Weeping Angel (16 page)

Spotting Frank, they snickered. One picked up a King popgun on the bench, took aim and fired right at Frank. The small cork hit him on the shoulder, and with enough force to annoy the hell out of him.

“Bang!” the grubby bandit declared. “You're dead, mister.”

Trying to remain in control of his temper, rancor sharpened Frank's voice. “What's your name,
son?”

“Walter Reed.”

The other giggled so profusely, Frank knew there was an inside joke he wasn't in on. “All right, kid, what gives?”

“He's not Walter,” the boy said. “I'm Walter. He's Warren, and he's a pissant.”

“No,” Frank amended. “He's dead if he ever does that to me again. I've got a real Smith and Wesson beneath my counter, boys, and it's not there for decoration. You got that?”

Walter and Warren looked like they were going to wet their pants.

Frank shoved the bat-wing doors inward with enough force to make the girl in pink flounces sitting at the piano with Amelia jump. Amelia gave Frank a quizzical gaze, then swiveled on her chair and returned to tutoring her pupil.

Rounding the edge of the bar, Frank ignored Pap
and made a beeline for his icebox. He put his hand on a beer, then changed his mind. He wasn't going to have a drink just before opening; it went against his principles. Shutting the door, he strode to the counter and grabbed a glass. He filled it with ice, then shot a stream of seltzer over the chips Pap had recently dumped in the dishpan underneath the bar.

Frank took a long swallow of the cold drink, the bubbles cooling him off. The piano-playing continued and he watched Amelia instruct the girl. Miss Marshall was looking a little taxed. Her neat and tight bun seemed to be pulling loose on top of her head, and her normally erect posture had begun to fade. Despite her flushed state, he found her a tempting sight.

He'd tried to shrug off why he'd kissed her, having no viable answer other than he'd felt like it. She'd stood there on her porch, still as a lake at noon. He wondered how many times she'd been kissed. If that salesman had put his lips on hers before he decided to leave her. That thought didn't set well with Frank.

“Ain't she a pretty sight?” Pap whispered, his face aglow with adoration.

Frank absently agreed, “Yeah,” then remembered he needed to tap a new keg of beer. A good thing, because he needed a diversion. He looked for his bung starter—a heavy wooden mallet—on the shelf. Just as his fingers curled around the handle, a woman's voice carried from the boardwalk right in front of the saloon.

Her greeting contained a strong suggestion of reproach and was interspersed with the brassy rattle of a cage and the frantic chirps of a bird. “When you left the house, I told you boys to wait for me inside if I wasn't back from the veterinary on time!”

“We were finished,” Walter and Warren said together.

Chirp! Chirp!
“I distinctly said, if I'm late, you wait inside and I'll come in and get you.”

“It was too hot in there,” Warren complained.

“Yeah, too hot.” Walter defended his brother.

The high-pitched tweet of the bird seemed distressed, but Viola Reed overlooked it. “Well, you're going back inside this saloon right now. You forgot your sheet music.”

“Did not.”

“Yes you did.”
Chirp! Chirp!
“We need to get it from Miss Marshall.” Her words were stern and spoken without margin for an argument. “Come along!”

Frank lounged against the bar as Mrs. Viola Reed poked her out-of-joint nose through the seam in the bat-wing doors. She swept her gaze around the room, her brows arched high, her lips pursed. The boys erupted on either side of her and shoved their wet hands into their pockets while slouching.

“My, my,” she mused aloud, over the trill of a blue parakeet in her bell-shaped cage. As the bird flitted inside the limited space, tiny down feathers flew between the thin brass bars. Birdseed scattered from the twin cups as the parakeet lighted on the perch, then flapped its wings, and took off again toward the swing. “My, my,” she repeated and took mincing steps into the saloon, the handle in her hand swinging the cage.

The crunch of seeds under her patent-leather shoes rankled Frank. The lady was making a mess on his clean floor.

“Mrs. Reed.” Amelia stood from the stool. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“My boys,” she said, not making eye contact with Amelia, rather taking in every detail of her surroundings, “forgot their sheet music.”

“I gave it to them.” Amelia looked at Warren and Walter. “Where did you put your Kinkel folio?”

Warren pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose while Walter yanked his hand out of his
pocket to show Amelia a paper folded in eighths. “Right here.”

