by Fedora Amis
As she tugged the steamer sections apart, noise in the hall set her heart thumping. She stumbled to turn off the electricity. Perhaps no one had noticed the light and would walk on by. But just in case, she dived into the trunk and pulled it shut.
The reek of tobacco-smoked clothes and horse sweat curled in Jemmy’s nose. Her corset jabbed the tender flesh under her bosom. She crouched in panic. A door squeaked. The click of a light switch announced she was no longer alone.
A woman’s voice asked, “Why did you bring me here?”
Jemmy could barely breathe in her cramped prison.
A man’s voice answered, “Privacy. What place do you know with more privacy than a theatre on a day without performances?”
“Privacy is not required for our business.”
“No need to play the coquette. You must know how deeply I admire you.”
“If you think to seduce me, you’re more of a buffoon than I thought.”
“Most ladies find me agreeable. Do you mean to hurt my feelings by calling me clownish?”
“What I think is of no matter. Just give me what I came for.”
“Very well, if money is all you’re after.” Footfalls moved closer to Jemmy’s hiding place. The trunk separated an inch or more.
Jemmy’s head swam with terror. Her bad ear hissed like a thousand rattlesnakes. What reason could she possibly give for hiding in this man’s trunk? And if he’s the murderer . . .
“On second thought, the unlocked trunk made me remember. I removed the money yesterday.” He crooned in soft tones, “Come with me to my rooms. That’s where you can receive your proper reward.”
“Be at Union Station tomorrow at three in the afternoon, you insufferable egoist. The sooner I leave St. Louis and you, the better.”
Jemmy heard the light click off and the dressing-room door squeak shut. Still trembling, she extracted herself from the trunk. At last she could stand and let air into her starved lungs.
The man had to be Harry Benson. After all, the trunk he started to open was the new trunk she’d chosen as a hiding place.
She tried to recall any detail about the woman. Nothing came, saving one piece of information—some female planned to meet Harry at the train station on Tuesday at three in the afternoon. Well, Jemmy would be there, too. She moved to turn on the lights and finish the job of examining Harry’s trunk.
Singing in the hall sent her scurrying to hide again. “ ‘I love you as I never lov’d before, since first I met you on the village green.’ ”
This time she felt her way past the trunk to the wardrobe. Her ribs wouldn’t stand another stint in a two foot by two foot by three foot wood and leather coffin.
Before she’d even closed the door, she knew the folly of her choice. The person who entered singing would leave the new steamer trunk alone. This mellow baritone belonged to the other Tom Loker.
“ ‘Come to me, e’er my dream of love is o’er. I love you as I lov’d you—when you were sweet, when you were swe-ee-eet sixteen.’ ” He ended the song with a lovely trill on the word sweet.
How long will I be trapped this time? At least I can stand up in this cupboard. It smells better, too. Jicky perfume. Why would a man’s clothes smell of a lady’s scent?
Jemmy tried to calm herself by thinking about Jicky. She had no doubts about the scent. A one-ounce bottle of the fragrance that made Guerlain the premiere perfume maker in Paris took place of honor on Mother’s dressing table. Mother cherished that precious thing, that little cut-glass bottle, that remnant of luxury from the time of McBustle prosperity. It reminded her of the days when Father was alive and Bricktop was a family home instead of a boardinghouse.
No one was allowed to use the scent except on the rarest occasion. Just three months earlier, Jemmy had been granted a few drops for her handkerchief on what should have been the grandest occasion of her life—the evening of her debut into St. Louis society at the Oracle Ball. She’d worn the sweet and heady scent to dance with the handsomest man in the state.
After a few moments, Jemmy felt brave enough to ease the door open and peer through the crack. Tom Loker-Simon Legree hummed while leaning back in a chair with feet crossed on a stack of newspapers. He thumbed through The St. Louis Illuminator. Jemmy understood why—her play review. Her mind raced to remember what she’d said about him. Nothing popped into her head. She’d devoted most of her words to the other Tom Loker. But she’d added a line praising the real actor, too.
Loker-Legree read aloud: “Handsome Harry Benson’s face and physique live up to his reputation. For the benefit of the theatre-going public, I advise him to perform in the ring, not on stage.
