The Rainbow's Foot

by Denise Dietz

  The hotel was conducted upon the European plan. With the exception of serving table d’hotel dinner to those who requested it, all meals were served à la carte. Menus covered every delicacy and offered a variety of seafood, so it was easy to follow his doctor’s instructions.

  Entertainment furnished for the guests included tennis, golf, polo and dancing. During an outdoor tennis match, an associate of Edward’s had watched Flower scamper back and forth, clothed in a white blouse and white skirt over knickerbockers. “Mrs. Lytton plays games like a delightful child,” the associate said. “But when you talk to her, you discover that she is well versed on many subjects. Your wife is witty, sympathetic, and a marvelous listener.”

  Flower might be a marvelous listener, but Ned was not! Ignoring Edward’s counsel, he’d installed Ruthie Adams in a boardinghouse. Johanna remained in Denver with Kate and the other children while Ned took up residence in Colorado Springs.

  Ned had given Ruthie a small part in the first Foibles episode. She’d played an innocent victim, gunned down during a shoot-out, but the tart couldn’t die properly. Lying on the ground, shot through the heart, she kept clutching her breast and giggling. After three takes, DuBois had called it quits.

  Laying aside his reading material, Edward stood, stretched, and walked toward his desk. He glanced at a telephone. Should he call his Denver office manager and get a quote on cotton? Perhaps he should talk to his accountant. On March third, the damnfool Congress had approved an “excess profits tax” to help pay for increased military spending.

  Last month the Selective Service Act had passed, authorizing federal conscription for the armed forces, requiring registration of all males from twenty-one to thirty years of age. Edward’s concern was for his grandson. But Steven had ten years to go before he reached the age of twenty-one, and Wilson’s war would be over by then.

  In ten years Edward would be seventy-eight. Still alive? He hoped so. Every moment with Flower was so much fun, he never wanted to die. He didn’t fear death, but it would be damned inconvenient. He smiled, anticipating his wife’s joy. He had reserved a private railway car for a trip to New York, where he and Flower would have box seats for the forty-ninth running of the Belmont Stakes. A few weeks ago they had watched the Kentucky Derby, and Flower had screamed with delight when her pick, Omar Khayyam, crossed the finish line first.

  “You see, Edward, horses with an author’s name are lucky, just like Dumas and your recent birthday gift of Hugo. Do you think the racehorse owner would be upset if I named my next horse Khayyam?”

  “I have my eye on a chestnut mare, darling girl.”

  “Then we shall call her Rubaiyat.”

  Edward planned to buy “Rubaiyat” as soon as Aguila del Oro was inhabitable. Although she performed well in Foibles, Dumas was getting old. Hugo had a sense of mischief and sometimes refused to jump fences, so the new mare would be perfect for fox hunting, his wife’s favorite sport.

  “We don’t actually chase foxes,” she had said. “If we did, I’d align myself with the Humane Society and barricade the fences. Did you see Jaygee’s latest painting, the one that celebrates the Colorado Springs Hunt?”

  “Yes. It’s a work of genius, darling girl, especially since every eye is drawn to your figure. There you are, riding on the plains east of town, your hair dripping flower petals.”

  After the hunt, Edward would join Flower, and they’d eat a breakfast that included bowls of steaming claret. Then they’d sing the traditional “Do Ye Ken John Peel” and “God Save The Queen.” Even though the hunt participants were primarily British, the gathering always added “America the Beautiful” to their repertoire, since the anthem had been written by Katherine Lee Bates from her Antlers Hotel room, following a trip to the top of Pikes Peak.

  Humming the tune, he thought about his other surprise for Flower. Shortly before their marriage she had suggested that Dollyscope hire Triangle’s John Chinook to costar in one of her movies. She’d never mentioned it again, but Edward had recently undertaken secret negotiations with Chinook. Edward had also arranged to have a new script rendered—a script lengthy enough to fill eight reels.

  The movie’s plot would be based on Flower’s dinner-party tale about the lovely betrayed woman, Minta LaRue. DuBois and Ned had thought the theme common, but common sense told Edward the theme was universal, although he had instructed the writer to alter the ending. After abandoning Minta, the hero would have a change of heart and return in time to save his beloved from flooding river waters, caused by an explosion set off by the wicked mine owner.

