Silver Lies (44 page)

Justice.
The glasses lined up on the shelf, touching lip to lip. "Reverend Sands will be by later."

"Hmmph." Abe’s footsteps approached and stopped.

She turned her head. "What?" At that level all she could see were the knees of his brown worsted pants and his brown boots.

His voice drifted down to her. "Thought you’d be on first-name basis with your reverend by now. After the dance and all."

And all.

Inez suddenly felt warm all over—her wrists, the back of her neck, behind her knees. She rearranged the glasses, staggering the line to make space for the last ones. "Where’s Useless? Today, of all days. We need his help if we’re going to be ready for New Year’s."

"Sorry, sorry," Useless’ apologetic voice fumbled in from the kitchen. "Sorry I’m late. I can finish that inventory, Mr. Jackson. Or I can do the storeroom, if you haven’t yet. Jeez, it’s storming out there."

Inez popped her head above the counter. "You look terrible. Are you all right?"

He ducked his head, pulling his hat down. "Yes’m." His face looked frozen and raw. He snuffled and pulled the threadbare muffler tight about his neck, glancing back toward the kitchen.

"Don’t get sick on us." Inez picked up the empty tray. "Mrs. Rose has had a terrible accident. I’ll be taking care of her son. So, you can’t count on me for a while, particularly nights."

His head swiveled toward the kitchen. "That her boy?" His head swiveled back. "Jeez. I didn’t know she had a kid." His complexion mottled, like meat turned bad. "What, uh, happened to her?" His ungloved hands twisted in the muffler. Fresh scabs oozed on his knuckles.

"I can’t talk about it. But someone will pay. If the law doesn’t see to it…" She gripped the edges of the metal tray until they bit into her fingers. "I will."

"Now, Inez, leave the shotgun under the counter and let the marshal do what he was hired to do." Abe moved to unlock the front door. Early customers filtered in, along with the weak afternoon light.

Inez lost herself in the routine of taking orders, pouring drinks, accepting money, making change, making small talk. Her half-trance and Useless’ increased bumbling caused more colliding behind the bar than usual. Abe finally sent Useless to the wholesale liquor dealer to place an order and extract a promise of next-day delivery. Inez checked the kitchen frequently to see how Joey was doing.

Late afternoon, Inez exited the kitchen from another brief foray and almost bumped into Abe, who was looking for her. "Marshal’s here, Inez. Wants to talk with you."

She removed her apron, smoothed her hair, and scanned the crowded saloon room. Marshal Hollis slouched by the bar, pants and coat crusted with snow, small icicles hanging from his frozen mustache. He clutched a tumbler in his hand, a bottle of Red Dog at his elbow.

"We can talk in the office, Marshal Hollis." She led the way upstairs, posture as erect as if she was escorting him to the family drawing room.

Once in the office, Hollis threw himself onto the small sofa without waiting for her to sit. He gulped down half the tumbler of Red Dog and cradled the glass as if the high thermal power of the remaining firewater could warm his hands through the soaked gloves.

She sat in the office chair and waited. She didn’t have to wait long.

"You think I’m stupid, don’t ya."

Startled, she narrowed her eyes and said nothing.

He banged the glass down on the end table. "Stupid and crooked. I seen it on your face, every time I open my mouth. Waall, don’t think that your friends in high places are gonna pull you or Jackson outta the fire, if you-all turn out to be the ones I’m after."

Her mouth dropped open.

He leaned back, fingers intertwined over his rough sheepskin vest. His coat and pant hems dripped onto the rug. "I know all about the coney from Saturday last. And I know about you sniffin’ around after Joe Rose’s dee-mise, in his office, the bank, the Recorder’s Office. You won’t back off. Waall, maybe what happened to Miz Rose is a dee-rect result of your meddlin’."

"How dare you!" Inez half rose from her chair.

"Siddown." He stretched out his legs. His coat fell open further, revealing a Colt .45, holstered for a cross-draw and only inches from his laced fingers.

She sat down.

"I haven’t figured it all out yet," he continued. "But I know the coney’s part of it. Old Harry, he and his buddies want the town cleaned up, but they won’t listen to me, especially now that they got an ‘expert’ in town." He glared. Furious, excluded. "Gallagher thinks it’s all your husband’s and that nigger’s doin’, that you’ve been duped. Not me. Wouldn’t surprise me to find out you’re in it deeper than pig shit in a wallow. You’re a piece of work, Miz Stannert." His contempt was clear as rainwater. "Actin’ so proper when you and that
reverend
—" He stopped, jaw working. He looked around, stood, walked over to the spittoon, and spat. "He don’t look so lily-white to me neither."

He returned to the sofa and sat, removing his wet gloves and squeezing them in one hand. Dirty water ran down his fingers and dripped onto the rug. "I’m here to make you a deal. I don’t like it, but I’ve been told to." His green eyes locked onto her. "Tell me who’s in the coney racket. What Joe Rose did for them. What he got that everyone’s so all-fired eager to get their hands on now, and what you’re lookin’ for. Tell me about that blackleg husband of yours and Jackson. You talk to me, right now, and you don’t get charged."

