After meeting with Irene Davidson to ask about her friendship with the late Chloe Jones, McKnight dismissed Sterling for the rest of the evening. As he’d been temporarily removed from his duties of keeping the town of Dawson somewhat respectable and law-abiding, Sterling returned to barracks to change into civilian clothes. The necklace that had caused so much trouble was still in his uniform pocket.
He held the gold chain up to the thin stream of light coming in through the barrack room window. It didn’t give up any secrets, and he tossed it into his shirt pocket. Too bad he couldn’t throttle the truth out of Joey LeBlanc.
He went into town in search of Angus MacGillivray. Sterling could think of nothing he could do to help Mary; perhaps Angus, who knew the woman better than anyone else, might remember something.
Mrs. Mann told him Angus had not come home for his supper, but before he could say “thank you and good evening,” she also confided that she was concerned about Mrs. MacGillivray.
“The poor lady,” Mrs. Mann said, leaning against the open front door, “simply doesn’t get enough sleep, and she doesn’t stop for her meals. It’s no good eating on the run, you know. A civilized person needs to sit to table and enjoy her supper properly.”
Sterling mumbled his agreement and attempted to back away. “Now,” Mrs. Mann said, “if a man is intent on courting a lady, he should ensure she cares for her health. Though goodness knows,” she rolled her eyes to the heavens, “it’s hard enough for man or woman to mind their health in this place. I’m not complaining, mind. The Klondike’s made Mr. Mann and me most welcome and provided us with an income that’s the envy of my family, but…”
“Mrs. Mann, ma’am,” Sterling interrupted, “Mrs. Mac Gillivray and I aren’t courting. I can’t possibly talk to her about her…uh…sleep patterns.” He felt so hot, he might well be standing in front of a blazing wood stove in full winter uniform rather than on the Manns’ front porch on a pleasant evening.
“Nonsense,” the lady said. “Some things may be different here in the North, but I can tell when a man and a woman fancy one another. Sleeping is an inappropriate topic, but you could still hint at the importance of proper meals.”
Mr. Mann came out of the kitchen, puffing on his pipe and adjusting his suspenders. “Ah, Sterling,” he said noticing that for once the Mountie was not in uniform. “Wees go for zee drink. One moment.”
“I don’t have time right now, Mr. Mann,” Sterling said, unsure as to whether he should be happy that Mrs. Mann had stopped talking about that embarrassing subject or concerned that Mr. Mann apparently wanted to be pals.
Mr. Mann eyed Sterling’s clothes. “You not working,” he said. It was not a question.
“Not officially,” Sterling stammered. “I’m looking for Angus. I have to talk to him about…things to do with a recent case.”
“Angus good boy,” Mr. Mann said. “I get mine hat, we goes.”
Mrs. Mann smiled at them both, looking pleased that her husband had found a respectable drinking companion in this most unrespectable of towns.
With Mr. Mann in tow, Sterling next checked the Richmond but was told that Miss Witherspoon and the blond boy had gone out.
They found Angus at the Savoy, seated at the centre table with a glass of lemonade while Miss Witherspoon conducted her interviews. Angus shouldn’t be in the Savoy in the evening, but so long as he only drank lemonade and stayed out of the gambling rooms and the dance hall, Sterling decided to say nothing. Besides, he wasn’t working for town detachment tonight, was he?
Angus looked up when he saw Sterling and dashed over to ask the Mountie what had happened to Mary.
“I’m sorry, son,” Sterling said, keeping his voice low. “She’s been arrested. I’m sure we can…”
“How could you? How could you let that happen?” Angus shouted. It seemed to Sterling that every man in the saloon turned and stared at him with accusing eyes. Mrs. MacGillivray hurried out of the back room at the sound of her son’s raised voice.
Sterling wanted to explain, but Angus, trying to hide tears that had sprung into his eyes, hurried back to Miss Witherspoon’s table. Ignoring her young assistant, that lady waved Sterling and Mann over to join them. She was momentarily between appointments and was anxious to get an interview with a real Mountie. Sterling told her that he couldn’t discuss police business with a reporter. “A writer,” she corrected.
Mr. Mann brought over a round of drinks, including lemonade for Miss Witherspoon and Angus, and the moment she heard his thick German accent, Miss Witherspoon insisted he sit down and be interviewed about the immigrant experience.
Sterling clung to his single whisky all night, thoroughly uncomfortable under Angus’s reproachful looks.
At midnight, Miss Witherspoon gathered up her writing materials, and a relieved Sterling went to gather up Mr. Mann, who’d wandered into the back rooms. He found the man standing against the wall in the gambling hall, staring wideeyed at the quantity of money passing across the tables.
“Fools,” was all he could say when Sterling told him it was time to leave.
Somehow they managed to collect Mouse O’Brien on the way out the door. Mouse had a silly smile on his face and took Miss Witherspoon’s arm as she chattered like a chickadee about all the material she’d gathered. Angus stared at his feet in a thorough sulk. Mann mumbled to himself and finally spat out: “Crazy mens to waste much money. But they makes good business. Good for Juergen.”
