Leaden Skies (24 page)
The banquet lasted until nearly dawn. Inez had the reverend drop her off at home.
Splashing water on her face, she noted the overcast nature of the lightening Sunday morning sky through the bedroom window. The banquet clothes and fine jewelry came off and she replaced her best corset with one that was worn and lightly-laced. Finally, she slid with a sigh into a well-worn walking dress and ancient boots.
If I’m heading to Chicken Hill, I need to be prepared to walk.
It was just after daybreak when she tapped on the back door of the Silver Queen and called, “Bridgette? It’s me, Mrs. Stannert. Don’t shoot.”
Inez knew that, when Bridgette was at the saloon alone in the early mornings, she tended to have the shotgun near to hand, just in case some drunk tried to jimmy a door, with an eye to obtaining shelter or additional liquid reinforcement.
The door creaked open. Bridgette, with a full apron, flour in her hair, and, sure enough, shotgun in one hand, stood aside and let Inez in.
“Why, ma’am. I wasn’t sure I’d see you this morning. I understand the banqueting and speeches went on nearly ’til dawn. I thought you’d be catching a small nap before going to church.” Bridgette paused, looking at Inez’s ancient dress doubtfully. “You
are
going to church, aren’t you, ma’am?”
“It all depends,” hedged Inez. “Actually, I have a very important question to ask you. You know many of the folks who live on Chicken Hill, don’t you?”
“Well, not all. Those in the parish, certainly, and those who have been there a while. After all Mister O’Malley was one of the first to stake a claim in California Gulch, God rest his soul.” She dabbed at an eye with a corner of her apron, leaving a floury smudge behind. “And of course, I know those who want to make themselves known in one way or another.”
“As I said, you know many, if not most, of the Chicken Hill folk.” Inez perched on the edge of the table, careful to avoid the rolled out sheet of biscuit dough, exhibiting neat and systematic holes stamped out with the biscuit cutter.
“And I know I asked you once about a family named Thomas, with a girl named Zel,” she continued. “I have more information now. Can you think of a family with no mother, a daughter supporting an invalid father and two young brothers, perhaps twins? The daughter would probably not be around much. Possibly nicknamed Zel or Zelda or some such.”
Bridgette stared. “Why bless my soul, ma’am. It sounds like you’re talking about Preacher Thatcher and his three children, Zelpha, Zeke, and Zed. But those boys aren’t children. Why, they’re in here all the time. They are muckers at Silver Mountain. They made that big strike late last year and sold out to Mr. Gallagher, remember? Oh my, they tore up the town right proper. Then, when all the money was gone, in comes the father and sister. Sad story. Why, I took pity on that poor family—those two boys are worse than useless, I always thought so—and would bring them supper on occasion. The girl, Zelpha, is such a pretty little thing. I thought for certain she’d find some handsome young man up on the hill or somewhere in town. But I think she found some position in town. She’s seldom home, you’re right. And when she is, well, they keep to themselves. You know Preacher Thatcher? Blind as can be, more’s the pity. Tends to go on about politics and the Lord and so on. Not of the faith, but I can appreciate his sincerity.”
“Zelpha, Zeke, Zed. Yes! I do believe you’ve hit it, Bridgette!” Inez cut her off, afraid that Bridgette would rattle all day if the least encouraged. “You’re a wonder! Now, I don’t want to take another moment of your time. We are so appreciative of you coming in today, I feel guilty for taking up so much time gabbling. Where do the Thatchers live?”
Bridgette bustled around and found a scrap of paper and a pencil. “Why, I’ll draw you a map, ma’am. Chicken Hill is not laid out in streets and alleys, you know. But they’re not far from where I live. Here, I’ll show you.”
***
Inez stopped outside the disreputable-looking shack, eyeing it dubiously while she caught her breath. In the interest of speed, she had hailed a passing hack on Harrison and had paid the driver well to take her as far up Chicken Hill as possible. The Thatchers, it turned out, lived close to the top. Inez took a deep breath, thinking on what she knew about the twins. Since yesterday was payday, they’d probably been out drinking all night. So she would have the drop on them in terms of surprise. All she needed to do was ask them about their sister and observe their reactions closely. Inez felt certain they would tell her what she wanted to know, one way or another.
Inez knocked on the door. The rattle shook the flimsy porch.
Silence.
She knocked again.