  Titled Heaven’s Thunder, the motion picture had every successful element. Danger. Greed. Romance. And it would be a tribute to Flower’s acting abilities.

  Edward only hoped she’d let her character accept a heroic rescue. John Chinook wouldn’t perform the part if he didn’t have equal responsibility for action scenes, and Edward knew the public would never accept the handsome actor in a subservient role. On the other hand, Flower would be playing Minta, not Flower.

  “Hello, Edward. Are you awfully busy?”

  “Not really. You look lovely, darling girl.”

  “Thank you.” Flo tossed her braids. “I’m glad you don’t object to a woman in blue jeans. They’re so comfortable. I truly believe that one day a lady will be able to wear blue jeans out in the street and not draw raised eyebrows. In nineteen fourteen, when Dorothy Gish was sixteen, she wore blue jeans to the studio. Mr. Griffith wrote a stern message to her mother, and Dorothy never did it again.”

  “Since I am your producer, you needn’t fear that will happen.”

  “I fear only for your health.”

  “Put your fears to rest, darling girl. I feel fine.”

  She tickled his chin with a braid and kissed his cheek. “Johanna is waiting downstairs.”

  “Johanna? Here?”

  “Yes. With Steven. Oh, dear, did I forget to write it on your appointment calendar?” Flo glanced down at the open book on top of Edward’s desk, where the only message read: JOHANNA AND STEVEN DUE AT NOON FOR PICNIC AT SALLY’S. Shutting the book, she said, “A carriage and driver have been hired. We’ve been invited to Turkey Creek for a picnic. It might rain, but Sally is so excited over Steven meeting Marylander, it doesn’t matter. Can you get free?”

  “I suppose I can take one afternoon off. Will Ned be joining us?”

  “No. I believe Ned’s tied up in production all day. When are you going to tell me your big secret?”

  “What secret?”

  “The new script you’ve been working on.”

  “We must not keep Johanna waiting. I’ll tell you all about it at Sally’s picnic. By the way, did you read your newest fan letter?” He strolled over to his desk. “Here it is. ‘Dear Miss Smith. You are my favorite motion picture actress. I would appreciate it so much if you would give me one of your old automobiles, any one, I don’t care how small. If you can’t, how about a horse?’ ”

  Flo laughed. “Shall we send her a small automobile?”

  “I’m sure you’d rather part with an automobile than one of your horses, darling girl.”

  * * * * *

  This damn trail was built for horses, not automobiles.

  With that thought Ned steered his canary-colored Lozier around a clump of brush, then navigated a deep rut in the road. He had purchased his vehicle after the Lozier stock car won the hundred-mile Los Angeles Motordrome race at an average speed of eighty miles an hour. Today he’d be lucky if the car managed eight miles an hour. Today he’d be lucky if Ruthie Adams managed eight minutes of coherency.

  Should he leave her by the side of the road, fodder for the rattlesnakes that basked in the sun? What sun? The sodden air felt like molasses.

  Ruthie had met him at the door, all dressed up. She said he’d promised to take her to the Cheyenne Mountain Club. Sweeping past him, she’d perched on the Lozier’s front seat, but almost immediately she’d slumped sideways, eyes shut, painted lips snoring.

&
nbsp; He’d been too drunk to carry her back inside.

  Driving aimlessly, he’d found himself heading for the mountains.

  The car hit a bump. Ruthie’s body jerked and sagged against him. Ned shoved her away.

  He shouldn’t have consumed so much whiskey, but he had to match the scriptwriter drink for drink at their luncheon meeting. Without making the scriptwriter suspicious, he had to find out what his father was up to.

  Why hadn’t Ned been told about the new movie starring Flower and John Chinook? Eight reels! The scriptwriter had confessed all, just before he lurched toward the water closet. During his absence, Ned had left the restaurant. And the unpaid bill, as well.

  Now he slanted a glance at Ruthie—his albatross.

  In the beginning it had been a coup, stealing an attractive drinking partner away from Claude DuBois. Johanna consumed mineral water. Flower rarely drank more than one glass of wine.

