by Fedora Amis
“I did go to the theatre, but I saw only the first two scenes—in fact, only part of the second scene. A man died onstage. Silly me. I thought his death would be more important news than a description of little Eva flapping up from her deathbed on angel wings.”
“Spare me your excuses and your sass. What am I to use in ‘Critic’s Corner’? A genuine newspaper journalist—”
“I know, I know. A genuine newspaper journalist always has other resources to rely upon.”
“At least you acknowledge I’m right when it comes to the world of journalism.”
“I have just what you need, Miss Turnip—Miss Belle Buckley. A review of Mrs. Kate Chopin’s latest book. A story collection called A Vocation and a Voice. I wrote about her story ‘The Falling in Love of Fedora.’ I also have reviews of ‘An Egyptian Cigarette’ and ‘The Kiss,’ if you’d prefer. Of course, you may consider those stories too racy for our sedate St. Louis society.”
“I have no qualms about reviews of improper material. I have qualms only about improper reviews.”
“Another bit of wisdom I’ll take with me to my grave. And I’ll have the “Uncle Tom” review by the end of the play tonight.”
No sooner did “Belle Buckley” Turnipseed leave than Hal showed up to continue the badgering Miss Turnipseed started.
“Fancy meeting you here. I was beginning to think you’d been fired for never coming to the office.”
“I spend most of my time out in the city, gathering news.”
“What a coincidence! Gathering news. That’s exactly what I’m supposed to be doing. What’s more amazing still—I’m supposed to be gathering news with you. Have you forgotten that I’m your photographer?”
Suetonius Hamm had hired Harold Dwight Dwyer because he had red hair and worked cheap. Apparently Hamm thought anyone with red hair would look enough like Jemmy to pass as her brother—not that anyone would leap to said conclusion in this case. Unlike Jemmy’s unblemished pale skin, all six feet of Hal’s gangly body sprouted freckles. Jemmy could read him like a newspaper galley. His baby-mouse–pink ears turned bright red when he grew mad or embarrassed. That minute, his ears glowed the color of cherry juice.
“I had to pretend you and I were working out of the building together yesterday and the day before. Where have you been?”
“Interviewing ladies—some of them in their nether garments. None of them would have talked to me while you were taking their pictures.”
“Have you forgotten? I’m also your bodyguard.”
“I don’t need my body guarded against a couple of old women.” Jemmy failed to mention that one of the old women had threatened her. She also conveniently forgot her undignified ouster from the Northside Turner Hall.
“So you want me to get fired. Is that it?”
“Of course not. When I find the right thing to photograph or when I need guarding, I depend upon you to the death—or dismissal, whichever comes first.”
“I need a job all the time, not just when you think you need guarding. Besides, you don’t have the slightest common sense when it comes to your own hide. I’ve saved your bacon more than once, and you know it.”
“Let’s not forget—I’ve also saved yours.”
“Right. We’re a team.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. So tell me, what is our team doing today?”
“I don’t know about the photographer half, but the reporter half is off to have lunch with a friend.”
“Nothing to do with a story?”
“It might, but I do not need a photographer or a bodyguard. I need privacy to persuade my friend to tell the truth, the whole truth.”
“At least I can give you a ride.”
“On that hideous chartreuse bike of yours? Not likely. I’ll take a streetcar.”
“So what can I do?”
“You might ask your policeman uncle for information on the Sproat death.”
“And after I get it?”
“Bring it to me at the Lindell Hotel.”
Jemmy rose as she handed her cape to Hal. He dutifully held it for her as she slipped into the brown wool and wrapped Father’s old brown tweed muffler round her neck. The scratchy wool and the pungent smell of camphor made her cough. Still, she felt duty-bound to wear it. Mother insisted even a devil-may-care girl who lost her pretty muffler needed something to chase away drafts.
Hal stood with hands on hips as Jemmy smoothed her skirt. She tucked her notebook into her badger-fur muff and swished down the stairs. “Don’t come before two thirty.”
Jemmy had promised to meet Sassy Patterson for lunch at half past one. She had high hopes of discovering all the girl knew about Quisenberry Sproat.
