by Ann Parker
She turned to the old woman. “Is she giving you trouble?”
“Non non,” Madam Labasilier assured her. “This is Mrs. Stannert. She has question for you.”
“Mrs. Stannert?” Kate looked down at Inez. “So, you’re that uppity woman runs the Silver Queen.”
Madam poked Inez with her stick. “Pay her and ask,” she hissed.
Inez gulped and pulled out another silver dollar. “I’m trying to find out what happened to a drummer who, I gather, was in the neighborhood a couple nights ago. Name was Woods. Sold women’s undergarments.”
“Undergarments.” Kate folded her arms. Her biceps bulged impressively. “Why do you want to know?”
“Tell her,” Labasilier urged Kate. “It will be secret.” She looked at Inez. “You will not tell others.”
Inez nodded fervently.
A long moment passed. Then Kate took the dollar. “He was here.” She clenched the coin in a fist. “He was hurtin’ my girls. No one hurts my girls.”
Inez imagined the silver warping in her powerful grip.
“So,” Kate said in a reasonable tone. “I gave him a glass of whiskey to calm him down and sent him away.”
“You. Tell her,” urged Labasilier.
Kate’s eyes gleamed. “I might’ve slipped a little tobaccy juice in that whiskey. To make sure he learnt his lesson. It can make a body feel mighty sick. And he was such a little feller. Maybe I slipped him a little too much.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Inez assured both Kate Armstead and Madam Labasilier that their secrets were safe with her. She may have been an unbeliever, still, she didn’t want to find a disfigured poppet sporting her hair at the back alley door of the Silver Queen. As she hustled to Pine Street, intending to go to The Independent newspaper offices where she hoped to find some of Jed’s newsies hanging about and perhaps Jed as well, her pockets were considerably lighter, but her thoughts heavier. Was it possible the three deaths were entirely unrelated? The only role that the drummer appeared to have played was to provide the laces that robbed Drina of her breath.
Inez’s feet slowed.
According to the deputy, in addition to being shot Percy had been strangled. Could it have been with a set of corset laces? Would a simple string of silk link the two deaths? Unbidden, a strange vision rose in her mind of poppets dangling on a corded lace—the Drina poppet at one end, the lace knotted around her neck, a Percy poppet at the other with neck similarly captured, and a tiny russet-brown poppet of Woods midway between the two. The whole ensemble danced at the whim of invisible hands.
Inez shivered, but not from the mild gust that wrapped her skirts around her limbs. I see how the world of the unseeable and unknowable can affect the gullible. Just a little exposure to all this mumbo-jumbo and talk of the hereafter, spells, auras, and visions, and my own imagination is conjuring up its own set of impossible phantasms. She reached the corner of Harrison and Third Street. Looking across the wide main street to plot her way through the rolling traffic, she spotted Dr. Gregorvich, on the opposite corner, bent over, in deep conversation with a tiny newsboy who didn’t look older than four. The little fellow handed him what appeared to be his last paper. The physician tucked it under his arm, gave him a coin, then stayed him with a hand to the shoulder. He must have asked a question, because the tot began nodding vigorously and said something in return, pointing up East Third, the direction Inez was heading. Dr. Gregorvich straightened to his considerable height, fished in his pocket, and handed another coin, a quick flash of silver, to the newsie, whose little face lit up. The physician gave the boy’s oversized cap an affectionate tug before turning away and continuing on his way up Harrison.
Viewing the brief interaction, Inez’s estimation of the physician rose a bit. He’s one of those “who cares,” she told herself. One of those she would strive to be more like, as Reverend Sands had admonished them all on Sunday. Gregorvich was a constant in the alleys, offering his medical services and so what if he was obsessed with the workings of the human mind? The mind, as she well knew, was a mystery.