Finally there was some stumbling and swearing from inside. The door swung open. Zeke stood there, swaying slightly, holding a sawed-off shotgun and wearing pants paired with an under-vest.
“Zeke. I haven’t much time. Where’s Zelpha?” Inez had decided that the direct attack was best. If she could take him off guard, he was bound to give something away, through word or action.
Sure enough, his reddened eyes darted to the side before centering and fixing again, somewhat blearily, on Inez. “Mrs. Stannert? What the hell you doin’ here? What’s this ’bout Zelpha?”
“I know she’s been accused of Lizzie’s murder,” she said. “I know she was working as a typesetter before she disappeared. Listen, she’s the only one who can untangle a whole mess of problems. I need to talk to her. She’s still here, isn’t she? She hasn’t taken the train and left town, I hope?”
As she expected, Zeke’s gaze shifted briefly to the right again and back. He took the bait she offered. “Hell, ya know the mess she’s in, a’course she left town. We gave her the money and sent her out on the train to Denver.”
He stared stubbornly at her.
She stared back.
Liar.
“Well, then, do you know where she’s staying? Can you get a message to her?”
Zeke tried to look crafty. “For a fee, I suppose so.”
I should have known.
Inez dug in a pocket and extracted a gold dollar piece. “Tell her that I must talk to her. It has to do with the business at Flo’s place. I believe she didn’t kill Lizzie, and I think I know how the murderer got into the room. Finally, she has something of great importance that belongs to the newspaper. It needs to be returned. She’ll understand.”
“Zelpha’s no thief!” Brotherly ire was aroused.
“I never said she was,” said Inez gently. “I’m trying to help. That’s all.”
Zeke broke eye contact, hawked, and spat off to the side.
Recognizing signs that the conversation was over, Inez said, “I’ve got to get back to the saloon. Please, the sooner you get the message to her, the better for everyone. Zelpha included.”
Inez turned and started picking her way down the slope, doing her best to avoid the offal and garbage strewn about. She turned the corner of a path that wound around one shabby residence, sheltered in a small pocket of scruffy pine, and stopped. She counted to five, crossed in front of the cabin, and made her way around the other side before peeking around the corner.
Sure enough, there stood Zeke, still in his pants and grey woolen top, staring at the path she’d taken down. After a minute longer, he disappeared inside. Inez settled herself down to wait, hoping that it wouldn’t take long. She allowed her eyes to wander in the direction of Zeke’s sidelong glances. A withered tree, no more than a stump. Another shack, residence or possible outbuilding, it was hard to say. Beyond that slumped an abandoned, half-dismantled headframe.
She didn’t have to wait long.
Zeke reappeared. He carried a tin lunch bucket and what looked like a canteen slung over one shoulder. He paused in the increasing morning light, looking around. Then, with a furtive hitch to his shoulders, he headed to the right, just as Inez surmised he might. He passed her first guess, the outbuilding, and kept going to the second, the abandoned mine shaft. He whistled the first bars of “Closer to Thee,” before climbing down the shaft on what must have been a ladder.
Inez nodded to herself.
Now I know the signal. So I just need to figure out a way to get down without arousing suspicion.
She glanced at the nearby clothesline. There hung a gigantic pair of overalls that, with the cuffs rolled, just might work.
The good Lord is smiling on me today.
Inez tugged the worn overalls off the line and slipped them on, stuffing her long skirts into the ample torso and cinching the straps up tight.
Zeke was up and out of the shaft before she was finished with her toilet.
She watched as he returned to the homestead without lunch bucket or canteen.
After a few minutes, he reappeared, this time with the kind of floppy sombrero favored by prospectors, and headed down the hill at a fast clip.
Good. Looks like he’s headed to town. That should give me some time.
It began to rain, large drops, widely spaced. But the dark lowering sky promised that this was just the beginning of a major downpour.
Inez scanned the back of the dwelling, hoping for another miracle. Sure enough, another hat—not exactly like Zeke’s but wide-brimmed and nondescript enough—hung on a peg. She removed her old bonnet, set it on a stump, placed the floppy men’s hat on her head, and immediately understood why it was relegated to outside: the odor of skunk hung unmistakably about it at those close quarters. Stifling an impulse to take it off and throw it to the ground, Inez hastened up to the shaft. There was no ladder. It looked, for all purposes, completely deserted.
But I saw him climb down.
