Have Your Ticket Punched by Frank James

by Fedora Amis

  Despite protests from passengers, she pushed herself to the front of the boarding line. The conductor said, “Miss, would you please go to the end of the boarding line.”

  “I apologize for my rudeness, but I’m not a passenger. My sister is on her way to Cincinnati, but she forgot her medicine. May I take it to her? I’ll be back in a few seconds.”

  The conductor said, “For Cincinnati, she should be in the first or second car on the right.”

  Jemmy brushed past passengers stowing their belongings, but Pervia wasn’t there. Frantic by now, she hurried up and down the aisles and back down the steps to the conductor. “Please, sir, can you tell me if Miss Benigas has come on board?”

  “Sorry, Miss. I don’t even know how many people are on board until we leave the station. You must get off the train now or become one of the passengers.”

  “But my sister’s medicine. I—”

  “Calm yourself. Give me the medicine. If she’s on board, I’ll see she gets it.”

  “But I couldn’t find her.”

  “She might have gone to the dining car. She very probably is on board.” He held out his hand.

  Jemmy fumbled in her reticule but could find nothing to give him to cover her lie. The best she could do was say, “Heavens in a handbag! I seem to have forgotten the medicine, too.”

  He chuckled. “Forgetfulness must run in the family. Not to worry. Cincinnati is a fine city. I’m sure your sister will be able to find whatever medicine she requires.”

  The conductor put his hands round her waist and set Jemmy firmly on the platform. He took his stepstool and climbed up on the lowest train step to fasten a chain across the exit. He waved the all-clear, and the train chugged out of its berth.

  Jemmy watched until the caboose proved the train was well and truly gone. I still don’t know why Pervia wanted to meet Handsome Harry Benson. I don’t even know if Pervia and Benson were supposed to meet on Wednesday at all. Perhaps Pervia was stringing me along. Perhaps she didn’t want to tell me why she was at Union Station, so she made up an excuse.

  Filled with many questions and few answers, Jemmy started for the nearest trolley stop to go home but changed her mind and her direction. I may find a few answers on Lucas Place. I think I’ll pay a call on Sassy Patterson. At half past four in the afternoon, she should be out of bed. That will make a nice change.

  The maid opened the front door with “Good afternoon, Miss McBustle. Would you care to wait in the morning room while I see whether Miss Patterson is at home?”

  “What a stylish greeting. You must have been practicing.”

  The girl beamed. “Mrs. P. said if I didn’t learn how to answer the door, I would find myself on the other side of it.”

  “Is Sassy in her room?”

  “Yes, go on up—but don’t tell Mrs. P.”

  “If I see Mrs. P., I’ll praise the elegance of your door performance. By the way, could you be so kind as to give my cat a little milk or water?”

  The maid took Mabel’s cat with one hand and held it well away from her skirts. “Never seen such an ugly cat afore. I’ve heard tell some things is so ugly, they get cute. Don’t work for this cat, though.”

  Sassy’s room looked as though it had been ransacked by looters. The armoire doors hung open. Bureau drawers dripped undergarments like white icing trickling down a chocolate cake. Wearing only drawers, chemise, and corset, Sassy was trying to shut an enormous steamer trunk. “Come help me, Jemmy. I can’t close my trunk.”

  Even when Jemmy threw her shoulder into the task, the girls still couldn’t make the lock hasp reach. “You’ll have to remove some items.”

  “But I couldn’t possibly. I need every stitch that’s inside.”

  “Perhaps you have another valise.”

  “I’m already using everything from the cellar.”

  “You could tie your clothing in a bed sheet and stick it on a pole, like hobos do.”

  “I’m in no mood for your humor. Just push a little harder, Skeezuck.”

  The pair finally managed to shut the trunk and lock it. Jemmy asked, “Where are you going?”

  “Do you promise not to tell?”

  Jemmy put her hand over the claddagh that had once belonged on her father’s watch fob. “I do solemnly swear not to reveal Sassy’s destination.”

  “Hot Springs, Arkansas.”

  “People generally go there when the racing season is over for one of two reasons—to get married or to take the waters to cure their ills. I don’t suppose you’ve recently come down with the rheumatiz.”

  “Right the first time.”

  “May I ask who is the lucky fellow?”