She navigated her way across the street without turning an ankle and strode up the worn footpath—no boardwalks yet, on East Third—to The Independent. The building, which, dated back a couple of years, was a large no-nonsense log edifice with a canvas half-wall above the door, without a false front or fancy architectural embellishment in sight. What was in sight, however, was a small covey of newsies. Inez counted four, including the smallest one she’d seen with Dr. Gregorvich and the tall skinny one that she’d seen with Tony when they’d first met in front of the Silver Saloon the previous week. They appeared to be waiting, perhaps for more papers to sell. One was smoking the stub of a cigarette, while the tall, skinny one was playing mumblety-peg with another. The little one was watching and picking his nose.
“Excuse me, boys,” she said, walking up to them. They all peered at her from under their visors or hat brims. “I’m looking for one of The Independent newsies, Tony.
“Tony Deuce?” piped up the smoker. “Yeah, sure. What about him?”
“Has he been about at all today?”
“Nope,” said the eldest boy shortly and went back to focusing on his knife throw, resting it on his left fist, point uppermost, and then throwing it sideways. It stuck into the soft ground without a quiver.
The smallest one looked up at her, curious.
Inez pushed on. “It’s important I get a message to him. I’m Mrs. Stannert and I’m a friend. Any chance that any of you might see him later?”
“He sleeps here,” said the tyke. “In the back building, with us.”
The tall one rounded on him. “Freddy! You weren’t supposed to say anything about that. It’s a secret!”
“Secret?” said the tyke faintly. His mouth formed an “O” and he glanced nervously around, as if someone else might have heard.
“Cat’s out of the bag now, Ace,” said the smoker. “Elliston ain’t gonna be happy about you and Freddy flapping your gums about our arrangement.”
Freddy looked crestfallen.
“I’m a friend of Mr. Elliston’s as well,” she assured them.
The tall skinny one, Ace, grumbled. “Aw, lookit whatcha made me do, Freddy, tellin’ what Tony told us not to say.”
He pulled his knife from the ground, flipped it once, and stashed it away in the top of his well-worn boot. “Oh well. I heard Tony talk about you, Mrs. Stannert, so’s I guess it’s okay. Just don’t tell Mr. Elliston we let out about the shed. He’s been really great about letting us all sleep there. With winter coming,” he shrugged, “lots of us, we don’t have much else place to go.”
“If he wants you to keep it as a secret, then it will remain a secret with me as well,” she said. Then asked, “So Tony comes by at night? Sleeps with you all in the back?” She glanced at the hulking building before her.
“Yeah, in the shed where he keeps his ink, paper, and all that.” Ace scratched his chin. Inez thought he couldn’t be more than thirteen, or maybe fourteen, but assumed the role as spokesman with an easy air. “Tony shows up late, leaves early.”
“Well, when he comes tonight, please let him know that I must speak to him. Tomorrow morning. As soon as possible.” She fished out a small collection of nickels and dimes from her dwindling pocket. “Deal? And don’t tell anyone else about this. Consider it a secret as well. Can you do that?”
Ace looked at her as if she was crazy. “Of course we can.” She nodded and gave each of the four a dime. “Easiest money I’ve made all day,” said the second mumblety-peg player cheerfully. He took off his unseasonable straw hat and wedged the dime into the sweatband.
The door to the building flew open and Jed Elliston appeared, looking more like a printer’s devil than a publisher or reporter with his ink-stained hands and leather apron. “Hey, Mrs. Stannert! Just the person I wanted to see! Come in
a sec.” He turned around and vanished inside without waiting to see if she would follow.
Inez winked at Ace and the other boys and mimed locking her mouth with a key and tossing the key over her shoulder. Even the littlest got the message. “Hey guys,” said Ace. “Let’s go see if we can rustle up a couple bowls of stew from Mrs. O’Malley. She makes the best. I’ll buy and we can all share.”
That seemed to cheer everyone up, and off they went.
Inez trailed Jed to the entrance of the building, where he was busy inside giving some instructions to his typesetter, who was nodding automatically as if he was used to Jed hovering and was just going along. “And don’t forget we got that last-minute advert from the Clairmont Hotel to insert on the second page,” Jed finished.