She took a deep breath and, trying for the same key as Zeke, whistled. The lyrics rose unbidden along with the tune. “Let me come closer to Thee, Lord Jesus. Oh, closer day by day…”
She waited, unsure whether there might be an answer. Sure enough, a soft whistle echoed from below. “Let me lean harder on Thee, Lord Jesus. Yes, harder, all the way.”
A rickety ladder appeared up out of the shaft and settled against the dirt-packed wall. Inez turned inward and started down, gripping the rungs tightly, hoping the light from outside was dim enough to hide details and bright enough to cast her figure into deep shadow. She prayed that overalls and hat, along with the exchange of signals, would be enough to lull Zelpha into a sense of security. She also prayed that, if her disguise wasn’t good enough to last until she could get to the bottom of the ladder, that Zelpha wasn’t armed with a gun.
The shaft was only about fifteen feet deep, and Inez was about seven feet from the ground when she heard a young woman behind her say with sisterly impatience, “Okay Zeke, what’d’ya forget now? I knew I shoulda written down the message for Mrs. Stannert. Okay, like I said, go tell Mrs. Stannert that I’ll talk to her, if’n—”
Inez jumped the last few feet to the ground and said, “You can tell me yourself, Zelpha,” and removed her hat.
Zelda jumped back, out of the circle of light delivered by the shaft. “Shit! What’re you doin’ here?”
Inez caught the gleam of wide eyes, and something else. Something that looked like the blade of a knife. Inez held out her hands, open, empty, and unthreatening.
“Zelpha. Zel. Zelda. Miss Thatcher. Miss Thomas. I’m here to help. We must talk.”
“I’m not gonna go to jail. I didn’t kill Lizzie.” The knife didn’t waver.
“I know. But someone did. And I think I know how.” She briefly described the tunnel that joined Lynch’s saloon to the brothel and Doc’s observations about the violence of Lizzie’s death wound and the smell of chloroform. “So you see, someone could have gotten in, when you weren’t looking. Someone who knew about the passage and frequents the saloon next door. Someone who could have set it up with Molly to put Lizzie in Flo’s room, then snuck in, knocked you out with the chloroform, did what he meant to do, and left, leaving you with the knife in the locked room.”
Zelda had set her knife down on the hard-packed dirt. She sat on a large rock and covered her eyes with her hands. Inez noticed that several blankets and a pillow were in a jumble in the deep shadows.
“What am I going t’ do?” Zelda cried.
“Trust me.” Inez said this as persuasively and gently as possible. “Is there anything you remember about that night? Anything you saw or heard that will help me help you?”
Zelda looked up. “The man came up behind me. I’m sure it was a man. He was strong, and his hands…” She shivered. “It was a man, I’d swear.”
“Yes, go on.”
“Well, he had a cloth with something sweet smelling on it. Made me dizzy, then knocked me out cold.”
“That was the chloroform.”
“There’s one more thing.” She hesitated. “But I gotta have you swear. Swear on the Bible. Swear on your mother’s grave. If’n I give this to you, I want something in exchange.”
“What? Money? A ticket out of town?”
“Two tickets out of town. For me an’ my beau. Takin’ us as far West as we can get. Out of Colorado, for sure. To Nevada or Californy.”
“Done. My mother’s still alive, but I give you my word.”
“You kin give the tickets to Zeke this afternoon. Zeke seems like a fool and been known to act like one. But he’s changed some, now that I’m in trouble. He’s taking good care of me and Pa. He’ll come after you and kill you if anything happens to me or you back out. And if’n you give him the tickets, he’ll bring ’em right to me. He wants to see me safe, too.”
“I promise.”
Zelda held up something. A small necklace of delicate links interspersed with small, white beads, and a cross dangling from it.
“This came off the man who kilt Lizzie. It caught on the shawl while I was fightin’ with him. Can’t say exactly what it is, but it’s his. Unless he stole it, of course.”
Inez held out her hand, palm up, waiting.
After a moment’s hesitation, Zelda draped it across her fingers. Inez squinted at it in the dim light. “Something religious, I’d say.”
“I’ve seen some folk on Chicken Hill with these. But they carry them in their pockets, not around their necks. I can’t rightly say what it is. Go look at the back, in the light.”
Inez moved to the light, turned the small cross over, and read: “To Abigail, First Communion. 1877.”