Jemmy could not abide lying in bed. She rose and rubbed her swollen eyes as she stumbled into the hall. She tapped lightly on Dorothea’s bedroom door. It swung open so fast Jemmy realized her hostess must have been waiting for the knock.
Dorothea tucked her brows down to meet her droopy nose. Jemmy silently compared the picture to a brown butterfly landing on a carrot. She pulled her lips together to smother a giggle.
Mrs. Koock pulled Jemmy inside and straight to the washbasin. She poured water from the ewer and pointed to the bed. After her guest stretched out—obedient but antsy—Dorothea placed a damp linen towel over Jemmy’s swollen eyes.
Dorothea’s soothing hand brushed hair back from Jemmy’s forehead. “I know how upset you are over Hal. Have you thought of anything else we might try?”
The cloth fell as Jemmy sat upright. She nodded toward the door to Mr. Koock’s bedroom and murmured, “Is Mr. Koock in there?”
Dorothea reassured her. “You may speak in a normal voice. I heard Obadiah leave a half hour ago.”
“I can’t think of anything worthwhile. It all seems impossible—impossible Hal has gone and impossible to find him.” Her restless fingers twisted the compress in a knot. “Do you suppose Burnie or Jean Max has remembered . . . ?”
Dorothea dipped another towel in the water.
Jemmy tried to convey a hopefulness she did not feel. “We could bring them with us to the police. They’re male. Maybe the police don’t listen to us because we’re female.”
Dorothea exchanged the cloth for a fresh one. “Police don’t take boys any more seriously than they do ladies, or servants, either. I think we shall need Mr. Koock’s aid. Yes, we must ask Obadiah.”
Even though Jemmy hated to admit she needed help from her intimidating host, she had to set aside her feelings. Her bad ear hissed in her brain to do everything in her power to find Hal.
“While you dress, I’ll have Jean Max hitch up. We’ll have a bite of breakfast before we leave.”
“With my stomach churning as it is, the thought of food makes me queasy. Please, you have something to eat. We can be off as soon as I make myself presentable. Thank heavens Aunt Tilly is a sound sleeper. I’d hate to wake her.” Not until that moment did Jemmy notice Dorothea was already fully dressed.
Less than a half hour later, the ladies were in the carriage. They said little on the way to the MKT repair shops. Jemmy wondered how the stern Mr. Koock would react. For once I’m glad to be a girl. If I were a boy, he would probably take me out to the woodshed and whip me for being so careless as to lose my bodyguard.
The repair station grounds of the Missouri Kansas Texas Railroad (known as “Katy” for short) bustled with action. Steam engines pushed red boxcars, their sides painted with union-shaped shields blazoned across with MKT in bold white letters. Men moved cabooses, coal tenders, and flatcars from track spurs into vast sheds. The smell of coal fumes clouded thick as ash from Vulcan’s bellows. The bang of hammer on metal rang in Jemmy’s bad ear to clang against her jangled nerves.
Dorothea picked her path deftly across rails and over cinders. She pointed the way up a wooden stair leading to a tin-roofed tower.
As she walked into the superintendent’s office, a surprised secretary popped up from his chair and pulled on his jacket. Eyes wide in surprise, he blurted, “Mrs. Koock, I hope no serious problem causes you to come here during business hours.”
“Would you be so kind as to announce Miss McBustle and me?”
With something akin to terror on his face, the secretary rapped on the inner-office door, then entered. In seconds, Mr. Koock appeared, derby in hand. “Dorothea, has something happened at home? The girls . . . ?”
She patted his hand. “The girls are fine—so are the boys, and so is the house. The problem belongs to Miss McBustle.”
“Indeed.” Mr. Koock looked relieved. “What is the trouble, Miss McBustle?”
“The young man who came with me from St. Louis—my photographer, Harold Dwyer—has gone missing.”
“Missing?”
“We went to the courthouse yesterday morning. While I was interviewing a medicine show man, Hal disappeared.”
“Perhaps he saw something he wished to capture with his camera.”
“What could possibly take him all day and all night to photograph?” Jemmy searched Mr. Koock’s face for signs of disbelief. To her amazement, she saw none. She added, “Besides, he’s supposed to be my escort, my bodyguard.”
