“Aletha, I got to tell you something.”
—and the tragic fire at the Smuggler-Union Mine the next November when twenty-eight men lost their lives. A series of avalanches at the Liberty Bell—
“And now, Mrs. Hannah, can you tell me for four hundred dollars what is the name of—”
—the dashing Bulkeley Wells, Harvard graduate, son-in-law of Colonel Thomas Livermore of Boston. Livermore owned the New England Exploration Company which in turn owned the Smuggler-Union. Wells oversaw his father-in-law’s mining interests as well as the vast Whitney holdings from his offices in Denver and fully supported Arthur Collins’s antiunion stand.
“Aletha, I lied to you about why Larry left.”
—when Arthur Collins advertised that he would rehire the scab labor on a published list of—
“Will you listen to me? This is important.”
“Why did Larry leave you?”
“Because I gave him herpes.”
—the bloodshed. Arthur Collins was murdered in his home in Pandora, a settlement with giant stamp mills in the valley below the Smuggler-Union tunnels, by a gunshot blast through the window as he—“You gave him what?”
“You heard me. That was the only breakout I’ve had since I came to Telluride and I haven’t had one since. Honest.”
Charles rolled over onto his stomach. He watched Tracy cry. His slant eyes held no trace of sympathy.
They worked the Senate that night and were invited to go to a party at Renata’s afterward. Renata lived several miles out of Telluride on a narrow mountain road with nothing but mailboxes and driveways to suggest there might be houses hidden off in the trees. Aletha found it only because Tracy had been there.
Renata greeted them at the door of a multilevel wood-and-glass thing that climbed a hillside. Where did she find the time and the sun to maintain that tan? She wore a creamy-colored backless pants outfit. Why didn’t she have goosebumps? She drew Aletha into the room, leaving Tracy to fend for herself. “And where’s Cree, do you know? I haven’t been able to get hold of him.”
“I think he wants to be alone for a while.”
“Please tell me he is not writing a book. Writers ask a lot of questions and then want to be left alone for a while. And take it from me, they are the most insipid people you’ll ever meet.”
The first floor had a sunken living room and greenhouse with a frothy hot tub. A ledge and steps separated the two. The kitchen monopolized a mezzanine and the two levels above were given over to bedrooms. The front walls were all glass. Most of the people here were in their thirties, a fair number of them pregnant. Blue jeans and designer thighs were much in evidence, especially as one got out of the other to slip into the hot tub.
Aletha watched a woman cut piles of cocaine with a razor blade into lines on a glass tray in one of the bedrooms, watched the excitement of those around her with rolled bills already in hand. The coke reminded her of Cree, of the people who had cut down his partner and might now be after him.
Renata’s wall art was art—paintings, sketches, watercolors, prints, and rather surprisingly all Western. Aletha would have expected Renata to go for something more “in.” And on the wall along the staircase leading to the kitchen was an original signed by Jared Kingman. Aletha almost spilled her wine down her front. She’d had a running fantasy in prison that her father broke in and rescued her, took her to a hideout somewhere on the desert. And she lived happily ever after keeping house for him while he painted and she never saw another living soul as long as she lived.
Aletha’s first ten years of life had been hand-to-mouth (the Phoenix Kingmans would have said squalid) but she was generally content with the long warm afternoons of the Southwest that offered hours of outdoor playtime after school, the freedom of having a working mother unable to organize them for her, and a father largely absent. She did object to the constant moving, often just ahead of the creditors. Life was a succession of rented rooms with a blanket concealing her parents’ bed from hers, meals bought from carry-out joints or snatched at restaurants and taking up most of the money not spent on rent. But it was the change in schools and friends that was hard. Aletha never overcame her terror of entering a classroom of strange faces waiting for her to do something embarrassing.
