by Fedora Amis
“Truce until we return to the trenches?”
“Exactly. Armies on both sides must not exchange fire until commanders return to their forts.”
The pair walked to the center to weigh important considerations. Duncan began with, “We must speak loud enough for all to hear.”
“Agreed.”
“Duration?”
“Five minutes, or until all ammunition is spent.”
“In the event of real casualties?”
“All hostilities cease until the wounded are attended.”
“Illegal actions?”
“Snow down the back. Rubbing someone’s face in it. Pushing someone into the snow.”
“Might we say this? No personal contact—snowballs only.”
“And no ice balls.”
“Anything else?”
Peter leaned forward to speak into Duncan’s ear. Duncan laughed. “I can’t tell them that.”
Peter laughed, too. “I can’t think of any other rules.”
The pair solemnly shook hands. Duncan said, “If we do meet again, why, we shall smile; if not, why, then, this parting was well made.”
“If we do meet again, we’ll smile indeed; if not, ’tis true this parting was well made.”
Jemmy clucked her tongue. “What play-acting drivel. Butchering Shakespeare at a snowball fight.”
With a military salute and a regimental about face, Duncan rejoined his team behind the snow pile.
Jemmy shook her head. “Misquoting Julius Caesar. I’m disappointed.”
“My recitation was quite perfect. Ploog was the one who dropped a line. Cassius is supposed to say—”
Jemmy and Duncan had no more time to debate the matter. The battle royal had begun.
It started with a lob that dropped neatly onto Duncan’s hat. “I’ll have to teach Ploog some respect. He insulted my hat. I’ll have you know this is a genuine Rough Rider hat—handed to me by the Assistant Secretary of the Navy himself. Teddy Roosevelt gave me this hat.”
“Calm down, Duncan. You need a plan.”
“And I suppose you have a plan.”
“I do.” Jemmy ignored the fact that her plans practically never ended the way she meant them to.
“Are you going to tell me, or should I wait until we’re buried in snow.”
“Find a way to distract them while Randy and I sneak around and catch them from behind. When they turn toward us, make a mad charge and pelt them down.”
“A flanking maneuver. You’re a good soldier.” Duncan gave Jemmy a battlefield promotion. “Lt. Duncan McBustle hereby names you, Jemima Gormlaith Snodderly McBustle, sergeant of the Snowball Irregulars.”
Jemmy saluted. “Sir, thank you, sir. I’ll try to be worthy of your confidence.”
“Carry on, soldier.”
Jemmy whispered the plan to Randy while Duncan passed the word to the troops.
Jemmy and her sister kept low as they dodged behind bushes on the way to the enemy rear. Still-abundant crabapple and forsythia leaves gave them good cover. Green and brown peeked out in contrast to the white of the unseasonably early snow.
Jemmy felt the cold bite into her lungs. The crisp air smelled of cedar instead of horse manure, its usual scent. Excitement made her head light.
For a change, Jemmy’s plan worked the way it was supposed to. When they got in range, she and Randy started hurling snowballs at the enemy’s undefended backs. When the Ploog platoon turned to counter, Duncan’s division charged over their snow pile fort and pelted the enemy at a blistering pace.
Caught in a crossfire, the Ploog people did their best but finally gave up all resistance in the face of overwhelming forces.
Duncan’s side won. Ploog surrendered. “You win, McBustle. To the winner go the spoils. What do you demand of us?”
With his usual magnanimity, Duncan said, “My demands are few. Prisoners of war: come with me to Baxter’s for coffee—my treat.” He produced a flask from his coat pocket. “I even have a little something to take the chill off.”
After a good five minutes spent whisking snow from coats and trousers, the group trouped back to Peter’s sleigh.
As the fellows were tying sleds on the back shelf of the sleigh, Sassy Patterson put a damper on the gaiety. “Take me home, Peter.”
“What? Now? Everyone is looking forward to warming up at Baxter’s.”
“I’m not. I’m chilled. Not to mention wet through and through. I must look a sight.”
“With your hair in ringlets and the glow in your cheeks, you make Venus look a positive hag.”