He turned to Mrs. Stannert, said, “Let’s talk over here,” and headed to his desk, absently rubbing his face. When he turned to face Inez he had a smear of black ink down the side of his long, aristocratic nose and another along his forehead. “You’re just the woman who can help me out,” he said, crossing his arms.
Inez eyed him suspiciously. Usually it was she who wheedled favors from Jed, not the other way around.
“What do you have in mind?” she asked.
“Well, you see, I’m in a bit of a spot, editorially speaking.” He picked up a copy of the rival Chronicle newspaper, lying on his desk. “This Orth Stein is staying one jump ahead of me on every story. This one, for instance.” He proceeded to read in loud ringing tones, “‘The country was startled only a few weeks ago by the discovery that a fellow named Buchanan had scattered some eleven thousand bogus medical diplomas throughout the country…’ and so on and so forth and, ah! Here! ‘…if there should be any possibility of driving any medical imposters from our midst through the cooperation of our legitimate practitioners, THE CHRONICLE pledges itself to stop at no hazard and leave no stone unturned in the prosecution of that laudable object.’ Bah!”
He tossed the paper to one side. “I need something to top this. Something to strike at the hearts of readers, make them sit up and take notice. I need to uncover proof of those underground anatomy sessions! I have to break that story!” His face was reddening with enthusiasm, or maybe aggression. With those streaks of ink like war-paint on his face, he looked like a fourth-estate warrior, preparing to do battle with a mortal enemy. Inez almost expected him to give a bloodcurdling whoop and gallop into the street, pen held aloft like a deadly lance, going in for the attack on the Chronicle’s Harrison Avenue offices.
“Jed, I sympathize with your journalistic dilemma, but how on earth can I help? You’ve talked with Doc, I understand. He’s well connected with the medical community here. If there were underhanded doings, I’d think he’d know.”
“Doc is too trusting by half,” said Jed dismissively. “When it comes to any in his medical fraternity, he rises to the defense, and won’t hear a word against them until the evidence is overwhelming.”
“You mean he believes a man is innocent until proven guilty?”
Jed frowned, wounded. “I thought you were on my side.”
She sighed. “What is it you want me to do?”
“This Dr. Gregorvich…” he began.
Inez groaned.
“I thought you didn’t trust him either.”
“No, well, I’m not sure.”
“Look, I know he’s hiding something. Call it a sixth sense. The fellow’s shady.” His narrow nose actually twitched. “Why don’t you go to his office and talk to him?”
“Me? Why?”
“The way he was looking at you last night over the poker game, he admires the way you think.”
Inez winced.
“Just make an appointment. Complain of the vapors or something. I’m betting he’ll jump at the chance to talk with you. And once he gets started talking, just listen, ask some leading questions, and look around.”
“Look around for what? Body parts in jars and bones on the bookshelves?”
“Oh, anything! Anything unusual! You’re a perceptive woman!” He made as if to grip her shoulder, but she pulled away saying warningly, “Ink.”
Startled, he looked down at his hands, then laughed self-consciously. “You see? Perceptive. That’s what I was talking about.”
Inez thought about her upcoming séance with Mrs. Alexander and how she was not happy about being Dr. Gregorvich’s patient. What was it she had said, exactly, after the Sunday service? He’s obsessed with the mechanical workings of brain and body. Doesn’t look to “heal the heart.” And Mrs. Alexander seemed to be looking for an ally, as her husband was apparently convinced that she suffered from whatever ills and conditions the physician had offered in his diagnosis.
“I might have a way to find out more about him and his practice,” she said cautiously.
“Thatta girl!” Jed leaned back against his desk, his greasy hands now carelessly hitched into his trouser pockets. “I knew I could count on you.”
“Not right away,” she added. “Toward the end of the week.”
He nodded. “Fine, fine.”
The typesetter came up and said, “I finished that piece about Reverend Sands, if you want to take a look.” He then wandered back to his station.
