Moonshadows Read online

  “I got coffee,” Mrs. Bock interrupted.

  Rosy rolled his eyes. Mrs. Smith hurried to pour him a cup of the black brew, which he took. She sat down again, as if she’d never complained about sleep and work.

  “Lettin’ thieves in now, are you? What got stole?” He continued to look at Nell.

  Before she could frame an answer, more boots clumped on the back porch and everyone turned to Sheriff Azgo as he entered. “What is this? A town meeting?”

  He took off his hat and nodded at Nellie. She noticed the hat was practically brand-new, not dusty and sweat-stained around the band, like Henry’s. Watching the sheriff fuss with the brim gave Nell a minute to study his face. She was struck by the many planes, defined cheekbones, almost gaunt cheeks, high forehead. She added Basques to her mental list of photographic subjects.

  Then he looked up and studied Nell, for too long in her opinion. Tit for tat, she supposed. “I’m glad you came, Sheriff. A thief has stolen some of my things. I want them back!” Nell only wanted her negatives back, and she was afraid they were gone for good. She wondered if the thief would know what he had or could do anything with them in this town. The sheriff’s silence caused her a ripple of unease, and she sounded more defiant than she felt. “Do you want to see what he did to my room?”

  Mrs. Smith, who had been so effusive with Rosy, said nothing.

  “Yes,” the sheriff said.

  Nell turned to lead him upstairs. “Mrs. Smith tried to stop the thief, but could not.” She glanced at the woman, who lowered her face. Her ears changed from the bone white of her face to blush pink, but the sheriff was already climbing the stairs. Nell hurried after him, afraid Moonshine would growl or maybe even snap at the man.

  Although Nell had cleaned up part of the mess, the ransacked room still assaulted her sense of self and order. She hated to walk back into it and hovered near the door for a moment. Moonie stood when the sheriff entered, but made no sound.

  “What are you missing?” the sheriff asked. He went to the window and opened it, looking up and down the street and then across at the schoolhouse, a brick monolith of a building.

  A little late to see the thief, Nell thought. “He ran out the back door, not the front.”

  “I think about how the thief learned you weren’t here.” Cold air entered the opening like a dank dream. He closed the window. “Rain tomorrow.” He faced Nell. “What are you missing?”

  Nell stepped into the middle of the room. There was a stillness about the sheriff she hadn’t noticed before, probably because she’d been the focus of attention, both at the cabin and in the kitchen. And in each place, her mind had been groping, struggling to make sense of events.

  “The negatives for the photos I took the other night.”

  “Why would a thief want your pictures?” He stepped to the dresser. “They were here, yes?” He smoothed the embroidered dresser cloth with hands that were brown and rugged, as if they were used to heavy work—lifting, hauling, pounding, gripping. And yet his nails were short and clean, unlike those of the miners who lived in the boarding house, and unlike Rosy, or even Henry.

  “They were shadows cast by the moon, but also the man I told you and Rosy about. You didn’t believe me. He wasn’t a ghost.” Alone in a room with a man, he fully dressed and she covered only by silk, Nellie felt her nakedness. She hugged the robe tighter around her. This man was an officer of the law, not a man who could affect her future as a photographer. Not a man who would withhold a job. From Rosy’s words in the car, she thought the sheriff and she might have something in common: differentness.

  “The dog toy,” Nell said. “You took it, didn’t you?”

  He nodded.

  “When I was out, you came into my room and took something of mine. How is that any different from the thief who scuttled out of here with my negatives? And they were negatives, not prints.” Nell wished she had on her clothes, especially her pants and jacket.

  “Was it yours? The dog brought it to you, yes, but—.” He shrugged, leaning against the dresser.

  Nell couldn’t outlast his silence. “Not mine, then, but Moonie’s. And what did you want with it? I thought police couldn’t go into someone’s house and steal things. The constitution says something about that. This is my home. These are my things.

  “Sheriff Azgo,” she continued, “someone stole my negatives and several sachets from this room.” She sat on her bed, and then stood up. “The reason has to be that one of the negatives shows the dead body.”

  He remained silent.