  Ned couldn’t tolerate being in the same room with Flower. She looked so much like Katie, it wasn’t fair. Flower would flash her smile and talk about severing diplomatic relations with Germany, and, in the same breath, bring up Sarah Bernhardt, the actress who toured the United States in Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice with an amputated leg. Flower was equally at ease chatting about the Kentucky Derby and last year’s World Series, won by the Boston Red Sox or the Brooklyn Dodgers, Ned couldn’t remember which, but Flower would tell him, along with the score.

  She had even managed to get no-gumption Steven engrossed in baseball.

  No, it wasn’t fair. Flower thrived while Katie, who had once adored baseball, built walls with alphabet blocks, dug at the floorboards with a toy shovel, and drew pictures. “Look, Daddy,” she’d once said. “I drawed a doggie on fire.”

  Ned scowled. With her golden complexion and black hair, he could easily believe Flower had a few drops of colored blood in her family tree. At least Ruthie Adams was one-hundred-percent white. However, after the disastrous Foibles episode, their relationship had changed. She’d still entertain him in bed, but now, more often than not, she was drunk when he arrived. The liquor consumption had increased her girth. Girth, hell! She was decidedly bay-windowed!

  Today Ruthie wore the same yellow dress she’d worn the night they met, inappropriate for the Cheyenne Mountain Club. Didn’t the chit know that? She said she was the daughter of a minister, for Christ’s sake.

  The Lozier swerved. Its front tire had sustained a blowout. Ned heard the whoosh of air from a second tire. Shit!

  “Are we there, Neddy?”

  “No, Ruthie. Go back to sleep.”

  “Thirsty.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Where the hell are we?”

  “In the middle of nowhere with two blown tires.”

  “I’m thirsty.”

  “Ruthie, we’re somewhere near Divide and there’s no saloon in sight.”

  “Divide . . . I’ve heard that name. Give over the flask.”

  “What flask?”

  “The one you’ve got hid under the car blanket or the one inside your jacket pocket.”

  “Go to hell! If you hadn’t slept in a drunken stupor for the last couple of hours, we wouldn’t be in this pickle.”

  “Don’t blame me, Ned. I didn’t do anything. I’m hot and thirsty and if you don’t give me a drink—”

  “Okay, okay.” To shut her up, he reached inside his pocket, handed her the silver flask, and watched her drain half its contents.

  She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “What happened to the Cheyenne Mountain Club?”

  “Unless Germany has declared war on us, I’d imagine it’s still standing.” Ned looked up at the sky, where storm clouds had gathered. A few raindrops spattered the Lozier’s windshield. “It was such a beautiful day, I decided we’d drive to Divide.”

  “Divide? I’ve heard that name.”

  “You’re so smart, Ruthie. A student of the theater and geography.”

  “Well, pardon me all to hell. I just happen to have visited a ranch in Divide. The McDonald ranch, where they threw me a big party and treated me like royalty.”

  “I don’t believe that story for one moment.”

  “It’s true.” She pushed lanky strands of hair away from her face. “I was once engaged to Tom Mix and Hartford Hoxie and—”

  “Hartford Hoxie? You’re a damned liar!”

  “Ask Claude. He directed me in a movie, Mountain Gold. I played Myrtle Steadman’s best friend. Then John Chinook took me with him to Divide.”

  “Shit! It’s raining harder.”

  “Rained then, too. I think there’s a miner’s shack nearby.”

  “Damned if you’re not right, Ruthie. I see a cabin of some sort on that rise.”

  “See? I’m no liar.”

  Ned squinted up at the sky then mopped his face with a handkerchief. “Let’s wait inside your miner’s shack until the rain stops. Then you’ll show me the way to the McDonald ranch.”

  “Why?”

  “So we can call a garage, you idiot.”

  “Neddy, wait! Get the blanket out and help me.”

  “Help yourself.” Retrieving the blanket and flask, he raced toward the cabin.

  Half the roof had fallen through. Raindrops spattered what was left of the rotting floor. A window had a broken pane. The room smelled of animal droppings, but someone had filled a crude shelf with canned goods.

  Ruthie stumbled inside. “Shouldn’t you make a fire?”

