by Rob DeBorde
That a store selling books would need more than a single employee to ring up the occasional sale might have come as a surprise to those in other parts of the country, but not here. Portland was a town in love with the written word. There were seven booksellers within the city limits and all of them did a brisk business. Joseph’s shop had been successful, practically from day one, and as such had always carried additional inventory to feed the voracious reading habits of the locals. Even when shipments were late, Wylde’s had new titles available, thanks to Kate’s insistence that they accept the customer’s own books in trade, rather than require currency for every purchase. The general rule was two for one, depending on the condition of the used volumes and the cost of the new text. The result was shelves overflowing with books, many of which were out of print or otherwise unavailable locally.
It was ten past nine by the time the trio reached Alder Street, just under an hour since leaving the house. Joseph was pleased.
“Lot of folks out this morning,” Maddie said.
Alder crossed Third Avenue in the heart of the downtown business district and only a few blocks from the waterfront. On every day but Sunday it was crowded with tradesmen, merchants, shoppers, and travelers. The seasonal widening of the Willamette may have slowed the pace, but with local floodwaters at an average depth of only two and a half feet, the deluge was manageable. Much of the business to be done on First and Front Streets had simply relocated a few blocks west, to where horse-drawn carts could still gain passage. Some of the storefronts on Third had actually seen an increase in sales, while others found new opportunities setting up floating markets and other waterproof enterprises.
Wylde’s, Booksellers and Navigation was two doors off the main thoroughfare, but a well-placed sign made it easily visible to anyone walking (or wading) past.
Joseph put a hand on his son’s shoulder, redirecting him away from open water.
“Kick, I want you to make it across to the store without filling up your boots, okay?”
“I wasn’t gonna dive in. There’s a boat coming.”
Joseph caught the unmistakable odor of cigars and sweat just before the small canoe bumped into the plank sidewalk.
“Good morning, Ted.”
“And to you, my young friend,” said the owner of the T. Williamson Tobacco Company. Joseph doubted Ted Williamson was more than five years older than himself, but something had aged the man beyond the forty winters he’d counted. He coughed as frequently as some of the yellow-eyed miners and smelled almost as bad, although Joseph wondered if his own heightened sense of smell was exaggerating the man’s offenses. He was certainly pleasant enough.
“Care for a lift?”
Joseph and the kids climbed into the boat for the short journey across Alder Street. Ted handed an oar each to Kick and Maddie.
“She wobbles a bit, so try to keep her on an even keel.”
The kids put both oars in the water and were in sync immediately. Ted had a moment to be impressed before a coughing jag overtook him.
“All right there, Ted?” Joseph asked.
Ted waved off the concern but continued coughing. Upon reaching the other side, he stumbled out of the boat, barely keeping himself upright. He turned to offer a hand to the kids, but both hopped onto the boardwalk before Ted had raised himself upright. Joseph exited last, tying off the boat at a lamppost between the bookstore and Ted’s tobacco shop.
“Come on,” Joseph said, resting a hand on Ted’s shoulder. “Let’s get you a glass of water.”
Ted nodded and followed Joseph into his store.
* * *
Gaining entrance to most businesses in the flooded areas required a step down from the raised sidewalk, usually over some kind of sandbag barricade. Wylde’s required a step up to the front door due to an architect who had designed the building immediately following an inundation, a fact Joseph was thankful for every spring.
Inside the shop, sixteen-foot shelves lined both sides of the main room, the highest books on each accessible only by a rolling ladder attached to a railing near the top. The main floor featured nine double-sided bookshelves spread out around three sides of a curved central counter that faced the main entrance. The floor itself was long, not wide, with the back third closed off for storage on the first floor. A wrought-iron staircase wound its way to a second-floor loft, where more books filled even more shelves.
Ted was only a few feet inside the door when Maddie approached him with a glass of water.
“Here you are, Mr. Williamson.”
Ted drank deeply, regaining a little color as he drained the glass.
“Thank you, dear. All this moisture about, but Doc Barnes says it’s the rain that keeps me right. Clears the sinuses, he says. Apparently, this dry air does nothing to assuage the phlegm in my lungs.”
“I’d wager the precipitation will return soon enough,” Joseph said.
“Oh?”
“Plenty of snow left to melt on the mountain. If it stays warm another day or two, we’ll be freshly flooded by Monday. I might actually have to sandbag the front door.”
Ted nodded. “I already got my finer wares on high ground. Wet smokes is bad for business. Speaking of which, I best be getting open myself. Thanks for the refreshment.”
Ted turned to leave, but stopped before reaching the exit.
“Almost forgot,” he said, reaching into the leather pouch slung over his shoulder. “I have something for you.”
Ted pulled out a thick, clothbound book and passed it to Joseph.
“From my sister in Michigan. She swears it will change my life, but I’ve hardly the time for it.”
Joseph ran his fingers across the cover. The letters were cut so deeply into the binding they practically screamed at his touch.