  “At Last Chance Ranch the other night, when I fell into the room—the moon was almost—the dog was—.” Act like someone with presence of mind, she told herself, and took a deep breath. “It was the dog I’d seen at the window. A dead man lay on the floor. He had a mask of ice on his face. I assumed he’d frozen to death in an abandoned house. I moved him closer to the fireplace, lit a fire, and took his photograph.”

  The sheriff’s eyebrows finally moved, lifting in a question.

  “I took photos of dead people in caskets in Chicago. I thought maybe a photo of a man with an ice mask might bring some money from a newspaper.” Her reason for taking the picture sounded mercenary and a little grotesque. “Something unusual, like this photo, might open—.” Let him say something. She leaned over and petted Moonshine, who rolled on his back.

  “The rock in the sock was not a toy. Dried blood and a small piece of hair make it a possible murder weapon. What I needed was a body.”

  “And you have one,” Nellie said. Her stomach shrunk as she remembered the rigid form under the snow.

  “You are cold? You will change. Then downstairs, we talk.” He left and closed the door.

  His absence made the room feel empty, messy, and crude. A little like Nell felt herself. Moonshine barked, and sat up, touching her leg with his paw. His nose was cold and wet and his muzzle slightly pointed. His black coat was smooth and silky to her touch. Sadness for him flooded her. Rosy apparently didn’t want him. What could Nellie give him? Food and water, but no home and little love. She didn’t have time. She had so many things she wanted to do. A dog would be a burden. “If Rosy was your master, I don’t think he wants you anymore. Maybe you can belong to me. Finders, keepers.”

  This time the kitchen was empty except for Sheriff Azgo and a piece of peach pie and a cup of hot tea. Mrs. Bock must have forgiven Nell.

  Between bites and an offer to share with the sheriff, Nell retold the story of falling into the cabin, discovering the man, taking the photo, and going to sleep with the dog. “You know the rest,” she said. “No man in the morning, the chair and the cigarettes. I don’t understand how someone got the body out past us. Especially past the dog.”

  The sheriff sat, thinking, waiting.

  “We found it today.” Nell busied herself with the pie.

  “Who is ‘we’?” No accusation in his voice.

  “The dog and I. Before I told you about the whole thing—I thought—you didn’t believe me—” Nell stopped. A strange look passed over the sheriff’s face, like the one she’d seen in the cabin. Did he think she had killed the man? She would not like to be his target. The planes in his face would not only be interesting to photograph, they also gave him a merciless aspect.

  She began again. “I followed the trail from the back of the house and across the river. In the aspens, there was a hump of snow. In the snow was a body.”

  “How do you know? Did you dig it up?”

  “Heavens no! Moonie dug at it and I felt where he dug.” She couldn’t restrain a grimace. “I touched an arm or a leg. It was frozen hard.”

  In the silence that followed, Nell tried to take another bite, but couldn’t. She heated more water and poured it into her cup. Minutes passed. Finally, she said, “Is someone missing? Maybe it’s the man who owned Last Chance Ranch and drank himself to death after his wife died and boys left. No, that wouldn’t make sense, would it? He’s dead.”

  The last questi
on brought the sheriff out of his reverie. “He’s not dead. He’s Rosy.”

  “What do you mean, ‘He’s Rosy’? It was Rosy who told me about him.”

  “Rosy’s wife died—a growth in her chest. He sent the boys back East to family, I think. He is drinking himself to death, but hasn’t yet finished the job.” The sheriff picked up his hat and worked at softening the brim again. “Anything more you have to tell?”

  Nell was still absorbing the information about Rosy. How callous of her to make him take her there twice. No wonder he was grouchy, and still, he came back to help her. “No, that’s all.” But was it? Whatever else she knew eluded her. The sheriff’s studied reaction bothered her. She would have preferred a scolding to clear the air. Instead, she felt guilty.

  “I want you to take me to the aspens tomorrow.”

  Nell took her plate to the sink and rinsed it off. Another snowshoe trip? “I thought you said it was going to rain.”

  He shrugged.

  “I told you how to find it,” Nell said. Now that the story was told, she wanted nothing more to do with the dead body or Last Chance Ranch. Poor Rosy.

