Gold Mountain: A Klondike Mystery by Vicki Delany

I’d considered speaking to Richard Sterling about the matter, but as long as Sheridan kept his distance there wasn’t anything the police could do. Anyway, the man would be on his way to Gold Mountain soon enough. Highly unlikely he would ever return.
    The milliner had nothing in pale green, thank heavens. After much debate and even more haggling over the price, I left the shop with a cream velvet hat that turned up on the left side, decorated with a contrasting black ostrich feather (if it was from a real ostrich I’d eat it), a clump of grapes, and a wide cream ribbon. It had a long lace train I didn’t fancy, so I had the shop owner tuck it up behind with a few impromptu stitches.
    When the last minute adjustments were finished, I left the shop, thinking that after the wedding I might make some adjustments of my own — get rid of the grapes and add flowers, perhaps a more colourful ribbon — when Graham Donohue, the newspaperman, stepped into my path.
    “Shopping, Fiona?”
    I lifted the box. “A new hat. For the wedding.”
    “I’m sure you’ll look positively spectacular in it.”
    “I hope not,” I said, hiding a smile. “It’s not my role to look spectacular, but to ensure the bride does so.”
    “Yeah. Anyway, Fiona, speaking of the wedding, I’ve been meaning to ask if I may have the honour of being your escort to that affair.”
    “I’m going with Angus.”
    “Come on, Fiona, say yes. We rarely ever get the chance to spend time in each other’s company lately, what with you always working and all. If you won’t allow me to be your escort at the wedding, how about we do something on Sunday? A stroll perhaps, followed by tea.”
    I stopped walking. We were almost at the Savoy, standing on the stretch of boardwalk outside the small bakery operated by my neighbours the Misses Vanderhaege. Like so much in Dawson, calling the place a bakery was a considerable exaggeration. They sold waffles for twenty-five cents each and undrinkable coffee.
    I was about to remind Graham that we had tea less than a week ago. Instead, I said, “Sunday. Excellent idea. Why don’t you come for a late breakfast? Say around ten o’ clock.”
    Graham’s eyes almost popped out of his handsome face. “Breakfast?”
    “I’ve decided to start a new fashion. Rather than wait until tea time, I will entertain in the morning. Mr. and Mrs. Mann will be home from church by ten.” And if for some reason they were delayed, I’d have Graham to chase off Sheridan should the fool become overly persistent. Much better than spending the day hiding out in Ray Walker’s lodgings, which had been my original plan. I’ve never been to Ray’s lodgings, but I knew he lived in a men’s boarding house. I could only imagine the place would be quite foul: cramped and dirty, with the smell of unwashed men and stale liquor and too much cigar smoke.
    I do not entertain on Sundays, my only day of rest. I usually wash my hair, drying it in the sun if it is nice out, or by the stove if not. Perhaps in the late afternoon I’ll put on a suitable afternoon dress and go for a walk, to catch some of the news. I spend six days week being charming and friendly and beautiful. I do not wish to do so on the seventh. Except for being beautiful. That I can always do.
    Just this once, I would make an exception to my routine.
    I took a quick peek around. The streets were busy with the usual packs of wandering layabouts, respectable women going about their family’s business, the occasional less-than-respectable woman looking for her own business, miners either heading for the creeks or returning from them, pack horses and donkeys, dog-trains, and feral dogs. About 90 percent of the people were men, and there were very few children.
    “Are you expecting someone, Fiona?” Graham asked, also surveying the streetscape.
    “No,” I said brightly. “No one. Until Saturday, Graham.”
    “And breakfast on Sunday,” he said in a voice designed to carry.
    I