someone take offense at that? And if so, who?
Who was “invested” in the Mountain Springs House’s success?
As far as she knew, there were three: owner Franklin Lewis, physician Aurelius Prochazka, and manager Terrance Epperley.
Could there be others?
Inez thought of her own business dealings. There was the backroom deal she’d crafted with Madam Flo. The grubstakes she’d invested with various Leadville prospectors, in hopes of sharing the wealth of a lucky strike. Some of these deals were public, others she chose to play close to the vest. It could be the same at the Mountain Springs House, she decided. There could be public investors and private investors. Men who, behind the scenes, were gambling on the rise of the hotel’s fame and fortune. It made sense, given Dr. Prochazka’s reputation and the region’s claim on health through its mineral waters and various treatments.
Of course, having the hotel’s patients die as a result of partaking of its medicinal cures would be very bad for business and for the physician’s reputation. So, if Mrs. Pace’s tonic was poisoned, could it have been with the aim of casting the hotel and its attendant physician into disgrace? In which case, any competing hotel or physician who harbored murderous tendencies could have bribed someone at the Mountain Springs House.
Inez shook her head, realizing that her Machiavellian thinking was taking her in circles. She wished that she could put out that she was interested in investing in the hotel and generate some interest. But, as Epperley had pointed out, no one in Manitou, where she was not well known—except by ex-pat British wastrels and drunks, apparently—would take her, a woman, seriously.
Ah, if only I were a man!
What she needed, she thought, was a male shill. Someone who would be willing, or who she could persuade, to play the part of a potential investor in Mountain Springs House. Someone wealthy, or at least able to convincingly portray a wealthy nob. Someone people would instinctively trust, someone good at getting people to confide. Someone who was skilled at reading people and their motives. Someone who could charm men and women alike. Someone a tad deceitful. Someone who could bluff with the best, and improvise when necessary. Someone like…
Mark.
Chapter Twenty-one
Damnation!
Inez slammed the small bottle down in frustration, then hastily picked it up again and examined the glass bottom closely, to be sure the force hadn’t cracked it. Satisfied the vial was intact, she set it down gently to one side.
Elbow on the table, chin in palm, she tried to come up with other possible confederates. It had to be a man, one she could trust to be “on her side.” Casting an inward eye over the ranks of men from Leadville, she plucked first one and then another from the lineup for consideration.
Abe?
Abe Jackson, part owner of the Silver Queen Saloon, along with the Stannerts, was more than a business partner. He and Mark had met during the Civil War and teamed up at war’s end with the common aim of “making a fortune” in the war-torn Eastern seaboard. Once Mark and Inez eloped, they had traveled together, eventually settling in Leadville at the beginning of its silver rush. Inez regarded Abe as a friend and a confidante, although they had their moments when they were at odds. But she would trust him with her life. He could be as wily as Mark, given the right circumstances.
But these were not the right circumstances. Much as she would like to obtain Abe’s help, she knew it would be impossible, for several reasons. His wife was about to give birth any day. Even more to the point, a colored man—no matter that he was born free and came with a fat bank account—would not be welcome to sit at this particular table.
Jed Elliston?
He was a newspaperman, and hint of a local business scandal could bring him on the run. He had helped her in the past. However, a “local” angle was necessary to gaining Elliston’s interest and compliance. As far as Inez could ascertain, the current situation in Manitou had no Leadville ties. Too, Elliston was understaffed at the newspaper and had his hands full just keeping up with Leadville’s doings.
Doc?
Doc Cramer had several variables in his favor. He was a physician, so could perhaps worm his way into the closed medical establishment in Manitou. He was familiar with Dr. William Bell and General William Palmer from the War, so that was another plus. He was her family physician and had not only seen William into the world, but had brought all his medical skills to bear on keeping William alive and breathing through the first harrowing winter of his small life. If Doc thought she or William were in danger, he’d come in a heartbeat. But. Doc was, to put it bluntly, a lousy liar, and too fond of good brandy and friendly conversation to be trusted with an underhanded scheme such as the one she was planning. One glass of brandy too many, and he’d invariably say something that would tip their hand.
It was no use. Mentally riffling through the cards she’d been dealt, Inez realized she only had one on which to pin her hopes:
Mark.
If it was a poker hand, she would have folded and walked away. But there was far more at stake in this game than mere money.
She sighed. Resigned. Turning to the small bedside stand, she extracted a pencil and stationery embossed with The Mountain Springs House at the top, and began drafting a telegram.
***
At dinner, Harmony, true to her word, arranged for Inez to sit apart from Aunt Agnes. Agnes and Inez shared Dr. Zuckerman as a dining companion, who all in all was more interested in conversing with Harmony’s husband, Jonathan, across the table than with either of his dining companions. Rebuffed in her attempts to flirt with the physician, Agnes turned her attentions to young Robert Calder on her left, taking occasion to shoot an occasional pointed and disapproving glance at Inez.