“I don’t listen to flattery when my ears are freezing.” Sassy’s lips curved in a pretty pout. “Take me home, Pittypat-Peter.”
Peter announced to the group, “Miss Patterson is feeling poorly. We’ll have to take her home right away.”
The festive party ended on a note of gloom.
Reaching her own home brought Jemmy still more woe.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
November 22, 1898
“Goodbye, traitors. Just wait until our next snowball fight. I promise to get even.” Peter laughed as he said it, but Jemmy heard a hard edge behind the banter. The sleigh jolted off through the slush on Chouteau Avenue.
“Better bring the Rough Riders,” Randy hollered after them. “Wasn’t that great fun? I love the snow.”
“It’s Tuesday afternoon. Why weren’t you at your piano lesson?”
“Pure luck. I happened to be walking down Chouteau. Peter stopped and—Oh, damn.”
“Mind your tongue. Mother would have a hissy fit if she heard you cuss.”
“I left my music on the sleigh.”
“I’m sure Peter will bring it by when he finds it.”
“Then Mother will know I skipped my lesson to go sledding.”
“She’s sure to find out anyway. You know I won’t lie to her—not to save you, anyhow.”
“But you’re no tattletale. You wouldn’t speak of it at all, would you?” A note of pleading crept into Randy’s voice.
“Heavens in a handbag. Even our hair is wet. She’ll know we’ve been up to something.”
Randy moaned and hiked her skirt to climb over a snow drift. At sixteen, she was two years younger than Jemmy. Randy was a born flirt, with springy, coppery curls. Two hours of frolicking in the snow made her locks of hair stick out from her green, wool sock cap in stringy clumps. The tresses formed lazy S shapes that looked like fat, red worms escaping from an oversized green apple.
Little sis stomped the snow off her feet on the welcome mat. “I’ll probably have to clean the coal stoves for the next month, even though we just hired a maid to do the heavy work.”
All thoughts of punishment vanished when they opened the front door at Bricktop. The hired domestic staff of the boardinghouse—all two of them—were in uproar.
Dora, the new maid, clomped down the hall at a dead run to meet them. “Miss Jemma, I’m glad you’re here.”
Jemmy had met Dora when she went undercover as a maid at Doctor Lyman’s Sanitarium for the Care of Ladies Afflicted with Nervous Mental Disorders. Dora was a sturdy fireplug of a girl with a pimply face and hands made coarse and purply from lye soap and scrub water. When the sanitarium closed, Dora was thrown out of work. Luckily, that was about the same time Mother could afford to hire more help.
“Lower your voice. Do you want all the boarders to hear our business?”
Dora whispered, “I can’t make head nor tail of what old krauthead wants.”
She pointed toward the kitchen. Gerta the cook stood in the doorway holding a rolling pin. “See there. Makes like to beat me up with a rolling pin.”
“Miss Jemmy, goot you here.” Gerta pointed to Dora with the rolling pin. “I tell maid do tis, do tat, but she no do vat I say.”
“Mother told you a thousand times: Dora doesn’t understand German. You must speak to her in English.”
“Ven I vork, I tink in Deutsche—can’t make English so fast.”
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sp; “Then you must slow down. Dora is a good worker. It’s not her fault she can’t understand you when you speak German.”
Gerta muttered and waved the rolling pin as she turned back into the kitchen.
“Why isn’t Mother out here to settle this hash?”
Dora crossed her arms. “You’d best see for yourself and not let the grass grow, doncha know. She’s in the room behind the kitchen.”
The thought sent a prickle of shock down Jemmy’s back. “Are Merry and Nervy worse?”
“It’s your mama that’s worse.”
“Don’t tell me Mother is sick, too.”
“No doubt about it. Your mama come down with the flu bug.”
Jemmy tried to get her mind around this sorry business while she took off her coat and galoshes. With Thanksgiving just two days away, Mother had the flu. Thank heavens in a handbag, the house has two strong and healthy workers—cook and maid—to keep the place going. Why can’t the pair of them get along?
Jemmy stuck a few pins in her damp hair and marched through the kitchen toward her interview with Mother.
