Weeping Angel (6 page)

“Yeah, Charley mentioned she was his dancing girl. Stole his cash and ran off.”

Pap nodded. “And took a Bible salesman with her. Caused quite a scandal, too.”

“I'm disappointed in you, Pap. You've been hunting down gossip like that gaggle of matrons who honk in the churchyard after Sunday services.”

“A man's got to learn all there is to know about a woman before he makes his move in the flock.”

Frank narrowed his eyes skeptically. “Who are you fixing to make a move on?”

“I've had my eyes on someone.” Pap unfolded the fall board on the piano keys to keep the dust off them. “In fact, she's part of the disgrace with the book and Bible salesman.”

“How so? Silver Starlight ran off,” Frank noted, not
particularly getting caught up in the hearsay, but went along for lack of anything else to talk about.

“She did. With the salesman—Jonas Pray.” Pap began to take down the fly traps one by one from the broad-beam rafters. He lifted the conical covers from wire cylinders and dumped the flies onto the floor. “It was the salesman who left Miss Marshall high and dry.”

The woman's name made Frank frown. He'd been trying to forget about her all evening, but that forlorn look of hers had periodically popped into his mind—predominantly when he'd been appreciating the songs Pap heralded from the upright. “What does she have to do with any of this?” Frank asked, not certain he wanted to know.

“She was set on marrying Pray until he ran off.”

Frank took a moment to absorb what Pap was telling him. He didn't like it. He didn't want to feel any sorrier for her than he already did. Having sentimental feelings for a woman was bad news, and he made it a practice to write himself out of the headline. Then Pap's meaning dawned on Frank, and he snapped his head toward his friend. “You're fixing to go after the piano teacher?”

“That fanciful notion has crossed my mind more than once, so I've decided to act on it.”

“No shit?” Frank smoked his cheroot a minute. “Damn,” he muttered and lifted his brows. “Well . . . damn. I'm not anyone to stand in your way, Pap, but I've seen warmer women in this town. When Miss Marshall walks, I can hear the ice cracking off her skirts.”

“I've never noticed.” Pap removed the last fly trap and broke into a leisurely smile. “But I have noticed how pretty she is. Haven't you?”

“No,” Frank replied too quickly. But he had noticed—less than twenty-four hours ago. He'd
thought she dressed like a mail-order catalog on foot, but with nice features to go with the rigid trimming.

A sappy expression lit Pap's face. “Her hair is shiny brown. Kinda matches the color of Cobb Weather-wax's mule. She has velvety skin with no freckles. Probably uses store-bought toilet soap. And her lips look made for kissing.”

“Jesus, Pap,” Frank choked. “What's the matter with you?”

“Nothing. I've just been thinking. I'm going to be forty this year, and it's time I find myself a wife. Me and Miss Marshall have a lot in common.”

Frank said sarcastically, “You don't have hair the color of Cobb's mule, and frankly, your skin looks sun-weathered.”

Pap put an empty fly trap back on its hook. “I know I'm nothing exceptional, but Miss Marshall needs someone. Especially after you took her piano.”

Frank jerked his legs off the table, his boots thumping onto the floor. “That's a line of bull. I didn't steal the piano from her.” He ground his cheroot under his heel. “And who the hell are you to talk? You've been drooling ever since you got that upright out of the crate. Guilt hasn't stopped you from playing it non-stop for the past nine hours.”

“Who said anything about guilt?”

“You did.”

“No I didn't. I don't have anything to feel guilty about. I didn't take the piano away from her.” Pap walked toward a tall cupboard in the corner. “But you must be feeling guilty since you brought it up.”

“I didn't bring it up.”

“Well, you must have felt some kind of remorse, else you wouldn't have said she could use this one.”

“I was trying to be accommodating,” Frank insisted, unable to cover his annoyance. “She looked like she was going to cry.”

“I hope you don't have a call to make her want to cry again, Frank, now that you know my intentions.”

“I . . . hell. Yeah, right.” Frank went for his glass, then remembered the mug was empty. He considered pouring a second Hennessy, but he'd set his limit on one per night. Any man surrounded by liquor for a living could easily suffer from bottle fever, so he never swilled on the job. An evening cognac quenched his thirst, and an occasional beer tasted too good to resist with his breakfast-lunch when the afternoon heat took him two hours to blow a cup of coffee cool.

