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Unmentionables. Laurie Loewenstein
Читать онлайн.Название Unmentionables
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isbn 9781617752056
Автор произведения Laurie Loewenstein
Издательство Ingram
“A girl, just a couple years younger than my Helen,” Deuce said. “Consumption—isn’t it?”
Dr. Jack nodded.
“Oh, the poor thing. Don’t I know what she’s going through.”
The violet shadows under Dr. Jack’s eyes deepened. “She heard your talk and took your advice. Spent hours on an open porch in the pouring rain. Her mother found the girl in the middle of the night, half out of her mind with fever.”
There was silence. Finally Marian, her voice soft, said, “But this will pass. I’m sure she will be stronger for it.”
Dr. Jack raised his brows. “It’s possible, but she’s very weak and I’m praying that she doesn’t develop pneumonia on top of the tuberculosis. She’s a very sick girl right now.”
“But I am living proof . . . this method works,” Marian said haltingly.
The doctor picked up his bag. “It has been my experience, Mrs. Elliot Adams, that there are cures that may work for some and not for others. We’re not all the same, you know.”
Marian looked as if she was going to respond, then hesitated, her fingers hovering over her mouth.
Before Deuce followed the doctor out, he paused. “Don’t think the worst as yet. She’s got youth on her side.”
Marian nodded.
The publisher lingered in the kitchen. “How’s Clay taking this?” he asked Tula, inclining his head toward the sleeping porch.
Tula made a rocking motion with her hand. “He wanted to know if the circuit was going to pay us for her room and board. Said he was going to call the Lamoine to find out what their rates were. But I stopped him.”
“At least he’s thinking practically for once,” Deuce said. “Not that he should be charging for her stay, but—”
“You don’t have to say it. I told him just the other night that if he doesn’t manage his finances better with this business than he did with the sheet music sales and the carpet sweepers before that, we’ll be out on the street.”
“Now, Tula, you know I wouldn’t let that happen.” Deuce patted her hand. She flushed, hoping for a gentle squeeze as well, but he pulled away, readjusted his tie.
She cleared her throat. “You’ve done enough for us. I just hope he’s keeping a careful eye on his accounts.”
CHAPTER FOUR
TOY LAMB
EARLIER THAT MORNING, shortly after Deuce strolled into the newspaper office, Clay had taken the same route into Emporia’s business district. But unlike Deuce, when Clay turned the corner on State Street, he immediately knew who the fellow in the gray pin-striped suit lounging in the studio’s entrance was.
Clay slowed his gait, making a pretense of fumbling for his pocket watch, while sizing up the stranger. A too-tight suit was stretched tautly across muscled arms, inflating the ruddy flesh of the hands and neck. Fresh off a farm, Clay thought. Maybe this won’t be all that hard. He walked briskly the last few yards to the entrance, pushed past the stranger, had his key in the lock and the door halfway open before awareness registered in the man’s sun-bleached eyes. But Clay wasn’t fast enough. The bill collector’s thick fingers fastened around Clay’s wrist.
“You Clay Lake?”
“Why?”
“Because Mr. Lake has some debts he needs to take care of.” A toothpick, lodged in the corner of the man’s mouth, jerked up and down with his words. “Do you want to take care of this here on the street?”
The Reverend and Mrs. Sieve stepped out of a shop two doors down. “No. No. Let’s go upstairs.”
The two rooms that comprised Lake’s photography gallery were stifling. The bill collector removed his suit jacket and tossed it on a chair while Clay opened a window. Despite the heat, his hands shook and the skinned look of his bony face became even more pronounced.
“Got some pretty fancy equipment here,” the collector said, circling several cameras mounted on tripods. He lifted a black cloth hanging from the back of one and peered into the lens.
“Watch it. Those are expensive.” Clay’s jaw jutted out.
The man drew back and laughed. “Don’t I know it.”
Clay dropped heavily onto a chair. “So, you’re here about the cameras?”
“Yep.” The man flicked the toothpick onto the floor and inserted a fresh one in his mouth. “Those three you ordered from the Chicago Camera Company and never paid for.”
Clay ran a hand through his hair. “Look, I don’t have it. But I will. I just need a little time.”
“You’ve had time. Didn’t you get those notices?”
“Yes, but business has been slow. But now, I’ve got more sittings booked. Just today,” he glanced nervously at the clock, “in a couple of hours. I’ve got a customer coming this afternoon.”
“So you don’t have the money now?”
“No. But if you’d just give me—”
“Not my problem. I’m taking the cameras.” He surveyed the room. “Got any crates?”
“You can’t take them.”
The man paused. “Oh yeah?”
“But how am I going to make a living?”
The man shrugged. “And you’re going to give me that expensive watch tucked in your pocket for my trouble.”
After the downstairs door slammed behind the bill collector, Clay collapsed on a tufted chaise lounge that he’d paid a lot of money for, thinking it would be a nice prop, but none of his sitters wanted to use it. Too fancy, they said. He stared numbly at the ceiling, tracing the random paths of cracked plaster.
He was in the same position two hours later when Tula stopped by on her way to the druggist. Dr. Jack had advised Epson salt baths for Marian’s ankle.
“Are you sick?” she asked.
“No. Yes.”
“Your head?” She started to lay a palm against his forehead but he brushed her away and sat up.
“No. He took the cameras.”
Tula looked around, puzzled. “Who did?”
“The bill collector!” Clay shouted.
Tula blanched, her fingers against her lips. “You owe money for the cameras, besides what you owe Deuce?”
Clay rose from the chaise, flapped his hand irritably. “Yes, yes. I owe money. I’m in debt. We’re in debt.”
Tula’s chin trembled.
Clay kicked one of the wooden brackets holding up a painted backdrop of a marble pillar and the whole edifice collapsed.
“Oh, don’t,” Tula said. She pulled on one edge of the crumpled canvas to free it, then let it drop. “He took all the cameras?”
“No, I’ve still got that second-hand gear.”
“Well then,” Tula said.
Clay looked at the clock. “Christ. Mrs. Johnson will be here in half an hour. Help me set up, will you?”
Clay pulled a rickety tripod and an old camera from a small closet in the corner, fingering the camera’s cracked accordion