“‘Dr. Chase’s Information for Everybody: An Invaluable Collection of Practical Recipes for Merchants, Grocers, Saloon-Keepers, Druggists, Tanners, Jewelers, Gunsmiths, Barbers, Bakers, Farmers, and Families Generally, New and Improved by the Publisher,’” Joseph read. “That’s a mouthful.”
“And that’s only the title. I tried perusing the chapter on beekeeping, but the letters were so small I could barely see past the paper after ten minutes.”
Joseph flipped the book open. A few pages in he found the index with such entries as: “Amusements for the Young”; “Gangrene, Treatment of”; “Oyster Pie”; “Rats, to Destroy”; and “Sinking at Pit of Stomach.”
“Seems a wealth of information.”
“Yours to plumb, my friend. Read it, sell it—use it as kindling, if you like. I have no use for it.”
Joseph set the book on the counter next to a short stack of other titles yet to be shelved. “Thank you, Ted.”
Ted raised his arm to wave as he exited the store.
Kick hopped onto the stool next to his father.
“Is Mr. Williamson sick?”
“I don’t know,” Joseph said. “He doesn’t seem well.”
“Might be the croup,” Maddie said from above them both. She was speaking from six rungs up the ladder on the left side of the store. “Bobby Henderson’s little sister got the croup and all she did was cough and make this funny wheezing noise.”
“I doubt Mr. Williamson has the croup.”
“‘Attending symptoms of the croup include inflammation of the windpipe, spasms of the muscles of the throat, cough, and difficult respiration,’” Kick said, reading from the latest addition to the Wylde library. “Sounds like the croup.”
“It’s not,” Joseph said. “But just in case, is there a cure I should be aware of?”
Kick studied the entry. “This says a tonic of equal parts goose oil and urine, one tablespoon every fifteen minutes.”
“That’s disgusting,” Maddie said. “I think I’d probably throw up.”
“You’re supposed to,” Kick said. “That’s how you know it’s workin’.”
Joseph closed the book in Kick’s hands. “Let’s file this one under Home Remedies
and Natural Wisdom.”
Kick hopped off the stool and then passed the book to his sister.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready,” Maddie said, locking her arms around the closest rung.
Kick got on one side of the ladder and pushed. Even with his sister’s weight, it slid easily along the wall, rolling past most of the shelves before coming to a stop near the back of the store. Maddie climbed two more rungs and then slid the volume into place between Baldwin’s Best Cures and a book on tongue ailments.
The twins spent the better part of the next hour taking turns on the ladder, trying to roll to a stop nearest the shelf position of each new book their father gave them. It was a game they were very good at, and one Kate would have frowned upon had she been familiar with it. Joseph referred to it as “restocking the shelves,” so as not to alert the boss.
At a few minutes to ten, Joseph directed the kids to the storage area beneath the loft. A single lamp illuminated the windowless room jam-packed with shelves and the store’s inventory overflow. Each aisle had just enough room to stand, although some had stacks of books that blocked further progress. The storeroom was colder than the main floor, musty, and a little spooky.
“I know this isn’t as much fun as riding the ladder, but I need you to go through these boxes, pull out the new titles, and file the rest.”
“Does this mean we don’t get to hear about the mayor’s job?” Maddie asked.
They knew. Of course they knew.
Joseph shook his head. “It would be best for you to stay in here, just while I speak to the mayor’s man.”
“Because some things are private,” Kick said.
“Yes,” Joseph said, knowing the less he offered on the subject, the better.
The twins took to the boxes without complaint, leaving Joseph to return to the store. It was only after their father had closed the door that they began formulating a plan to listen in on his meeting.
* * *
Joseph had barely returned to the counter when the mayor strolled through the front door, followed by his deputy.
“Good morning, Joseph!”
“Mayor Gates, I wasn’t expecting you this morning,” Joseph said, offering his hand.
“Given the nature of this business, I felt it best to make a personal appearance, hear the news firsthand.”
“That really wasn’t necessary,” Joseph said, eyeing the deputy. “I’ve no doubt Mr. Hildebrandt would have made a full report of my findings.”
“Oh, I trust Bart implicitly. He’s been with me for nearly six years, now.”
“Nine,” said the deputy.
“That’s right. Nine years by my side. We’ve been through more elections, campaigns, and other political shenanigans than I’ve time to recount—and we’ve been through a few of those, too,” the mayor said, delighted by his own wordplay. He placed a hand on the deputy’s shoulder. “Still, I can’t have him taking on all my burdens, not alone.”
“No, I suppose not,” Joseph said.
“Now, Mr. Hildebrandt, if you wouldn’t mind.”
The deputy locked the front door and flipped the sign hanging in the window from Open to Closed.
Satisfied, the mayor turned to Joseph.
“All right, my friend, show me what you’ve got.”
* * *
Kick shifted his footing atop the makeshift stack of boxes he and Maddie had thrown together so they could see through a tiny crack near the ceiling.
“It’s the mayor and that other guy,” he said.
“The deputy?”
“I think so. The guy with the bushy eyebrows.”
“What are they saying?”
“I don’t know, I can’t … wait, Father just retrieved something from behind the counter. It’s an envelope. He’s opening it.”
