Auraria: A Novel (23 page)

This shrub had five or six sheep-fruit hanging from it, and they were very disturbed about the presence of another—a twisted, half-rotten thing that had clung to the vine for too long. The better sheep-fruit bleated and whined, clucked and snuffled. They made such a fuss that it was a wonder anyone could pass by and not act. Holtzclaw grabbed the rotten fruit at the top and yanked. It came free easily; there was not much strength left in its stem.

The demeanor of the other fruit changed. The offender was no longer in the realm of their senses, which did not extend beyond the shoots and leaves of the shrub. One of the fruit purred like a cat. Others gently rocked on their vines, mewing.

“What are you going to do with that?” A boy at Holtzclaw’s elbow gestured to the rotten fruit that he held.

“With this awful thing?” said Holtzclaw. “Throw it into the woods.”

“Let me have it.”

“Why? Are you going to smear it in your sister’s hair? Put it on the school matron’s stool?”

“I’m going to put it up as preserves.”

“Come now. You can think of a better lie than marmalade.”

“It’s not a lie,” said the boy. “Chop it up fine, then put it up with some wood berries. Sweet. Old folks like it too.”

“Do the ripe ones taste better than the rotting?”

“I’ve never tasted the ripe ones. They go on pleading and bleating right up until you stew them up in butter and even a little past. Sometimes they moan on the plate. Other boys will eat them, but not me. I don’t want to kill an innocent creature.”

“You’d kill a chicken,” said Holtzclaw.

“A chicken has wings—it could have flown. It has claws and a beak—it could have fought back. A sheep-fruit is helpless. That’s why I only eat the rotten ones. They don’t suffer.”

“Well, even if it isn’t true, it is good enough to earn your prize. Have it.”

The boy pressed the narrow end of the fruit between his fingers. A brownish softness oozed from a hole in the skin. The boy got it on the side of his finger and put it into his mouth. “Tastes like relief.”

#

“I’ve already put the fire out,” said Abigail as Holtzclaw entered the dining room of the Old Rock Falls. “I don’t have any food for you.”

“No biscuits or stew or fried meats?”

“Nothing warm,” she said. “I suppose you could pluck one of the sheep-fruit and have it on bread.”

“I’d prefer not. How about a glass of claret?”

“Our supplier hasn’t made the run since the railroad construction started. He can make a better wage running chuck up to the crews, which leaves us short on certain vital commodities, like claret.”

“I can speak to Shadburn about that. He does not want the town to be in want. We could award a small subsidy for deliveries to you and other townsfolk to stay competitive with the other enterprises cropping up.”

“My hero,” said Abigail. “A small subsidy to the rescue.”

“It would only be temporary, and the permanent solution is on the horizon. When the railroad is running, you will have access to such an array of goods as you’ve never seen before, and at better prices too.”

“When the railroad is running, the Old Rock Falls will be drowned,” said Abigail.

“There is a site uphill ready for your new construction,” said Holtzclaw.

“Do you think my guests would be so ready to move? Would Mr. Bad Thing settle into a new home? He was so accustomed to this place that even death could not separate him from his routine.”

“I have become a bit of an old hat at persuading ghosts to relocate. Just this morning, I ate mushrooms with the leader of the dead. I took her by the hand, and we walked together. I could speak with Mr. Bad Thing and any of the others that are reluctant to exchange their old haunt for a new one.”

The piano, which had been softly tinkling in the background of their conversation, ceased.

“He’s not interested,” said Abigail. “Was there something I could help you with, Holtzclaw? Something related to business?”

The piano started again with a new tune: a loose interpretation of the Song of Parting. One could hardly expect the same sort of performance from a haunted piano and from the shell of the Great and Harmless and Invincible Terrapin. Now that Holtzclaw knew the origin of the tune, it leapt out from his memory. Mr. Bad Thing had played it every time he’d come in to the Old Rock Falls. Boys had whistled it on the street as he walked by. The rain tapping on leaves had echoed its rhythm.