“If the two Tom Lokers were horses, the real actor would be Kentucky Derby winner Aristides to Mr. Benson’s rag-picker’s nag.”
Loker-Legree’s feet hit the floor with a double clomp. He fetched a pair of scissors from his case and began clipping the notice. She shifted her weight a fraction. Just enough to topple something hard on her head. Her hat absorbed the blow, but the noise brought Loker scrambling to the wardrobe.
Jemmy had to think fast. She squelched the hissing in her bad ear with a stroke of self-confidence. Sassy Patterson’s example taught her how to play this scene.
When he flung open the door, she tumbled forward into his arms. “Oh, Mr. Loker, I’m so glad you found me. Another two minutes of looking at you through a teeny crack in the door, and I would positively swoon with excitement.”
The scowl left his face as he helped her out of the cabinet. “Miss McBustle, what a surprise to find you in my clothes closet.”
Jemmy rushed headlong into her best imitation of Sassy Patterson. “I can’t imagine why you’d be surprised. Many young girls must be entranced to see you onstage. I’d be surprised if a few of them didn’t seek out your dressing room—perhaps to find a souvenir. Confess it now. I’m right, am I not?”
“Girls have, on occasion, threatened to tear the very clothes from my back.”
“I knew it. Who could resist?”
“But you’re the first I’ve caught skulking around my dressing room.”
“Skulking? A harsh word, but perhaps an apt one.” Jemmy lowered her chin in what she hoped was a demure posture. “You caught me touching things you touched. And, yes, I was looking for a souvenir—something uniquely yours—yet something small I could keep close to my heart.”
“Did you find something suitable to steal?”
“Don’t call it stealing, I beg you. Call it borrowing a little token to cherish.”
“Did you find your ‘token’?”
She pursed her lips in a Patterson pout. “No, I found nothing. You came in too soon.”
“Allow me to choose something.”
Jemmy batted her eyelashes. “I’d revere it. ‘If the two Tom Lokers were horses, the real actor would be Kentucky Derby winner Aristides to Mr. Benson’s rag picker’s nag.’ I’d adore any belonging of the real Kentucky Derby winner—figuratively speaking, of course.”
“I’ll gladly provide a token with one condition. You must allow me to present the keepsake in more fitting surroundings. Might I have the pleasure of your company at dinner this evening?”
“Your invitation takes my breath away. I wouldn’t be able to eat a single crumb sitting across the table from you. Although I ache to accept, I must decline. My mother expects me home for dinner. Also, she doesn’t allow me to see men in the evening unchaperoned.”
“Very wise, your mother. I see she allows you out unchaperoned in the daytime. Perhaps lunch tomorrow?”
Jemmy mulled over this chance opportunity to pump Loker during luncheon. She came close to telling him she herself had written those flattering lines in his Illuminator clipping. She stopped herself barely in time. The last thing I need is for Loker to know I’m Ann O’Nimity the newspaper reporter. What can I do about that hideous name Suetonius Hamm foisted upon me with pure trickery. “Perhaps I can slip away and meet you.”
Loker-Legree wa
lked her toward the door and opened it. “It’s settled then. The Lindell Hotel at one tomorrow. I’ll wait in the lobby for the charming young lady who memorized my review.”
“I dare not meet you at your hotel. Appearances, you know. Perhaps at Union Station.”
“The Terminal Restaurant at one?”
Jemmy pressed a gloved hand on her lips then his face. “I’ll not be able to sleep until then.”
“Nor I, Miss McBustle. Adieu.”
Thank heavens in a handbag. At least I didn’t pan him in my review.
She took a last look around the room. One item stood out. The thing that had hit her on the head lay on the floor. Half in and half out of the wardrobe coiled a black snakeskin whip.
Where did that come from? Why didn’t I find it when I rummaged through the wardrobe earlier? Jemmy tromped down the hall. She clambered up the stairs fuming at her ineptitude as a snoop.
Her performance as a siren pleased her no better. What a spectacle I made of myself. None of the lies I’ve ever told made me feel quite so disgusted with Jemima Gormlaith McBustle as pretending to be smitten by that arrogant actor. So what if he is handsome as Apollo? I suppose I should be thanking Sassy for showing me how to be the second biggest flirt between Chicago and Kansas City.