She had walked as far as the maid’s bedroom doorway when Mother called out, “Don’t come in, Jemima. The air must be full of contagion.”
“I’m sorry to hear you’re ailing. Is there anything you want Randy and me to do?”
“Help Gerta prepare for Thursday. What will become of us if we’re all down sick? You know the boarders may bring guests for Thanksgiving dinner. We’re hard pressed to have everything ready when all of us are healthy.”
“How many are coming?”
Nervy chimed in, “Six boarders with one guest each. That’s twelve. Plus, we let Mrs. Hendershot have two more because she pays the most.” Mrs. Hendershot was the Bricktop’s best boarder. She paid a premium to occupy the finest room in the house, the front room with big windows overlooking St. Ange Street. She was brave and faithful, too. She remained when Grandma McBustle went on her shooting spree. All Mrs. H. asked was to be moved to a back room—one less likely to be riddled with bullets.
Jemmy raised her eyebrows. “I’ve never known Mrs. Hendershot to invite one person, let alone three.”
Nervy chimed in. “She says her nephew from Brussels, Belgium, is coming with his wife and daughter.”
“I was beginning to think her nephew didn’t exist. She never gets mail from him. Did he cable?”
“I don’t think so. Was Western Union here, Mother?”
“We’ve never had a telegram delivered for her so far as I know.”
“Do you want Randy and me to play hostess?”
“No. Randy can eat with Gerta and Dora. You yourself must sit at the head, Jemmy. Plan on fifteen at the dining table. You’ll have to bring in the extra leaves and use two tablecloths. I hate to put everything on your shoulders, Jemima dear.”
“Gerta and Dora are very capable, so don’t worry.”
“God works in mysterious ways. Perhaps he’s using this trial to guide you to your future.”
“What do you mean?”
“I shan’t be able to carve. You must step in.”
“You want me to preside at Thanksgiving dinner and to carve the turkey?”
“Naturally. I’m sure you will present yourself as gracious lady of the house. It will be good training for the day when you manage your own household. You’ll enjoy playing ‘Mother,’ won’t you?”
Jemmy could think of few things she would like less—maybe getting her foot caught in a bear trap or falling off an elephant. “Yes, Mother,” she said.
That evening Bricktop erupted in a flurry of activity. After dinner, Gerta set to work chopping pumpkins and cooking down the flesh for pies. Randy collected the scarves and doilies that protected furniture from greasy heads. She soaked them in soda crystals, then scrubbed them on a washboard. The smell of Carnauba wax permeated the downstairs as Dora buffed the wooden floors.
Jemmy tackled the chimneys of the gas lamps. By the time she scrubbed the lampblack off her knuckles, they looked almost as purple as Dora’s. She slathered her poor raw hands with bacon grease and stuck them in an old pair of mittens.
Exhausted, but confident everything would turn out well, except carving the turkey—and keeping her job at the Illuminator—Jemmy fell into bed.
In what seemed seconds later, she woke, dressed, and stumbled down to the kitchen. Dora and Gerta were already at cross purposes. Dora said, “I don’t know what you’re on about. I don’t know nothin’ ’bout fixin’ flowers. I don’t even know what an Eee-pern is.”
“Hush up—both of you. The last thing sick people need is for you two to interrupt their wholesome sleep with your fussing.”
“Miss Jemma, Gerta says she knows what flowers to buy at Soulard Market. She buys the same kinds every year, and your mama makes them into a fancy centerpiece. Well and good for your mama, but she wants me to fix them flowers nice. I can’t. I cannot do it.”
“How do you know until you try?”
“I have tried. I saw that Matron Pernelle do up flowers at the sanitarium. I picked me some wild flowers and had a go. Those stems had nary a petal left after me wrestlin’ with ’em. Not a pretty sight, doncha know.”
Jemmy adopted what she hoped was an authoritative voice. “Dora, after you finish polishing the good silver, I want you to take the rugs out and beat them. Don’t trouble yourself over flowers.”
Dora shot a defiant look in the cook’s direction. Gerta fisted a hand on one hip while she stirred oatmeal.
