by Fedora Amis
“Such forgiveness—I don’t deserve such a sweet mother as you.”
The pair found a new relationship in those few minutes.
Jemmy took streetcars to Lucas Place. Once again, she found Pervia gone. The Benigas housekeeper said, “Miss Pervia took the first train east this morning. She has a concert in Cincinnati tonight. She thought you might be stopping by. She left orders with me to take good care of you. If you’ll follow me, please.”
“I appreciate the offer, but—”
“Please, miss, do come into the drawing room. Miss Pervia was most specific that I shouldn’t present you her letter until you were sitting by the fire drinking your coffee.”
Jemmy grew agitated waiting for the woman to return. She rubbed her hands by the fire and stamped her feet a little—and not just to warm them. I’m all goosebumps. What did Pervia write in her letter?
November 26, 1898
Dear Jemima,
You wanted to know why I was meeting Harry Benson at Union Station. I had three reasons. The first was to convince Harry not to fight with bare knuckles. I felt certain Medley would force him into a low-down-drag-out, and that’s exactly what that evil man did.
The second reason was suspicion. I couldn’t prove the manager killed Q.B. because my beautiful boy refused to go through with the illegal match. I believed then and now that Medley was the murderer. I wanted to warn Mr. Benson. What happened to my Q.B. could also happen to him.
The third reason was that Mr. Benson pledged investment in the dream Q.B. and I had of a musical boxing school. He promised to turn over his share of the rental money and the signed lease. I caught you snooping, so I passed up our meeting. For all I knew at the time, you might have been the killer’s spy.
I apologize for tying you up last night. I thought you were party to Medley’s swindle. Had I not bound your hands, you wouldn’t have thought me wicked or set Medley free. I hate to think what that evil man would have done if you hadn’t sent Mr. Dwyer and Lieutenant O’Rourke to help me.
Please accept my deepest apologies.
Perhaps we can be better friends when I return from my concert tour.
Yours most sincerely,
Miss Pervia Benigas
Pervia’s letter explained a few details of interest to the police and answered the question Jemmy had come to ask.
Jemmy nibbled macaroons in the warmth of Pervia’s drawing room fire. How pleasant it is to simply sit in quiet comfort. I could do this every day if I married well. I would have nothing more taxing on my schedule than writing dinner menus and deciding which jewelry to wear. I could be a lady of leisure if I married well.
Stop it, Jemima. You would be so bored you’d have to do something desperate—like take up tatting. Thank heavens in a handbag I don’t have to decide right this minute. She put on her wraps and braved the cold morning air.
Since she was in the neighborhood, she dropped by the Patterson home. The untutored maid answered the door with the ugly orphan calico cat in her arms.
“Miss McBustle, I’m so glad to see you. You must take this poor kitty. It’s not safe here.”
“What happened?”
The maid led Jemmy into the foyer and peeked around the portieres. “If it please you, come with me.” The girl led Jemmy to the butler’s pantry and closed the door.
“We’ve had a shedload of trouble round here this morning. Mr. Patterson had no more than left for the day when Mr. von Phul come round poundin’ on the door, hollerin’ for Miss Sassy. Mrs. Patterson, she goes up to Miss Sassy’s room and starts a-screamin’. ‘She’s gone. Isabel is gone. Her room is a mess, with clothes thrown all about. Someone stole her away. Kidnapped my precious Isabel.’ Mrs. P. had a right breakdown in Miss Sassy’s bedroom—cryin’ and callin’ out for Mr. von Phul.
“Well, cook hollers for me and for the old gardener to tell her what we knew about yesterday afternoon. I didn’t want to stick my bones in the business. But the old man, he pipes right up and tells as how Miss Sassy had him fetch up the steamer trunk from the cellar, and how Miss Sassy goes off all gussied up in some strange carriage with some strange man.
“Well, Mr. Tony, he throws a right fit, he does—face as red as a sunburned albino. Starts kicking Miss Sassy’s unmentionables what didn’t get packed. And that’s what happened to poor kitty here. Kitty was all wound up snug in a pair of Miss Sassy’s drawers, and Mr. von Phul kicked drawers and cat clean across the room.
“Poor kitty can’t hardly walk. Mr. Tony broke something inside. I just know it.”