She had straightened her spine and composed herself when she saw Pops, the doorman, sitting on his stool. She slipped by him with head turned. A whiff of whiskey gave her hope the man was soused. Perhaps he wouldn’t recognize her.
Her time in the theatre hadn’t revealed much, but it did give cause for thought. Why were Handsome Harry and some unknown female crossing words? Who owns the blacksnake whip that hit me on the head? Will my lunch date with . . . ? Heavens in a handbag. I have a luncheon engagement with a man, but I don’t even know his real name.
Trolley rides took her home to more trouble. Mother McB. now had two daughters sick in the maid’s room behind the kitchen.
The flu bug had bitten twelve-year-old Minerva. Even though Nervy was the youngest of the four McBustle sisters, she was also the cleverest. She seemed never to be without a scientific experiment. She’d tried everything from an archeological dig in the backyard to making bug poison. She wrote voluminous notes on how long each type of garden pest lived after she doused it with her concoctions.
Mother had her hands full just convincing the girl to stay in a darkened chamber with the curtains closed like a proper sickroom. Nervy insisted on experimenting with methods to reduce her fever by placing ice packs on various parts of her anatomy. She recorded the results at fifteen-minute intervals. Conclusion: ice packs worked best in armpit and groin, but that resulted in chills and so was not the ideal therapy. At length, she opted for Mother McB.’s original treatment—soothing cloths for the forehead.
Nervy then tackled various patent medicines. So as not to expose anyone else to her germs, she fashioned a mask from cheesecloth before she traipsed upstairs in her flannel nightie. She knocked on the doors of all boarders and promised them a factual report on their ague remedies if they would allow her to test their favorites.
She rounded up a half-dozen bottles and jars. Glowing with enthusiasm, she devoted a page in her scientific journal to each. The brown bottles bore august names: Clark Stanley’s Snake Oil Liniment, Dr. Kilmer’s Swamp Root, Smith’s Glyco-Heroin, Metcalf’s Coca Wine, Horsford’s Acid Phosphate, Ayers Sarsaparilla.
She tried them all on herself. None brought down her fever; but after a few tablespoons of some nostrums, she slept for a good ten hours. She praised the sleep, but not the headache she had the next morning.
Mother returned the bottles to her tenants with apologies—after she’d chastised her youngest daughter. “Don’t you realize those potions are nothing more than opiates in liquor? You didn’t fall asleep. You passed out in an alcoholic stupor. You must promise me never again to take patent medicine without my permission.”
“My findings on the elixirs are inconclusive, but I can endorse two other remedies from your own medicine chest, Richardson’s Croup and Pneumonia Cure Salve and Doctor Lambert’s Listerine Antiseptic, made right here in St. Louis. The salve on my chest helped me breathe, and the Listerine freshened my mouth. I didn’t swallow, so it could not have caused my headache even if it does contain alcohol.”
Having two sisters on the disabled list meant more work for the healthy two. Jemmy had hoped to write an article on the beginning of flu season but gave up the idea when sleep overtook her while she sat at her desk. The sound of her pencil hitting the wood surface woke her just in time to keep her head from banging on the hard walnut. She gave in to exhaustion and slipped into her flannel nightgown.
The sound of sleet against glass drew her to the window. Sheets of stinging ice sliced down St. Ange Street. Winter arrived before Thanksgiving.
Jemmy shivered as she pulled all the extra quilts from the cedar chest. The pungent smell reminded her of cutting boughs to decorate the parlor room mantel at Christmas. She spread the quilts over the other sleepers on their cots. Since Bricktop had become a paying establishment, she’d lost her lovely bedroom on the second floor. Now she shared the unheated ballroom on the third with her three sisters, as well as Gerta the cook and Dora the new maid.
Sleet drummed harder against the windows. This bad weather is too early. We’re in for a long winter.