  “Miss Burns, I do not understand why you are here or what you are doing. No city woman I know or have ever heard of travels alone, takes such risks going into the woods by herself at night, or could sleep next to a dead body. I believe you should show me what you found. Maybe your story is true. Maybe not. But at least then I know where you will be.” He jammed his hat on his head and left the kitchen by the back door.

  “I’ll be here,” she called to the door. Did he think she would lie about finding a body? She flung open the door and yelled after him. “Find my thief!”

  CHAPTER 7

  When Nell told Mrs. Bock at breakfast about Bert the Butcher’s interest in a family photo, Mrs. Bock said she wanted one of herself. Then Henry piped in, asking for one, too. Nellie would have sworn they were all poor as rendering-plant workers based on the ramshackle buildings in town, all except the schoolhouse, and the deserted streets and former saloons. Hailey, ten miles down the valley, appeared much more prosperous.

  “I’ll have to charge you,” Nellie said. “And purchase some equipment and supplies.”

  “You think we can’t pay? I don’t ask for nothing for free.”

  “I—I didn’t mean that. It’s just . . .” How could Nellie comment on the shabbiness of the boarding house? “There are so many empty buildings on Main Street, and you said the mines were mostly closed.”

  “Some people,” Mrs. Bock said, “save their money. If you took my picture, I could send it to my family in Indiana. They ain’t seen me in twenty years.” She tucked some stray hairs into her bun and sat straighter.

  Mrs. Smith poked her head through the doorway, ignored Nellie, and said to Mrs. Bock, “I’m taking my automobile today. I have an errand in Hailey.” She had drawn in black eyebrows, changing her face entirely. A large black hat with a crepe veil tucked up on the wide brim caused her face to look pale as a ghost’s. She glanced at Nellie, flashed a quick, shy smile, and left.

  “Oh dear. Was she angry that Henry used her auto the other day?”

  “No. She lets me know if she’s gonna drive so I won’t worry if it’s gone.”

  Henry piped up as if there had been no interruption. “I want one for my funeral. That’s what my people did in Ioway.” He picked up his hat, set it carefully on his head, and turned so his profile was to Nellie. “How’s that look?”

  “Your hat might shade your face too much. But I can make certain you look western.”

  “Hat?” Henry clicked his tongue. “Rosy’s right. You don’t know much. This here’s a true Stetson. Just like the cowboys and sheepmen wear.” He took it off again and rolled the brim. “You need one of these for the sun around here. Without it, you chance blindness, if you go out. Hunting and skiing and like that. If you do much more tromping around in the snow, you’ll need something, too. Snow can blind your eyes, even more than just sun. Why, in the old days, I can remember—”

  “All right,” Nellie interrupted. “If I’m going to take portraits, I must travel to Twin Falls and find what I need.”

  “Train goes down today,” Mrs. Bock announced. “I heard it come in this morning. You get ready, and I’ll fix you up a packet of food. You can stay at the Clarion Inn—it’s not so expensive as other places—and ride back day after tomorrow.” She rummaged in a drawer to find a pencil and piece of paper. “Here’s the address and I’ll ring to tell Franklin you’re coming.”

  Nellie felt as if she’d been almost pushed out the door. Before she left, she extracted a promise from Mrs. Bock to watch Moonshine, and to feed and water him, and she obtained a skeleton key to lock the door to her room. To be safe, she brought the exposed film holders in her pack, nesting them along with the mutton sandwiches and her little stash of money next to her Chinese robe and sachets. A warm coat—she still felt chilled—and a traveling bag completed her ensemble. She was ready for a stay in a real town. Even if Twin Falls were small, there was a photography studio; she might find a darkroom to rent for a short time. And then she remembered: The sheriff wanted her. In all the excitement of planning a portrait studio and the hustle of catching the train, she had forgotten about him.

  Photography brought her to Ketchum. Photography was also what took her to Twin Falls. Nell needed more chemicals and she wanted to inquire about lights for portraits, although if they were too expensive, she could use natural light. If truth be told, she didn’t want to accompany the sheriff on his fact-finding tour. The half-iced face of the dead man haunted her. Freezing to death was one thing; a disappearing body was another, the implication of which frightened her. Nellie hoped Mrs. Bock would explain what happened.

