Silver Lies (33 page)

Reverend Sands prowled through the house, checking behind doors and testing windows, while Inez prepared the tea.

"No uninvited guests." He sat on the loveseat and accepted a cup, waving away her offer of sugar. She perched on the piano stool, grateful for the warmth of the parlor stove and the hot liquid. Two globe lamps spilled light over familiar furniture and softened the reverend’s countenance. Her gaze settled on his hands, which looked strong and capable—
Capable of what?
murmured an errant inner voice—and out of place holding a delicate porcelain cup. She remembered how warm his clasp had been in the office.

The reverend set down his cup. "So. Are you going to tell me what that note’s about? No lies."

She toyed with her spoon. "I wanted Chet to put his money on the table, of course. Four aces and a fortune don’t coincide every day. I was gambling that he and Joe had some kind of agreement or that Joe grubstaked him on a prospecting trip. Either case might mean added income for Emma. I thought if I goaded him, he’d give himself away with a word or gesture. Chet said he and Joe had a gentleman’s agreement but that no money changed hands. He could be lying. Now, it’s my turn to ask a question." She watched him closely. "When did you shave off your mustache?"

He half-raised a hand to his face, then smiled ruefully. "Old habits die hard. I shaved it off right before coming to Leadville."

He’s telling the truth on that.

"My turn, Mrs. Stannert." She felt her shoulders tense. "Where did you learn to play the piano?"

She stared. "How did you know?"

"The night after Joe’s death. Remember? I came pounding on your door. I don’t think you heard me at first. But I heard you."

"Oh." She remembered:
The sonata. And my green-striped stockings.

"I know very little about music, but it seemed you played uncommonly well. Expertly, even."

"My mother taught me when I was young. Later, I had instructors."

"Your mother played piano?"

"Played is not the right word for it." Inez chose her next words carefully. "Her life moved through music." For a moment, Inez could see her, dark head bent over the piano in the conservatory at dusk, creating lyric tapestries out of her pain, her anger, her isolation.

"Moved through music." Sands considered the phrase. "Is she living?"

Inez thought of her mother’s existence with her father. "No," she said flatly. "Now, it’s my turn." She rose and went to the sideboard for brandy for her tea. Looking down at Sands, she asked, "Where did you learn so much about counterfeiting?"

He started to smooth his nonexistent mustache, then laughed and sank back against the cushions. "So I strike you as an expert?"

She kept silent, watching.

Sands shook his head and looked away. She could almost see him weighing his answer.

Is he going to lie?

Finally, his gaze returned to her. "From Frank Vintree."

"Who’s he?"

"A counterfeiter from back East. He’s in prison now." The reverend tapped his empty teacup. The porcelain sounded a small, shiny note. "Our acquaintance was short. After the War. A brief interlude during the more dissipated years of my youth. The way I view it," he smiled slightly, "I’m a better minister for having seen the dark side of human nature up close. You’ll never find me casting the first stone."

He stood and set his cup on the sideboard. "Now that I know your home is secure, I’ll rest all the better." With his back to her, he asked, "Who taught you to play poker?"

She stood also and felt her shoulder blades loosen. It was only then she realized how tense the truth-telling game had made her. "My husband, Mark. And Abe. Good teachers, both."

In the same neutral tone, Sands asked, "What kind of a man is your husband?"

She ran a finger along the ivory keys of the piano. For comfort. "He’s charming, has a way of putting everyone at ease. A good father." She heard the quaver in her voice and stopped.

Sands watched her struggle for control. He said gently, "Forgive me if I seemed to pry. I should go." He moved forward and took both her hands in his. "Bless you for using that fry pan."

He caressed her palms with his thumbs. The sensation shot to the pit of her stomach with a ferocity that took her by surprise. She felt as if the parlor were shrinking, pushing them close together. Too close.

She slowly pulled her hands away.

"No calluses to speak of. You’re no farm girl from Kansas, are you, Inez?" His voice was seductive, inviting confidences.

"You could have asked. No lies, remember?"

"I could have. I wonder what you would have said."

They seemed poised in a balance, scales nearly equal in weight, tipping ever so slightly one way, then the other.

Inez bit her lip, willing herself to silence. He finally moved away, gathering hat and gloves from the sofa. The walls of the parlor eased back.

At the door, Sands paused. "Someday, I’d like to hear what brought you to Leadville and why you stay." He adjusted his hat. "See you at morning service in a few hours. And I’m looking forward to the twenty-seventh."

999

That night, a memory stole past the guard of Inez’s consciousness, under the guise of a dream.

