Karen Mercury (4 page)

However, she would have liked to have spent a few more moments hiding here, watching the men disrobe. The men had chosen the “fresh water” option so had to wait for their baths. For fifty cents more, a young bath attendant would fill the wooden tubs with freshly boiled water. Most of the usual oiled rowdies Fidelia saw in here didn’t care or notice the difference and just fell into whatever water happened to already be in the tubs. That the dapper man paid extra told her what she’d already suspected—he was refined and possibly had traveled in Europe.

Clutching her handfuls of cinnamon bark and fresh mint, Fidelia stayed hidden as long as she could. She was already thoroughly familiar with Spenser’s lovely body, but watching the bon vivant stirred her in new, uncomfortable ways. Of course, she hadn’t reached the decrepit age of thirty-one without knowing something of sexual desires. But normally she tried to avoid those feelings.

Even so.
Mein Gott
, this strapping fellow had a beautiful body that made her mouth water. Watching the rounded globes of his ass move as he hung up his trousers caused her muff to moisten, the lips expanding between her thighs. This was unacceptable! Angrily, Fidelia crunched the cinnamon in her fist till it crumbled, and now the nude men were moving toward each other. The masher lifted Spenser’s chin and regarded him with an odd kind of adoration she hadn’t often seen in
ein Schwuler
fellows who only wanted to bumfuck each other. That was strange. They had obviously only met a couple of hours ago.

When the bon vivant kissed Spenser, Fidelia’s knees went weak. Their jaws worked hungrily as they sucked on each other’s mouths. How could they have developed such a rapport after only a few short hours? Their meaty penises—appendages Fidelia normally didn’t pay much attention to, except with disgust—rose and swelled to knock against each other. The bon vivant clutched Spenser’s athletic ass in one broad hand, and Spenser seemed to take great pleasure in feeling the expanse of the murderer’s full, well-developed chest. She couldn’t imagine these two satyrs going hard at it without exploding in a vortex of debauched male energy.

Perhaps she could get Spenser to help her find out more about this savage deviant. She didn’t know Spenser well—the Morning Star show had only opened a week ago—but he seemed an affable, easygoing fellow.

Fidelia was lost in the sight of the two men fondling each other, seemingly with affection, when she was bumped violently from behind.

“Ugh, nancy men!” Mr. Sackett oozed disgust and sweat onto Fidelia’s person. Sackett didn’t allow prostitution in his establishment, and he tried to frown on sexual shenanigans as well. Men often assumed she offered prairie flower services, but roostered gamblers weren’t usually alert enough to do more than take an underwater snooze and blow bubbles in the scummy water, so it wasn’t usually a problem. “Fidelia! Fix their baths and ask what they want to drink.”

In fact, Sackett shoved her by the shoulder so rudely she stumbled forward into the room, drawing the shocked attention of the two men. They detached from each other by a few inches, but the bon vivant kept his hand on Spenser’s ass, and their shiny penises bobbed—enticingly, Fidelia thought, as she became aware a sheen of sweat had broken out on her face and neck.

She tried to laugh lightly, as though she’d just been eagerly tripping in there to add the cinnamon and mint to the boiled tub water. “Good evening,” she said, sprinkling the shreds of cinnamon in the steaming tubs.

“You,” said the bon vivant, with ominous overtones.

Fidelia had had more than one erect penis pointed in her direction in the past week working here. But she could have sworn she could
feel
the heat from this virile man’s body slam into hers, and she had to regulate her breathing or she’d become light-headed. “Yes, it’s me,” she agreed.

“You work here
and
in the Morning Star Gallery?”

“Yes. The Gallery, as Spenser can tell you, is only open during certain hours. The models can’t maintain those poses for very long or it’s quite painful.”

“That’s true, Chess,” said Spenser. “It takes a lot of athleticism to stand in those poses for even an hour.” He was so casual, as though he had not been caught in flagrante smooching another man! Fidelia was surprised. Spenser didn’t have a hint of the molly boy about him. She might have even been attracted to him if she hadn’t been intent on finding out who killed her brother Ulrich.