“I do have a proposition, Ms. Thompson. Of a business nature. I hadn’t planned on offering it just yet. But, to be frank, I could use an ally at the moment. A friend, even. Sometimes, it feels like everyone is against me.”

“No one could really be against you, Holtzclaw. You’ve got all the money. You can buy all the allies that you need. How do you think you’ll buy me?”

Holtzclaw had not sat down at a table, as he’d envisioned. He was still standing, hat in hand. “You know that the centerpiece of this project is a hotel, yes?” he said.

“That’s a blasted fool thing to say. Of course I know. I’ve been to all the meetings. I’ve heard you and Shadburn sing its glories.”

Holtzclaw swallowed fitfully, his preamble in pieces. “I thought, that is, Shadburn and I, on reflection, thought it would be right and proper to honor local traditions within that hotel. We would have local lumber, local stone. A taproom that is the spitting image of the Old Rock Falls, even. Your bar and floorboards and tables. Hulen’s stool. The row of mugs and photographs on the wall.”

“Wouldn’t your fine guests want something more plush and luxurious than my old, sorry artifacts?”

“There can be two dining rooms,” said Holtzclaw. “One will have crushed velvet and brass finials, and one will have a piano for Mr. Bad Thing to play any tune he wishes.”

“Ah, so the fine people wouldn’t have to see Auraria if they didn’t deign to. And what if the occasional shadow came unfixed and flew about the room? What would your guests think of that?”

“They would call it character,” said Holtzclaw. “They might even enjoy it.”

Abigail acknowledged no interest.

“Of course,” continued Holtzclaw, “to ensure the success of the whole operation, we would need an experienced hotel manager. You would be my top choice for such a post.”

“Not Lizzie Rathbun?” said Abigail.

“The kind of establishment she keeps is out of line with the expectations of my employer and his anticipated clientele. I sincerely feel that you would keep a better and more proper reign on this property.”

Abigail removed some copper mugs from a wash basin where they had been soaking. There was the faintest flicker of a smile on her face. “You’d sound less awkward if the hotel had a name,” she said.

“It does not as of yet.”

“You can’t make one up?”

“No, I wouldn’t venture. What would you call it?”

“The Auraria Hotel,” said Abigail.

“Well, whatever it will be, you would have the advantage of a regular salary.”

“As long as there are any guests,” said Abigail.

“The hotel is bound to succeed,” said Holtzclaw, offering the party line. “Shadburn is at the helm, and he has yet to fail on any project that I have known. He has a Midas touch.”

Abigail laughed. “He is turning us to gold, is he? I thought he wanted to turn the gold into anything else.”

Chapter Fourteen

The Song of Parting started up again, and Holtzclaw could extract only the vaguest of commitments from Abigail. Still unfed and dissatisfied, he stepped out of the Old Rock Falls; the sky was clouded with an even, featureless gray that promised rain. While rain was not unusual, the princess often neglected the clouds and made drizzle fall from the clear blue sky. The clouds were reassuring; they promised a natural rain.

At the Grayson House, there were no fiddlers, no festivities, no poppy rocks, but there was some food. The chuck-luck wheel was still. At a few tables, men rolled dice. The bone cubes tiptoed along the tables to the gentle tune of coins.

“Hey there, Jimmy,” said Emmett. “Life treating you all right?”

Normally, Holtzclaw did not relish talking with the garrulous druggist. But in his present state, he was happy for any company. Holtzclaw joined him at the bar, placed his money on the spot in the table, and then turned his back on it, as he’d been taught. “Too much work to do to waste time with complaining.”

“That’s me too, friend,” said Emmett. “I have scads of fiddly bottles to move up the mountain. Got to wrap them all up so they don’t bust. Just this morning, I knocked over a couple by accident when I was pulling them from the shelves. Some of them spilled on the floor and got mixed up. Then there was a purple cloud, and I woke up two hours later. There’s time lost.”

Holtzclaw glanced back to the bar counter and was relieved to see, at last, a plate of food put before him. He tucked in to the reddish brown stew and parsed the flavors of rich meat, caramelized onions, good measures of salt and pepper and woodland spices, and, happily, no mushrooms.

