Have Your Ticket Punched by Frank James

by Fedora Amis

  Such a tirade from Flinchpaugh took Jemmy by surprise. Still, she found the words to defend herself. “The trip cost the Illuminator very little—less than six dollars for round trips on the train. We stayed with family friends and had no charge for room and board.”

  Flinchpaugh mumbled, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound resentful. I just hate what that chowderheaded Mexican trip has done to the Tigers.”

  When Flinchpaugh softened, Jemmy ventured another plea. “Is there no small tidbit you can offer on the Sproat case?”

  “Perhaps one thing. Q.B. asked Miss Isabel Patterson to be Mrs. Quisenberry Sproat. I apologize for my outburst. You’re very kind to listen. I hope I haven’t lost your good will.”

  “Don’t give it a second thought. I often feel like letting all my frustrations roll right off my tongue. It helps to free the mind.”

  As she slogged through snow to the trolley stop, Jemmy wondered why Sassy had never mentioned the marriage proposal. Perhaps the pretty girl had so many offers, she couldn’t be bothered or didn’t remember.

  Did some jealous suitor cross words and whips with Sproat? Almost before she knew it, Jemmy found herself at the home of the siren herself, Isabel Patterson.

  A maid too young to have finished the eighth grade answered the bell. She had not earned top grades in housemaid schooling either. She uttered not a single word of greeting, just stood silent as a bell without a clapper. She filled the doorway while twisting the corner of her starched white apron. Jemmy presented her card. “Would you be so kind as to tell Miss Patterson I’m waiting?”

  The girl gave a little snort. “Reckon you’ll be a half-day older for that wait. Missy Patterson don’t get up till ’bout three in the afternoon. Better come back then.” The girl shut the door in the untimely visitor’s face.

  Before Jemmy could descend the snow-covered stairs to the sidewalk, the door re-opened. In pink silk wrapper with long, dark curls gently swaying over her shoulders, Isabel’s mother appeared. Looking the perfect picture of an older version of her daughter, she stood shivering on the threshold. According to an old saying, a woman turns into her mother. If it’s true, any boy would be reassured by seeing Mrs. Patterson.

  She flung her arms open to Jemmy, “Why, Miss McBustle . . . Jemima isn’t it? Please come in. My maid is so young and foolish. How could she leave you on the wrong side of a closed door in the midst of the first big snowfall of the season? I’ll give her a good bit of my mind later. Right now, do come in out of the cold.”

  Mrs. Patterson took Jemmy’s arm and escorted her into the hall as if they were the oldest and best of friends. “I just finished my morning correspondence. Please come into the conservatory and join me in a cup of cocoa to take the chill off your rosy cheeks.”

  Jemmy found no space in Mrs. Patterson’s chatter for injecting a single word.

  “I am delighted you’ve come. What a pleasure to sit across the table from a pretty girl. Sassy never deigns to make an appearance until well past noon.”

  She seated Jemmy under a date palm tree at a glass-topped table with filigreed wrought-iron legs. Mrs. P. stood back to assess her caller. “How wise you are to heighten your beauty by wearing clothes so plain and severe.”

  Was that a compliment? In her tailored suit of gray wool serge with a stiff-starched white blouse, Jemmy thought herself the very picture of a serious newswoman. Before she could cull through Mrs. Patterson’s meaning, the lady was scraping her wrought-iron chair across the slate floor. She beamed at Jemmy.

  The young maid hustled into the conservatory with a tray bearing gold-rimmed china cups and a pot covered by a tea cozy decorated with blue cornflowers.

  “You silly girl. I asked for chocolate, not tea.”

  The girl mumbled, “Cook say we ain’t got no cocoa.”

  Mrs. Patterson waved her out. “In true pioneer spirit we shall have to make do. Milk and sugar, Miss McBustle?”

  Jemmy murmured, “Yes, please.”

  “I know you want to speak with Isabel, but perhaps you can delay for a bit. I’m simply starved for female companionship. Would you prefer marmalade or strawberry jam on your scone? You won’t believe how light these scones are.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Mrs. P. splashed a dollop of marmalade on a plate and passed it to Jemmy.

