Chapter 29

In Which Aunt Kitty Gets a Taste of Current Events, and I Get a Taste of Something Unsettling

When we returned to Chicago and our familiar room in the boardinghouse, I did not exactly dive into my lumpy bed like a pig into a mud bath. But I was happy to be back in familiar territory. While the Drysdale case had been exciting for its silk sheets and fancy costumes, I knew I would sleep better at night without fireplace tools under my pillow.

Our daily meals were once again taken at Mrs. Wigginbottom’s crowded table, the memories of the Mississippi hotel’s swirly menu and sinfully good food fading like steam from a teakettle. And while there could be no open display of celebrating for Aunt Kitty and myself after our work on the murder case, we both were feeling the satisfaction of another mystery solved. I detected a touch of laughter in my aunt’s manner that first evening at supper as she helped pass the steaming bowls of stew down the line to the other boarders. And I felt a warm glow inside, even before taking a single bite of our hot meal.

It took only a few gruff words from our landlady to snuff out that candle of joy shining within me.

“I assume you’ll get back to your marketing tomorrow, Nell,” she began dramatically, her jowly hound-dog cheeks flapping as she ladled out bowl after bowl of fragrant stew. “It wasn’t easy fetching the things for supper, what with my knees and swollen feet. I had to resort to drastic measures to keep the house fed.”

I felt a twinge of guilt that I’d neglected my obligations to Mrs. Wigginbottom for so long. Those useless bachelors, Mr. Hummer and Mr. Slammer, obviously provided little help in my absence. I gave an apologetic smile to the others around the table, knowing that without my bargaining with the butcher and the produce seller, the meals here were probably pitiful. I promised her I would get back to it tomorrow, and thankfully, the conversation flowed again as a heaping bowl was plunked down before me.

“Did you read this, Aunt Kitty?” I asked, turning back to my newspaper and trying to ignore my aunt’s reproachful eye. I knew she did not approve of such distractions at the dining table. But it made me twitchy not to be caught up on the current events of the day. So I went on reading and tried to ignore the pickled-onion face she was giving me. “They’ve gone and nominated Mr. Lincoln for president! And he just might win this contest.”

I noticed the sweet newlywed Mrs. Nash had stopped sipping her coffee and was hanging on my every word. She lived in one of the pricey rooms on the first floor with her husband, Mr. Nash, who worked as a photographer on State Street. I wanted desperately to visit his shop and have our photographs taken, but I feared bringing it up again with Aunt Kitty.

“Go on, Nell,” urged Mrs. Nash gently, “keep reading. I may not have a vote, but I do have an interest.”

I rustled the pages of the Chicago Press & Tribune and cleared my throat importantly.

“This dispatch is dated from September thirtieth over in Springfield. It says folks were crowded round to hear him give a speech about slavery in Kansas, and ‘a fine Glee Club entertained the audience with vocal music.’ Sounds nice, don’t it?”

I heard a little hmmph from Aunt Kitty’s direction, and I could not tell whether she was troubled by glee clubs or my slip in grammar. I decided to continue with my reading and ignore her.

“It goes on to say the speaker predicted the triumphant election of Abraham Lincoln and Hannibal Hamlin in next month’s election ‘by a splendid popular majority.’”

“Well, I’ll be,” said Mr. Nash with surprise. “We could have an abolitionist in the White House. What will come of things?”

“He’ll never get elected,” huffed that irksome Mr. Slammer. “The nation would split in two if Lincoln won. There’s plenty who won’t hear of giving slaves their freedom.”

Aunt Kitty seemed to sense a fight coming, so she snatched the paper from my hands and ordered me to eat, shutting down any chance for a great debate. I turned my attention to my supper and sniffed curiously, poking at the brown hunks with my spoon.

“Nell, have you seen the orange tabby around lately?” inquired Mrs. Nash sweetly. “I used to see you feeding milk to that darling cat on the back porch after your market trips. But where has it gone?”

Mrs. Wigginbottom suddenly dropped her ladle into the stew pot with such a crash, it silenced the group.

“What is in tonight’s stew, Mrs. Wigginbottom?” choked Mr. Slammer, his beardless face crinkled like a prune. “Supper is especially, ahem, flavorful this evening.”

“Yes,” agreed Mr. Hummer politely, but not daring to take another bite, “I don’t recognize this as mutton or ham. It has an unusual taste.”

Mrs. Wigginbottom became flustered by the attention her stew was getting, and she lumbered off to the kitchen saying she was after more cabbage and bread. When she returned, red-faced and a little sweaty, I felt something click in my mind.

“You mentioned ‘drastic measures’ a moment ago,” I began, visions of the orange tomcat racing through my head. “What does that mean?”

All eyes around the table shot from Mrs. Wigginbottom’s flushed face to the bowls of hot stew before them. And in quick succession, spoons clinked onto plates as diner after diner slid the meal away.

“I’d say the cat’s got her tongue,” joked Mr. Slammer. He looked around the table for a laugh, but his timing could not have been worse. He cleared his throat and began fussing with his napkin.

“Pass the cabbage, please,” croaked Mr. Hummer after a few moments of heavy silence. “More Indian cornbread, anyone?”