“Has he been lax in these offices before?”
“Never.” Jemmy conveniently forgot Hal’s absence at the crucial moment in the train robbery three days earlier.
“Have you any idea where he might have gone?”
Jemmy shook her head. “I waited for him at the courthouse. I searched for him at the parade and at Professor Gentry’s show.”
“The police—did you see them?”
“I tried the sheriff’s office. The deputy was less than helpful. He wouldn’t even tell me where the city police building is located.”
“I shall have to speak to him about his lack of manners. Let us return to the sheriff’s office. Perhaps I can set him straight.”
Putting on his hat, Mr. Koock opened the door for the ladies, then followed them down the stairs. His secretary jotted notes while Mr. Koock issued orders.
“Go round personally to all the foremen. Make sure their crews know we expect everyone to be at work tomorrow. Having the Wild West come to town does not mean anyone can take a Saturday holiday to sleep off Friday revels. The Katy owners don’t allow goldbricking and neither do I. You may tell them failing to work a full shift tomorrow will cost them not only tomorrow’s pay, but today’s as well—and might result in dismissal.”
“Yes, Mr. Koock. I’ll see to it.” Still scribbling, the clerk hurried back upstairs. The party of three rode in stark silence to the Pettis County Sheriff’s Office. Mr. Koock stared out the window with his derby on his lap and his fingers interlaced around the brim. His thumbs met with every bump in the road.
Dorothea darted sidelong glances at him. She seemed to want to talk. Jemmy understood. She herself often said nothing when she wanted desperately to speak.
She remembered Auntie Dee’s caution. “Wise women know to keep their tongues to themselves, especially when menfolk are trying to think. Cogitation requires great effort on their part—all the greater because they so seldom exert themselves in cranial calisthenics of any kind.”
Mr. Koock followed Dorothea and Jemmy into the sheriff’s office. The angular deputy rose to his feet so fast he dropped tobacco embers on the sheriff’s desk. “Mr. Koock, sir, what brings you here?”
“I see you know who I am, but I don’t believe we’ve met, Deputy . . . ?”
“Futcher, Budoc Futcher. I was named after the Irish Saint Budoc who was born at sea in a barrel.”
“Were you born at sea in a barrel?”
“Not exactly. Not exactly in a barrel. Not exactly at sea. I was born upside a poker table on a riverboat going down to Cay-ro Illi-noyze.”
Obadiah didn’t introduce the ladies or even shake Deputy Futcher’s extended hand. He nodded toward Jemmy. “My houseguest, Miss McBustle, informs me you treated her in a surly manner yesterday.”
The deputy stammered out, “Beg pardon, Mr. Koock. I had no idea the young lady was an acquaintance of yours.”
“It shouldn’t matter, Deputy. The citizens of Pettis County expect you to be polite to all ladies, regardless of their friends or their station in life. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, sir. I’m right sorry I offended the young miss.”
Obadiah nodded in Jemmy’s direction. “To her, Deputy. Apologize to her.”
The deputy pushed a hank of greasy hair behind his ear and bobbed his head at Jemmy. “Beg pardon, miss. I was out of order and I hope you’ll forgive me.”
He didn’t wait for Jemmy to forgive him, but cast a hangdog glance at Mr. Koock.
Jemmy relished having the upper hand. “I’ll forgive you, Deputy Futcher, on condition you find my photographer. Hal has been missing for nearly a whole day.”
Dorothea chimed in. “We searched every place we could think of—all the sights he wished to photograph. We even went to the Maple Leaf Club last night because he enjoys Mr. Joplin’s music.”
Mr. Koock’s head shot up as his bottom jaw dropped. “Mrs. Koock! The Maple Leaf Club? North of Second Street after sundown?”
Dorothea pulled her shoulders back and stuck out her chin. “Yes, Mr. Koock. The Maple Leaf Club.”
The deputy said, “Well, seeing as how we know the kind of places your Mr. Dwyer likes to go—”
Obadiah put up a hand to stop the deputy from saying anything further. “Mrs. Koock, you and Miss McBustle will stay here while the deputy and I seek Mr. Dwyer on the other side of the tracks. We’ll take the carriage.”