The instant she saw Sassy in the hotel dining room, Jemmy should have abandoned her plan. Sassy was not alone. Three men attended her as if they were drones bringing honey to their queen bee.
Jemmy recognized two of them when the trio stood to acknowledge the presence of a new female. One was Sproat’s boxing trainer, Deke Whicher. Another was Jemmy’s former would-be suitor, a young scoundrel about town named Peter Ploog. Jemmy had found him appealing, until she saw him escaping from the fire at Mrs. Nanny’s Sporting House—in his unmentionables.
The third person was no one Jemmy knew—a handsome fellow, tall and broad shouldered. He noticed her straightaway and waited not a minute for politeness sake. “Miss Patterson, aren’t you going to introduce us to your charming friend?”
Sassy stopped batting her eyelashes at Sproat’s trainer. “Jemmy, dearie, I’m so glad you’re here. These horrible men have been telling such funny stories. My tummy positively aches from laughing.”
The man with the rugged good looks broke all the rules of civilized introduction. He stuck out his hand to shake Jemmy’s. Men were never supposed to touch a lady unbidden. Offering a hand was the lady’s prerogative. A gentleman should feel honored if she held out her hand.
This man scoffed at social convention. “Miss McBustle. I’m Tony von Phul.”
Sassy glared at him until he stepped back and withdrew his hand. “Heigho, my dearie, I’d like you to meet the overeager Sylvester Louis von Phul.”
Jemmy hid a snicker behind her gloved hand at how altogether apropos it seemed to meet a mannerless man named “von Fool.”
Sassy said, “With a name like Sylvester Louis, I’ve always wondered why you call yourself ‘Tony.’ ”
“Two reasons. First, when I walk through a door, I always improve the tone of the establishment within.”
Peter Ploog clicked his tongue and said, “The only way you could make a place more toney is by leaving it. Hello, Miss Mc-Bustle. Jemima and I are old friends. We attend the same church.”
Von Phul put a hand on the table and leaned toward Ploog. “I can’t imagine Ploog being acquainted with church—well, maybe a church mouse.”
Ploog’s words came with steel edges. “From what I hear, you’re the one who is church-mouse poor.”
Sassy put a hand over von Phul’s. “Now, dinkey birds, mustn’t go to bumpville in a nice place like the Lindell Hotel. If you want to set up a fisticuffs match, I’m sure our professional boxing trainer can accommodate you.” Sassy patted Tony’s hand. “Now tell me the second reason why you call yourself ‘Tony’ instead of ‘Louis,’ which I consider a perfectly good name.”
Von Phul struck a chin-up pose. “Imagine this head in a bronze helmet with Roman brush atop. Now imagine this profile on a gold coin. I’m told I look just like Marcus Antonius. This head belongs on an aureus. That’s a gold coin, for those of you who don’t know Roman history.”
Ploog offered a wry smile. “I know where your head belongs, but it’s not a gold coin. In fact, it’s not a place I could name in the company of ladies.”
“If that’s a joke, I fail to see the humor.”
“Perhaps you and Marc Antony are a true match. I understand he owed buckets of gold aurei, just like you do.”
Von Phul rose from h
is chair and began wrapping his napkin around his knuckles.
Sassy said, “Dinkums, dinkums. You boys must cease this bickering immediately. Else I shall leave and not speak to either of you for a whole week.”
Ploog and von Phul said no more, just glared at each other when their eyes strayed from Sassy’s pouty lips.
And so the onion soup was followed by fried oysters, which preceded savory shepherd’s pie. As the party of five tucked into their apple crisp with cream, Hal arrived. He stood, hat in hand, staring at Sassy over von Phul’s head. Ploog noticed first, then Jemmy, then Sproat’s trainer. When Sassy looked up, von Phul turned around and stood.
“Have you business with anyone at this table, young man?”
Jemmy said, “Yes, Mr. von Phul. He has business with me. I’d like you all to meet my photographer from the Illuminator, Mr. Harold Dwyer. I do hate to leave such excellent company, but Mr. Dwyer and I have to get the news while it is still new. Please forgive me for dashing off in the middle of the meal. I know I’m unforgivably rude, but I beg your indulgence.”