Though Pap had riled Frank, he wasn't going to break his self-imposed rule. Besides, he wasn't feeling guilty about Miss Amelia Marshall. He'd nearly succeeded in not giving her a second thought—until Pap had decided to make an issue out of her. Amelia Marshall's troubles weren't his concern. The town had temporarily rectified the piano company's mistake, and he had made allowances for her.

“I'm a student of musicology,” came Pap's steady voice, his words drawing Frank from his thoughts. “It's our common thread—Miss Marshall's and mine. We both play the piano.” Pap took a broom from the cupboard and began to sweep the dirty sawdust into neat piles. “Tell me, Frank, can you read sheet music and draw a treble clef?”

Frank stood with agitation. “No, but I can read the top of a bullet box and draw a Smith and Wesson No. 3 revolver. I suggest you button your lip on the subject of Miss Marshall, or I'll be forced into proving my reading and drawing skills.”

Pap laughed without interrupting his sweeping.

Frank went behind the bar, dunked his mug into a round tub of cold dishwater, then headed for the swinging front doors. “I'm locking up.” He put his hand in his trouser pocket and felt for the Yale key he kept on a silver ring. Then he remembered he'd taken it off to give to Amelia. Feeling inexplicably short-changed,
he ran his fingers through his hair. “Hey, Pap, give me your spare key.”

Pap set the broom handle against a table. “What happened to yours?”

“I gave mine to your wife-to-be.”

Pap's eyes held a faint glint of humor as he said, “You better not be planning any funny stuff with her, Frank.”

“I'm not planning on doing anything with her,” Frank replied as he took the key from Pap.

Frank strode through the saloon's entrance, stepped outside onto the boardwalk, and put his hand on one of the seven-foot doors he closed over his fancy ones. Leaning into the roughened wood wall, he pondered Pap's choice of words.
Funny stuff with her
. Frank hadn't counted on making a running commitment to Miss Marshall when he'd given her the key to the Moon Rock, but that's exactly what he'd done. How the hell was he going to deal with her taking over his domain every afternoon with a barrage of kids?

He hadn't really thought things through at the time, and too late after the fact, he realized he'd be keeping close company with a woman whose glance seemed to be accusingly cold, but he still found her attractive. To complicate matters, Pap had gotten the foolhardy notion into his head she was the girl for him. Any trifling Frank would have tried with Miss Marshall was now off limits.

Moving one of the heavy doors into place, Frank slipped a long rod into a hole in the plank and contemplated the situation. He was a mixologist and supposed to be a native philosopher. He knew how to listen for hours to endless monologues and be an impartial umpire of wagers and disputes, as well as a peacemaker, never an egger-on. He solved the drinkers' problems of heart and mind, or at least pretended to. He never discussed religion or politics, but stuck to sex and sports.

He got along with most everyone. He and Pap had never had a major disagreement, and not under any condition had they fought over a woman. They never would because Frank's attention wasn't engaged on the passionless Miss Marshall. So he had no problem to solve. No astute advice to offer himself.

Why, then, did his barroom wisdom fail to convince him otherwise?

*  *  *

Amelia held on to the key with a black ribbon she'd tied through the hole, in lieu of a ring. Self-conscious, she looked over her shoulder to check if anyone watched her. She'd waited until noon to come to the Moon Rock Saloon, praying all of Weeping Angel sat at their tables eating their lunches.

Swallowing her apprehension, she fit the brass key into the lock. Her fingers trembled so, she couldn't keep a firm grasp on it. She pulled her right glove off and stuffed the fingers into her waistband.

She grabbed the knob and pulled the tall door outward as quietly and as quickly as she could. A showy swinging partition blocked her way, and she had to push on the beveled glass to get inside. Though the afternoon was bright and sunny, the interior was dim, at best, and as suffocating as a hothouse. The air smelled of stale smoke, liquor, and sweaty men. She shivered and tried not to breathe too deeply.