She was stunned beyond belief. Nearly beyond response. "My husband has been missing for months! I had nothing to do with the counterfeit. How dare you make these accusations? And what do you mean about Joe?"

"You deny bein’ involved?"

"Deny it? It’s preposterous! You can’t arrest me. For what? On what proof?"

"Okay. You had your chance." Hollis heaved himself out of the seat and towered over her, hooking his thumbs over his gun belt. "I’m lookin’ for a murderer and a coney ring. I’m sayin’, official-like, I want you and Jackson to sit tight. Not that this blizzard gives you any choice. You leave town, I’ll take it as a right-straight admission of guilt. And I’ll hunt you, Jackson, and that no-account Mark Stannert—wherever he is—to the Colorado state line." He tipped his hat, heavy on the sarcasm. "I can find my way out."

Inez remained in the office, staring at the half-empty tumbler of whiskey by the sofa. The marshal’s defrosting outerclothes had left wet spots on the velvet upholstery and the braided rug.

He must know about Abe and Mark’s past. If Hollis and Cooke know, so do others. Abe’s right, someone’s stacked the deck against us. Joe in with a coney ring? How absurd! Harry’s behind this, that’s clear. And what did Hollis mean by an ‘expert’?

She couldn’t bring it together. But this much was clear: She and Abe were under suspicion. Marshal Hollis thought Mark was still alive. And someone was looking for something.

Someone who’d searched Joe’s office and the bank, nailed a rat to the Roses’ house, and searched Emma’s belongings.

They found it or didn’t, and Emma showed up at the wrong time. Is Harry after the same thing? Is that why he bought Joe’s office, why he’s so close-mouthed about his dealings with Joe and Emma?

She grabbed Abe’s arm, stopping him mid-pour. "We’ve got to talk."

"Inez—" The front door swung open. A group of miners entered, heavy bootsteps shaking the planks. "Shift’s changin’. It’s gonna be hell for the next hour or so. Useless not back from errands. It’ll have to wait."

One of the group halted before Inez and Abe and tossed a folded newspaper on the countertop. A Cornish lilt underlined his words: "Mrs. Stannert. Are you the lady what gave Gallagher the devil evening last?"

Intense brown eyes quizzed her from a face still streaked with gray, glittering dust. The speaker tapped the folded newspaper, the grime of long hours underground leaving a smudged fingerprint on the printed page. She picked up
The Independent
and swiftly scanned the indicated column. An elaborate description of the Silver Soiree including food, music, and who was and wasn’t there flowed on and on in Jed Elliston’s trademark turgid prose. The smudge marked two overlong sentences, twelve narrow lines of small type:

"The magic strains of Strauss’ waltz apparently did not succeed in soothing at least one savage breast as this reporter observed a subdued, yet heated exchange on the dance floor between a well-known State Street saloon proprietor of the feminine persuasion and Silver Mountain owner H. C.

Gallagher. The exchange culminated in said proprietor abandoning said owner mid-twirl, leaving him bereft of dancing companion and stewing in his own juices amid the many couples dipping and turning to the joyous musical circumlocutions of the orchestra."

Inez dropped the paper. Not happy.
Harry must be livid. Why did Jed do this?

The answer came to her, as clear as the remembered rhythm of the waltz:
Revenge. For the browbeating Harry gave him before Christmas
.

The speaker swung around to his mates. "Told you ’twas Mrs. Stannert. Had to be her or that other." He jerked his thumb downstreet toward Cat DuBois’ saloon and parlor house. He faced Inez again. "My money was on you. You seem the type to outstare the devil." He gazed over her shoulder. "I hear you’re selling faces on the wall."

Not one miner had come forward to buy a drink. A tenseness about the group radiated like ripples on a pond. The noise level in the saloon gradually decreased as others became aware of the conversation.

Inez nodded. "Ten dollars a face. Interested?"

"Maybe. But not for me." He set his tin lunch bucket on the counter and leaned forward. His posture said, "This is just between us." But his voice reached to the corners of the room. "How much to put old Harry’s face on Satan?"

Inez drew back.

He pursued. "You need someone for the Devil. Who better than Gallagher? A man who grows rich off the sweat of those who toil in his workings. A man who won’t pay a living wage or agree to a reasonable shift." His voice rose. "Four dollars a day wouldn’t make a dent in his pockets. An eight-hour shift is only human. But then, old Harry isn’t the human sort, is he." He winked at Inez, conspirator to conspirator.

Suddenly, she recognized him. She recalled the accusations of the Silver Mountain militiamen:
Agitator. Organizer.

Inez looked down at the newspaper. The idea of painting Harry as the Great Deceiver was unbelievably seductive. "I don’t believe Mr. Gallagher would sit for the portrait."

One of the other miners spoke up. "I’ve seen his likeness at the Carbonate City Bank. In that new painting of the money men. The picture’s done by the same jack-a-dandy that’s workin’ on this one."

Harry and the Carbonate City Bank. She stepped through the facts carefully, as if they might blow up and bury her.
So, Harry owns my bank. He owns Joe’s business. He owns the marshal and half the town. And, if he could, he’d own my soul and the souls of these men as well.