Aletha was born in Taos, a scant two months after Jared married her mother. Helen had wandered in from Missouri. She had no close family ties. Jared had been born to a family in Phoenix who rejected him because he chose the bohemian life instead of the professional career intended for him. Two drifters had drifted together. Aletha adored her father, probably because he’d done little parenting. She’d heard him referred to as a “beatnik” and a “dead-beat.” Sometimes their lodgings had television, usually a shared one in a central lobby, and Aletha had noticed that Jared wasn’t anything like the father on Leave It to Beaver. He deserted them in Tucson. It was shortly after that that Bertie Hollister began visiting Helen and life took on some changes. There was suddenly money for a real kitchen, gymnastics classes, a bicycle, an orthodontist.
Bertie was a contractor with a wife and three children. When he divorced them, he married Helen and moved her and Aletha to San Diego. He did well there. Helen changed into a matron-type like on TV and Aletha was sent to a private school where she was miserable. The polish took in some places but was superficial in others and tended to rub holes in the social fabric. She began to feel like two people. Bertie was good to her but California never felt like home and when it came time for college she opted to go back to New Mexico. But Albuquerque didn’t feel right either and Aletha realized she had no home and this unsettled her even more.
The known list of her father’s paintings was small and many had ended up with the Kingmans in Phoenix. Aletha had not seen this one, but it was typical. A picture of a peaceful pueblo, Indians going about the business of life, carrying water jugs up ladders, eating on a rooftop, children playing with dogs—all unfashionably realistic, the colors so perfect you could smell the smoke from the cooking fires. Too perfect. Except that all the human figures and even the dogs had grotesquely shortened legs. Down in the left corner a rusting automobile sat on blocks.
There was always something jarring in the idyllic scenes her father created. Maybe he’d been two people too. Helen contended he just never grew up. Helen had several of Jared’s paintings. One was a landscape with interesting shadows, cactuses, textures in the sandy earth, deserted fenceposts dragging their wires on the ground, and in the background two saguaros copulating.
Renata Winslow appeared at her side. “I hear there’s naughty stuff going on upstairs. Would that help you get in the party mood?”
“There is. It wouldn’t.”
“There’s always the hot tub. Your glass is empty. Let me get you … white wine?”
“Red.”
“You do buck the conventions, don’t you?” Renata led her to a wet bar tucked under the redwood stairs. “Hey, loosen up. We’ll just ignore what’s going on upstairs and hope there’re no undercover task forces around. What can I do? Drugs happen.” A table had appeared on the ledge between the greenhouse and living room. Pate, raw veggies, deviled eggs, spicy things in unknown wrappings, fruit, cheese, pastries.
“Catered,” Renata answered the question Aletha hadn’t asked. Aletha had been thinking of Callie just then, wondering what was happening in her world at this moment. She had the feeling that the past was happening right now just on the other side of the wall. And she wanted to erase Jared Kingman again.
“There are two things I insist we discuss.” Renata helped her fill a plate and moved her away from the lines forming at the table. “First, what’s this Cree tells me about you pulling magical tricks? Are you holding out on me? Are you connected with the film festival?”
Around gobbles of egg, sips of wine, crunches of cauliflower and broccoli dipped in herbed-yogurt goo, Aletha whispered to her employer about Callie, holes in walls, even Charles and the two filthy cowboys. Suddenly it felt good
to talk about it.
Renata folded her arms and the sheen of her hair and outfit blurred in Aletha’s eyes before Renata stared her down. “I don’t believe a word of it.”
“Of course not. What was the second thing you wanted to discuss?”
“Well, this you’d better believe. The sheriff says that Cree has an airplane at Montrose airport.”
“So? I knew that.”
“Did you know it’s full of bullet holes? Did you know that some sort of investigator from Wyoming is in town asking questions about Cree? I don’t want to get involved, Aletha, but I think Cree should be warned. If he’s not dead already.”