“Will you tell me what am I eating here, Emmett, or is it better to enjoy it in ignorance?”

“It’s groundhog stew. Not real groundhog. Can’t get real groundhog right now. The blasting and hammering up on the ridge scares them away. Sampson’s had to make do with imitation ground hog. It’s beef with extra fat. He puts in all the right spices, and that makes the stew taste right.” Emmett reached into Holtzclaw’s bowl and extracted a gravy-soaked leaf. “You don’t want to eat this whole.”

“What is it?”

“They call it cut-gut, turkey pea, or goat’s rue. It’s got three names because people can’t decide if it’s good for you or not. I keep some at the shop. A few folks will come in and want it for the shivering fits, dropsy, the vapors, chronic bubo, the squirting johnnies, or spider kiss. The rest want it for groundhog stew. But I’m an apothecary, not a greengrocer!”

Holtzclaw ate shovelfuls until he found the bottom of the bowl; then he sopped up the remainder of the stew with torn pieces of bread. He wondered if this dish could be exported from Auraria. In flavor, it could stand with the best of city cuisine, but Holtzclaw doubted it could survive a change of atmosphere. A bowl of groundhog stew served in a mountain tavern is a very different dish than
a
ragout de marmott
e
served in a china bowl to a wheezing aristocrat.

The lady of the house, Lizzie Rathbun, entered from the kitchen. Her hair was up and her sleeves were rolled to her elbows.

“Ms. Rathbun,” said Emmett, shocked, “are you staffing the kitchen today?”

“Goodness, no,” said Ms. Rathbun. “I was only passing through. Why, Holtzclaw, it’s a pleasure to see you. You’ve been scampering all over the Lost Creek Valley like a squirrel trying to keep his brains out of the pudding.”

“Enchanted, Ms. Rathbun, I’m sure,” said Holtzclaw.

“Do you know, Holtzclaw, there’s a matter you could help me with. Something related to business. May I invite you for a conversation?”

Emmett’s face, for the first time that evening, cracked into a broad smile. “Say no more, Jimmy! I release you.” He scooped up his bowl and found a chair near the dice game, casting a sly glance back at Holtzclaw.

“Do you think Emmett there is the most discreet of your customers?” said Holtzclaw, a little perturbed, yet feeling more flattered.

“If your reputation is going to suffer a tarnish, you may as well deserve it and claim your few minutes in the pleasure of my company. You may find it profitable.”

Ms. Rathbun’s rooms occupied the highest story of the Grayson House. Her private stair and corridor were not shared with any of the guest rooms. At the top of her landing was a fine wooden table, likely French, on which stood a painted vase, decidedly not French. It had two large loop handles that fancifully doubled as ears and applied clay decorations that represented bulging eyes, a bulbous nose, and a thin-lipped but toothy grin. A bouquet of flowers in pinks and purples stuck out of its head.

“Do you like it?” said Ms. Rathbun. “One of the mountain men gave it to my father in payment for medical services rendered.”

“It’s charming, in a rustic way,” said Holtzclaw. “What kind of flowers are they?”

“Oh, beautiful ones. I don’t collect them. For all I know, they grow from this fellow’s head.”

Ms. Rathbun opened a set of double-doors into a long room. One end was set for dressing and conversation, and here Ms. Rathbun bade Holtzclaw to take a seat. The other end of the room held her nighttime furniture. A large bed, as wide as it was long, was guarded by four posts and veiled by white gossamer. From a hook on the wall hung a silk sleeping gown.

Ms. Rathbun did not sit beside Holtzclaw. She sat down in front of a large mirror, facing away from him. From a silver ewer, she poured a measure of water into a silver basin.

“What sort of water is that?” said Holtzclaw.

“The wet kind,” said Ms. Rathbun.

“Yes, but I mean which of your local springs is it drawn from?”

“All the water comes from the same mountain. Some of it leaks from rocks, some of it flows down the hillside, some of it comes from upriver. It all mixes and mingles and flows out through the cascade, and then the people below us do not care a whit where it came from.”