The Jewel and the Key

by Louise Spiegler

Larson pointed at Peterson. “Is this man your son?” Emma Mae laughed her silvery laugh, and Gustaf, taking her lead, managed a faint chuckle. “My son? How old do you think I am, Officer?” The detective smiled thinly, not joining in. “This is my brother. I have two sons. One is a solicitor in Olympia. The other is still at college.”

  A shadow crossed Reg's face.

  “Rob Hamlin.” Peterson shook Larson’s hand and Addie tensed. He had managed to flatten out his Swedish accent, but he still didn’t sound native-born. The officer frowned. Peterson, though, went on, gesturing at Addie. “And my daughter, Sophie.”

  Addie half whispered, “Pleased to meet you,” and tried to look bashful.

  Larson turned back to Peterson. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Hamlin, especially at a time like this.” He pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket and said to Emma Mae, “But it says here it’s your son who’s supposed to be reporting for duty. That fellow who called from the theater told us.”

  “What fellow?”

  The detective glanced back at the paper again. “Humphries? He’s from the APL, so we got to listen to him. Called us up, told us your son was on his way across town with an escaped prisoner.”

  “What? What nonsense! How would my son come by an escaped prisoner?”

  “You tell me. We don’t have any reason to doubt Mr. Humphries.”

  Emma Mae hesitated, as if debating whether to speak. “I hate to cast aspersions, Officer, but as I was leaving, one of the ushers told me Mr. Humphries had brought a flask to the theater and was putting away shots of moonshine like a stevedore. Normally we’d evict anyone who did that, but ... The point is, if you let a man in that state send you on a wild goose chase...” She shook her head disapprovingly. “It doesn’t seem right, especially when we’re saying goodbye!”

  The waitress returned with several long-stemmed glasses clattering in the crook of her arm. “Use what you need. I don’t have time for special orders.” She lowered the glasses onto the bar and scurried away.

  “But I’m not so sure it was a wild goose chase,” the detective said. “Your brother and your niece and...” He eyeballed Reg. “Who are you, exactly?”

  Reg looked sullen. “Mack.”

  “Mack who?”

  Don’t say Beth! Addie thought furiously. It isn’t funny!

  “Duffy.”

  Addie rolled her eyes, wondering if Reg ever lost the urge to make jokes. “I drive for the Powells,” he added.

  “That correct, Mrs. Powell?”

  Emma Mae nodded.

  Larson looked annoyed. “Humphries told us your name was Peterson and you were on the lam. Though by my count, you got a good few years before you’d match the man they described. Got a union card?”

  Reg shook his head.

  Without preliminary, Detective Larson stepped over to Reg and began searching him. Addie’s stomach knotted. Peterson better not have any other Wobbly stuff stashed away in his pockets, she thought. Anger flashed in Reg's eyes and Addie could tell it was all he could do not to knee Larson in the groin. But then he picked up his character, and his face settled into an expression of resentful deference.

  “You’re not planning on searching all of us, are you?” Emma Mae gathered her velvet jacket about her disdainfully. Addie shifted her bag nervously on her shoulder, thinking of what was inside it.

  Larson let go of Reg. “No, ma’am. But your family’s got some explaining to do. Even if this fella ain’t Gustaf Peterson and everything else that Humphries said was wrong, I still got to ask why these three just came from the Daily Call office. That’s an IWW paper. On the booze or no—and that’s a serious charge, Mrs. Powell—your four-minute man got that right.” The detective pulled a small notebook out of his pocket. “The report from Bryant said Peterson’s daughter works for you. And there was some kerfluffle over a pistol when he went to the theater to question her. No one’s claimed it yet, by the way. Given all that, I think it’s fair to ask what your family was doing visiting Sam Sadler and his crew this evening.”

  Emma Mae turned her gaze on Reg and Peterson. Addie could see a flash of fear, but then it was gone and her expression was composed. “The IWW? What were you doing with that crew?”

  Reg opened his mouth, and then bit his lip, remembering he was just the hired man. Peterson was keeping quiet. Someone has to answer, Addie thought. “It was my idea.”

  The detective swiveled his head and examined her again with his tiny snail eyes. “Yours?”