As he followed Mr. Koock out the door, the deputy said, “Make yourselves at home, ladies. This might take a considerable while.”
Jemmy plopped down on a bench. Dorothea’s rumbling stomach broke the silence like a three-story building collapsing on a brick street. They exchanged glances and tittered behind pursed lips before they broke out laughing.
Jemmy said, “I thought you ate breakfast.”
“I tried to eat while you were dressing, but all I could get down was half a cup of lukewarm coffee. Let’s have breakfast now. We accomplish nothing by staying here. I’ll leave a note in case they should return before we do.”
She took Jemmy’s hand and pulled her up from the bench. “I know a restaurant that serves lovely corn muffins with peach butter. We need to keep up our strength.”
Without much enthusiasm, Jemmy nodded. She understood what Dorothea meant. If the news about Hal should be more troublesome than a little too much whiskey . . .
She couldn’t bring herself to think about the worst that could happen.
They walked out Fourth Street to Osage and down to the Coffee Cup, a cheerful eatery with red-checked tablecloths. Lively chitchat floated atop the savory aroma of fried eggs and ham. The place exuded vitality with every tink of silverware on ironstone china. When the cook called, “Order up, table five,” Jemmy felt as much at home as she did in her mother’s boardinghouse.
The pair sat at a cozy table by the window and ordered poached eggs with bacon to go with the corn muffins. Before the warmth of the place and a big cup of coffee with heavy cream could thaw out the ladies’ frozen tongues, Jemmy inexplicably leaped up and dashed out the door.
Jemmy left Dorothea three words of explanation—three words that lost themselves in the din of the restaurant. What Jemmy said was “There he is.” It’s probably just as well Dorothea couldn’t possibly have heard those words. The “he” Jemmy saw was not Hal, but the skinny train robber.
When Jemmy reached the street, she could spot no sign of the boy she had seen through the ruffled curtains. She lit out in the direction he had been walking when she first spied him. Skirts lifted to a most unladylike mid-shin level, she ran down Osage. She raced toward Main Street as fast as high-heeled boots and corset stays would allow.
She should have paid more attention to the alleyways. As she passed one, a figure grabbed her from behind and spun her into the alley. The skinny fellow pinned her hands against the rough surface of a limestone building and demanded, “Why are you chasing me?”
“I already told you once. I am a journalist. You have a story. Tell me what I want to know and I’ll trouble you no more.”
“And get me killed into the bargain. Doesn’t sound like a good deal to me.”
“What if I can arrange it so the others get caught, but you don’t? Would you consider that a good deal?”
“If even a single one of them goes free, I am as good as dead.”
“I can do it. See to it not a single crook goes free—except you, of course.”
A wry smile played on his lips. “Maybe I like being a crook.”
“I hate to spoil your illusions, but I don’t think you are meant to be a thief. Being a successful criminal takes luck. If I may say so, I think finding a four-leaf clover would only bring your luck from bad to none at all—especially where I’m concerned.”
He took on an injured air. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Who stopped you from robbing the train passengers?”
“Not you.”
“Yes, I know. It was Aunt Tilly and her umbrella. But don’t you see. She would never have been on the train but for me. She’s my chaperone. Without an older lady as traveling companion, the family would never have let me come to Sedalia.”
“What does your chaperone have to do with my luck?”
“Are you blind? Aunt Tilly and I together stopped the robbery.”
“Let me see.” He cocked his head to the side and screwed up his eyes in mock meditation. “The robbery went sour because you and Aunt Tilly took stupid risks. Nothing to do with my luck—good or bad.”
Jemmy stared at his hand, still jamming her arm painfully against the wall. He let go. She rubbed her wrists and posed more questions. “All right. Let’s say the train affair was no more than coincidence. What about the other times? Were they coincidences, too?”
“Other times?”
“At the Maple Leaf Club. I recognized you. If it hadn’t been for Duke’s drunken brawling, I would have found out all about you. You’d be in jail this very minute.”