  “We’ve returned to St. Louis recently, so I’m hopelessly out of touch. Do tell me all the latest gossip about the twenty families. I’ve heard the Rough Rider himself, Mr. Theodore Roosevelt, is coming to personally visit men wounded in the war with Spain over Cuba. Is that true? And is the Imperial Club the most exclusive in town? I heard they turned away Mayor Ziegenhein himself. German—that must have been why.”

  “I’m afraid I know very little about the highest echelons of the St. Louis upper crust. My family belong to the Oracle Society, not the Veiled Prophet. Indeed, I’m not privy to inside knowledge about the people in the Oracle circle either. I’ve attended just one youth meeting since my coming out in August.”

  “Still, you must have learned something worth repeating. You debuted at the Oracle Ball, did you not?”

  “I’ve learned this: it’s not easy for a girl whose mother runs a boardinghouse to attend events that require a change of costume for so many activities—boating, ice skating, bicycling, and a new gown for every dance.”

  “I thought your aunt and uncle, the Erwin McBustles, might take a greater interest in your welfare.”

  “Oh, they do. Don’t mistake my meaning. My Auntie Dee would supply me with anything I requested. But I have much to do at home. Just now my chores are doubled because I have two sisters ill with influenza.”

  Mrs. Patterson’s bright-eyed rapture at listening to Jemmy evolved into a bored yawn. “Perhaps you ought to be home attending to them instead of traipsing out on such an unfavorable day. My daughter won’t voluntarily come downstairs until midafternoon. You may go up and try to wake her if you like.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Patterson, and thank you for the tea. It was quite perfect for conquering the chill of this freezing morning.”

  Mrs. Patterson rang a little bell, and the young maid appeared quickly—so quickly, she must have been eavesdropping. “Show Miss McBustle to Isabel’s room; then come back to me. I wish to speak with you. Goodbye, Miss McBustle. Pleased to see you again.”

  “The pleasure was mine, and I thank you for your graciousness and your hospitality.” Mrs. Patterson had already returned to her morning correspondence.

  On the way upstairs, Jemmy tried to pry a little information from the maid. “Have you been working for the Pattersons long?”

  “Long enough.”

  “Long enough to . . . ?”

  “Long enough to know.”

  “Long enough to know what?”

  “Long enough to know not to tell nobody nothin’.”

  The girl rapped gently on Isabel’s door and said in a voice no louder than a dog pant, “A female here to see you, Miss Patterson.”

  As Jemmy expected, no sound came from Sassy’s bedroom. The girl opened the door and motioned Jemmy inside. “She got a knob to turn on the light right by the door.”

  Jemmy felt for the switch in vain. As her eyes became accustomed to the dim light, she decided to open the draperies. On the way across the room, she tripped over discarded shoes and nearly fell when her feet tangled in some cast away bit of clothing.

  At length she managed to pull the drapes aside. Sunlight fell on Sassy’s glossy hair and rose-petal skin. The goddess Venus played favorites. The girl looked celestially beautiful even in sleep.

  Gray daylight failed to waken her. Jemmy tried subtle throat-clearings to no effect. Next she tried shuffling a chair, then knocked it over with a crash. Sassy did not move a single finger. Jemmy wondered whether the body on the bed was still alive.

  “Sassy, it’s Jemmy McBustle. Please wake up. I need to speak with you. Sassy, do you hear me?” Even that got no response.

  Jemmy strode to the be
d and shook Sassy’s arm. “Please wake up. Everyone has been telling me to come back this afternoon, but I cannot. I have an important appointment. Please wake up. I promise not to keep you long.”

  “Go away. I need my beauty sleep.”

  “I’ve never seen a girl less in need of beauty sleep.”

  “Was that a compliment? I can’t tell so early in the morning.”

  “Yes, it was most definitely a compliment. When I awake, my hair is sticking out in all directions and my eyelids are red. Your hair spreads over the pillow in pretty curls, and your eyes aren’t puffy at all.”

  Sassy struggled to rise, reconsidered, and tumbled back into her pillow. “I regret I am unable to rise.”

  “Please humor me for a few minutes.”

  “If you must ask me something, go ahead.”

