Free Gold Mountain: A Klondike Mystery by Vicki Delany Page A

she could leave the Savoy at any time for a position at any other dance hall, but I paid her an excellent wage, and the working conditions were no worse than anywhere else. Things had begun to change recently: I knew Irene’s secret, and she knew I knew. I knew why she had taken up with Ray Walker, and I did not approve in the least.
    That, Irene also knew.
    It made for an awkward situation, and I do not care to be put in a position in which I am unsure as to what is going on.
    Ray was visiting Irene when we arrived. Fortunately, all they appeared to have been doing was drinking tea.
    The Lady Irénée occupied a single room in a boarding house. An unmade bed with an iron headboard and frame took up a goodly portion of the space. A small table with two chairs around it was in the centre of the room, a large wooden chest pushed against one wall. But there were lace curtains on the windows and a thick colourful rug on the floor, and on the wall, a painting of a pretty blond girl holding a big yellow hat in an alpine meadow.
    Ray stood when we entered. “You ladies have a pleasant afternoon,” he said. He kissed Irene most possessively, full on the mouth, picked up his hat, and left.
    Irene’s eyes slid away from mine. Not bothering with pleasantries, she crossed the room in two strides and threw open the lid on the chest.
    I pretended indifference, but my heart positively leapt at the sight of crimson satin, pale blue muslin, startlingly white cotton, and navy blue velvet.
    “Oh,” Martha breathed. “How lovely it all is.”
    Irene pulled out a bolt of white cotton and then a length of good lace and handed them to Martha. I said the blue muslin would be much more practical (it was considerably less expensive), but Martha was determined to wear a white dress to her wedding, just as Queen Victoria had done.
    Martha cradled the cloth as though it were a baby. Her short, stubby, nail-chewed fingers stroked it, not as one would stroke a baby, but a lover.
    There would be no quibbling over the price here.
    Irene measured and cut the cloth, and then wrapped it in brown paper and string. She then looked at me and, with a smile curling at the edges of her mouth, named her price. I hid a grimace and dug into my reticule. We were not offered tea.
    Business completed, we headed back to the Savoy to meet Helen Saunderson, who was going to make Martha’s wedding dress. Martha clutched the bundle of cloth to her chest as we walked toward Front Street. I thought it too bad that Martha hadn’t been here over the winter; the radiance pouring from her face would have raised the temperature a considerable amount.
    Martha and Mouse O’Brien had known each other no more than a few weeks. But things moved quickly in the Klondike. Spring and summer were so short, winter so long and harsh, it seemed as though people needed to pack a whole year into a couple of months. We operated on a different time scale here. I wouldn’t be too terribly surprised to travel back Outside and find that ten or twenty years had passed since we’d left Vancouver.
    When Ray, Angus, and I arrived last autumn, the town of Dawson wasn’t much larger or better built than Skagway, except for government offices and the sturdy Fort Herchmer, operated by the North-West Mounted Police. The town consisted of a few wooden buildings, some planks laid down over the mud, and hundreds of tents. Now, less than a year later, it was a thriving community of close to 30,000 souls, and anything available in the Outside could be found in Dawson.
    Although sometimes for an exorbitant price. Such as pure white cotton with which to make a wedding gown.
    I gave Helen the afternoon off in order to take Martha home with her, measure her for the dress, and get started on it. The wedding was on Saturday afternoon, five days hence. The dress, and Helen’s time working on it, would be Angus’s and my wedding gift to the happy couple.
    Helen and Martha had just left, Helen chattering away