Fatal as a Fallen Woman (6 page)

Before her marriage to William Torrence, Elmira had worked in the hotel her parents' owned. She'd never talked much about those years, but she had once told Diana that it had not been an easy life and that she'd hated the drudgery of it almost as much as she'd later hated taking in laundry.  

"Let me take you to one of the hostelries on hotel row, Diana. You don't want to stay here."

"Yes, I do. This is my mother's home." She couldn't quite keep the resentment out of her voice. "For now, it will be mine."

Reluctantly, Matt helped her down and unloaded the hatbox and Gladstone bag, the gripsack, and the tweed bag. Juggling all four, he followed her up the steps to the front door.

She expected a lobby. Instead, she found herself in a small entrance hall, more like the vestibule of a private home than a hotel reception area. Access to the rest of the building was blocked by a large oak kneehole desk positioned in front of the inner door.

"May I help you?" asked the tall, slender young woman seated behind it. She addressed Matt, ignoring Diana. Plainly dressed and with hair the unfortunate color of Mississippi mud, her very ordinary face was made even more nondescript by the addition of a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles.

Matt cleared his throat. "Well, that is—"

Diana caught Matt's arm to keep him from saying more. The instincts she'd honed during nearly two years of writing for the
Independent Intelligencer
were screaming that there was something decidedly odd about this hotel. Although she intended to identify herself as Elmira Torrence's daughter eventually, she had a feeling she might learn more if she did not announce that fact just yet.

"I require a room for an indefinite stay," she said instead.

"We have no rooms available."

"I understood this was a hotel. The Elmira?"

"The Elmira is a
boarding
house and we have eight young ladies already in residence. There are no vacancies."

"A young ladies' boarding house?" As Diana repeated the words, her uneasiness grew. She'd gotten a second wind at Matt's house and felt reasonably sure she was not letting her imagination run away from her. She might be overtired, but she wasn't naive. She had traveled with actors. She had a knowledge of the world most "ladies" lacked.

Both "hotel" and "boarding house" often meant something else entirely, especially when they were located on a street one block away from and parallel to the main street of a frontier town. They'd crossed Larimer, brightly lit with electric arc lights. That meant this was Holladay Street. Diana briefly closed her eyes. Some called it "the Row."

A burst of bawdy feminine laughter from the far side of the inner door had her eyes popping open again.

"You've come to the wrong place," the young woman said as she circled the desk to stand in front of Matt and Diana. "You'd best leave now."

Diana drew in a strengthening breath, surprised when she detected the scent of lemon furniture polish with a faint undercurrent of ammonia. She'd expected to smell cheap scent and stale tobacco smoke.

"No, not in Elmira Torrence's house," she murmured, amused in spite of herself. Her mother had always had a passion for cleanliness . . . and an intense disdain for any sort of perfume.

"My name is Diana Torrence Spaulding," she told the desk clerk. "I am Elmira's daughter."

She took advantage of the young woman's astonishment to slip past the desk and follow the sound of voices. They led her to a large, well-lit drawing room where six "boarders," dressed in elaborate, low-cut ball gowns, clustered around a grand piano. A very large, very ugly man picked out the tune of "Greensleeves" with one hand. In the other he held a foaming glass of beer.

If there had been any question in Diana's mind before, the box on the bench beside the piano player dispelled it. Carefully lettered on the outside were the words "Feed the Kitty." These were all professionals here, dedicated to earning a living for themselves and for the owner of this "hotel."

Chest tight, throat threatening to close again, Diana swallowed hard and advanced into a room that, in most respects, had the appearance of a well-kept parlor in a gentleman's home. Spacious and well-appointed, it offered visitors two bird's-eye maple love seats and numerous comfortable chairs, stools, and ottomans. The crystal chandelier cast its beams on an Oriental rug covering most of the parquetry floor and revealed that, in winter, the room was heated by a tiled, coal-burning fireplace with a heavy ornamental cast-iron fire screen. A framed, diamond-dust mirror hung above the carved walnut mantelpiece. Reflected in it was the sideboard against the opposite wall, well-stocked with liquor bottles and glasses, beer and champagne.