  “No, you may not. It’s a deep secret. I’ve sworn not to tell a single living soul.”

  “If I should happen to guess, that wouldn’t be telling, would it?”

  “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t.”

  “Let me see. Could it be my wild cousin Duncan who’s claimed your heart?”

  “My mother would never forgive me if I ran off with the son of a society matron like Mrs. Erwin McBustle. She’d weep for years at the missed opportunity for a grand wedding.”

  “Couldn’t be Peter Ploog, then. He’s a rich boy, too.”

  Sassy rolled a white stocking and stuck her foot inside. “I have no time to play your little game, Skeezuck. I’m already late.”

  Jemmy snapped her fingers. “I know. Dr. Wangermeier, the coroner. Sassy Patterson is going to wed the man who tends the dead.”

  Sassy flashed out an irritated, “Don’t be ridiculous. I’d rather drink carbolic acid.”

  Sassy Patterson was about as likely to commit suicide as the hellion Heathcliff Smoot was to become a priest. However, if her parents were pushing her to wed the old doctor, Sassy would surely find a way to avoid such a match.

  “It can’t be Harry Benson. He won’t be in any shape to travel after tonight.”

  Sassy paused while lacing a boot. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s to fight tonight—bare knuckles at Uhrig’s Cave. Didn’t you know?” Jemmy shivered at the thought of going down in a cave—even one decked out in all the comforts one could wish.

  Sassy reached for her bodice. “Of course, I knew. The boxing match just slipped my mind for a moment.”

  “Well, who is it? Whom do you plan to marry?”

  Sassy fastened the hooks on the aluminum-gray skirt of her gabardine traveling suit. “Heigho, my dearie. Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.”

  “I certainly hope you don’t mean to marry Tony von Phul or John Folck.”

  Sassy slipped her last cuff button through its buttonhole. “Why would you say that?”

  “Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.”

  Sassy shrugged into her suit jacket. “Don’t worry about Sassy Patterson, Skeezucks. You’ll upset your digestion. Just wish me luck.”

  Jemmy tried wheedling. “I’m your best friend. Can’t you tell me?”

  Sassy tried on her hat at the armoire mirror. “ ’Fraid not. I promised.”

  Jemmy tried pouting. “You’ve no call to be mean to me. If I were running away with the love of my life, I’d tell you his name.”

  Sassy buttoned her jacket. “Fat chance of that. You’re married to the Illuminator. What man can measure up to a front-page story?”

  Jemmy tried extortion. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll tell your mother.”

  Sassy donned her fur cape. “Mother is not home.”

  Jemmy tried anger. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll never speak to you again!”

  Sassy shook out her fur muff. “I’ll miss you, Skeezucks. Of course, I’ll be far away, so I think I can manage my grief.”

  The maid and the carriage driver arrived to breeze out with the baggage. Sassy gave Jemmy a peck on the cheek and swished off in a swirl of cranberry wool and white fox fur.

  Jemmy looked around at the snarl of clothes and decided a search would not turn up anything useful.

&
nbsp; If she hurried, she might catch a glimpse of Sassy’s intended. She rushed downstairs and raced toward the porte cochere.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Friday Evening, November 25, 1898

  The carriage pulled away just as Jemmy arrived at the porte cochere. Sassy’s steamer trunk strapped to the back bounced jauntily over a pothole. The wheels jounced over snow mounds like a game of ball and jacks hitting the pavement.

  Jemmy ran to catch a glimpse of the people inside when the carriage turned the corner. The streetlamps allowed only a glimpse of white fur.

  She trudged back to the Patterson home to retrieve Mabel’s cat. The maid said, “Miss McBustle, I hope you’ll leave the cat here. Cook wouldn’t allow a filthy beast in her clean kitchen, so I took the little calico to the butler’s pantry and gave her a good wash. She ain’t all dried yet, and it would be bad to have her out in the cold. Maybe you could come get her tomorrow. I promise to feed her up good and let her sleep in my room.”

  Jemmy was too tired to argue. In truth, though, she was a little disappointed the cat wouldn’t be coming home with her.