Amelia groaned.

Mrs. Reed shrugged. “I guess you did have it, after all.”

“Miss Marshall,” the girl at the piano whispered. “Am I finished?”

“Oh.” Amelia turned and set the pencil she'd been holding on top of the piano. It was then Frank noticed the swatch of a tasseled scarf with fringy stuff draped atop the cabinet and the six statuettes of the masters lined up in official order.

The infamous busts.

Amelia fidgeted with a triangle-shaped thing with a long stick affixed to the front of it; there was a key on the side. He didn't think it was a clock, but it was ticking like one. She made the arm stop wagging back and forth by pushing a small weight down the stem. “Yes, Merleen. You may go. Don't forget your music.”

“I won't.” The little girl in pink gave Frank a shy glance, then headed for the doors. As she passed Walter and Warren, she stuck her tongue out at them.

The twins broke into peals of laughter, exciting the bird to dart around the cage.
Chirp! Chirp!
Seeds rained anew onto the floor.

This time Viola Reed took notice and pressed her nose next to the cage. “Bluebell, precious, calm yourself. Mama is going to take you home in a minute.”

Walter and Warren laughed even harder at their mother's cooing. She shot them a disapproving glare, then gave Frank an unhurried gaze. “Tell me, Mr. Brody, where is it, exactly, my Wendell stands when he's at your bar?”

Frank drew another sip of a seltzer into his mouth, letting the cool liquid take its time sliding down his throat. “Well, Mrs. Reed, that all depends.”

“On . . . ?” She hung on his every word.

“Depends on where the hell he wants to stand. Or
sit. I've seen him at that very table you're standing in front of, buying a few rounds for the boys from the mill.”

“What?”

“Yeah. He's bought his men drinks.”

“He's spent our money on liquor for the workers?”

“And they appreciated every drop.” Frank set his glass down. “Not too many men as thoughtful as your husband, Mrs. Reed. It's a real pleasure to serve him.”

Her jaw slacked.

“Now,” he continued in a slow drawl, “if you were a man, I'd say you'd be just as generous. That's a rare quality in a person these days, and you'd best keep hold of that husband of yours. He's a mighty fine human being.”

“Well . . . I . . .” She frowned, apparently considering Frank's monologue. “Yes . . . my Wendell can be . . . yes . . . he's . . .”

“A nincompoop,” Walter snickered. “That's what you called him at supper last night.”

“Walter Owens Reed!” Viola burst out. “You'd better be hungry, because as soon as we get home, you're eating soap!”

Warren bust up. “Hee haw, Walter gets a taste of scouring soap.”

Frank ran his fingertips across his jaw, then his lips. He glanced at Amelia, who'd begun to tidy up. She seemed embarrassed by the family's bickering. She looked tired and in need of something cool to drink, but he knew she was too proud to ask for anything. So he decided to make the offer.

“Hey, Miss Marshall.” She lifted her face from her music bag. “You up for a Baptist lemonade?”

Without cracking her teacher's facade, she nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Brody. That would be nice.”

Viola's mouth turned down as if she'd bit into a sour grape. “Miss Marshall. You're a Methodist.”

Amelia smiled ever so slightly. “Yes, you're quite right.” But she didn't bother to give Viola Reed an explanation of the drink, instead choosing to keep its recipe a secret.

Frank liked the fact Amelia didn't divulge the harmless ingredients. It told him she enjoyed a gag as much as he did.

Amelia reached for one of the busts, the nile green fabric of her bodice stretching over her breasts. He admired her curves, while bringing his glass to his lips; he caught an ice chip in his mouth, the frosty coolness reminding him he'd thought of Miss Amelia Marshall as an icicle. Or, maybe he used to. After he'd kissed the sweet corner of her mouth last night, he couldn't exactly say she was cold. No. Her skin had been as warm as brandy. And she'd smelled nice. He couldn't quite put his finger on the scent, but it was pleasing. Not too flowery. Not too spicy. Feminine.

He crunched on the ice, letting the cold pieces melt on his tongue.

“Well?” Pap blurted, taking Frank from his thoughts.

“Well what?”

“Aren't you going to make Miss Marshall her lemonade?”