The giant rose from the piano bench. "You don't belong in here, miss."

"She says she does, professor." Face paste-white, eyes haunted, the desk clerk stood framed in the doorway. "She says she's Elmira's daughter."

"I
am
Elmira's daughter, and I've come back to Denver to help her."

A skeptical silence settled over the assembled company. They were a study in contrasts, Diana thought, as her gaze traveled from face to face and, inevitably, given the way these women were dressed, from body to body. The one nearest to her wore her honey-colored mane twisted high on her head and had what could only be described as an hourglass figure. Another, a plump brunette decked out in frilly pink, glared at Diana with the coldest eyes she'd ever seen. Diana looked away, directly into the grinning countenance of a saucy female with a strawberry birthmark that covered most of the left side of her neck.

"Tell her to go away, Jane," said a girl whose face was dominated by an enormous nose. When no one else spoke up to support her suggestion, she flounced off to sit on a tapestry-covered footstool, pulled up the satin hem of her green gown, and retied the garter holding up her green and yellow striped stockings.

 She
was
just a girl, Diana thought in dismay, though she couldn't guess the exact age. None of them could be a day over twenty-five and most were probably far younger.

The piano player resumed his seat and began to play softly. The familiar notes of "Buffalo Gals" were the only sounds in the room besides the rustle of taffeta, satin, and silk.

Diana realized she had clasped her hands over her elbows and was all but hugging herself. She loosened her grip, but was suddenly very glad Matt had followed her into the drawing room.

The burly "professor" probably acted as a bouncer as well as an entertainer, nor would she give much for her chances if the two remaining women decided they wanted to get rid of her. The first was tall, with a horsey face. From the look of her shoulders and upper arms, she possessed the kind of strength farm girls develop at an early age. The last of the boarders was a pretty redhead, although the shade was far too bright to be natural. She balanced on the balls of her feet, halfway into a classic prize-fighter's stance, and looked ready to defend herself with her fists. Ill prepared for pugilistic feats, Diana tried a tentative smile instead.

"Elmira never mentioned having a daughter." The challenge in the redhead's voice made Diana bristle.

Temper drove away trepidation and had her answering back before she could think better of it. "We haven't seen each other for nearly six years."

"Can you prove you're who you say you are?" The soft-spoken question came from the young woman who'd been addressed as Jane. The desk clerk's plain attire made her stand out like a weed among brightly colored flowers, but she was clearly the one with authority.

Diana supposed the request made sense. It was not unheard of for a criminal to read about someone else's misfortune in a newspaper and put forward a false claim to that person's property while he was in jail . . . or lying in the morgue.

"Well?" Jane persisted, bolder now. "Have you proof? If you can't establish your identity, you'll have to leave."

For a moment, Diana could think of nothing that would convince these people. Then she remembered what she'd tucked into the bottom of her gripsack at the last moment. She'd been about to pack it away in the Saratoga trunk when, on impulse, she'd decided to bring it with her. She'd forgotten all about it afterward, until now.

"Matt, will you fetch my luggage from the entry hall? It contains a small photograph album."

It was the one she'd carried with her to boarding school and, afterward, on the road with the acting company. Inside were likenesses of both her parents, and two of Evan. There were as yet no pictures of Ben.

With hands that embarrassed her by their clumsiness, she pawed through the bag until she touched the soft velvet cover. A few seconds later she had the album unlatched and open to a photographer's posed picture of her parents. Her father looked stiff and solemn, her mother oddly smug.

"That's Elmira all right," the horse-faced woman said. "She must be telling the truth, Jane. How else would get hold of this picture?"

Jane took the album and flipped through the pages, past youthful pictures of Diana and one of her friend Rowena Foxe. She stopped at Evan's likeness. "Handsome man."

Diana stared down at the familiar features. "My late husband." He'd have been twenty-eight now had he lived. A charming, green-eyed, yellow-haired Adonis, the perfection of his features marred only by a nose that was just a little too long and thin and lips that could purse into a disdainful sneer more cutting than words. "He was an actor."