26
“My dear Miss Heisinger, your concern for qualifications is most laudable,” Lawyer Barada said as he led Mildred into the hotel dining room, where females were admitted in the evening only if accompanied by a gentleman. When she dined alone it was either in her suite or in a small room set aside for ladies. “But unfortunately the need is such that the town cannot afford to be quite so selective. Commercial interests here are willing to train the young and inexperienced and, in fact, prefer ladies at this stage if the ultimate goal is to enlarge the pool of marriage partners for our robust miners.” He seated her in a private booth but did not bother to draw the curtains. They were early for dinner and there were few in the dining room. He pressed a button in the wainscoting to indicate their readiness for service and a bell tinkled faintly by the entrance to the kitchen. Then he leaned back and studied her under raised white brows. “I must say employment and travel do suit you.”
Mildred lowered her eyes in modest embarrassment, rejoicing at how well she knew she looked. “I feel worn after such an extended journey and fear it shows to my disadvantage.”
“Poppycock, you look fresh as a flower in May, Miss Heisinger.” He rubbed his hands together in the gesture of a much younger man. “And I hope you’ll say you’re ready to travel again soon. The damsels you brought us yesterday have only whetted our appetites.”
“I tried calling on them this morning at the Victoria and found them gone.”
“I too thought it distressing they’d not had time to settle in and have a look at the camp before being snatched up by their employers, but they were the first batch and the need was great. I daresay you’ll see them about the shops as they’ve trained for their new duties.” He ordered for them both—vichyssoise, baked ptarmigan in sauce, vegetables in pastry, fruits fresh from the counties around, imported cheeses.
Mildred was not as impressed by the cuisine as the last time she’d dined here with Lawyer Barada. In fact, a plain stew would have sounded more appetizing. She’d eaten in so many elegant hotels since, that her hunger for rich sauces was more than sated. In the cities the dining rooms were larger than this but the somber thick carpets, the brown wainscoting that reached seven feet up the wall, and the wallpaper not much lighter above that—all were reminiscent of the dark masculine luxury that pertained to hotel dining rooms in general. When the main course arrived she said, “I rather thought I’d like to stay for a bit and perhaps look for a small house.”
“Excellent idea. I was intending to counsel that you invest some of your earnings toward a more secure future. And what better way than in the very town that provides your wages.” He set down his fork with the food still on it and raised his wineglass to her. “Really, Miss Heisinger, you surprise me. You’ve a head on your shoulders worthy of a man—although far prettier.” He chuckled a dry coughing sound and drank to her. “But let us not bother that pretty head over such matters as houses when my agent can scout about for one while you are scouting for more young females for Telluride.”
“But it would take very little time, as the town is not large and is overcrowded. There cannot be so many choices, after all. And I don’t wish to presume upon your good offices any more than I have done already.”
“Nonsense, my dear. No presumption on your part. I insist. Besides, I have contacts that you do not and can hunt out the best possible properties.”
“I don’t have the money to purchase a home at present. I thought merely to look around and determine prices, establish an account at the bank to save toward—”
“After another successful trip for the town your credit will be good in Telluride, Miss Heisinger. Which reminds me …” He slipped another bulging envelope across the table to her and raised his glass once more. “To the continuation of a fruitful partnership and to a safe and profitable journey for you. Your ticket on tomorrow’s train is included as well.”
“Tomorrow. But I’ve not had time to—”
“And time is of the essence, I’m sure you understand.” He turned as two gentlemen entered the room. “Buck? Buck Wells, you young rake, is that you?”
One of the gentlemen was more handsome than any drawing Mildred had ever seen. Tall, slim, and aristocrat-straight. From the polish on his shoes to the glossy sheen of his black hair, the perfectly matching arch of heavy brows over enormous dark eyes to the flawless bone structure and clean-shaven chin—this was a vision Mildred could not have fantasized whole even in a girlish daydream had she not first seen him as a model. “Dashing” was downright paltry for description.
“Homer, you old shyster, good to see you.” He towered above the lawyer, who’d risen to greet him, cuffed him on the shoulder and pumped his hand. His voice was a mellow, studied rumble, his consonants clipped in the Eastern fashion. “I’ve come to confer with Collins here on the redneck problem.”
“Not surprised. Terrible injustice being done in this region. But what of the Colonel? And how are Grace and the children?”