  “Me make a fire? Are you crazy?”

  “I want to die,” she wailed. “I can’t be in the movies and nobody cares. Why don’t you kill me and bury me out back? They won’t discover my body for a hundred years.”

  “That’s a fine idea.”

  She looked at him through tear-drenched eyes. “Hand over the flask.”

  “No. You’ve had too much already.”

  “All right, be that way. You’ll change your tune when I star in Dollyscope’s first comedy.”

  “You’re too fat to star in anything.”

  “I’m not fat. I’ve gained a few pounds ’cause I’m gonna have your baby.”

  “So what?” he said, his heart galloping. “It’s happened before.”

  “Really, Ned? What did Johanna say?”

  “Nothing. I sent the lady to Mexico at my expense and she got rid of it.”

  “I don’t think I’d like Mexico.”

  “Listen, Ruthie, these things happen. I’ll send you to Mexico and pay you a hundred dollars.”

  “No.”

  “How about five hundred?”

  “No. I’ll skip Johanna and go straight to the top.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your father. He’ll take care of me and his grandchild.”

  “You’re really stupid if you believe that.”

  “I’ll try anyway. What have I got to lose?”

  Ned thought about the new script and his exclusion. “I can’t marry you, Ruthie. If I divorce Johanna, I’ll lose my father’s support and we’ll both be out of the movie business.”

  “I’m going to have this baby, Ned. It’s the only thing that’ll make you behave.”

  Time, he thought. I need time to figure things out.

  “Look,” he pleaded. “I’ll pay—”

  “Yes, you’ll pay. I’m thirsty. Give over the flask.”

  “Sure, sweetheart. Are you cold? Here, wrap yourself in this fur blanket.”

  “I want a big house, like Pickfair.”

  “I’ll try to find—”

  “Wait, I’m not finished. I want my own car and a chauffeur and pretty clothes and—”

  “Your own car?”

  “I want everything she has.”

  “Mary Pickford?”

  “No. Flower Smith. Wait a minute. She didn’t say Flower. She said a different name. The girl in pink. She said she came from Cripple Creek. Not Flower Smith. Fools Gold Smith. A friend of Cat’s.”

  Ned could feel the vein
in his forehead throb. Soon it would explode and spatter his brains all over the rotting floorboards. Ruthie was babbling. He’d have to shut her up so he could think. He needed time to think.

  There was only one way to shut Ruthie up. Ned seized the blanket from her shoulders, dropped it, and lowered her gown’s bodice. He sucked at her breast while they sank to the floor.

  She giggled.

  I can handle Johanna, but if Ruthie tells Father—

  “An’ you’ll put me in a comedy, Neddy, my very own movie. I’ll show Cat McDonald and his whore, Fools Gold Smith!”

  Ned thought he heard a gasp from the direction of the open window. Maybe Ruthie had gasped. Maybe he himself had gasped. He couldn’t breathe. There had to be a solution. Edward must not know about her pregnancy.

  “I’m gonna be a moo-vie star,” she said in a singsong voice. “Put your hand between my legs. Oh, that feels good. Hey, what’cha’ doin’, Neddy?”

  What was he doing? On their own volition, his fingers had traveled up her body and wound around her neck. His thumbs pressed the pulse at the base of her throat.

  She struggled but she was whiskey-weak. Her eyes bulged, her mouth opened, her tongue fell out, and her body flopped like a grounded fish.

  Ned pressed harder, until he thought he might puncture her damnfool throat. Then he buried her behind the shack, in a hole he dug with a rusty, abandoned shovel.

  He heard the echo of her words: Why don’t you bury me out back? They won’t discover my body for a hundred years.

  It was all her fault. She had put the idea in his head.

  Twenty-three years ago he had dug a hole and found fool’s gold. Today he had dug a hole and buried a fool.

  Twenty-Eight

  The Antlers Hotel lobby usually bustled with activity, but today it was populated by the permanent orchestra, a solitary desk clerk, and a man who hadn’t signed the register yet.

  Everyone else was below, inside the billiard room or bowling alley, where telephones had been temporarily installed. Everyone else was following the progress of the World Series game between the Boston Red Sox and the Chicago Cubs.