  Addie nodded, thinking, Oh, great. Why? Why was it my idea? Why would Reg’s cousin Sophie from Montana suddenly get the idea to visit the Industrial Workers of the World?

  But then she had it. It was nutty, but it was the only thing she could think of. Sophie was going to save Reg, of course. Wasn’t that what girls did? Wasn’t it in their genes or something, saving boys from themselves?

  Grimly, Addie opened her purse and burrowed inside. She pulled out the folded newspaper she had taken from Andrew Lindstrom and handed it to the detective. Reg's eyes were burning into her back—she didn’t have to turn around; she could feel them—but she couldn’t help it if he was mad at her.

  She looked pleadingly at Emma Mae. “I’m sorry, Aunt Emma! I know how furious you were with Reg for writing about those Wobblies in the prison.”

  “Writing about—” Quickly, Emma Mae amended, “That’s right. That did bother me.”

  Addie turned to the detective. “One of the actors was trying to get my cousin Reg in trouble by showing this to Mr. Humphries. I was afraid he could go to jail for it. The dean wouldn’t let him print it at the Daily. So someone gave him the crazy idea that he could get the IWW to print it.” She let her voice crack. “Dad and I wanted to make sure Reg didn’t get into any more trouble. You know how he is, Aunt Emma!”

  “Oh, I know exactly how he is.” Emma Mae's voice was brittle.

  “So we had Duffy drive us over to tell Mr. Sadler not to accept any business from Reg; that if he did, Charlie would bring a lawsuit.” Addie squeezed out a tear. “Please say you’re not mad at us.”

  Emma Mae took Addie’s hand and held it to her cheek. “I am a little put out with you, Sophie, for giving me such a scare. Detective, I’m so sorry to have wasted your time. And I’m sorry my relatives have made it so easy for you to think we’re crazed revolutionists. We really aren’t.”

  Larson shrugged and stuck the newspaper in his jacket pocket. “That does clear up a few things. And I can check your story with Sadler. And with the provost. Who was that?”

  “I—” Addie hesitated. “It was Professor Hanson. The point is the paper never got sold. So there’s no harm done.”

  Larson looked keenly at Emma Mae. “Where’s your son now? Too busy writing subversive literature to say goodbye to his uncle?”

  No one had thought of this. For a moment, Addie’s mind went blank. She glanced at Reg. His face was ashen.

  Peterson stuck his jaw out. “I told him to get lost. That’s where he is.”

  Emma Mae gasped.

  Addie held her breath. Don’t say any more, Mr. Peterson. Don’t let him hear your accent.

  But Peterson put his rough workingman’s hand on Emma Mae’s shoulder. To Addie’s relief, he flattened his vowels. “Sorry, Emma. I was mad! Playing the fool while you’re working your fingers to the bone. It’s more than I could stomach! You’ve spoiled him all your life, you know that.”

  To Addie’s shock, Emma Mae actually burst into tears. “You’re right. I have!”

  Addie thought this might be the most truthful thing anyone had said all night.

  “All right,” the detective cut in. “Enough family drama. Mrs. Powell, you just keep that boy of yours out of trouble. Tell him we’re keeping an eye on him.”

  Emma Mae swallowed and said, “All right, Detective. I’ll talk to him. I’m sure he’ll listen to me.”

  Addie glanced from Peterson to Reg, and then up at the clock above the ticket booths on the far wall, hoping that Det
ective Larson was done with them now.

  But Larson pulled off his helmet and draped a leg over a free stool. “I hope so, ma’am. And, to show I’ve got no personal feelings in the matter, I’ll pledge a toast in honor of your brother’s service.”

  He just wants to stick around to see if they’re telling the truth, Addie thought in dismay. But she managed to smile vapidly.

  Emma Mae kept her composure. “We’d be honored, Detective.”

  With a steady hand, she poured out four glasses of the soda and passed one to everyone except Reg. She held hers up and said, “Robinson Hamlin! May he honor his country and return safely home.” Addie could only touch the glass to her lips. She was afraid she would gag if she tried to drink.

