“I know her as Desiree. I think I’ve met all of Mrs. Fry’s ladies at one time or another.” She said this matter-of-fact. “You’re surprised.”
“I guess I am.”
“Falls Hollow simply isn’t big enough for people to be strangers. Desiree came to this station on the arm of a fancy gambler about four years ago. She spent a night here on her own until the gambler got a room in one of the wayside homes and then she joined him. He wasn’t in Falls Hollow long. I don’t even remember his name, but I do recall he was run out for cheating and had luck enoughnot to be shot at the table. Desiree stayed behind and settled in at Mrs. Fry’s. I think she was familiar with the work when she met the gambler.”
“Huh. Well, it seems she was Josey Pye’s favorite.”
“Did I need to know that?”
“Maybe not. I figured you’d want to know why I asked after her.”
Laurel conceded that he was probably right. “So you’re going to speak to her.”
“I am. Only makes sense that she might know something.” Call also wanted to see if Desiree put him in mind of Laurel as she did the Booker brothers. “Do you know her last name?”
“I’m not sure I know her first name. ‘Desiree’ always struck me as her working name.”
Call nodded. This was not unexpected. “It very well might be. True names are personal, too revealing for some, and there are girls who guard them as closely as a card sharp guards his hand.”
Laurel looked at him oddly.
Call interpreted her expression as wanting to know something she couldn’t quite bring herself to ask. “My mother was a whore.” He said this in a straightforward manner without a trace of discomfort. When she merely blinked, he added, “You were wondering how I knew about the names, weren’t you?”
“I—I was, um... Yes. Yes, I was.”
He nodded again. “That’s how.”
Laurel did not shy away from staring at him. “I haven’t met the like of you before, Mr. Landry.”
It was difficult to know what to make of that so Call asked, “Do you count making my acquaintance as a good thing or something you wish you could have avoided?”
“I’m not attaching any judgment to it.”
“Probably better that way. And I’m Call, by the way. We agreed last night that there’d be no more Mr. Landry.”
“Right.”
Call lifted his chin in the direction of the porch to indicate the work he’d done. “What do you think? Satisfactory?”
Laurel looked at the boards he’d already laid down and nodded. “There’s more whitewash in the barn you can apply when you’re done.”
“All right. I have this one last board to cut and set.”
“Good.” Laurel turned and hopped up on the porch. Without looking back, she disappeared into the house. What would he think, she wondered, if she asked to accompany him to Mrs. Fry’s?
11
With no stages scheduled for Sunday, Call figured that he’d visit the brothel in the afternoon. It was his experience that Sundays were generally quiet and the whores were not in demand. Men who frequented brothels on Saturday night were likely to be in church in the morning and sitting with their families for an afternoon meal. Unmarried men often avoided the place in favor of courting their sweethearts.
Mrs. Fry’s house was as anticipated. Three women were quietly playing cards at a small oval table in the parlor. Two wore white chemises and petticoats; the other wore an afternoon dress printed with dainty flowers and trimmed with a flounce. He presumed Mrs. Fry was wearing the modest print dress. The madam looked to be in her late thirties, while the petticoat ladies were at least fifteen years her junior. Mrs. Fry didn’t leap to her feet to welcome him, which he figured was by design. It gave him time to look around a little longer, perhaps make a selection. She couldn’t know he had a specific purpose that had nothing at all to do with the business of the house.
The parlor was a slightly rougher version of the sumptuous parlors Call had seen in the East. Every effort had been made to make it an easy, comforting room. The flocked wallpaper was a deep shade of red, the de rigueur color for a whorehouse, and the furniture was large, overstuffed, and upholstered in red-and-cream-stripeddamask. There were straight-back chairs with crewel-worked seat covers. He saw lots of roses, another familiar favorite.
There was a young woman occupying one corner of the sofa. Her bare legs were drawn up and to the side. She was reading what looked to be a well-worn copy of the Bible, not an unheard-of choice, especially on a Sunday. She never looked up once while he stood on the parlor’s threshold.
Two women shared the piano bench. Neither was poised to play. Instead, they were sorting through sheet music quietly arguing about a selection. Call walked up to the piano, placed an arm on the upright’s polished top, and leaned against it. Both whores looked up. He suspected immediately that the one on the right was Desiree, but his easy smile did not single her out. It encompassed both of them.
“Do you know ‘Mollie Darling’?” he asked.