Jed’s face sobered, and he threw a glance at Inez that was half embarrassment, half condolence. “The reverend, he got the bum’s rush. I’m really sorry about that. I wish I knew who the instigator was, because I’d see him strung up for slander, if I could.”
Inez gave him a tight smile. “My sentiments are in line with yours, but I do believe Reverend Sands wanted to do what he thought best for the church.”
“Yeah, well,” Jed seemed at a loss. He finally blurted out, “Look, if I can ever do anything for you, Mrs. Stannert…I think you got a bit of the bum’s rush too. None of my business, but you’ve always come through for me and, well, just want to let you know you have a friend in the press, if you ever need one.”
Touched, she said, “Thank you, Jed. That’s very kind.”
He reddened and scratched his neck, leaving another greasy mark. “Well, back to work. And thanks for helping me out with the Dr. Gregorvich business. I’ll bet that, once you get inside his lair, you’ll find something that’ll show him for what he is. He can’t stay hidden forever. I believe, I have to believe, that wrongs will always, eventually, come to light, sooner or later. And I want to be there, shining the light, when it does.”
Chapter Thirty-two
Inez walked back to the saloon, slowly, thinking of what Jed had said. The fact he had offered to be “in her corner” had set her musing about Casey’s dire warning that her petition for divorce could devolve into a public circus. She was determined that would not happen, had taken secret steps to prevent it, but there were still so many factors outside her control.
If push came to shove, who could she count on to be on her side? Susan Carothers would, without a doubt. But in a court of law, just as in the rough-and-tumble world of commerce, Inez knew it was the testimony of men which carried the most weight and respect.
Jed had as much as raised his hand on her behalf. Doc Cramer, she felt, would take a stand for her, even if it meant standing “against” Mark. He had seen all she’d been through the past year and a half and offered his veiled and not-so-veiled sympathy and support throughout. Too, there was this: Doc and Sands had both fought for the Union. They had a shared connection, an important one for Doc, if one were to give weight to his many rambling stories of “back in the War” and his more oblique references to less-talked-about aspects of those uncivil times. Inez had had many opportunities to observe how the War had wounded all who lived through it—physically, mentally. Even now, fifteen years after, some of those wounds remained on the surface, festering, open. Others may have scarred over, disappeared deep beneath, but they were still there.
And Mark had fought for the South.
A small point, but one that could encourage Doc to step to her side, should she need to square off against her husband. It could also work in her favor for hammering out a legally binding agreement for ensuring a secure future for her little William, no matter what the outcome.
She returned to the saloon and pushed open the Harrison Street door. A sprinkling of customers occupied the tables, some filling up on Bridgette’s stew and biscuits, others apparently preferring to drink their afternoon meal. Sol was behind the bar. Mark was nowhere to be seen.
Sol saw her, did a double-take, and walked to where she stood by the counter, next to the gallon jar of pickles. Clutching the bar rag to his chest, he said, “Mr. Stannert’s in the gaming room upstairs. Waiting for you.”
“For me? Really.”
He nodded and glanced toward the staircase, then back at her. He ran a hand over his hair, neat to begin with, now less so. “Yeah. The undersheriff was just here.”
She waited, in case he had more to say.
He licked his lips. “He’s, uh, not happy.”
She nodded. “Thank you, Sol.”
The stairs rose to meet her, then the dark second-story hallway unrolled beneath her feet. The door to the left, leading to the gaming room, was closed. She knew her footsteps would be audible from inside. He would know she was coming.
She braced herself, gripped the crystal doorknob, turned it, and walked in.
Mark was waiting for her, standing on the far side of the round gaming table, thunder in his face.
He raised a packet of thick papers, seal broken. The silence stretched taut between them until he broke it with, “What’s this about, Inez?”
Leaving the door ajar, just in case, she squared her shoulders and moved to face him across the table. She curled her fingers around the top rail of one the chairs, keeping close watch on his expression and his hands.