The pair said nothing until they reached the street. Jemmy read Hal’s mind. “Pretty, isn’t she?”
“Pretty doesn’t begin to describe her. Just thinking about her brings a lump to my—throat.”
“You’ll have to stand in line—a line that grows minute by minute, man by man.”
“A poor chap from Kerry Patch would never have a chance. I have eyes, though.”
“Even that might not be wise. Tony von Phul was about to blacken both of yours.”
“Might be worth it.”
“Might be time to change the subject. Did you speak with your uncle?”
“He talked with Cyrus Struckhoff, Senior, the father of the man Sproat killed in the ring.”
“This may sound strange, but I have a reason for asking. Could he have horsewhipped Sproat?”
“Not possible. The man is in a wheelchair. The police are looking for the boxer’s older brother, Cyrus Struckhoff, Junior, and a few others.”
“Do you know the names of the other suspects?”
“Only a couple. Sylvester Louis von Phul and Frank James.”
“Sassy had been seeing Quisenberry Sproat. Von Phul is a jealous man who might resent a romantic rival. But why do the authorities suspect Frank James?”
Hal shrugged his shoulders. “Just the way police think. Always on the lookout for a way to bring down a famous outlaw.”
“In any case, I want you to take me to the Crystal Palace Theatre. Be sure to photograph the leaded glass in front, the ticket taker’s stand, the stage, and the dressing room, if they’ll let you. I have a feeling those pictures may prove useful.”
The pair climbed on Hal’s ugly chartreuse tandem bike along with his ungainly wooden camera, tripod, and close to twenty pounds of glass plates. The twosome made quite a sight as they trundled off to the scene of the crime on a cold Saturday afternoon.
“Do you really think they’ll invite us in to snoop around?”
“I can talk our way in—I hope.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Saturday Night, November 19, 1898
Aunt Delilah balked at rescheduling for Saturday the already-rescheduled-for-Friday theatre outing but finally agreed. She even managed to secure a loge box—at great cost and with supreme effort, as she informed everyone on several occasions.
When Jemmy opened her program, a slip of paper fell out. It announced that Tom Loker, the dog handler, would be played by Harry Benson. Handsome Harry Benson inherited Sproat’s corner men and his acting job. She looked at Sassy and wondered whether Handsome Harry had inherited anything else that once belonged to Quisenberry Sproat.
This time, events on stage proceeded in apple-pie order—at least until intermission. No one died. No dogs hounded the audience. No corpse decorated the stage. But once again Frank James came asking for the coroner.
“Doctor Wangermeier, may I have a word in the hall.”
The doctor set his champagne glass on the tray, pulled down his frock-coat lapels, and walked stiffly through the velvet curtains. Jemmy and Sassy crept after him.
Jemmy put her good ear to the gap between curtains. Aunt Delilah shot her a look that could have speared a catfish, but Jemmy ignored the warning.
The girls gave Aunt Delilah no choice but to join their conspiracy. When Uncle Erwin turned his head toward the eavesdroppers, Auntie Dee distracted him with a spill of champagne down his trousers.
The girls focused on the conversation in the hall, but background noise kept Jemmy from grasping most of the exchange. I wish I had two good ears. Still, I guess scarlet fever when I was three could have left me deaf in both ears.
From Frank James, she sifted out, “. . . apologize . . . bothering . . . dressing room . . . everything yesterday . . . some substance. Missing . . .”
And from the doctor: “Don’t excite yourself, Mr. James. Miss McBustle . . . considering the nature . . . would have noticed.”
New voices and shuffling feet blurred the conversation. Jemmy couldn’t pick out another single word. “Sassy, do you know what they were talking about?”
Sassy answered with raised shoulders and a puzzled look.
The girls scrambled back to their seats as the doctor opened the portieres. His bottom lip scrunched his upper in an upside down smile. The action pushed in his chin until he resembled a pug dog.
“Miss McBustle, please recall Thursday night in Mr. Sproat’s dressing room. Are you quite sure you placed every cream and ointment and liquid into the valise?”