  Jemmy didn’t reach Bricktop until well after suppertime. She paused with one hand on the front door. Going home used to be nice. This week, every day has brought nothing but new calamity. She paused to brace herself, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

  For once, no one rushed to clobber her with bad news of new flu victims. As she hung her coat and hat on the hall tree, she listened for rumblings of trouble. The only sounds came from the kitchen, and they seemed normal enough. Someone actually laughed. The pungent odor of boiled cabbage filled her nostrils.

  Cabbage is only good in German-style cole slaw. Cooked, it stinks up the house for days. Cabbage has the consistency of old rubber boots and the color of tobacco spit. Worst of all, it tastes the way pond scum smells. I hate cooked cabbage!

  Even so, Jemmy practically skipped her way to the kitchen. Once there, she stared in disbelief. Three people were washing dishes, but none of them should have been working at Bricktop.

  Lucy Leimgruber searched through cabinets to discover where to stash cleaned dishes. Arms elbow deep in a dishpan of soapy water, Hal was scrubbing a big pot and sloshing suds into the sink. Mrs. Hendershot said, “Gently, dear boy. You’re dripping dirty water on clean dishes.”

  Nana Hendershot handed Lucy a porcelain lid as she spoke to Jemmy. “Welcome home, dear. You’re just in time to show Lucy where the soup tureen goes.”

  Hal turned his head and snarled, “Got here just in time to watch us finish cleaning up.”

  Lucy bristled. “What a thing to say. I washed nearly every dish. I would be scrubbing that pot right now if you had the sense to put the frying pan somewhere other than on top of the coffee cups.”

  “That was supposed to be a joke.”

  “Broken china is no joke.”

  “I didn’t break a single one.”

  “Not this time, no, but—”

  Nana Hendershot piped in with, “Please don’t argue. After all, no harm was done.”

  “Beg pardon, Jemima.” Lucy reached for a plate. “We’re giving you a poor homecoming. We have leftover corned beef hash—still warm, I think. I’ll dish some up.”

  “That would be lovely. Can someone tell me what happened? Why are you working away in our kitchen?”

  Lucy said, “Nana sent word to the newspaper that all of the McBustles and the help, too, were down with the flu.”

  “Randy, too? Is she sick as well?”

  Nana Hendershot said, “Poor thing. She asked me to touch her arm. Hot as a stone in the sun, it was.”

  “We couldn’t let Nana go hungry, so Hal and I came to help. I brought a round of corned beef I’d already cooked. I stretched it with onions and potatoes to make a decent supper.”

  Hal dropped his whining to give her a compliment. “The best corned beef hash I’ve ever tasted. The cabbage is not bad either.”

  Jemmy took her first mouthful. “Hal’s right. The hash is delicious. He may not be right about much, but he’s right about that.”

  Hal handed the scoured pot to Nana. “Finished. Now may I take off this apron?”

  When Hal turned around, Jemmy clamped her jaws shut to keep from laughing. He wore Merry’s dainty bib apron. The pink gingham sported embroidered cats playing with colorful balls of yarn. He looked like a red-headed grizzly bear in a pinafore.

  Lucy said, “You’re not quite finished. Empty the dishpan and wipe it out.”

  Hal growled but did as ordered.

  The doorbell interrupted this almost-happy domestic scene. Jemmy couldn’t think who it might be, though she should have known. She wiped her mouth and dashed to the front door.

  On the porch stood Autley Flinchpaugh, hat in hand. The part in the center of his slicked-down hair gleamed white and perfectly straight. “I know I’m early. I wanted the opportunity to speak with your parents.”

  For the first time ever, Jemmy felt thankful her father was not around. “Please come in.”

  He thrust something wrapped in newspaper at her. “It’s a Christmas cactus. My mother grows them.”

  Jemmy shucked off the paper. Inside three green spiny ovals about the size of children’s hands sprouted three minuscule fingers.

  Autley said, “I know it doesn’t look like much now. Give it a month, and you’ll see. The flowers are all the lovelier for blooming on such homely stems.”

  Autley might also have been talking about himself. Jemmy’s heart went out to him. If Hal hadn’t interrupted, she might have spilled some highly interesting beans.

  Hal’s voice stopped her cold. “Flinchpaugh, what are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come to pay my respects to Miss McBustle’s parents.”