Jemmy said, “Gerta. Don’t buy flowers. Buy well-shaped fruit. We’ll leave the epergne off the table and use a mound of fruit in the crystal punch bowl instead. That will be pretty, and it won’t take long to arrange. I’ll fashion it myself.
“Now you both have important jobs to do. Please try to keep out of each other’s hair. And, Gerta, slow down when you talk to Dora, and don’t speak in Deutsche.”
Jemmy left without breakfast—and without seeing that her orders were followed.
On the way to the Illuminator, she composed her sledding article in her mind.
Even with the multitude of mistakes her fingers made while typing her article, she finished in less than an hour. Most of the staff had not arrived. She eluded Miss Turnipseed and Editor Hamm—an added bonus. Leaving before Hal made an appearance had been the main reason she’d set off as early as the streetcars started rolling.
She promised herself to be nice to Hal when next she saw him. Perhaps she’d ask Sassy to pose for him. That would surely make up for her own bad treatment of partner and bodyguard.
She considered returning to Auntie Dee’s to ask Duncan about John Folck. Heavens in a handbag. I spent two hours with Duncan and never even thought to mention Folck a single time. Heavens in a handbag. I spent the same two hours with Sassy Patterson herself—with never a single thought about getting the story I need to keep my job.
By the time she’d placed her sledding article on Miss Turnipseed’s desk, she decided to wake up Sassy for the second day in a row.
She breathed relief along with coal-sooty air when she boarded the Washington Street trolley. The rest of the day was hers. She promised herself, “Today I discover who killed Quisenberry Sproat.”
At the Patterson house, the untutored maid let her in. “I reckon you know Miss Isabel is still in bed, and I reckon you know how to get to her room.”
Mrs. Patterson failed to fly out of the conservatory with arms open in welcome. Jemmy wondered idly whether Tony von Phul would make an appearance—or whether he already had—and . . . She shook her head to erase yesterday’s shocking picture of Tony and Mrs. P. from her mind.
This morning Jemmy had better luck in finding the light switch in Sassy’s darkened room. As usual, Sassy looked like Sleeping Beauty, with her dark curls gently framing her radiant face. She looked so lovely, Jemmy felt an overwhelming urge to smack her in the nose with a mud pie.
Since no mud pie came to hand, she settled for shaking Sassy’s arm a little mor
e roughly than was strictly necessary.
Sassy opened one eye. “Are you here again, or am I having a nightmare?”
“I’m real enough.”
“Go away.”
“I will. But first you must tell me something.”
“Please go away. Come to the Mary Institute Thanksgiving recital tomorrow afternoon. We can talk then.”
“You have to tell me now.”
Sassy rolled to the middle of the bed and pulled the covers over her head.
Jemmy yanked the covers down. “I won’t let you go back to sleep until you tell me what I want to know.”
Sassy snatched the covers up to her chin. Jemmy yanked them back down. This tug of war continued until Jemmy grabbed the covers and flopped them off the end of the bed.
“Jemmy, put my blankets back. I’m cold.”
“Of course—just as soon as you tell me how to find John Folck.”
“John Folck? What do you want with him?”
“Information.”
“Information about what?” Sassy shivered and clutched a pair of pillows to her bosom.
“Information about a story I’m working on.”
“What story?” Sassy sat up and threw the pillows aside.
“Never mind. Just tell me where he is.”
“Barr’s Department Store, if you must know.” Sassy crawled toward the end of the bed to retrieve her bedclothes.
“Where in Barr’s Department Store?”
“The shoe department. John Folck sells shoes.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry I interrupted your sleep.” Jemmy tossed the covers back over Sassy and headed for the door.
By now Sassy was well and truly awake. “Jemima McBustle. Don’t think you can steal beaus from Isabel Patterson. Especially not John Folck. Frankly, Jemmy, you don’t have the wherewithal.”
Stung by the insult, Jemmy turned back in self-defense. “I have no romantic interest in your Mr. Folck. I have beaus of my own—beaus even you would envy.”
Sassy arched an eyebrow. “And just who would these heartthrobs be?”
“Among others, the good-looking-and-then-some actor who plays Tom Loker in Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”
