Weeping Angel (48 page)

She walked to him, put the envelope down in front of him, and waited for him to explain.

His gaze lowered, then lifted. He didn't touch the flat paper containing the bank documents. “It's the deed to your house.”

“I know what it is. I want to know why you did it.”

Folding his arms over his chest and leaning back in the chair, he replied, “I paid off the house because Hartshorn said you were delinquent.”

“How could you have gone behind my back and inquired about my personal accounting with the bank?”

“I did no such thing.”

“Then how did you know?”

“I went to tell Hartshorn my residence had changed. While we were talking, he mentioned the late mortgage payment,” Frank said matter-of-factly.
“Why did you lie to me about needing the money? I felt like an idiot in front of him when he said you'd slacked off the July payment with a drafty excuse. As your husband, I should have known about your financial problems.”

“It wasn't at the top of our long list of problems.”

“It should have been close.”

She disregarded his admonishment. “I have a good mind to go over there and give Mr. Hartshorn what for and, while I'm at it, withdraw every last penny I have in that infernal bank. You shouldn't have to pay for my house.”

Frank stood, the chair legs snagging the floorboards. “Why the hell not? You said it was our house. You gave me a key to it. I
am
your husband, and I should know when you're in trouble.”

“I could have kept making the payments on my own.”

“With what? You don't have any income now except for mine.”

She was angry he had pointed out that detail. “Something creative would have hit me, and I'd have earned the money somehow.”

“But you didn't have to. I had the funds in my bank account. And since I'm living in the house now, it seemed logical I pay for my share.”

“From the size of that note, you've paid for way more than your share. I'd say my portion of the house is about the square footage of the water closet.”

“Amelia,” he said firmly, “stop being so damn unreasonable. I wrote out a check, for chrissake. It's not a capital offense.”

“You just don't understand,” she shot back. “I was earning my money honestly. You've gone and paid off the mortgage with money you're earning from those floozies.”

His fingers raked his hair, tousling the inky locks over his brows. “You're not making any sense. I had
the money long before I hired the girls. It wasn't much but enough to pay for your house.”

“It would seem it's your house now.”

Their argument came to a standstill, neither moving but standing barely a hand's width away from each other. She felt his body heat, the tenseness in his muscles. His deep voice was thoughtfully quiet when he asked, “Did you know the old bats want to shut me down?”

She gazed at him. “I just found out this afternoon. How did you know?”

“Dodge got wind of it and told me.” Trying to shrug off the seriousness of the matter, Frank rubbed the shadow of beard on his jaw. “What do you think?”

She took a breath before replying in earnest, “I think you should be able to do what you want.”

His sidelong glance was filled with wonder. “I'm surprised.”

“Then you don't know me very well.”

“But you still disapprove of the girls.”

“Of course I do. I just don't think Dorothea and her clutch have the right to close your saloon—no matter how offensive they find your employees.”

“I only have four. Pap is playing the organ over at Lloyd's place.”

“I hadn't heard.”

“Yeah, well, he's not speaking to me.” Frank took a step closer, his thigh brushing her skirt. “As long as I don't have a piano player, I'm in jeopardy of losing business—most especially with the girls. They can't dance to air.”

“Forgive me if I have no sympathy for your plight.”

“I wasn't asking you for any, merely telling you how it is.” His face went grim. “Those crones might as well nail my doors shut because without music, I don't have diddly.
We
don't have diddly.”

“Are you asking me for my advice?”

“Do you have any?”

“None that you would like.” When he said nothing to halt her, she continued. “If your conscience won't allow you to send those women packing, find other employment for them. Here if you have to. Then mend your differences with Pap. If you can't see your way clear with that, I can't help you, Frank.”

C
losing his accounting ledger, Frank pondered Amelia's recommendation while she gazed expectantly at him. “Mending my differences with Pap is going to be a lot easier than finding other employment in Weeping Angel for the girls.”

“You mean, you'd consider it?”

“I'm not promising anything, but I've been thinking. I can see that having the girls here is unfair to a wife, but that still doesn't mean they're bad women. The four of them are strictly dancers, and nothing else. I promised them jobs. I'm the reason they're here. I can't just fire them after one night—not without any plausible justification. They'd be nowhere with nothing. You know as well as I, the work in town for women is teaching, seamstressing, and laundry washing.” Frank strode to the bar and chucked his accounting book underneath the counter. “And all those jobs are taken. We could use a decent restaurant, but that takes money to build. Not to mention, can any of the girls cook?”

“I wouldn't know.”

Pausing, Frank folded his arms over his chest. “I wouldn't expect you to.” Although he wanted his marriage to work, he wasn't going to make any ill-considered promises.

“But you're willing to think about an alternative?”

Frank glanced at her and replied, “I'll work on something.” But no one that he knew would take the women on for a position in their establishment.

His brow furrowed. No one, that is, except Lloyd Fairplay.

Lloyd had been looking to put one over on him since the piano was voted to the Moon Rock. He'd be chomping at the bit to get girls over at the Palace. But would he treat them fairly? Iza Ogilvie didn't seem to have any complaints. She'd been there longer than gophers had been digging holes in Gopher Road.

The idea took root in Frank's brain, and if Lloyd hadn't gone on a trip to Nevada, Frank would have headed over to the Palace to feel him out on the subject. Frank had heard Lloyd went to Nevada to buy a seven-foot wheel of fortune game. He'd left Pap in charge of things during his absence.