They deposited Miss Witherspoon at the door of her hotel. Mr. Mann said his goodnights with old-world charm. After a rather drawn-out farewell to Miss Witherspoon, Mouse slapped Sterling on the back and suggested they return to the Savoy: it was time for the dancing. Sterling knew he’d missed his chance of talking privately with Angus, so he excused himself and headed back to barracks, thoroughly despondent.
The stage show ended at midnight, as it always did. The girls streamed backstage to change out of their costumes, the benches were pushed up against the walls to clear the big room, and percentage girls moved out of the shadows onto the floor. The waiters ran up and down the stairs leading to the private boxes, bearing full bottles of champagne and carrying away empties. The orchestra leader called out, “Grab your partners for a long, slow, juicy waltz,” and swung into a tune that resembled a waltz only in that it could generously be described as music.
I went backstage in search of Irene. Her last performance, the one that closed the show every night, consisted of a languid, sensuous dance performed in yards and yards of multi-coloured chiffon. The Savoy doesn’t provide the dancers with their costumes, other than the odd accessory they tearfully insist that they need: Irene had lugged all that chiffon over the Chilkoot. It was worth the trouble—the men absolutely loved it, and the dance made a great ending to the show. The audience always leaned closer to the stage hoping that, just this once, the last bit of chiffon would float free.
The dressing room was tiny, scarcely larger than Mrs. Saunderson’s kitchen, packed with women in every stage of dress and undress. The air was thick with cheap scent, heavily applied over drying sweat. The women tossed clothes all over the place, either in search of comfortable going-home shoes or their sauciest blouse. Some of the stage performers were finished for the evening, and some, those who needed or wanted the money, would stay behind to join the percentage girls in dancing with the customers for a dollar a minute. Not that they kept the dollar, of course. They got a quarter of that, the musicians got another quarter, and Ray and I pocketed the rest.
Irene dropped the black and red gown over her head. Ellie laid the neatly folded cloud of chiffon aside and helped with the fastenings running down Irene’s back.
“Wonderful show, Irene,” I said. She took a deep breath to pull her diaphragm in a fraction and give Ellie a bit more room to work.
“I wonder if I might have a word with you. In private,” I said.
“We’ve had enough words of late, Mrs. MacGillivray,” Irene replied, not bothering to look at me. The girls stopped what they were doing to stare at this incredible breach of manners and good sense—I am the boss, after all.
I swallowed my sharp retort, reminding myself that I was here to beg a favour. “Perhaps we could talk once the rest of the ladies have left. If you have a few minutes.” I glared around the room. Everyone returned to what they were doing in a flurry of hair, fabric and chatter.
Eventually the dressing room was empty save for Irene and me.
“So,” she said, “talk.”
“I didn’t ask the police to interrogate you, Irene. Don’t blame me if your friendships are causing you difficulty.” This wasn’t the friendly, just-us-girls tone I’d planned to take.
She turned her back to me and looked at herself in the room’s single cracked mirror. Her shoulders drooped under the rich silk. “Sorry, Mrs. MacGillivray. Everything’s getting me down these days.”
If I were the motherly sort, I would have hugged her. Instead I said, “I would appreciate an introduction to your dressmaker. The clothes you’ve been wearing lately are truly lovely.”
Irene ran a red satin ribbon through her fingers. “I’ve been most fortunate,” she said to her reflection.
I agreed.
“A lady’s dressmaker is somewhat like a lady’s lover. Not something one wishes to share.” Still trying to be the actress, Irene had discarded her middle-American accent in favour of one she obviously considered to be more snobbish. Mine. It was a poor imitation.
I considered pretending I didn’t care one way or the other. I could dress in the cast-off clothes of a miner who’d hadn’t been to town for a year, and I’d still be the most beautiful woman in Dawson. But I wouldn’t feel like I was. “Very well. Thirty per cent on drinks.”
Irene turned from the mirror with a smug expression . Most unattractive. “Thirty per cent it is, then. Starting tonight.” She hitched up her skirts as if she were back on the farm and about to go feed the hogs. “You’ve met her already. Maggie. For thirty per cent, I’ll even take you to her store.”
I remembered the sign: Dresmakers Shop. Where I’d first seen Irene with Maggie.
“I know where it is.”
“If you walk through the door, Maggie’ll show you right back out of it. She thinks you’re a stuck-up aristocratic English bitch who doesn’t have any business being in America. Of course, I don’t agree with her.”
Of course not.
“I’ll meet you outside the store at four tomorrow afternoon, shall I?” she said, trying not to smile too broadly. “Thirty per cent, Maggie will be pleased.”
Irene left in a swirl of black and red silk and cheap perfume.
Let her enjoy a day or two of feeling smug; I’d find a way to get my own back. Once my new clothes were hanging in my wardrobe.