He looked puzzled. “So where’s the bad luck? I did not go to jail. Sounds like good luck to me.”
“And what about right now? Sedalia has lots of streets. I was looking out the window at the very instant you chose to walk down this one. What do you say to that?”
Jemmy shook off the possibility he might have come down Osage on purpose because he had been following her. I suppose it’s also possible all my arguments might be easy to refute.
He crossed his arms but said nothing.
Jemmy pressed her case. “Could it all be mere happenstance? Or could it be I’m your nemesis?”
“My what?”
“Your bad luck, your downfall. I’ve found you twice before and I can find you again.”
“So maybe I’m not lucky. What of it?”
“The sheriff will catch your gang. Tomorrow. I guarantee it.”
The skinny robber’s eyes snapped wide open. He grabbed Jemmy’s wrist and squeezed it until she cringed. “What do you know?”
Jemmy knew no facts, but she knew how to bluff. She had studied Aristotelian logic at St. Louis Branch High School No. 3. She learned how to find logical connections. “Seems to me the gate receipts at Buffalo Bill’s show would make a tempting target for crooks—any crooks—all crooks.”
She had hit a nerve. She milked the moment for all it was worth. “Better be quick, lest some other outlaw gang should beat yours to Buffalo Bill’s ticket wagons. Of course, you might prefer that outcome. Other robbers would end up in prison instead of your mob.”
The skinny robber dropped her hand but leaned closer to her face. “What do you expect me to do?” His warm breath smelled faintly of apples. Jemmy found the sensation more pleasant than she wanted to admit.
“Well, you could warn your gang not to steal the ticket money.”
He shook his head. “It’s not my gang. They don’t listen to me.”
“Or, you could work with the sheriff to put the rest of your gang behind bars.”
“And me along with them.”
“Not if I tell the sheriff you came to enlist my aid in catching the gang—came of your own free will.”
“Would you?”
Jemmy kissed the tips of her middle and index fingers. She offered to touch the kissed fingers to his lips. “I’ll seal the bargain with a kiss.”
He ignored the gesture. “Why help me? What would you get out of it?”
“I told you. I’d get your story.”
“Well . . .”
“Come with me now. We’ll find a quiet place and you can tell me all about how you fell in with bad company.”
“Oh, no. If one of them saw me, I’d be a dead man. I’ll tell you nothing.”
“Tell me after they’re caught. You’d have nothing to fear then.”
“I’ll give you my story, but only after every single one of them is behind bars.”
She stuck out her hand to shake.
He raised his arms as he backed away. “Not so fast. You’re not to mention my name to anyone—ever. You promise?”
“I promise.”
“Ticket wagon at nine tonight. They’ll come dressed like an act in the show. Perhaps like soldiers or Cheyenne Indians.”
He spat on his palm and held it out for her to shake. “Deal?”
No one had ever asked Jemmy to spit shake. It seemed almost as disgusting as eating a caterpillar. Just one more thing I have to stomach. It isn’t easy being a woman in a man’s world. She spat into her palm and stuck out her hand. “Deal.”
He crushed her fingers in a grip so excruciating she had to fight back tears. “Deal.” He bored her eyes with one last penetrating stare before he pulled up his coat collar and trudged off down the alley.
Jemmy plucked her hanky from her sleeve and wiped her palm with some vigor as she walked back to the Coffee Cup Restaurant. Dorothea jumped up and greeted her with a question. “Where did you go? By the time I reached the door, I couldn’t see you in either direction.”
“I thought I spotted someone who—but I was wrong.” Jemmy hoped her I-know-something-you-don’t smirk didn’t arouse Dorothea’s suspicions.
With a “Here’s your breakfast, dearie,” a red-faced waitress plunked down steaming oval platters.
Dorothea said, “No need to hurry. The newspaper ad said the Wild West parade would start at nine-thirty, rain or shine.”
Jemmy dug into her eggs with gusto until she remembered Hal might not be enjoying a hot breakfast, or any breakfast at all. She put down her fork and tucked her hands in her lap. What’s wrong with me? What kind of monster am I? I was so bent on getting a story, I didn’t even remember to ask the robber about Hal.