  The military band’s music roared to a crescendo. Someone started singing “Over There,” and other voices joined in. Close by, a bell tolled, and a man with a bullhorn came through the station, shouting, “Ten-thirty to San Francisco, arriving track one.... Ten-thirty, arriving track one!”

  All around them, people began streaming onto the platform. Women threw their arms around men in uniform. Older men slapped their backs. Children tugged on their legs.

  Reg and Peterson stared at each other, and Addie could see shock on their faces. Emma Mae saw it too, and, with great presence of mind, declared, “All right, Rob. This is it. Lets get you on that train.”

  Detective Larson was watching keenly, and she saw his eyes dart quickly from Emma Mae to Gustaf. He still suspected them. Well, why not? The lines on Peterson’s face and the shadows beneath his eyes betrayed deep anxiety. For a moment, he looked old, as he sat, frozen, hands dangling at his sides. She knew he was thinking, This can’t be happening. You could read it on his face.

  But then he seemed to gather his wits, and he rose from his seat.

  “No, wait!” Reg cried. Addie looked at him in alarm. What was he doing? He’d dropped the deferential attitude. Everyone else had turned to him. “I—”

  Before he could say another word, Addie lurched into the table as though she’d tripped over something and sent the glasses smashing to the floor. “Ow!” she cried, grabbing her knee. It wasn’t subtle. But it worked.

  The people next to them scrambled away, knocking their own table to one side. Emma Mae swept the skirt of her beautiful gown aside, but it was drenched. Peterson and Humphries leaped back out of the sea of broken glass.

  “Don’t be so clumsy, Sophie!” Emma Mae scolded, picking her way carefully through the shards. Larson offered her his hand. Reg glared at Addie.

  “Get out!” The waitress ran up, waving a broom at them as if shooing cats. She shoved Gustaf to one side. “What have you done? Someone will get cut!”

  “But, wait—” Reg insisted, trying to get Larson’s attention over the hullabaloo. “I need to tell you something.”

  But Emma Mae managed to give the impression he was speaking to her. “Oh, thank you, Mack!” She put her hand on Gustaf’s arm. “Rob, Mack’s trying to tell you you almost forgot your duffel.” And she grabbed the strap of the bag, lifting it out of the mess of soda and broken glass with a strength that Addie would never have suspected.

  For a moment, Peterson stood frozen, a look of disbelief on his face. Then he nodded and took the big bag from her. “Thanks, Emma.” Addie saw his chest rise and fall, as if he had just accepted something. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a folded sheaf of papers, glanced at them, and then carefully slid them back into the pocket. With great dignity, he offered Emma Mae his arm.

  Then he met her eyes and a rueful smile slowly rose to his lips, and Addie knew it wasn’t acting. The smile was full of warmth and gratitude, and Emma Mae's face lit up in response.

  Detective Larson fell in beside them as they made their way out of the café.

  Emma Mae looked over her shoulder and said to Reg, in a clipped, authoritative way, “Take Miss Sophie back to the Jewel. It's too crowded for her here. I know she wants to go to the cast party.” She gave Addie a kiss on the cheek. “I'll see you there later, darling.”

  Reg's eyes were blazing, but he just nodded.

  Addie flung herself at Peterson, hugging him like a daughter. She felt too stunned to do anything else. “Goodbye, Dad.”

  Peterson hugged her back and whispered, “Tell Frida.”

  Addie nodded. And then she watched Emma Mae and Peterson as they made their way out of the café and into the open expanse of the waiting room, Detective Larson following them all the way.

  “We'd better go,” Addie said. But neither she nor Reg moved. They just gazed through the open doors to the dark, teeming platform as Gustaf Peterson finally made his escape.

  29. Home

  The moon had reached its zenith and was caught, like a saint’s halo, on the tip of the great red cedar in her front yard as they walked up the street toward her house.

  Addie froze, staring at the place she had lived for so long, but Reg kept walking. It was so quiet she could hear his boots crunching loose pebbles along the rough stone path that passed for a sidewalk.