  “Did you become engaged to Quisenberry Sproat?” A sweet snore like the purring of a kitten told Jemmy her question was not penetrating into Sassy’s brain. “One question and I’ll bother you no more.”

  “Haven’t you gone yet?”

  “Sassy, please. Did Quisenberry Sproat ask you to marry him?”

  “What?”

  Jemmy shook Sassy’s shoulders until the girl sat bolt upright in bed. “Stop mauling me. What is so important it won’t wait until I’m awake?”

  “I have to know whether you were engaged to Quisenberry Sproat.”

  “He asked me, yes.”

  “Did you accept?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “A girl can’t answer a proposal ‘Yes and no.’ ”

  “I can.”

  “Perhaps you can tell me this. Did Sproat think you would marry him?”

  “I’m not a mind reader.”

  “Please, Sassy. I don’t understand.”

  “Jemmy, I have at least a half-dozen marriage proposals to consider on any given day. The only way to keep so many on offer is not to accept any.”

  “Isn’t that dishonest?”

  “Not at all. I do plan to marry some day. I keep hope alive with each man. Take my advice. Don’t agree to marry anyone. I recommend being noncommittal. I can think of no better way to draw attention and gifts. Come to think of it, I do believe I live every girl’s dream.”

  “Don’t any of your suitors tire of playing your games?”

  “I suppose amour is a bit of a game. Perhaps I’ll marry one of the men I’m seeing now—perhaps the most persistent . . . or the most handsome . . . or the richest.”

  “What I really want to know is whether any of your other suitors might have slain Sproat. Could one be jealous enough to kill—or desperate enough to eliminate his competition?”

  With a faraway look in her eye, Sassy brushed an index finger slowly along her cheek. “What a charming thought. A man so deeply in love as to kill for me.”

  Jemmy scowled. “You’d be happy to cause a man to commit murder, wouldn’t you?”

  “Hmmmm.”

  “Which of your suitors might do such a thing?”

  “Really, Jemmy. You’d hardly expect me to know. I don’t take any of them seriously.”

  “Please. Might I have the names of the current batch?”

  “I’m seeing only four just now. Dr. Wangermeier, whom you know, Tony von Phul, Harry Benson, John Folck, Peter Ploog, and your cousin Duncan.”

  “That’s six.”

  Sassy giggled as she rang the bell pull. “I must ask Father to sue Mary Institute. I’ve never learned my numbers.”

  “Thank you. I apologize for interrupting your beauty sleep. I’ll go.”

  “But now that I’m awake, you must stay and chat.”

  “Really, I ought to leave. I am to blame for disturbing you.”

  “I won’t hear of your going.”

  Sassy could talk a bull into giving milk. She talked Jemmy into staying for breakfast of something brand new called Purina Wheat from Ralston—“Where purity is paramount.” Jemmy thought it odd—like hominy grits with sugar on top. Sassy talked and talked—without telling Jemmy anything of significance.

  Fortified with three breakfasts, Jemmy should have been ready for anything. She wasn’t.

  The young maid escorted her to the door. From time to time the girl dabbed at a fresh cut on her face. When Jemmy stared at it, she said, “Tripped on the stair carpet, if you must know.”

  Jemmy thought it more likely to be the imprint of a diamond ring applied with the back of Mrs. Patterson’s hand.

  When the maid opened the door for Jemmy to leave, both girls were startled to see a man on the steps brushing snow from his coat. Tony von Phul tipped his hat. “Miss McBustle, pleased to see you again.” He dumped his greatcoat, walking stick, scarf, gloves, and hat in the maid’s arms without another word. Whistling, he breezed past the pair and headed straight for the conservatory.

  Jemmy had to think fast if she wanted to stay and snoop. She launched herself into a phony coughing fit—an acting job worthy of the divine Sarah Bernhardt herself. “Hacgh, hacgh, hacgh.”

  The maid pounded her on the back with Tony’s walking stick—a little too hard for comfort.

  Jemmy took to wheezing in what she hoped resembled an attack of asthma. The maid dropped von Phul’s appurtenances on the hall-tree seat. (Well, the hat stayed there. Everything else hit the floor.)

