I’m sorry.”
She wouldn’t look at him, refused even to acknowledge his words.
“Maybe we can talk.”
“Talk?” Beret flung the word back at him. “Oh yes, you are very good at talking. But do you think I would believe a word you said?”
“You always were a jealous shrew, my dear.”
“Here, don’t talk to her like that,” Mick told him. Then he added, “Get out of here. Your kind makes me sick.”
Teddy shrugged and started for the poker game he’d left, but then he changed his mind and went out onto the street.
Mick studied Beret for a moment, finally touching her arm and asking, “Are you all right, Miss Osmundsen?”
“No, of course I’m not all right. If it weren’t for that man, my sister would be alive. He ruined her. She’d be alive if it weren’t for him.”
“Maybe, but if his story proves to be true, if he really was in Leadville, he didn’t murder her. And if that’s the case, there’s nothing we can charge him with. If we charged every man who ruined a girl, the jails would be full.”
“Then you should build larger jails, because whether he stabbed her or not, he’s guilty. You are right, Detective, he is scum.”
“You knew him, I take it.” The remark was obvious, and the detective smiled a little as if to acknowledge that fact.
Beret nodded.
“Did you know him well?”
She thought that over. “You could say that. Quite well, in fact.” Beret turned to stare out the door through which Teddy had disappeared. When she looked back at the detective, her face was rigid with pain. “His real name is Edward Staarman. He was my husband.”
Chapter 7
Beret did not remember leaving the Arcade or making her way through the crowd as she and Mick crossed the street to the restaurant. She was badly shaken, and all she could think about was the awful confrontation with Teddy. The memories of his betrayal—his and Lillie’s—consumed her. It was as if she were living it all over again. Not until she was seated did she come to her senses.
“Would you like tea or something stronger?” Mick asked. Beret focused her eyes, which were the color of the brooding sky outside, on the detective, not quite understanding. “Sherry perhaps?” he asked.
“I would like tea. And brandy.”
Mick summoned the waiter and gave the order: tea and two brandies. Then he sat back and watched Beret, waiting.
She looked around the room and recognized the place then. It was Charpiot’s Restaurant, “the Delmonico of the West,” as it fashioned itself with gold letters over the entrance. Charpiot’s had good reason to brag. It was Denver’s finest restaurant, and Beret had been there before with her aunt and uncle. Unlike most of the other eating establishments she had seen in Denver with their stuffy and overbearing décor, Charpiot’s was simply decorated, plain even, but elegant, very expensive, and well beyond a detective’s salary. She wondered why Mick had brought her to such a fine place. Perhaps policemen ate there free, part of the graft that was so common in the cities. Mick did not strike her as an officer on the take, but no matter. She resolved to pay.
Neither of them said anything until after the waiter set down the tea and brandy, placing the cup and the glasses just so, adding a plate with lemon slices, a cream pitcher, a sugar bowl, setting down a polished silver spoon. He bowed a little, glanced at Mick to see if anything more was wanted, and then slipped away.
Mick waited until Beret picked up either her cup or her brandy, but when she continued to sit as still as stone, he said, “Well, Miss Osmundsen—or is it Mrs. Staarman?”
“Osmundsen,” Beret said, shutting her eyes for a moment and taking a breath. “I resumed my maiden name when I divorced Edward. I didn’t want anything of him remaining in my life. That was last year. What happened today is a shock, although I had suspected Edward had followed my sister here. Still, I never expected to see him
She wouldn’t look at him, refused even to acknowledge his words.
“Maybe we can talk.”
“Talk?” Beret flung the word back at him. “Oh yes, you are very good at talking. But do you think I would believe a word you said?”
“You always were a jealous shrew, my dear.”
“Here, don’t talk to her like that,” Mick told him. Then he added, “Get out of here. Your kind makes me sick.”
Teddy shrugged and started for the poker game he’d left, but then he changed his mind and went out onto the street.
Mick studied Beret for a moment, finally touching her arm and asking, “Are you all right, Miss Osmundsen?”
“No, of course I’m not all right. If it weren’t for that man, my sister would be alive. He ruined her. She’d be alive if it weren’t for him.”
“Maybe, but if his story proves to be true, if he really was in Leadville, he didn’t murder her. And if that’s the case, there’s nothing we can charge him with. If we charged every man who ruined a girl, the jails would be full.”
“Then you should build larger jails, because whether he stabbed her or not, he’s guilty. You are right, Detective, he is scum.”
“You knew him, I take it.” The remark was obvious, and the detective smiled a little as if to acknowledge that fact.
Beret nodded.
“Did you know him well?”
She thought that over. “You could say that. Quite well, in fact.” Beret turned to stare out the door through which Teddy had disappeared. When she looked back at the detective, her face was rigid with pain. “His real name is Edward Staarman. He was my husband.”
Chapter 7
Beret did not remember leaving the Arcade or making her way through the crowd as she and Mick crossed the street to the restaurant. She was badly shaken, and all she could think about was the awful confrontation with Teddy. The memories of his betrayal—his and Lillie’s—consumed her. It was as if she were living it all over again. Not until she was seated did she come to her senses.
“Would you like tea or something stronger?” Mick asked. Beret focused her eyes, which were the color of the brooding sky outside, on the detective, not quite understanding. “Sherry perhaps?” he asked.
“I would like tea. And brandy.”
Mick summoned the waiter and gave the order: tea and two brandies. Then he sat back and watched Beret, waiting.
She looked around the room and recognized the place then. It was Charpiot’s Restaurant, “the Delmonico of the West,” as it fashioned itself with gold letters over the entrance. Charpiot’s had good reason to brag. It was Denver’s finest restaurant, and Beret had been there before with her aunt and uncle. Unlike most of the other eating establishments she had seen in Denver with their stuffy and overbearing décor, Charpiot’s was simply decorated, plain even, but elegant, very expensive, and well beyond a detective’s salary. She wondered why Mick had brought her to such a fine place. Perhaps policemen ate there free, part of the graft that was so common in the cities. Mick did not strike her as an officer on the take, but no matter. She resolved to pay.
Neither of them said anything until after the waiter set down the tea and brandy, placing the cup and the glasses just so, adding a plate with lemon slices, a cream pitcher, a sugar bowl, setting down a polished silver spoon. He bowed a little, glanced at Mick to see if anything more was wanted, and then slipped away.
Mick waited until Beret picked up either her cup or her brandy, but when she continued to sit as still as stone, he said, “Well, Miss Osmundsen—or is it Mrs. Staarman?”
“Osmundsen,” Beret said, shutting her eyes for a moment and taking a breath. “I resumed my maiden name when I divorced Edward. I didn’t want anything of him remaining in my life. That was last year. What happened today is a shock, although I had suspected Edward had followed my sister here. Still, I never expected to see him
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