“All well and hearty. And you, sir?” And the vision turned to Mildred. “You seem always to be in good form … and company.”
Mildred glimpsed a world beyond her own pretensions and for a moment even realized them as such. She felt like a servant girl masquerading in this place, in these fine clothes, in this presence.
“Let me introduce you. Miss Mildred Heisinger, formerly a schoolmistress, presently a true friend of the camp. Mr. Bulkeley Wells, formerly of Boston, presently of Denver. Mr. Arthur Collins, formerly of England, presently manager of the fabulous Smuggler-Union.”
Mr. Collins, a sallow creature next to his companion, nodded curtly. Mr. Wells actually bowed and smiled. The misalignment of his front teeth did nothing to dispel the dazzle. But both men’s eyes followed her hand as it slipped the fat envelope off the linen tablecloth onto her lap.
“Delighted,” said Mr. Bulkeley Wells, and Mildred felt the relief of air returning to her lungs as his remarkable eyes turned back to the lawyer. “We could use your counsel this night, you old war horse.”
“Well, I have dined but I might sip a brandy while you are at your dinner. I’m sure Mildred will excuse us. My dear, do not miss your train.”
Mildred couldn’t leave the dining room fast enough, couldn’t sleep that night for the vision of hypnotic eyes and gleaming hair, for the discomfort of feeling so out of place in a world in which she thought she’d finally found a place. As she left her suite for the train the next day she met him again, coming out of the door next to hers.
“Ah, the beguiling Miss Heisinger.” Once more he bowed, this time deeper, and reached for a hand she hadn’t offered, brushed his lips across her glove. Was he trying to make more of a fool of her with his old-fashioned ways, or did people of his class still carry on in this manner? “I’m saddened to see that you’re leaving so soon upon my arrival. Perhaps another time?”
Mildred had never swooned and had no intention of beginning the silly practice, but she did feel dizzy looking up at him and decided she must be too tightly laced. He steadied her by the hand he still held and looked over her head.
“Are you Doud?” he asked someone Mildred hadn’t realized had come up behind her.
“I am, sir.”
“You’ll excuse us?” Mr. Bulkeley Wells bowed again and Mildred hurried away again, but not before she’d seen the man, Doud. He was
the ruddy gentleman determined to be a miner who’d traveled on the train to Telluride with her and her charges. She heard them talking out of sight above her as she descended the stairs.
“I’ve seen that lady before and she’s seen me. What if she talks out of turn about us meeting?”
“I shouldn’t worry, Mr. Doud. She’s leaving town for some while and women of that stripe are rarely listened to seriously.”
Mildred paused on the stairs and brought her gloved hands to hot cheeks. Women of that stripe? What could he mean by that? Surely not what came first to her own mind.
Callie O’Connell fingered the crisp paper of her letter to Bram in her apron pocket for reassurance and slipped out the front door of the New Sheridan Hotel right behind Mildred Heisinger. Miss Heisinger stepped into the livery carriage, carefully keeping her skirts from the mud. Callie set off smartly down the sidewalk as if she’d been sent on an errand. It was possible that if she hurried she could be back before she was missed, but it wasn’t likely.
It was a good while before three o’clock in the afternoon, though, and her presence on Colorado Avenue caused no startled glances. She expected something terrible to happen when she turned off into the forbidden south side of town. But all was unnaturally quiet. There seemed to be no one about but a couple of stray burros rummaging in an offal heap in the alley. Many tiny houses like the ones in Aletha’s drawing book crowded together, but there was no life about them. She could hear the train chugging at the depot and the river splashing across the tracks. Finally she found a man sweeping out the livery stable. She had to step over piles of horse dung dumped in the gutter. Flies made an awful din in the quiet here.
“Please, sir, I’m looking for my Aunt Lillian. Can you tell me where she lives? She’s fair and pretty and—”
“Lil? I think there’s a Lil at the Pick and Gad.” He pointed down the street toward the river. “But I don’t think you should be going there, lass.” He eyed her uniform. “You one of Mrs. Stollsteimer’s girls?”