“Yes, Doctor. Even the grease paint. Remember how the other Tom Loker objected?”
“Did you take note of anything that doesn’t belong indoors?”
“I went through everything in the actors’ trunks and looked on the floor and in the cupboard. I recall seeing nothing unusual. Perhaps if you could be more specific, I . . .”
“And would you be willing to swear as much in a court of law?”
“Of course. And now may I ask you why?”
“You’ll find out in due course.” He pursed his lips and smicked through his teeth. “I read your account of events in the Illuminator. Because you’re female, I’m not surprised at your lack of discretion. However, your lack of self-discipline appalls me. You swore to keep certain information hidden from the general public.”
“Doctor, I’m as devastated as you are by that headline. It was entirely my editor’s idea. I have no control over headlines. The article itself made no mention Sproat had been whipped.”
“Your editor had to find out about the whipping from someone. Are you telling me that informant was someone other than yourself?”
Jemmy couldn’t bring herself to lie, to blame Aunt Delilah—certainly not with Auntie Dee standing four feet away. She hung her head. “I suppose it is my fault.”
“And it has cost you my good regard. Don’t seek anything further from me. I refuse to divulge knowledge to someone incapable of keeping vital confidential information private.”
Jemmy wanted to assure him she would take confidential information to her grave if he would only give her another chance. At that moment, an unwelcome and uncouth interloper chased away all hope of persuading him.
Heathcliff Smoot pushed aside the portieres with a great rattle of brass rings on brass rod. “They like to never let me in downstairs. Kept me waiting until intermission. I flat out missed the scene with all the hound dogs. That was the only thing I wanted to watch.”
Aunt Delilah marched to Healthcliff’s side and took his arm. “Dr. Wangermeier, Miss Patterson, I’d like you to meet my nephew, Heathcliff Smoot. He’s the son of my sister Sophia and her husband, Elsinore, who recently moved to Seattle. Young Mr. Smoot, this is Miss Patterson and Dr. Wangermeier.”
Jemmy shuddered when the doctor shook Heathcliff’s hand. During the day Heathcliff sloshed buckets of Mississippi River water to wash away urine from the brick streets and alleys of the waterfront district. She wonder
ed whether the doctor knew how unsanitary shaking the lad’s hands might be.
A realization startled Jemmy. Auntie Dee had failed to provide her with an escort—until the arrival of Heathcliff the Hellion. Heavens in a handbag. The drab little assistant coroner isn’t here. I didn’t even notice.
Three months had elapsed between her grand debut and this evening. During that time, Auntie had invited St. Louis’s richest, most eligible, stodgiest, and oldest men on various outings to meet the newly marriageable Miss Jemima McBustle.
Jemmy endured the parade of potential husbands to keep peace at home. Eventually Mother and Auntie Dee would have to conclude marriage was not something they could force. Jemmy paid little attention to those faded copies of aging businessmen.
She’d expected the same lackluster gentleman as on Thursday night. Her escort for the excursion was as close to invisible as a person can get. He was so devoid of personality, Jemmy once sat in his lap because she failed to notice he was already in the chair.
One look at Heathcliff made her long for a nondescript old coot like the assistant coroner. The last time Heathcliff had been bribed into escorting her, he’d managed to humiliate her in front of the handsomest man in the state. She’d regurgitated on Heathcliff’s shoes.
Just looking at Heathcliff the Hellion made her stomach quaver. Worse had come to worst.
Of course, young master Smoot looked more presentable this time. He’d grown at least two inches but still did not quite fill out his tuxedo—probably borrowed from Cousin Duncan. Jemmy covered her nose with her hanky to protect it from the waves of bay rum pulsing from Heathcliff’s face.
The boy’s mouth opened in a wide grin to expose his crooked bottom teeth. They grew not in a traditional gentle curve but in the shape of a capital W. The whistle he produced through that picket fence could startle acorns out of trees and shatter eyeglasses at ten paces.
On this occasion, he exhaled the sweet, mournful sound of wind rustling through autumn leaves. He whistled low in the direction of Isabel Patterson. He stared at Sassy as if she were a cherry phosphate at Baker’s Confectionary.