Evan's profession seemed to win a modicum of approval from all the young women gathered around to peer over Jane's shoulder. Only the professor was studying Diana instead.

"Mrs. Spaulding has her mother's eyes." When he beamed at her, the expression transformed him from looming threat into gentle giant.

Jane's frown had deepened. She squinted at Diana through her spectacles as if weighing her in some imaginary balance. It did not appear she liked what she saw, but the sound of the front door opening finally forced her into a concession. "You may be Elmira's daughter, but I doubt there's anything you can do to help her."

"I won't know until I try. In the meantime, I need a place to stay."

Now that the swirling tension in the room had diminished, Diana felt the heaviness of her exhaustion descend upon her once more. She had no energy left to make decisions and the very thought of going farther than the closest bed tonight was unbearable.

"She can use Elmira's suite," the professor said.

Jane scowled but didn't contradict him.

"Diana, this place isn't safe."

"You think I'd let anything happen to Elmira Torrence's daughter?" The professor took a step toward Matt, fists clenched.

Heavy footfalls from the direction of the entry hall warned them that whoever had come into the Elmira had grown tired of waiting for service. The sound spurred Jane into action.

"Wait through there." She opened a door concealed as a floor-to-ceiling bookcase and shoved Matt and Diana through, tossing Diana's luggage after them. An instant after she'd slammed the portal shut, Diana heard a flurry of lively greetings and a burst of raucous laughter from the other side.

They were in a second, adjoining drawing room as richly furnished as the first, but here only one small lamp burned and there was no piano. They were also alone.

"You cannot stay here, Diana," Matt said. "Let me take you to another hotel." He cleared his throat and stared at the toes of his boots. "There's something you don't realize about the Elmira."

Diana closed her eyes for a moment, but it didn't help. Weariness and disillusionment sapped her strength. "I can and will stay here, Matt, because it belongs to my mother. And I know exactly what this place is." She looked him straight in the eye and didn't mince words. "The Elmira Hotel is a parlor house—a high-class brothel."

* * * *

"Unless you're here to tell me I may resume work, then take yourself off," Aaron grumbled. "I'm deuced tired of doing nothing."

Ben Northcote eased into the comfortably padded chair usually occupied by a nurse and stretched his legs out in front of him, flexing his ankles before he crossed them. It had been a long day, much of it spent on his feet, and it was far from over.

The man propped up against the bed pillows was Ben's brother. Aaron had been near death a mere three weeks earlier. He was still too pale but Ben was satisfied that he was on the mend.

"You might pass the time reading, or inveigle Mother into a game of cards."

"If I wanted to gamble, she'd be the last one I'd match myself against." Aaron let a beat pass. "She cheats."

The grin that overspread Ben's face felt wonderful. He hadn't smiled much for the last few days. Not since he'd received Diana's telegram and started trying to find out where she'd gone and why she hadn't contacted him again. His attempts to reach Horatio Foxe had proven futile. Diana's editor had not answered any of Ben's telegrams.

"I could manage a sketch pad. I know I could." The petulance in Aaron's voice dragged Ben's attention back to his brother.

"You wouldn't be satisfied with sketching. After an hour, you'd be out of bed, standing in front of an easel, brush in hand, so wrapped up in your painting that you'd lose all sense of time. You'd ignore fatigue and the next time I came by I'd find you unconscious on the floor. Do you want to undo all the good that bed rest has done you? Healing takes time, Aaron. If you try to do too much now, you may never fully recover."

His brother pouted. There was no other word for it. Aaron's clean-shaven cheeks puffed out and his lips compressed and it wouldn't have surprised Ben if he'd threatened to hold his breath until he got his way. "How much longer?"

"Another week." Aaron had almost died of his wounds and having stitched him up and nursed him safely past the worst of it, Ben did not want to lose him now through carelessness. "Give it seven more days, then resume work gradually. Half an hour the first day. An hour the next. And so on."

Scowling, Aaron folded his arms over the bandages beneath his nightshirt. The weight made him wince, but other than clenching his hands into fists, he did not change position. He was just stubborn enough to stay as he was, causing himself continued discomfort, until Ben left.