  Hal chuckled. “Your bad timing is only outdone by your bad intelligence. Miss McBustle’s father died in the big tornado of ’96, and her mother is indisposed—a victim of the influenza that’s going round.”

  Jemmy thrust the potted cactus into Hal’s hands. “Mr. Dwyer, I am perfectly capable of speaking for myself.”

  Hal pretended astonishment. “Whoever could imagine that?”

  Jemmy faked a smile at Autley. “I’ll just put on my hat and coat.”

  Hal spoke in a lord-of-the-manner voice. “Explain yourself. Where do you think you are going with this strange man, young lady?”

  “Ignore Hal, Mr. Flinchpaugh. He’s Irish. Drinkers—you know.”

  “You’re Irish, too, my girl.”

  “Scots-Irish. It’s not the same.”

  Hal leaned toward Autley. “The Scots-Irish are the real drinkers. Two kinds of whiskey named after them—Scotch and Irish.”

  “Try not to be insulting while I go to the kitchen for a moment.”

  Jemmy hustled herself to the kitchen to give a final thanks to Lucy and Nana Hendershot. When she returned, the two men were glaring at each other but not speaking.

  Jemmy pulled on her galoshes and whisked Autley out the door. A smallish, dark horse and runabout were tethered at the front gate. “I didn’t know you had a carriage.”

  “This one is hired, but I’ve saved enough money to purchase one. Though I rather imagine—I rather hope—I shall need to spend the money elsewhere.”

  Autley helped her into the runabout. Jemmy heard the front door bang shut. Half in and half out of his coat, Hal came bounding down the walk with Lucy close behind. “Wait for me.”

  Autley stopped short and turned to face him. “Naturally, Hal, we’d love your companionship, but the runabout has room for only two.”

  “Nonsense. Jemmy can sit on my lap. That poor excuse of a horse looks strong enough to pull three.”

  Jemmy tossed in, “What about Miss Leimgruber? Are you deserting the young lady?”

  “Not at all. Lucy has promised to spend the night with Mrs. Hendershot. Isn’t that right, Lucy?”

  Lucy’s raised eyebrows spoke volumes of surprise about the supposed promise. She put up a brave fron
t, though. “I’ll be happy to spend the night on a pallet in Nana’s room if that’s what is needed.”

  “See there, Flinchpaugh. It’s all settled.” Hal clambered into the runabout and shoved Jemmy over. Autley stepped up on the running board and looked in vain for a place to sit. He had told the truth when he said the runabout had room for two, but not three.

  Hal yanked Jemmy onto his lap. “See there, Flinchpaugh. Plenty of room.”

  Autley clapped his hat on his head so roughly that it covered his eyes. He jerked it off and scrambled inside the carriage.

  Arms straight at her sides and hands balled into fists, Lucy stood by the gate as Autley maneuvered the runabout into the street.

  Jemmy fidgeted in a futile effort to find comfort on Hal’s bony knees.

  “Sit still. You wiggle more than a catfish on a fishing hook.”

  “Well, excuse me for being a pest. Please recall that no one asked you to come along to be annoyed by a wiggling girl on your lap.”

  “I felt duty bound to come.” He turned to Autley. “This girl gets into nothing but trouble when I’m not with her.”

  Even in the flickering light of a streetlamp, Jemmy saw Autley’s face bloom red with embarrassment. Heavens in a handbag! Autley must think Hal is the father of the child he thinks I’m going to have.

  Heavens in a handbag! Autley asked to see my parents. I think he means to take this defiled and discarded flower off Mother’s hands. Autley Flinchpaugh wants to marry me!

  As the trio set off toward Uhrig’s Cave, Jemmy’s mind flitted from the Sproat case to Harry Benson to Pervia Benigas to Mabel Dewoskin to Frank James to Hal and Lucy’s new-found devotion to Mrs. Hendershot. Underlying all this mental chaos was the knowledge she’d soon, very soon, have to do something about Autley Flinchpaugh’s clumsy attempts to make an honest woman of her.

  Jemmy had been paying no attention at all to the words passing between Hal and Autley, even though they grew more heated. But then the carriage came to a full stop before the trio had traveled a single block.

  Hal shoved Jemmy off his lap and clambered out one side of the runabout. At the same time, Autley wrapped the reins around the brake handle and jumped down from the opposite side.