“Do they know where Sassy went?”
“Indeed they do. She left a note saying she was off to Hot Springs to marry Mr. John Folck.”
“Is Mr. von Phul still here?”
“No, he stormed out sayin’ he’d find her and bring her back if’n he could get to Hot Springs before Folck done her mischief.”
“I never imagined that Sassy would marry a shoe salesman—a poor and ugly shoe salesman, at that.”
“So you know this Folck feller. I seen him once. He looked the kind of feller Miss Sassy wouldn’t speak to if he owed her money. And you say he’s a shoe salesman. My, my.”
“I’m as surprised as you are. I can’t imagine what she sees in him.”
The girl handed the calico to Jemmy. “Please take her. She needs more help than I can give. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Mrs. P. gives me my walking papers—for helping with the baggage and for not telling her Miss Sassy took off with a man.”
The calico had grown a trifle less bony, thanks to the young maid’s kindness, but one of its back legs was surely broken. Jemmy eased it into her satchel. “I don’t know what can be done for the kitty, but I’ll try. Does it have a name?”
“No, ma’am. I ain’t had no time to think of one.”
Jemmy took herself and the nameless cat to Boatmen’s Bank. By the time Jemmy arrived, Hal had already set up his camera. The president stood, beaming, at the vault door. Exchanging excited chatter, the entire smiling staff waited in the hall. None went home, even though they’d finished their half day’s work.
Jemmy read aloud Frank James’s conditions for opening the letter.
“This envelope to remain sealed until Quisenberry Sproat’s true killer is discovered, at which time it is to be opened by Miss Jemima McBustle in private.”
With great ceremony, the president himself escorted Jemmy to a private cubicle. The brass rings rattled on the brass bar as he pulled green velvet curtains shut behind her.
Jemmy’s fingers trembled as she broke the seal and drew forth the letter. She turned it over in her hands, once—twice—three times. The page was blank. Frank James had written not a single word on either side.
She put her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. You sly boots. You never knew the killer’s name. This is no more than a grand grab for publicity, and I’m supposed to supply you with it. Well, well, well.
Frank James had presented Jemmy with interesting choices. She could walk out with the blank piece of paper and show everyone that Frank James’s boast was a fraud. She could write a name on the paper—a wrong name that would discredit Frank. Or she could write Medley’s name and add even more luster to the James legend.
Jemmy pondered for ten seconds or so. She could imitate Frank James’s handwriting well enough. The flowing ovals could have come straight from Spenserian Key to Practical Penmanship—the very book Mary Institute used to teach cursive writing. He’d written the words in pencil. What journalist doesn’t carry a pencil?
No question about it. One scenario will make for a much better story. She wrote something on the paper, then emerged from the cubicle with a big smile on her face.
“Ladies and gentlemen of Boatmen’s Bank, I have in my possession something that will astound you.”
She posed with the paper held aloft so long, the crowd became restless. Hal directed Jemmy and the bank’s president into several positions before he was ready to capture the moment for poste
rity.
The spectators buzzed with excitement.
“What does the paper say?”
“Did Frank James really know the killer’s name?”
“I wish she’d hurry up and read it.”
“How long is she going to stand there and keep us waiting?”
Hal ducked under the black cloth at the back of his camera. When he finally pushed the plunger, the crowd let out a sigh of relief.
Most solemnly, Jemmy read the words on the paper.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Saturday, November 26, 1898
“Sproat’s manager.” Jemmy handed the paper to the bank president to verify.
He nodded his head. “ ‘Sproat’s manager.’ That’s what the paper says.” He obligingly posed for another picture. Murmurs spread among the bank employees.
“Imagine that. Frank James knew who the killer was.”
“Knew or guessed. Takes a criminal to know one.”
“Why didn’t he tell the police straight off?”
“I’ll bet he did. They just didn’t believe him.”
“Maybe they did believe him but didn’t have enough proof.”
“Maybe the whole business with the letter was some fancy way to trap that boxing manager.”
“I don’t suppose we’ll ever know. Frank didn’t tell the secrets of the James gang. I don’t think he’s apt to tell this secret either.”
“Shoot, anybody with half a brain could’ve figured it out in twenty minutes.”
