Eighteen“Isabella?” Lotta Crabtree was stretched on a recliner, her neck wrapped in a warm scarf, a hot toddy of black tea and whiskey in one hand, a slim black cigar resting in a crystal dish that served as an ashtray. John breathed in the spicy fragrance of the toddy, which together with the faint smell of earth and leaves from the cigar’s wispy curling smoke gave the room the pleasant smell of a gentleman’s club.
“She did come to visit, but I’m not up to giving lessons today. I’ve got a bit of a throat coming on, and I have to be fit for Sacramento in another few days.” She dipped her toddy glass in a mock salute. “You’re most welcome to join us if you wish.”
She gestured towards her companion, a man with a walrus mustache who was perched on a chair close to her recliner, giving every