Early September. The end of a brief alpine summer that is more like spring. She and Harry, returning to Leadville from Twin Lakes. Harry turns off the main track, saying, "I want to show you something."

Their rig climbs through aspen forest mixed with small fir. The track opens into a grassy meadow. Waves of lupine and paintbrush ripple in the breeze. Beyond the meadow, the land dips into a view of the Arkansas Valley and distant snow-covered peaks. Her breath catches. "It’s beautiful, Harry. I wish I could stay here forever."

"Inez." Her name is a verbal caress. "That could be arranged."

Her heart thuds as he leans toward her. After their kiss, she opens her eyes to see him watching her. His eyes, which can be so cold, seem to glow with an intensity that might burn if she doesn’t look away. Without shifting his gaze, he removes his hat, sails it into the back seat of the rig. They move toward each other again.

Inez opens her eyes after the embrace to find not Harry, but Reverend Sands. He tosses a fifty-dollar bill on her lap: "You’re no better than the rest."

Inez woke, gasping.

She threw back the covers. In the pre-dawn cold, she groped her way to the washstand. Grabbing her hairbrush, she used the silver back to crack the ice sealing the water from the surface. The water stung her face, froze her fingers, but couldn’t freeze the memory. Loosened by the dream, it poured over her like glacier water.

"We’ve got to, Abe. We have no choice." Inez strode toward the Carbonate City Bank, a watchful eye on the varying elevations of the boardwalk.

"I still think we oughta sit tight on this." Abe clenched the satchel with the coins in one hand, the shotgun with the other. Inez carried the satchel with the paper money under her cloak.

They’d gone round and round about the counterfeit, Inez wanting to notify the bank as soon as it opened Monday, Abe dragging his heels. On Wednesday, he’d finally caved. Now, here they were, on the bank steps, carrying three days’ take between them, still arguing.

"Inez, suppose they check the whole deposit? Maybe there’s more of the same."

"What of it? Others saw the bogus bill. If we say nothing, we’re breaking the law. I’m not willing to go to jail for passing counterfeit."

Inez entered the bank, Abe an unhappy shadow behind her. In the bank manager’s office, she lined up bundles of paper currency on his desk. "Mr. Cooke, before we begin, Abe and I have an issue of some delicacy to discuss with you."

Cautious alarm flitted across Morris Cooke’s round face, made rounder by bushy muttonchops. "Of course, Mrs. Stannert. You and Mr. Jackson can rely on my discretion. I know your accounts were handled by Nigel. I hope nothing was amiss in that regard."

Inez pulled an envelope from the satchel and extracted the smeared bogus note. "Someone passed us a counterfeit fifty. We only discovered it when the bill became wet. Soaked with high quality brandy, actually."

Cooke withdrew a pair of small, round spectacles from a drawer and hooked them over his ears. He picked up the bill fastidiously. "When did this happen?"

"Late Saturday," said Inez. "After the poker game."

"I see." Cooke’s response was cool. The days since Sunday hung in the air. "Have you seen anything like this before?"

"No, of course not!" A touch of guilt added to Inez’s indignation. "If we had, we would have notified you, the marshal, or the proper authorities."

Cooke held up a placating hand. "I’m just trying to get an idea of the breadth of the problem." The hand lowered to the stacks of bills. "We’ll have to examine the total deposit. How much do you have, by your reckoning?"

"Eight thousand three hundred sixty. Not including that fifty," she added belatedly.

Cooke’s eyebrows popped up. "I’ve not handled your accounts in the past, but that sounds extraordinarily high."

"Big win Saturday night," said Abe shortly.

Cooke bobbed his head several times like a turtle. His chubby hands gathered the stacks together. "We’ll let you know of the outcome."

"What do you plan to do? Soak the lot in a vat of spirits?"

Cooke winced. "There are other ways. It will take time, is all." His coolness cracked into something like an apology. "Of course, we won’t be able to credit a total to your account until we’re done."

Inez sighed and looked at Abe.

Abe seemed to be studying the floorboards. But when he raised his dark eyes, Inez could see he’d been listening as carefully as herself. "Mr. Cooke. Two questions."

Cooke turned attentively to Abe.

"First, you seen evidence of any other counterfeit around town? Second, you plan on talkin’ to the Treasury or Secret Service?"

Cooke removed his glasses, and pulled out a linen square. He polished the lenses, saying, "I can’t comment on other possible activities. I’m certain you understand, Mr. Jackson." He raised watery eyes to Abe. "As for notifying the author-ities…We’ll see."