A great wave of gratification swept through the bank. The crowd was pleased to be among the first to have their curiosity satisfied. Hal was pleased with his photographs. The bank president was pleased with free publicity.
Jemmy was not only pleased; she had the perfect headline for her second story in her “Death of a Boxing Legend” series.
By the time she and Hal reached the Illuminator, she had finished writing the piece in her head. “Frank James Identifies Quisenberry Sproat’s Killer” would sell more than a few papers. Hamm couldn’t possibly fire her—at least not until after the hubbub died down.
Bruised from the night before and bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, Jemmy nodded off on the trolley ride home. She would have fallen from the bench were it not for a kindly lady who propped her up and offered to wake her at her stop. Trudging up the steps to Bricktop, she fully intended to take her mother’s advice and crawl into bed.
Mother met her at the door. “Jemima, you have visitors in the parlor. A Mr. Rafferty and Lieutenant O’Rourke.”
Lieutenant O’Rourke might wish to see her on police business, but Tom Rafferty couldn’t have that excuse.
Mother spoke in low tones. “They both brought flowers. Your sister has been entertaining them for more than an hour.”
Heavens in a handbag. Only Sassy Patterson wants more than one suitor at a time. The only grown man who’d courted Jemmy in the last month had done so from a hospital bed in Sedalia. She had not seen him since.
Why did these two have to arrive on the same afternoon? I am too exhausted to deal with the pair of them. Help arrived from an unexpected direction. “Miaouw.” The ugly calico, which had been silent and respectful for hours, suddenly popped her head out of Jemmy’s satchel.
Jemmy crooned, “You poor kitty. I bet you smell that ham baking in the oven.”
The cat tilted its head as if to say, “I’ve been the perfect cat for hours. Are you going to feed me or talk till I starve?”
“I must tend you right away. Those fellows will simply have to wait, won’t they?”
After depositing her wraps, Jemmy gently scooped the calico out of her satchel and carried her into the parlor. Both men started to rise. “Don’t get up, gentlemen, please. I can’t greet you properly until after I’ve done what I can for this poor cat. It may take some time. Tony von Phul kicked her all the way across a room. She has a broken leg and perhaps internal injuries as well. This may take rather a lot of time. I’ll quite understand if you’re unable to wait.” Jemmy beamed at her sister. “Minerva, dear sister, please continue your conversation. I’m sure the gentlemen are fascinated.”
The two men locked stares and sat back down.
Nervy said, “Gentlemen, perhaps you’d like to see the fever charts I made to illustrate my influenza experiment. I assure you, they’re most instructive.”
Jemmy ducked out into the hall and headed for the kitchen. When sister Merry saw the cat, she dropped the sterling silver demitasse spoon she was polishing. “What a darling cat. I’ll bet she’s hungry.” Merry fetched cream from the icebox. Gerta the cook stopped peeling potatoes long enough to say, “Milk would do as well. Your mama be much put out if she run short of coffee cream on Sunday morning.”
“I’ll replace the cream with milk. If the boarders notice, I’ll tell them their cream went to save this sweet kitty.”
Jemmy put the calico down to lap the cream. When Merry saw the cat couldn’t stand on all fours, she began to weep. “Oh, the poor little thing. What happened to it?”
“A big brute of a man kicked her across the room and broke her leg.”
“I’ll get Nervy. She has a big animal husbandry book. She will know what to do.”
When Merry returned with Nervy, Jemmy asked, “What are the men doing?”
“Most of the time, they pretend not to hate each other. I asked Mrs. Hendershot to entertain them.” Strains of “Beautiful Dreamer” floated from the piano in the parlor.
Nervy said, “Merry, hold the cat’s head. I don’t want her to bite me when I touch that leg.”
Merry took the cat’s head in her lap and held the upper body. She nodded to Nervy.
“You’d best get a good clamp on that jaw.”
“Kitty won’t bite the hand that feeds her.” Merry pursed her lips and cooed at the calico. “Oooo wouldn’t bite me, would oooo, kitty?”
“What’s kitty’s name, Jemmy?”
Without hesitation, Jemmy said, “Flinchpaw—after her broken leg.” Every time I see this poor calico cat, I’ll remember how beastly I was to a nice man. Autley, I meant it when I said I’d make it up to you.