Frank moved into action, cursing at himself that he'd been caught up in staring at Amelia and forgot to make her drink.

The parakeet in Viola Reed's cage continued its nervous chirps, dropping more seeds. Frank glanced at the woman and gave her a hard stare, hoping she'd realize he was getting ready to give her the heave-ho if she didn't exit soon. As it was, Pap was going to have a hell of a mess to sweep up.

“Is there anything else you need, Mrs. Reed?” Amelia asked, and Frank was glad she did.

Viola pinned her gaze on the back bar, looking at
the knickknacks and especially the moon rock. “I suppose not. I'll have the boys come back next Tuesday at two-thirty.”

“Yes.” Amelia directed her next words at Walter and Warren. “Remember what I said. Hum the notes to each other.”

“Yeah, we were going to,” they snickered.

Frank could have whacked the boys on their butts. One thing he'd learned from the sisters was a form of respect.

Viola Reed turned to leave and had barely gotten out of the doors when Cobb Weatherwax came strolling in. As Frank sliced a lemon, he summed Cobb up with a nod of his head. There was only one word to describe the regular customer: hairy. He was tall, with an untamed mane of bark brown hair on his head and the lower half of his face. He seemed bigger than he really was, due to the bulky animal skins he wore even in the dead of summer. He carried his essentials: an out-of-date long Kentucky rifle, a bullet mold, and powder horn—of which he put a pinch of gunpowder into his drinks, a sharp ax, and a keen knife.

As Amelia finished her packing, securing the last bust into her bag, she looked up. Upon seeing Cobb, she bit her lower lip, and Frank figured she was stifling a gasp. Cobb could be a mite intimidating at first glance.

“How do, Frank,” Cobb said, slipping off his battered felt hat and placing it on the bar in front of him. “I ain't got me no beavers today. Going to get me some, though. I like beavers. Better than I like coons. Do you like beavers?”

“I never thought much on them, Cobb,” Frank replied, stirring sugar into Amelia's lemonade.

“It's a damn shame you don't.”

Pap scratched his head. “Cobb, I've been wondering if I could ask you something.”

“I don't see no call for you not to, Pap.”

“How old are you?”

Cobb propped his Kentucky on the counter. “Twenty-seven.”

“How come you're not married?”

“I ain't found no woman who would have me.”

Frank finished Amelia's lemonade and walked around the bar to give her the glass. She accepted the drink from him, darting a nervous glance at Cobb. Frank said in a low tone, “He just looks scary. He's more hair than harm.” Then more loudly, “Cobb.”

The man at the counter turned. “Yes?”

“This is Miss Marshall, Cobb. She's a piano teacher.”

“Howdy, Miz Marshall.” To Frank, he said with puzzlement, “How come she's in the Moon Rock?”

Amelia swept a loose curl from her forehead. “Because Mr. Brody is using my piano while he waits for his to arrive.”

“Huh?” Cobb replied.

Frank gave Amelia a thoughtful frown. “I thought you were over being mad?”

“Some things never die, Mr. Brody, they only flicker. But as soon as I'm reminded of my predicament, the resentment burns bright once again.”

“Well unremind yourself while you're drinking that lemonade. I wouldn't want you to sour up.” On an impulse, he whispered, “I'd have to squeeze you if you did.”

She colored, just as he desired.

Pap poured Cobb a whiskey, the glass and bottle clinking loudly enough for Amelia and Frank to turn their heads. Pap's eyes were fixed on Amelia, and he awkwardly cleared his throat while he addressed Cobb in a voice strong enough for the whole room to hear. “Let's say you were to find the right woman, Cobb, would you marry her?”

Cobb unplugged the top of his powder flask and tapped some of the black flecks into his whiskey. “I
reckon I would, if she'd have me. All men want a good woman.”

Pap smiled. “I couldn't agree more.” Grinning broadly at Amelia, he asked, “Miss Marshall, would you ever consider getting married?”

“I . . .”

Then as if realizing how literal his question came across, Pap quickly amended in a rush, “Not that I'm asking! I mean, not that I wouldn't ask a fine woman such as yourself. I doubt you'd have me—or would you? That is, what I'm trying to say is, what I mean is, I was referring to the institution itself.” Gasping for breath, he asked, “Are you opposed to marriage, or do you like living by yourself?”