The last thought running through her head as she slid into bed was, “Maybe Frank James knows who murdered Quisenberry Sproat because he did it himself.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Tuesday, November 22, 1898
Tuesday morning arrived at the end of a blizzard. Seven inches of new powder covered the ground. Falling snow dulled sound and sight. Tree branches dipped with white weight in the dim dawn.
Jemmy took less than a minute to appreciate the beauty as she waded off toward the trolley stop. Snow spilled into her galoshes, and the smell of wet wool from her cape drove all pleasant thoughts from her mind. She barely noticed that for a few hours at least, St. Louis skies sifted down white ice instead of black soot.
Jemmy’s morning at the Illuminator began with Hal glaring down at her while she tried to write her influenza article.
“Where were you all day yesterday?”
“Take pity on me, Hal. Two of my sisters are sick with the flu. I have a full-time job here and another full-time job at home.”
“That doesn’t even begin to answer my question.”
“I did what I’m paid to do. I gathered news—interviewed the coroner’s assistant and Frank James.”
“Kindly explain why you refused to take me with you.”
“I had an appointment and no time to wait for you.” The true facts didn’t come to light. When she sneaked away from the Illuminator, she’d had no appointment. She eluded Hal on purpose.
“You could have left me a note telling me where to meet you.”
“I am remiss on that score. I have no excuse—only that I was so rushed, I didn’t think to write. Besides, what would you have photographed if you’d come along?”
“A picture of a famous outlaw is always worth something. If Hamm didn’t want it, I could peddle it to the Police Gazette.”
“Then you must go to the jail with your equipment. I think the Jameses will welcome you. They’re eager for good publicity. I warn you, though. Mrs. James keeps a strict appointment book, so you’ll probably have to wait.”
“And where will you be while I’m waiting to photograph Frank James—for the second time in less than a week?”
“Don’t worry in the least. I’ll be interviewing doctors about influenza. You know. Handy hints for keeping the ague away.”
“Promise you’ll let me know if you need pictures for anything else in the Sproat case.”
“I’m not even thinking about that today.” She waved him off and pretended to concentrate on her typewriting machine—a clacking beast she had yet to master.
“If I have to tie a rope around your waist to keep you from runni
ng off without me, I’ll do it. Don’t forget I’m your bodyguard. Truth is, I get paid for keeping you out of trouble. Taking pictures is just my sideline.” Hal stomped off.
Jemmy hogged the news desk telephone for a full seventeen minutes while she called the big St. Louis hospitals. At each, she collected numbers of flu victims for the week before. She also gathered suggestions for treating those laid low—and for avoiding contagion.
By the end of the hour, she’d handed in her article and was off to poke around some more into the curious case of Quisenberry Sproat.
Her first stop was Autley Flinchpaugh’s sports desk. “Mr. Flinchpaugh, have you learned anything further about Mr. Sproat?”
“I’d be delighted to discuss Sproat over lunch.”
“I would be equally delighted with your invitation if I didn’t already have a luncheon engagement.”
“I regret I am unable to speak with you now. I have an article to prepare on the Yale versus Harvard football game. I hate trying to write bouncy reports when I have nothing but dull telegraphed statistics.”
Flinchpaugh pounded a single fist once on his desk to express his irritation. “Harvard and Yale! Why should a St. Louis newspaper print story after story on Harvard and Yale? Why won’t Hamm send me to Columbia, Missouri? Answer me that!
“Never mind. I know the reason well enough. Since the Mizzou Tiger scandal in ’96, local interest in the team has waned. What could you expect? The Board of Curators fired a reckless but great coach and suspended the players—and they were excellent football men, too. A veritable brick wall—magnificent.
“What was the coach thinking? Going all the way to Texas for a match was bad enough. But then traipsing another thousand miles for matches across Mexico—a foreign country—and all the way to Mexico City. How perfectly idiotic! No wonder the administration punished the team.
“Before the great fiasco, St. Louisans gobbled up articles about the Missouri University football team. They liked Mizzou better than our own St. Louis University team. The Tigers are miles away in Columbia. Still, many St. Louisans followed their successes with religious devotion. And I was on hand to see their home games in person. Now, Mr. Hamm keeps a tight rein on travel expenses—at least for everyone but you. You, apparently, can travel to Sedalia and stay for a solid week.”