Paper crinkling caught Frank's attention, and he gazed at Amelia. She'd folded and was putting the house title back into the envelope. He hadn't meant to undermine her when he'd bought it outright, but he'd wanted Amelia to be financially secure. The home was deeded in her name—with the addition of Brody after Marshall, and that would remain so. His cash on hand had gone down considerably after paying off the mortgage, and if he let the girls go, he wouldn't be making up the revenues as fast as he'd planned to.

“It's almost four,” Amelia said. “I should be going home.”

He wanted to make her feel better, but he wouldn't tell her about his decision to speak with Lloyd in case things didn't work out. Just the same, he needed to reassure her. “Amelia—” he started to say, but was
interrupted by Dorothea Beamguard's voice booming from the street in front of the saloon.

“I stand for prohibition! The utter demolition! Of all this curse of misery and woe! Complete extermination! Entire annihilation! The saloon must go!”

He and Amelia exchanged glances, then went to the doors.

A demonstration of teetotalers, comprised of the Thursday Afternoon Fine Ladies Society, held posters with anti-saloon slogans painted on them.

Dorothea was at the front of the line, and when she saw them, she burst into another chorus. The others followed her example and began chanting the same motto until neighboring businesses emptied, patrons elbowing each other, to see what the ruckus was about.

Viola Reed shouted, “You are a rummy and a lawbreaker, Mr. Brody!”

“You should be behind prison bars instead of a saloon bar.” Esther Reed waved her banner.

Luella shouted, “We intend to close this gin mill down and eradicate those filthy women from the premises.”

Curses fell from Frank's mouth. If they hadn't been wearing corsets and skirts, he would have smacked every last one of them in the chops.

While his reaction was pure anger, embarrassment and resentment commanded Amelia's face. “Sweetheart, come away from the door.”

Her fingers gripped the edge until her knuckles had turned white. “No.” The tremor in her voice threatened to crack. “How could they go through with this?”

At that moment, Jill, Patricia, Arnette, and Sue appeared from the Oak Tree hotel. Attired in their low-necked clothes, and with their lace-up shoes freshly polished, they stood with their hands on hips. Before Dorothea could venture into another tirade, Jill called out, “What's all the fuss?”

The picketers turned to face off with the dance hall girls who were fast approaching the scene.

“Stay here,” Frank told Amelia, then left the bat-wing doors to stand by the curb of the boardwalk.

“We demand you leave Weeping Angel,” Dorothea pronounced in a haughty tone. “Your kind aren't wanted here.”

Frank drawled, “That's not for you to decide.”

Dorothea snapped her head in Frank's direction. “The matter has fallen into our hands since you've seen fit to ruin this town with your filthy saloon.”

From behind Frank, Amelia gasped.

“It wasn't so filthy when you poked your nose into it to watch Daniel playing the piano.”

“Don't you bring my son into this, Mr. Brody,” she railed, “any more than you already have! When I noticed the opal wedding ring missing from the counter, I told Oscar we'd been robbed. I would have called in the sheriff if Daniel hadn't confessed you put him up to buying the ring and had him hide the money in our cash box. I won't allow him to keep that baseball bat you used to bribe him.”

“Daniel did me a favor,” Frank ground out, “and he got paid for his trouble with the bat. I won't take it back. He's a fine boy. It must be he gets his manners from his daddy, because he sure as hell never learned anything generous from you.”

“I-I-I,” she stuttered. “I'm appalled.”

Frank didn't want the confrontation turning into slinging insults back and forth. Most especially, with Amelia a witness. He was saved from having to firmly escort her back into the Moon Rock when Mayor Dodge came out of the city offices to take charge of the situation.

“Mrs. Beamguard. Ladies,” he greeted. “No doubt, they can hear you yelling in Boise City.”

The Thursday Afternoon Fine Ladies Society rallied together and spoke all at once to the mayor in
such a high-pitched confusion, Dodge threw his hands up in the air.

“Ladies! One at a time.”

Luella Spivey spoke up. “We're demonstrating that this saloon be closed down.”

The mayor frowned. “Do you have a permit?”

They gazed at one another. “No,” Esther Parks replied.

“According to the town's bylaws, article three, section one, you've got to have a permit to conduct a public demonstration. And seeing as you don't have one, I have to officially disband this protest.”

The ladies looked affronted.

“We have every right to keep our town pure and safe from sinful decay,” Dorothea snipped.

“You don't have any rights when it's against the law.” His hand rose to his collar to stretch the knot in his necktie. “So I suggest you break it up and do your grumbling in some other fashion.”

They traded glances of resignation with each other, then walked off in a huff carrying their signs when Mayor Dodge cried, “Shoo!” The onlookers disbanded with them.

Frank looked at Cincinatus, who was gazing compassionately at Amelia. “There isn't any such article or section, Mr. Brody. I staved them off for now, but this problem isn't going to go away unless it walks away. Do you get my meaning?”

Nodding, he replied evenly, “I do.”

“Good.” Mayor Dodge tipped his hat to Amelia, then returned to his office.

Frank met Amelia's eyes. She was looking beyond him to the street. He turned and saw the four girls still standing smack in the middle of Divine Street studying Amelia with interest. He hadn't told them he was married—not that he was hiding anything. Introducing Amelia would satisfy their curiosity but put her in an awkward position receiving them.

Deciding to test fate and introduce her, he moved to face Amelia again, but she wasn't there. All he could see was her retreating figure as she crossed Dodge Street. He would have gone after her if he thought she'd be receptive toward him.