  She led Jemmy to a chair and plunked her down. “You just stay here. I’ll be back with a glass of water before you can say ‘Jack Sprat.’ ”

  The charade worked better than Jemmy could have hoped. As soon as the maid was out of sight, she raced back to spy on Tony and Mrs. P.

  Even with a bad ear she could hear them arguing in the conservatory.

  Tony said, “You can’t keep me from seeing your daughter. If necessary I’ll tell her the truth.”

  “I thought you cared about me. How foolish I must seem.”

  “I do care about you. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t go on as we have been.”

  “You fill me with disgust. Trying to seduce mother and daughter at the same time.”

  “ ‘Trying?’ Is that really the correct word?”

  The maid’s footsteps in the hall stopped Jemmy’s snooping. She raced back to the chair and covered her mouth with her hanky.

  “A sip of water to soothe your throat, and you’ll be all better.”

  Jemmy drank the water. “Thank you. You’ve been most kind.”

  “Glad to help. I have an uncle who wheezes like that. Some kind of disease I can’t say proper. Starts with an A I think. Coughing fits make him feel poorly for hours—sometimes days. You just rest yourself as long as you want. I have chores to do, but even the missus wouldn’t push a croup sufferer out of doors after such a bout as you had on such a day as today.”

  When the sound of the girl’s steps faded, Jemmy raced back to the conservatory door. No sound at all. What had happened? Was one of the two unconscious on the floor?

  Jemmy ventured a peek—then closed the door as her face reddened.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  November 22, 1898

  She’d seen just a glimpse, but that was enough. It didn’t take a genius to know what was going on. A woman with her eyes closed and her back snug up against a man did not want to be rescued. Her pink silk wrapper puddled around the lady’s feet as her hands stretched upward to caress Tony’s head. Jemmy would not soon forget the image of Tony von Phul’s hands on Mrs. P.’s breasts. Clearly, no argument had erupted in the conservatory.

  Jemmy mulled over the scene with Tony von Phul and Mrs. P. as she slipped out of the Patterson house. She shook her head to banish the sight. It stuck like mud on a shoe.

  A chill wind and blowing snow forced her to set the vision aside while she looked at her notes. She recognized every name on Sassy’s list of beaus except one—John Folck. Why didn’t I ask who this Folck fellow is? When will I think to ask the right questions before it’s too late?

  She clicked her tongue at her lack of news reporter savvy.

  Maybe Dunc
an would know the fellow. At any rate, it couldn’t hurt to see Cousin Duncan. Jemmy’s cousin was wild and unpredictable as a housefly in a bottle of smelling salts. But could Duncan be a murderer?

  While in Cuba with American forces during the Spanish-American War, he did nothing but herd horses on and off the ship. At least that’s what he told the family. Of course, he’d said those words in some heat, so Jemmy wasn’t sure he actually meant them.

  Two streetcar rides took her to Compton Heights and the grand home of warehouse owner Mr. Erwin McBustle. Unlike the barely housebroken maid at the Patterson home, the maid at the McBustle door knew how to treat guests. She smiled and bobbed her head, then helped Jemmy with her coat. “Please come in, Miss Jemima. I’ll tell your aunt you’re here.”

  Until that very moment, Jemmy had been so intent on her own designs she’d clean forgot that Aunt Delilah reigned over this little realm with iron fist in dyed-to-match kid gloves. There was simply no way to avoid visiting with her for at least an hour. And that would be before she could ask whether Duncan was even on the premises.

  Auntie Dee burst forth from the drawing room with whirlwind energy. “My dear Jemima, just the person I want to see. How did you know?”

  She linked her arm through Jemmy’s and walked her toward the drawing room door. Over her shoulder she tossed orders to the maid. “Tea and some of those little spice cakes with the butter cream frosting.” She turned to Jemmy. “Unless you’d rather have hot chocolate.”

  “Yes, cocoa would make a nice change.”

  “Tell cook we’ll have hot chocolate and cream cakes. Now come in and let me show you what I’ve been doing.”

  The pair entered Auntie Dee’s personal haven—her drawing room—Jemmy’s favorite room in the entire world. She warmed her hands at an old-fashioned open fireplace. Most homes had closed in their drafty fireplaces with iron cheaters that burned coal. The result was cheaper, safer, less sooty, and infinitely warmer.