“What’s inside?”
Kick strained to see through the slender opening.
“Papers, I think,” he said, and then tilting his head sideways added, “and some pictures, too.”
“Pictures of what?”
* * *
Joseph handed the three wrinkled daguerreotypes to the mayor.
“Here are the three images you gave me.”
The mayor stared at the pictures. He’d seen them before, and found the emotions that had accompanied his initial viewing renewed. All three images showed the same thing: the mayor, attired in a dark frock, tie, and top hat, standing with his hands at his chest and a broad smile on his face. Aside from the overly sunny expression, it was his standard pose for any formal portrait. It wasn’t the smile, however, that had caused the mayor so much consternation, but rather the company. Young women stood on either side of the mayor, one on each arm, both sporting equally happy grins but decidedly fewer clothes. In fact, they were completely nude.
“I am still at odds with this portrait, my friend. I did not pose for it, nor would I have,” he said forcibly. “This cannot be me. It is not!”
“I know,” said Joseph, as he passed the mayor another photo. “Here’s a fourth image, recovered during my investigations.”
The fourth picture, crisp and clear, having never been crushed out of frustration, was identical to the others except the man in this image had no face. A white mask, possibly made of cloth, covered all of the man’s head and neck below his hat.
“What is this?”
“That’s the original.”
“I don’t understand. This is not me.”
“No, but this is,” Joseph said, handing the mayor a two-month-old clipping from the Portlandian. It was a picture made at the ceremony celebrating the opening of the Morrison Street Bridge, and featured the mayor, front and center, grinning alongside the bridge’s architect. A closer examination of the image, specifically of the mayor’s face, revealed an exact match for the expression found in the boudoir portrait.
Joseph pointed to one of the crumpled photos in the mayor’s hand.
“The only part of this image that’s real—that’s you—is the face, and it was borrowed from this image captured months ago.”
The mayor’s eyes flitted from one image to next.
“Yes, yes, I see it. I’ve the same glint in my eye. Look here, Bart, they’re the same.”
“It’s appears so,” said the deputy mayor, peering over his boss’s shoulder.
“But how is this possible, Joseph?” asked the mayor. “What do you see that I do not?”
Joseph smiled. He had, of course, never seen the pictures in question. There was nothing for him to interpret by touch in any of the daguerreotypes. He could smell the chemicals on the paper, even the sweat left over from the mayor’s furious handlings, but it wasn’t until Kate described the images to him in great detail (minus the giggles) that he understood what he was and was not seeing.
“It’s a forgery, Mayor; a composite that combines elements from two separate pictures into one. It’s seamless, but it’s a lie.”
“Remarkable,” the mayor said, genuinely impressed.
“And effective,” said Joseph. “I gather you’ve yet to convince the governor or Secretary Milson of your innocence.”
“As I’m sure was the intent. In truth, I doubt either man took offense, but both seem convinced my reelection efforts would be damaged if such an image were to become public. They suggested I pay off the blackmailer, but if it could be proven to be fraudulent I might be able to sway their opinions.”
“It’s a complicated process, one that requires a delicate manipulation of light and shadow, but one that I could demonstrate if called upon,” Joseph said, knowing it would never come to that.
“Excellent!”
The deputy mayor laid a hand on the mayor’s shoulder.
“That may be good enough for the intellectuals, Mr. Mayor, but explaining such a distinction to the general public, especially after such a sensational image has been printed in the newspaper, is another matter altogether. There’s bound to be some confusion amongst the lesser minds.”
> “Do they get a vote?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Bart.
“Yes, you’re right, of course,” said the mayor, a little defeated. “Then we nip it in the bud before it comes to that, which leaves us with the man. You said you had a name.”
“I do,” said Joseph. “Seamus Greeley.”
The mayor glanced at Bart, who shook his head.
“Never heard of him,” said the mayor.
Joseph nodded. “Mr. Greeley has a small apartment on Ash Street. It was there that I found this print, along with a store of photographic chemicals and papers, but no equipment.”
“In other words, he saw you coming,” said the deputy mayor. “He’s gone?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
For the first time, Joseph gave his full attention to the deputy mayor, who was not glad to have it. Even with only one eye, Joseph’s stare could penetrate deeply into the intentions of a man, regardless of whether he was an intellectual or in possession of a lesser mind. It was meant to unnerve. At that moment, Deputy Mayor Bart Hildebrandt could attest to its success.
“I still don’t know the man,” said the mayor. “I’d hope that my blackmailer at least has a rooting interest in whether I win or lose.”
“I believe he does, Mr. Mayor,” said Joseph, “and has for at least nine years.”
* * *
Kick blinked and then looked through the slit in the wall again. Something was off in the room. The emotion of the scene he’d been watching had changed. He didn’t have the words or understanding to explain it, but he knew something was going to happen—something bad.
“Maddie, I think something is—”
“Wrong,” finished Maddie. “I feel it, too.”
Kick looked at his sister. It wasn’t the first time they’d shared each other’s intuition, but it’d never been so strong.