With the door at her back partially open, she couldn't see the details of the interior clearly. She didn't want to imagine what it had looked like when Silver Starlight had been in this very room. But she was helpless to stop the flood of memories from assailing her. She was ashamed to admit she'd been taken advantage of by her trusting nature and had since set about building a new life for herself.

Holding her petit point music bag with one hand, Amelia took a tentative step, her eyes wide, as she
tried to adjust to the murky shadows. She walked toward a long counter to her left, passing numerous hardwood tables where chairs had been stacked upside down on the tops. The floorboards beneath her feet had been swept clean.

She ran her hand along the edge of the counter, surprised to find the surface had been waxed. She couldn't see well at all and felt around for a box of matches or a lamp. Coming up short, she bit her lower lip.

Setting her bag down, she went behind the counter to look. Feeling around the shelf, she lifted a box and held it toward the meager stream of sunlight to read the label.
Old Virginia Cheroots
. She hadn't found matches; she'd found vile cigars. Putting them back, she continued to forage through Frank Brody's things. She hated spying on him. He should have left her a lamp and matches in plain view. Instead, she had to degrade herself in such a manner as to plow through his personal belongings. Her hand touched a hard square shape.

Something fell down and metallic rolling sounds invaded the narrow space. Lifting her head, she waited for Mr. Brody to come busting in on her and demand to know what she was doing. Knowing he occupied the room off the saloon made her uneasy. He was in there now . . . sprawled out on a bed . . . sleeping like the dead. As soon as she would hit the first note in her four-four time drill, she dreaded he'd wake up.

When Amelia felt along the floor, she couldn't find what had spilled. Returning to the shelf, she touched a narrow barrel of steel like a plumber's pipe. She inched her fingers across a fluted piece of metal, hook and handle, then froze.

“Oh, dear me,” she whispered, and jolted her arm away from the revolver. Tears gathered in her eyes and
she was on the verge of crying. How had this happened to her? Being in the Moon Rock was going to dredge up her disgrace all over again. She was an upstanding woman with morals and principles, not some dance-hall girl who felt comfortable in this sort of setting.

To her annoyance, Amelia concluded Silver Starlight would have known where to find a lamp.

Perspiration dampened Amelia's face and she felt flushed. The room's stuffiness threatened her with an attack of the vapors. She took several cleansing breaths, trying not to choke on the odious smells. It simply wouldn't do to swoon and have herself be found prostrate by Frank Brody. The shame would ruin her from ever coming back. And it had taken her two days to get this far.

Feeling slightly better, Amelia forced herself to look one more time and was successful in finding matches. She struck one and walked with the fuzzy light until she found a kerosene lamp on the bar. After removing the globe and turning up the wick, she put the flame on the burner and the saloon came to life.

She could see clearly now. Everything.

Amelia didn't pause to make an assessment. Rather, she headed straight for the door posthaste and closed it. Afterward, she leaned against the jamb and viewed the room detail by detail.

Behind the carved bar, a great mirror shone gloriously, and at its base, at least fifty cut-glass decanters were filled with warm hues of liquid. Never before had she seen such an array of glasses, or such vivid colors, or such huge carved and polished pillars and beams, or such enormous vessels of brass as the spittoons.

She rested her gaze on the numerous wooden cubbies composing the framework for the mirror. Curios and ornate pearl-shaped light globes filled most of them. She lightly studied the bric-a-brac, then saw the infamous, fist-sized rock—the one Mr. Brody touted
to Weeping Angel as being documented by a German geologist as coming from the moon.

Three signs hung on the wall behind the bar.

Biggest 100 Beer In Town

In God we trust—all others pay cash.

Anyone Violating the Rules Will Be Shot

There were only a smattering of gilt-framed oils depicting patriotic and sportive themes. Her vivid imagination had always conjured Dante-esque illustrations ablaze with decadence and lascivious oleographs portraying naked women in abandoned poses.

Viewing the grandeur, her hellfire and brimstone pictures vanished, and she forgot to wonder about shootings and stabbings. Overhead, six-branched chandeliers with crystal prisms caught the soft light of the lantern and made rainbow patterns. Through the sea of upturned chair legs, a gleaming black brilliance against the wall beckoned.