Chapter 8
Prologue
BEING DEAD isn’t all it’s cranked up to be. Good thing I died with my cigarillo clinging to my lip, a flask of whiskey in one hand and my trusty .44 in the other. Otherwise I’d be plumb out of luck for entertainment.
Belle Bulette pointed her Colt .44 at the godawfulest, ugliest ceiling light she’d seen in at least a hundred years and cocked the hammer.
Across the parlor, the same room where over a century ago she and the girls had greeted their customers, Rosebud flashed a disapproving look through her wire-frame glasses before returning to her book, Lady Chatterley’s Lover. The rest of the ghostly strumpets either made a great show of ignoring Belle or voiced their opinions of her.
“There she goes again, using the parlor for target practice,” sniffed Flo, tossing a shawl over her nightgown.
Belle barely glanced in Flo’s direction. The hooker’s persnickety attitude had irked Belle in life and just did more of the same afterward. Whoever coined the phrase rest in peace had a thing or two to learn. Shame Mimi forgot to help Flo out of her too-tight corset the night of the fatal gas leak—otherwise, the ol’ biddy might’ve spent eternity in a better mood.
“She was much better behaved when we were alive,” chimed in Glory—oh, the men had once loved to shout “Glory, Hallelujah!”—in her thick Texas drawl.
“Balderdash,” said Flo.
“She didn’t shoot in the parlor,” said Sunshine sweetly, her golden-blond hair as bright as the April late-morning rays pouring through the bay windows. “Or in any other room in the bordello. Well, although she almost did that time that varmint Blackhearted Jack got surly with Miss Arlotta and Belle told him to leave, her gun barrel wedged in his gut.”
Belle wasn’t much of a girly type—she’d always preferred the company of men—but she had a soft spot for Sunshine, who was one of her staunchest supporters. Plus, Belle had learned long ago that beneath Sunshine’s doll-like looks was one savvy lady who knew exactly what she was doing.
Flo harrumphed. “Maybe Belle didn’t shoot her gun in the house, but she sure rode that horse of hers into the foyer after too much red-eye. Miss Arlotta fined her a half eagle for that escapade.”
“As though zat stopped her,” murmured the Countess, as the Hungarian beauty primped in a mirror, her reflection seen by the girls but not by the living eye. “Belle never cared about za money.”
Because I made enough to stock a woodpile. Belle still took great pride that right up until her and the girls’ untimely death due to that nasty gas leak in 1895, she’d earned her living—and a handsome one at that—with her body and her mind. She’d plied her craft in the bedroom and at the betting table, saving most of her earnings so that one day she could open her own gambling house. When it came to cards, she was accustomed to winning, and when she won big, she celebrated big, too. Anyone could walk into a room and announce their good news, but it took balls to ride in.
Smiling at the memory, Belle lowered her pistol and took a drag of her cigarillo before again lining up the barrel with the ceiling globe. Hearing another of Flo’s irritated harrumphs was almost as satisfying as the pungent taste of tobacco.
As if Belle could do any real damage. If her gun could shoot live bullets, that god-awful contraption would have been blasted away years ago. Bad enough their gas lamps had long ago been replaced with electrical lights, but that high-falutin’ investment company who’d renovated their bordello into this fancy honeymoon hotel had darn near sucked the life out of it—painted over gold relief, ripped out oak paneling. Oh, they kept a few “touches of the past” in the lobby—the jewel-toned rug, mahogany fireplace, even added a few potted palms just like the girls had enjoyed many years ago. But the owners had relegated dang near everything else—antiques they called them—to an area in the back of the lobby set off with a red velvet rope and called the “historical parlor.”
This parlor had once been what Miss Arlotta called the “high-rollers” room—nothin’ historical about it—where a gentleman could drink the finest whiskey and gamble for high stakes. It had been an honor for a girl to be summoned there and she often left by means of the secret staircase to the upper floors to keep her rendezvous discreet. If problems arose and a gentleman had to leave quickly, the staircase also had an exit to the side street.
On a few occasions, when no living people were around, Belle had materialized in this parlor so she could touch the faded red velvet chaise lounge or finger the delicate lace curtains. The room was crowded with memories of what it had been like to be alive and her mind would drift back to earthly delights. The brisk spray of water from nearby Maiden Falls during summer, the rush of wind in her face when riding her bay across the fields.
It’d been hell being housebound since 1895.
“Belle,” boomed Miss Arlotta’s voice. “No cussing.”
Flo shot a supercilious look at Belle.
“Pardon,” Belle murmured, glancing up at the attic where Miss Arlotta bided most of her time. Belle still hadn’t figured out how the madam seemed to see and hear everything in this house, but she did. And when she spoke, her words reverberated through the air, commanding respect just as they had back when this was the classiest, fanciest bordello within a hundred miles of Denver.
And just as the girls had adhered to Miss Arlotta’s rules back then, they abided by the madam’s golden rules now, too. Of course, the focus had changed. As Miss Arlotta often reminded them, “Before, we helped ’em stray, now we’re helping ’em stay.” Married, that is.
Because when a girl helped a troubled couple on the road to bedroom bliss, she could earn a notch in Miss Arlotta’s Bedpost Book. It was a coup to earn a notch first, because not all couples needed help. Second, because sometimes it took darn hard work to help the troubled ones—in special cases, Miss Arlotta rewarded bonus gold stars, worth more than one notch! Ten notches and a girl was eligible to advance to “the Big Picnic in the Sky.”
Since the renovated Inn at Maiden Falls had opened in 1994—the first time the girls had had the opportunity to aid true love in compensation for the “fake” love they’d made in their earthly lives—Belle had earned nine. She was chomping at the bit to earn that last big notch, not caring if she advanced to the Big Picnic or the big cow pasture in the sky, just get her the hell—she darted a glance at the attic—the Sam Hill out of here so her spirit could once again be free.
“Will you look yonder?” said one of the girls. “Looks like we have a single gent checking into the inn.”
“Just like in them grand