Inez cast back over the day, trying to come up with something she might have done that would put Agnes in a tiff. Several events came to mind, but none that her aunt could conceivably have known about. Inez resigned herself, certain that Agnes would eventually reveal what displeased her, and probably sooner rather than later.
Partway through the stultifying dinner—oyster soup, baked pickerel, boiled tongue, roast leg of mutton, banana fritters, stewed tomatoes, chicken salad en mayonnaise, and blackberry pie—Inez became aware of the conversation between the Dr. Zuckerman and Jonathan DuChamps. It was an eerie echo of the “hard sell” she had often overheard between a huckster and a possible investor. Only, whereas in Leadville the talk focused on silver, mines, and ass
ays, here in Manitou it was of consumption, mineral waters, and cures.
“What of the Duket cure? The Salisbury Plan?” Jonathan inquired, leaning intently over the table. “I’ve heard they both show great promise.”
“Oh, cures abound,” Zuckerman pronounced. “Duket is nothing but flimflam and humbuggery. ‘Relentless greed sets the trap and death is partner in the enterprise.’ That was said by some observant fellow or other. I’d not give the Duket so-called cure a second glance. As for Salisbury plans, Dr. Salisbury believes that food is the agent of tremendous power that causes consumption.” Zuckerman leaned forward in emphasis. Inez feared for his pampered beard should it stray into the stewed tomatoes.
He continued, “The treatment, in a nutshell, is based on the idea of removing the cause by ridding the blood and tissues of the presence of the yeast by starving it out. He also advocates wearing flannel and daily riding. Salisbury states if the directions are followed faithfully, consumption in all its stages becomes a curable disease.” He raised a finger. “Note that he does not say he cures, but the disease becomes amenable to treatment.”
Harmony, sitting across from Inez and listening with anxious eyes, laid a hand on Jonathan’s sleeve. “Perhaps,” she said sweetly, “this is not conversation for the dinner table.”
“Oh, sorry, my dear, of course,” said Jonathan hastily.
“Actually,” said Inez, “I find the conversation fascinating.” She turned to the doctor. “I would be curious to know, since you are obviously a man eminent in the field,” she could have sworn his chest beneath the carpet of beard puffed like a pigeon, “just how is one to tell the truth from the lies?”
He smoothed the beard down over his dinner jacket and said, “An excellent question. The simple answer is, ‘Find a reputable physician and accept his guidance in the matter.’ Aside from that, I would add that nostrums, in particular, can be dangerous. I had heard of one containing a large proportion of kerosene and a smaller proportion of turpentine, and a small amount of aromatic oil. It would make a better furniture polish than a remedy.”
“So, you are saying that nostrums, tonics,” Inez cast a glance at Nurse Crowson, who was off to one side of the room arranging her array of small bottles, “are useless?”
“Not at all, not at all. Excellent progress is being made with the use of injections of medications, most primarily mercury salts, Lugol’s Solution, and carbolic acid. Why, Dr. Prochazka’s work is an excellent example of current day thinking. He has combined the healthful mineral waters of the springs here in Manitou with various elements to produce what I believe is a tonic of unparalleled medicinal virtues. Dr. Prochazka is a visionary, a scientist. Consider the success of his prescriptions, his medicines, his regimens, and the work he is doing on phthsis. It is absolutely extraordinary. Look to the numbers, dear lady, look to the cures! I myself have made the study of tuberculosis my life’s work. I have examined the results here at the Mountain Springs House and am completely committed to Dr. Prochazka’s methods.”
After copious amounts of coffee to offset the heavy food and conversation, Inez rose with the rest of the party and said her goodnight to the physician. As she started toward the door, Aunt Agnes caught up with her and said, sotto voce, “Inez. I understand you were pawing through stable debris this afternoon. Perhaps this is an activity in which ladies indulge in Leadville, but I assure you, it does not reflect well on you or us here in Manitou. Please be mindful that some of these guests are of the first water. Any idiosyncrasy could find its way into the general milieu, and who knows how far it could travel.”
“Aunt Agnes, I believe the event you speak of has been misconstrued. I merely went to the livery to see if something I had dropped in the stagecoach had turned up. That is all.”
For all the good her explanation did, Inez might have whistled into the wind. Agnes merely plunged on. “Where were you this afternoon? You all came back from your walk, and you disappeared. I was rounding up players for my tableaux vivants for tomorrow evening. I had thought you would be perfect for a particular part I had in mind, but it’s too late now. Too bad, for it would have been an excellent opportunity for you to redeem yourself.”
They were well out the dining room now. Some of the diners drifted toward the porch, while others moved to the stairs or the music room. As the music room entrance loomed before them, Agnes’ grip on Inez’s elbow became more vise-like and she inquired, in a louder, honeyed voice, “You will be joining us for the concert, will you not, dear niece?”
Inez took hold of Agnes’ hand and removed it from her arm. “Of course, dear aunt. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. But first, I have business at the front desk. I shall be there presently.”