But why were the two men burning holes into her with their eyes now? True, she wore a gown with a deep neckline, the better to show off her ample bosom. She knew men gave her more coins when she did that, and she needed money to pursue this murderer. But they were
ein Schwuler!
Spenser even had rope burns around his wrists from where the monstrous Chess had bound him.

Fidelia took a freshly laundered sheet and shook it out. She glanced sideways at the tubs so she wouldn’t have to look at their purplish, enormous penises, which were not becoming flaccid. “You may step in now. Here is some sandalwood oil to add to the water.”

At last, the men stepped into their respective tubs, and Fidelia hung the sheets like tents on strings stretched across the tubs, to hold in the steam. They both made lowing steer sounds as they stretched, as though being tortured.

“What would you like to drink?” she asked them politely. “We have absinthe, which can’t be obtained anywhere else in town. Would you like that?”

Chess frowned with irritation at her. “Why do you keep pushing this absinthe on me? Is it because you know I’ve spent time in France?”

Spenser said soothingly, “It’s very tasty, Chess.”

“I know! I used to drink it by the gallon. I just wondered why—never mind. Yes, that would be pleasant. Bring us some.”

Fidelia’s heart swelled with vindication. He was an absinthe drinker! She had taken the job at the Morning Star because it was the only place she could discover in Laramie that served absinthe, and pretty much all she knew so far about the killer was that he drank absinthe. What now, though? She couldn’t ask Neil Tempest to arrest a man based upon his choice in liquor, especially when she, too, was a newcomer to town.

But as she turned to leave, Chess yelled at her, “Hey! And what happened to that gal posing as Eve? You said you’d send her to my room as well, and she never came.”

Aha
. Yet another piece of the puzzle was coming together. Smirking, Fidelia asked innocently, “So you thought that woman playing Eve was very attractive?”

This seemed to confuse Chess. “Yes. I mean no! Oh, hell. It doesn’t matter. Just get us our absinthe,” he grumped.

Fidelia swiftly sped to the kitchen, where she grabbed two parfait glasses and set them on a tray. Now that she knew Chess preferred absinthe, as well as frequenting “the place where women pose as Eve,” she was well on her way to nabbing this culprit, as they said in the States. She threw all the ingredients onto the tray sloppily, not really caring about the drink any longer, now that her suspicions were confirmed. This was her man. She just needed a few more pieces of evidence.

But when she headed back to the bathhouse, she could hear the two men yelling at each other from down the hallway.

Again, she paused in the doorway, peering around the corner. The two men were standing in their tubs waving the sheet tents about angrily at each other.

“I saw her first!” Spenser was shouting, the first time she’d ever heard him raise his voice. “She’s been working at the Gallery for a week now!”

“Yeah, but who’s the one with the standing to court her?” Chess yelled back. “I own a damned ranch! You’re only a fucking ranch hand!”

Spenser bellowed, “Who needs to be upstanding to court a gal who works at a
poses plastiques
gallery? Why don’t you go pick on one of the Fowler or Boswell daughters?”

Were they talking about Josephine? Josephine worked at the Gallery. Josephine had been in town a week. Could they be referring to the woman who posed as Eve? That gal, Josephine, was awfully handsome, with her long, rippling, almost silver hair. She held herself aloof like an angel, superior to all beings around her.

Fidelia boldly walked in. What did she care if they wanted to court Josephine? She—nearly—had her murderer now, that was all she cared about, and she banged the tray down onto a stool, sloshing the emerald absinthe around in the glasses, spreading a cloud of lovely licorice scent about. She clanged the silver slotted spoon over one glass, set a sugar cube on it, and poured cold water over it from a carafe. She didn’t bother straining out the wormwood or fennel, figuring the men could just strain it between their teeth.

They had stood silently ever since she had entered, and when she moved to hand Chess the first glass, he angrily snapped his sheet in Spenser’s direction and whipped the glass from Fidelia’s hand. “Hell-fired
actor
,” he spat.