Nervy’s fingers probed the cat’s leg and gave it a quick jerk. Kitty yelped, “M-r-r-r-o-w.” Merry held it close to keep it from bolting. It didn’t bite her, not even once.
Nervy pronounced the leg a clean break. “I’ll get a bandage to hold it in place. I think she’ll be fine.”
Jemmy had no more excuses. She had to face her pair of swains. At the piano in the parlor Mrs. Hendershot sang “Annie Laurie” slightly off key. The would-be beaus had decamped. Nana Hendershot hadn’t noticed.
Jemmy heaved a sigh. At least she didn’t have to face them. Both had left flowers and their cards with notes on the back.
The lieutenant’s read, “Dear Miss McBustle, I regret I had to leave. I’m on duty tonight at the Jewish fair and hope I might see you there.”
Tom Rafferty’s read, “Dearest Jemmy, I regret I could not stay. I have a 6:30 call at the theatre, but I shall return after the play in hopes you’ll accompany me to the Confetti War at the Jewish festival.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Saturday Night, November 26, 1898
When Hal arrived to take Jemmy to the big finale of the Jewish fair, she was still asleep. By the time she made herself presentable, Hal had worked himself into a snit. “Well, it’s about time. If we don’t hurry, we’ll miss the Confetti War.”
“Don’t yell at me, Hal. I am sore and bruised and dog-tired. The last thing I need is to hear you grumble.”
“I think I deserve a good grumble. I’ve spent two days cleaning up your messes and fighting Autley Flinchpaugh on your account. The last thing I need is to hear you beg for sympathy.”
“Let’s change the subject—speak about something pleasant.”
“Like what?”
“Like this. I’m glad we could take streetcars instead of your wobbly old puke-green tandem.”
“That puke-green ta
ndem has been saving us money—and getting you where you want to go. I just hope it can be repaired. I don’t like my chances of getting a new one from Hamm.” The pair groused and fussed all the way to the fair. “Medley said he didn’t damage the tandem, but he could have lied. Do you think I might get him to pay for the repairs?”
“When horseflies plant turnips.”
While Hal unpacked his camera, Jemmy surveyed the gaiety inside the Coliseum. In her gray gabardine, she felt underdressed among the gentlemen in tuxedos and ladies in ball gowns. The new electric lights brought flecks of brilliance from diamonds on necks, fingers, and wrists. Ladies wearing taffeta and velvet in all colors of the garden bloomed like flowers.
Young boys and girls handed out coiled paper streamers from baskets decorated with ribbons. As the band struck up the “St. Louis Fair Schottische,” Jemmy envied the dancers swirling onto the dance floor. She wished she could join them but settled for seeking the president of the fair.
“Miss McBustle, I’m glad to see you came, by thunder.” A familiar voice with an Irish lilt caught her ear. “I wish I weren’t on duty. I’d find great pleasure in waltzing you across the dance floor.”
“Lieutenant O’Rourke, I’m on duty as well. I’m covering the fair for the Illuminator. I’m not dressed for dancing—as you see.”
“By thunder, you’re as lovely in plain as the rest are in fancy dress. Would you walk with me? I’m expected to circulate around the hall.”
One of the two Little Eva actresses from Uncle Tom’s Cabin tugged at O’Rourke’s sleeve. “Pardon me, Captain, I am in need of assistance.”
Jemmy blinked twice. The girl looked all grown up and sophisticated in her evening finery. Heavens in a handbag, she’s thirty if she’s a day. On stage, she looks about ten.
“Duty calls, Miss McBustle. Please don’t leave before we have a chance to talk.” The tiny actress took O’Rourke’s arm and moved him off toward an avenue of booths.
Another voice, suave and compelling, caressed her good ear. “Will you do me the favor of granting me the next waltz, Miss McBustle?”
Jemmy turned her head to see Tom Rafferty looking resplendent in his black cutaway with vest of gleaming white brocade. His tawny waves of hair reflected glints of gold in the bright lights. When she tried to turn the rest of her body to face him, her boot heel tangled in her skirt. He caught her flailing arms and kept her upright while she extricated her foot from her ripped hem.