it.
“Mrs. Fenster, in the future if you wish to borrow any equipment, photographic or otherwise, please be so kind as to ask. In addition, the Colt was not returned in the same condition in which it was borrowed, and I would be grateful if you would return such items to me directly rather than attempting to slip them unnoticed back into place, improperly maintained. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Sadlaw,” she said with more formality than was her habit.
The bell downstairs tinkled just then, and the old woman hastened down the stairs to answer it. I had a portrait sitting scheduled, and I went into the studio to make certain the boy was hard at work preparing the equipment and plates rather than cowering in the dark at the thought of the policeman come to arrest him and his auntie. I found him busily scouring the plates I had laid out, having seemingly forgotten Patrolman Heinecker.
T HAT EVENING I took my horse and carriage out and rode to Golden with the Baby Dragoon in its case next to me. Though there was no way of proving that this particular revolver was theone that was used to slaughter poor comatose Hiram Cowan, I preferred not to have it in the house to tempt Mrs. Fenster, who might decide she had other scores to settle. Priscilla emitted a little coo of surprise when she opened the door and found me on her threshold with a box in my hands.
“Oh, a present.” She reached for it, and I pulled it away.
“It’s not. It’s just something I’d like to keep here for a while if that’s all right.”
She was disappointed and didn’t mind exaggerating it. “What is it, then?”
“Never you mind, just let me keep it here for a few days.”
She pouted and turned away from me, though she’d already let me into her parlor. “I don’t see why I should do anything nice for you,” she said.
I handed her the laudanum bottle, which she accepted joylessly. “That’s not the same as something pretty.”
I slid my arms around her waist from behind and cooed into her ear. “I promise next time I’ll bring you a little something, how’s that, Cilla dear?”
“I surely don’t know,” she said, turning to face me and pulling away. I followed, assuming that we would be heading up the stairs, but she stopped me with a hand to my chest. “Not so fast, Mr. Sadlaw. Would you like some tea?”
“Tea?” I repeated stupidly. “Not really, thank you.”
“Fine, you be seated and I’ll be along presently.” I sat on the canapé where I’d screwed her half a dozen times andtried to understand what she was up to. Perhaps I did presume too much; this was the first time I’d ever visited where there’d been any sort of activity intervening between the door opening and sexual congress. There was a book on a side table within reach, and I opened it. “The Pilgrim’s Progress,” read the title page; I hoped this was a family heirloom and not another sign that she’d found religion. To my great relief I found that it was a very old edition, and cheaply printed. Its pages, likely unopened since the middle of the last century, cracked and separated when I opened it, bits of their edges flaking onto the parquet, and guiltily I flicked them underneath the canapé.
After a few agonizing minutes she returned with a tray laden with porcelain teapot, cups, saucers, and creamer, and silver sugar bowl and spoons. She set them daintily down onto a small table and poured me my undesired tea, the very model of the genteel, sophisticated lady. She referred to me politely as “Mr. Sadlaw,” and if not for the fact that the participants were an unchaperoned and possibly still-married woman and a man of decidedly murky matrimonial status, the tableau might have been one from any well-heeled Denver home of quality. Naturally this pastiche of gentility had the unintended effect of making me want to despoil her there on the hearth rug, and I suppressed the physical result of that arousal with difficulty as
“Mrs. Fenster, in the future if you wish to borrow any equipment, photographic or otherwise, please be so kind as to ask. In addition, the Colt was not returned in the same condition in which it was borrowed, and I would be grateful if you would return such items to me directly rather than attempting to slip them unnoticed back into place, improperly maintained. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Sadlaw,” she said with more formality than was her habit.
The bell downstairs tinkled just then, and the old woman hastened down the stairs to answer it. I had a portrait sitting scheduled, and I went into the studio to make certain the boy was hard at work preparing the equipment and plates rather than cowering in the dark at the thought of the policeman come to arrest him and his auntie. I found him busily scouring the plates I had laid out, having seemingly forgotten Patrolman Heinecker.
T HAT EVENING I took my horse and carriage out and rode to Golden with the Baby Dragoon in its case next to me. Though there was no way of proving that this particular revolver was theone that was used to slaughter poor comatose Hiram Cowan, I preferred not to have it in the house to tempt Mrs. Fenster, who might decide she had other scores to settle. Priscilla emitted a little coo of surprise when she opened the door and found me on her threshold with a box in my hands.
“Oh, a present.” She reached for it, and I pulled it away.
“It’s not. It’s just something I’d like to keep here for a while if that’s all right.”
She was disappointed and didn’t mind exaggerating it. “What is it, then?”
“Never you mind, just let me keep it here for a few days.”
She pouted and turned away from me, though she’d already let me into her parlor. “I don’t see why I should do anything nice for you,” she said.
I handed her the laudanum bottle, which she accepted joylessly. “That’s not the same as something pretty.”
I slid my arms around her waist from behind and cooed into her ear. “I promise next time I’ll bring you a little something, how’s that, Cilla dear?”
“I surely don’t know,” she said, turning to face me and pulling away. I followed, assuming that we would be heading up the stairs, but she stopped me with a hand to my chest. “Not so fast, Mr. Sadlaw. Would you like some tea?”
“Tea?” I repeated stupidly. “Not really, thank you.”
“Fine, you be seated and I’ll be along presently.” I sat on the canapé where I’d screwed her half a dozen times andtried to understand what she was up to. Perhaps I did presume too much; this was the first time I’d ever visited where there’d been any sort of activity intervening between the door opening and sexual congress. There was a book on a side table within reach, and I opened it. “The Pilgrim’s Progress,” read the title page; I hoped this was a family heirloom and not another sign that she’d found religion. To my great relief I found that it was a very old edition, and cheaply printed. Its pages, likely unopened since the middle of the last century, cracked and separated when I opened it, bits of their edges flaking onto the parquet, and guiltily I flicked them underneath the canapé.
After a few agonizing minutes she returned with a tray laden with porcelain teapot, cups, saucers, and creamer, and silver sugar bowl and spoons. She set them daintily down onto a small table and poured me my undesired tea, the very model of the genteel, sophisticated lady. She referred to me politely as “Mr. Sadlaw,” and if not for the fact that the participants were an unchaperoned and possibly still-married woman and a man of decidedly murky matrimonial status, the tableau might have been one from any well-heeled Denver home of quality. Naturally this pastiche of gentility had the unintended effect of making me want to despoil her there on the hearth rug, and I suppressed the physical result of that arousal with difficulty as
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