Spenser’s eyes were fiery. “Goddamned perverted frog,” he snarled at Chess.

The strange, hallucinatory properties of the drink wouldn’t improve the situation any, but Fidelia’s work was done. Leaving the tray, she spun toward the door, but the men weren’t finished with her yet.

“Fidelia,” bellowed Chess with authority. Spenser must have told Chess her name while she was fixing the drinks. A year ago—hell, even a month ago—Fidelia would’ve swooned with horror to imagine standing here before two nude, dripping, beautiful men. Ten minutes ago she might have even swooned with whatever she felt when they kissed—an odd sort of lust, she supposed. Now? She just wanted to get away.

“Yes?”

Chess pointed at Spenser with a stiff, commanding arm. “Who would you consider a more attractive, desirable suitor? Me or this lunkheaded hick from Yankton?”

“I’m not from Yankton!” Spenser yelled. “I was born in Abilene!”

“Does it make any difference?” Chess yelled back. “They’re both places that breed out-and-out potato-headed jackasses. Your family tree is probably a shrub!”

Fidelia went limp when she saw the ire rise in Spenser’s face. The tomato color flushed him, and when he made a move as if to leap out of the tub, Fidelia inserted herself between them. She had to slap a palm to Spenser’s wet chest and shove him back into his own tub while he clenched his fists, eyeballs bulging and nostrils flaring. His nipples even poked out stiffly in a very attractive way.

She was accustomed to this, having had a brother. Now she was an only child, thanks to one of the two brutes who stood here locking horns, huffing and puffing at each other.

“Boys! Boys.” She gave Spenser one last shove before folding her arms under her breasts and glaring at the men. “You are both very strapping, delightful men. Each of you has your own charms. It completely depends upon the woman to choose which of you she finds more desirable. Some women, it is true, would choose the man with the best purse. In fact,” she reflected, “
most
women, I’d venture to guess, would choose that man.”

“Hah!” spat Chess victoriously.

“Shit sack,” growled Spenser.

However, Chess irritated Fidelia, mostly for being Ulrich’s suspected murderer, so she glared at him and said pointedly, “However,
some
women put more stock in men who show respect, manners, and a high regard for them.
Some
women do not tear about flinging themselves at, for example, men who enjoy tying up others and forcing themselves upon them.”

At last, she had twisted the knife in the murderous brute. A dumbfounded look came over Chess’s face, and he raised an innocent hand to his chest. “I? I’ve never forced myself upon anyone.”

Fidelia rolled her eyes and glanced at the marks on Spenser’s wrists. It probably looked as though she were glancing at Spenser’s penis, though, so she spat disgustedly, “
Du Schweinehund!” You pig-dog!
“You cannot fool me. You men are such a wild bunch! Now, I must leave. Promise me you won’t kill each other over Josephine. She has a beau in Denver, anyway.”

Victorious at having been so witty as to recall the beau in Denver, Fidelia at last freed herself from the two brutal men. “
Du Schweinehund!”
she muttered to herself as she strode down the hallway, just because it gave her satisfaction to say it. That Chess brute was a pig-dog, and she would prove it within the hour.

Things settled down between Chess and his new friend Spenser once Fidelia left, and they hunkered down in their tubs. They still shot competitive arrows of distrust at each other, but Chess wanted to rub the cinnamon and mint all over his body before the water got cold. He had become accustomed to warm baths in Europe but hadn’t had a single one since returning to America. Had progress stood still here? No, they had built this monumental Union Pacific Railroad since Chess had been abroad.

“The railroad has brought the steel magnetism to Laramie,” some fellow sitting next to him on the train had blathered. The fellow was rather odd—clearly a white fellow with enviable bouncy, curly silver hair nearly to his waist, steely gray eyes, and handsome features, he insisted on wearing Indian garbage. Skulls were draped around his neck, and moldy feathers decorated his hair. “Laramie has been filled with the psychic vibrations that make it the focal point, the vortex if you will, of paranormal activity in the Great American Desert.”