  When Nell was fired by Sebastian Scotto, her anger sparked her to examine her life. She haunted the library for days, reading about photographers—Edward Curtis, Alfred Stieglitz. She would show Scotto. She’d find her own niche, take photos he could never claim as his own. Her search led her to a book on Idaho, published by a railroad company. Buried in all the fine descriptions and information about tourist camps and hot springs was the detail that Idaho was one of the first states to give women the vote. Surely, a woman could be independent in Idaho. She didn’t tell her mother all of her plans and let her believe that California was her destination after touring several of the western states.

  Before Nell left home, her mother had tried to dissuade her: She didn’t know where she was going. She didn’t know anyone. A plus in Nell’s mind. People were dangerous in the West. They’d never see each other again. It was too far away. Nellie knew she would miss her mother. To her mother’s credit, she had never said Nell couldn’t leave because she was a woman. On the day of her departure, her mother hugged her off at the train station. “Stay away from wild horses and Indians.”

  On her way west, Nell had liked the clackety-clack of train wheels on steel rails, the passing view of small towns and neat red barns and white houses, the scrubbed look of harvested fields, the suspension of time. Her first ticket purchase out of Chicago had been to Omaha. In the large, echoing station there, she transferred to the train to Pocatello, Idaho. The empty spaces as the train rushed into western geography hypnotized her, and she felt her mind and heart open as if they had been closed in among the streets and buildings of Chicago.

  At her hotel, the restaurant manager told about the state’s splendorous mountains, thick forests, and gemlike lakes. The station master at Pocatello had rhapsodized about Ketchum, Idaho, and the mountains surrounding it: Sawtooths, Boulders, Pioneers, White Clouds, Smoky, Lost River. She was a flat-lander and wanted to see mountains close up, not just from a train window. He also mentioned the hot springs. The idea of soaking in hot pools had sounded European and appealing. The fact that it was January hadn’t deterred her. Nothing could be as cold as Chicago and the wind off Lake Michigan in winter. Taking the spur line to Ketchum was a natural next step in her quest.

  In Ha
iley, a Chinese man and woman entered the railroad car. They must be the two Mrs. Bock referred to—strong people to stay after a fire and all others left. Few Chinese people had lived or worked near Nell in Chicago, so she watched them curiously. Their faces, when they turned and talked to each other, were the color of old parchment. The man wore a braid down his back and shapeless blue pants and coat. The woman was quite fashionable in a long dark silk skirt that stopped several inches above her ankles, a gold-colored coat, and a black hat that fit her head closely. Nellie thought they argued, although she couldn’t understand what they said. Their words were a singsong of vowels unlike any she had ever heard. Once, the woman caught Nellie staring. Nell quickly turned her face toward the window.

  On the trip south, the snow disappeared to be replaced by desert—miles and miles of sagebrush and black rock. The countryside was desolate, lowering Nellie’s mood. She hadn’t realized how cheerful she felt around snow. So far, she’d taken five photos and three were missing. Not much of a beginning for a new career. Clearly, Ketchum was not going to work as a place of business. Hailey was a possibility, but she really needed a thriving area where people earned money and wanted to spend it. She was certain her sense of photographing the West sprang from an artistic intuition, even if it didn’t include cowboys and Indians. Everyone in Chicago had been convinced she was going to end up as toast in an Indian raid, and she’d not even seen one. The real West—that was her goal. The Indians were no more. White men had wiped them out. The real West meant mining, logging, sheepherding, and, she was beginning to realize, desert.

  At the train station in Shoshone, a small town between Hailey and Twin Falls, the passengers loaded onto a bus for the final leg of the trip. Nellie noticed the Chinese couple retreated to the back and no one sat near them. The ride into Twin Falls took little time, and Nell again watched the scenery, thrilled at crossing the high bridge over the Snake River gorge.

  To her surprise, the same Chinese couple were asking for a room at the Clarion when she arrived. Nellie, wishing she looked as exotic and svelte, smiled and nodded at the woman. Perhaps the man was a servant. Up close, he was younger than she had earlier guessed, and, in contrast to the woman, seemed clumsy and stupid, like the caricatures of Chinese men.