Inez moved to the reception desk, resisting the urge to rub her aching elbow. Mr. Lewis was behind the counter. While he retrieved a room key for a nanny and her fussy charge, Inez stared at the two bucks mounted on the back wall, either side of a wall clock. She counted twelve points on the one to the left; thirteen on the one to the right. The clock ticked. The baby whimpered in the nanny’s arms. The taxidermied deer stared back at Inez, glassy-eyed.
She tapped idly on the counter with the folded paper she had labored over before dinner, and considered what she was about to set into motion. Like the mechanism of gears and springs in the wall clock, once the telegram was out of her hands, she would have no choice but to move forward until events wound down to their conclusion, whatever that may be.
The nanny sent on her way, Lewis finally directed his attention to Inez. She asked, “Is it possible to send a telegram tonight to Leadville?”
“Why, of course, madam. We have blanks here. Would you like to fill one out now?”
“Please.”
He pulled out a blank form and handed it to her, pushing the pen and ink bottle toward her. She unfolded the paper that held her carefully crafted words and copied them onto the form. After waving the form in the air to dry the ink, she handed it to Lewis.
“I’ll see to this personally.” Lewis took the paper from her with a small bow.
It could not have played out better if she’d planned it. “Thank you so much,” she gushed. “I would hate to miss the concert.” She then added, as if in afterthought, “Would you please cast an eye over the message and make certain it’s readable?”
Lewis stopped in the act of folding the form and said, “Why of course.” His gaze lowered to the paper.
She knew all the words there by heart, having chosen them carefully, deliberately. They unrolled in her mind as she watched him scan the message:
Dearest Husband,
Make haste to the Mountain Springs House soonest. The weather is perfect, the investment opportunities unparalleled. I eagerly await your arrival.
Fondest regards, Your Loving Wife
She was pleased to see his eyebrows rise fractionally and a shadow of a smile tug at one corner of his mouth. “All perfectly legible. You have lovely penmanship, Mrs. Stannert.” He folded the form, tucked it into his coat jacket and turned to an idle doorman, motioning him to stand behind the counter. “I shall take this to the Manitou House myself, where they have a telegraph office, and have it sent immédiatement.” He cleared his throat. “Forgive me if I am being forward, but is Mr. Stannert looking for business opportunities in Manitou?”
She beamed, having no need to invent her delight with his question. “Indeed he is, Mr. Lewis. Mr. Stannert has been keen on this region for a while now. He asked me to let him know if I thought it worth his while to explore the possibilities here.” She batted her eyes. “I’m honored that he would trust me with such a weighty task. I suppose I flatter myself that he values my feminine opinion in such things.”
She detected a new spark of interest in Lewis’ eyes. Encouraged, she added, “I immediately saw what an absolutely first-class establishment you have here in the Mountain Springs House. I have also been hearing wonderful things about Dr. Prochazka and his clinic. I would not be fulfilling my duty as
a good helpmeet if I did not encourage him to come as soon as possible.”
Lewis was nodding solemnly, head moving up and down in rhythm to the tick-tick-tick of the small pendulum in the wall clock behind him. “You are a most astute woman, Mrs. Stannert. Thank you so much for your kind words. We shall be very happy to show Mr. Stannert around and answer any and all questions he may have. I, too, believe the Mountain Springs House has a bright, bright future.”
Inez beamed some more and fluttered her fan to relieve the warmth rising to her cheeks. Mr. Lewis has taken the bait—hook, line, and sinker. Mark will be able to reel him in without trouble, and we shall see if he has any secrets worth knowing.
She just hoped that Mark would recognize and remember their old code, from years past. Words ending with “–est” indicated a situation existed that had the opportunity for financial gain, if they played their cards right. Repeated three times meant that the opportunity required moving in the highest circles of society—In essence, “Bring your best clothes and manners.” Remarks about the weather provided the time frame and urgency. “Perfect weather” indicated that the opportunity existed now, and there was no time to waste. She just hoped that he did not take “dearest husband,” “fondest regards” and “loving wife” at face value. If he does, I’ll straighten him out once he arrives.
Chapter Twenty-two
The music had already begun. Indeed, while standing at the reception desk, Inez had been partly aware of an enthusiastic rendition of the overture to Herold’s Zampa swelling from the music room. After concluding her business with Lewis, she hurried into the room. She surveyed the backs of the audience for Mrs. Pace. The young widow sat at the far end of the last row, accompanied by an open chair. Behind her, Mrs. Crowson stood attentively, hands folded on top of an invalid chair holding a young woman, wraithlike in her thinness and wrapped in a heavy shawl. Inez wondered briefly at the absence of Mr. Travers. Inez spotted Susan Carothers, dressed in a rose-colored summer gown she’d not seen before, sitting next to Robert Calder in the front row. Inez suppressed a smile as their heads leaned together over a shared program.