  The drapes were drawn in the bay windows, oddly bare without Victrola Books etched on them in gold leaf. There was a porch in front now, and a light glowed behind the deep russet of the curtains. Addie looked up to the second floor, where their family room with the big oak table should have been, then at the third-floor window of Zack's bedroom. Her eyes traveled along the sloping roof where Whaley’s attic room, with his music posters and unwashed socks, would someday be, and she felt an odd pang of homesickness.

  But when she looked back down the hill at the new houses, some only half built, and at the grid of trolley tracks cut into the asphalt, as if they would always be there, she knew she was in a world that was deeper than the world she had known, as an archaeologists excavation deepens a familiar landscape. And yet, it was the same world.

  Swallowing hard, she caught up to Reg, and the two of them stood silent in a pool of moonlight, looking up and down the street for any sign of Teddy Nickles’s truck. Then he turned away, squinting at the house number affixed to the door.

  “Reg?”

  He’d hardly spoken to her since they’d left the station. Addie shivered. It felt as if something between them had snapped. She looked up into the sky, at the cold, thin disc of the moon hanging like a prop in a play.

  “Why won’t you talk to me?” She reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. “Come on....” She could feel his muscles knotted under the flannel work shirt.

  He turned around and said angrily, “You know I didn’t want Peterson going in my place.”

  “But...” Addie hesitated, surprised at his vehemence. “You were going to tell the detective who you were. I couldn’t let you do that.”

  “Smashing all that glass to shut me up.” His face was all sharp angles.

  “I had to, Reg. He’d be in jail right now if you’d said anything. And you, too! At the very least, they’d kick you out of the army.”

  “But—”

  “But what? Oh, Reg, think! You wouldn’t have made anything better.”

  He shook his head hopelessly. “You don’t understand! I said I would go and fight. It’s a promise. It’s honor, Addie. And to have someone else—to dodge out of it! I’m not a coward.”

  ‘A coward? You? Are you crazy?”

  He kept on as if he hadn’t heard. “I offered to go. No one made me.”

  She took a step back and studied him. He looked shabby in Gustaf’s hard-worn clothes, and there were dark smudges under his eyes. “What do you mean?” she said slowly. “I thought you were drafted.”

  “No one’s been drafted yet,” he said impatiently. “And I’m too young, anyway. I volunteered for a second lieutenant’s commission. And now Peterson gets to have the great adventure in my place.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Well, I guess at least we can be happy for him.”

  Happy? She thought of the photographs she'd been looking at with Whaley: the soldiers in their gas ma
sks, the blinded men stumbling their way to the casualty stations or coughing their lungs out after a gas attack. The men with limbs blown off, faces caved in. The war had been grinding along its murderous way for three years, and yet Reg talked about it as a great adventure.

  She drew in a shaky sigh, hating herself for knowing so much and not being able to tell him. “I don’t understand you. How can it be something to be happy about?”

  But he looked like he thought she was the one who was crazy. “It’s a chance to really do something. Really change the world for the better. How many people have a chance to do that?” Make the world safe for democracy, she heard in Whaley’s voice. Isn’t that what they said back in the day?

  “You do! That article you wrote. How is that not making the world a better place?”

  “No one read it.” There was a spark of irritation in his voice. “If you were a fellow, you’d understand. Nothing gets solved if you aren’t willing to fight for it.”

  “Oh, no. I understand, all right. I understand how important fighting is to you boys.”

  Something in her tone made him really look at her. His voice lost its edge. “Come on, Addie. I told you I’d join up, didn’t I? Why are you upset?”

  “I ...” The coo of a mourning dove cut through the mist.

  All of a sudden, it was as if she could see everything clearly, as if Reg had just come into focus for her, this intense, brilliant, spoiled, wisecracking, sincere guy wearing someone else’s oversize clothing, so full of life and energy, so alive.

  She sucked in her breath as it hit her.

  “I’m not upset,” she said slowly. “I’m not upset at all.” There was a jangling chorus in her head, a joyful burst of words: He’s not going to die. He’s not.

  “Oh, my God!” Her face broke into a radiant smile. “This is great.”

  “What is?” Reg looked at her in utter confusion. “You really are mad. You know that, Addie?”

  “I’m not mad!”

  Then, as quickly as it had come, Addie's happiness drained away.

  “But what about Mr. Peterson? Isn’t he in danger now?”