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ALEXANDRA BATHENBROOK would start her life as a millionairess with one suitcase in hand and a rifle slung across her back. She left her room at Hamilton Hall a final time and cut through campus, which remained littered with streamers, confetti, and a few mortarboards left unclaimed from the graduation ceremony for the Class of 1927. She had treated Montana State College as a hideout more than an institute of higher learning, but her four years here were not a total waste. Fond memories of two-stepping with lads at the Bobcat Lair, cheering on Ott Romney’s powerhouse basketball team, and hitching to the local hot springs for a steamy soak were portable mementos, easily summoned.
She had come to learn that ardent boob-men only paid her passing heed, while staunch leg-men always locked their gaze. As for incorrigible ass devotees, they were but putty in her hands.
She’d never fallen in love despite a long tally of suitors articulating their vows of eternal devotion, though willing to settle for feeling her up a bit. Such flatteries aside, she had made little progress eloquently managing herself in conventional settings. Alexandra needed to look no further than being a newfound millionairess, alone on her graduation day, to realize she remained an outcast of sorts.
Why most people shunned her proved flummoxing, as she considered herself well-mannered, at times amusing, and she bathed routinely. She sometimes worried if her brief spell residing New Orleans in 1919 or her collegian reputation as a harlot was at the root of it, but neither was the case.
It had simply always been that way.
All that saved her from more frequent embarrassment was that the 1920s was an “Era of Wonderful Nonsense” and many her age went out of their way to act foolishly.
Before leaving campus, she stopped at a stone memorial for alumnae lost in the Great War and took a seat on the grass. It listed sixteen names, among them her eldest brother, Thomas. She had often spent time here to engage him in quiet conversation. He was killed on November 29, 1917, at Cambrai—obliterated in a German Army artillery barrage so apocalyptic, that the remains of the 2nd West Riding Division’s fallen were unrecovered a decade later. It was a loss from which Alexandra had yet to recover.
With no formal burial, he was nothing more than a ghost cast somewhere into the ether. His parting words still haunted her: “I know you’ll be the one to come visit me when you’re older.”
Most attributed Alexandra’s disregard to take college seriously to her financial windfall upon graduation, but its origins were in graver reasoning. Thomas was gifted in most everything. He had devoted so much time to a future never to be; all his admirable talents snuffed out in one ungodly finger snap. Life seemed too precarious to invest in. Yet now, facing an empty slate and boundless horizon, Alexandra knew she needed a plan if she were to live hers to the hilt.
She bid farewell and picked up her sole suitcase, believing fresh starts were best initiated with limited baggage. She set off into the adult world, hoping not to stumble too much along the way.
Bozeman was a contemporary town of seven thousand tucked within the Gallatin Valley and the shadows of the Bridger Mountains. It did not entertain the uproars of the mining center of Butte, nor the tranquility of Yellowstone Park.
Like its geography, its flourish resided right in the middle.
Surrounding pea farms and prairie lands, having weathered extended periods of drought and wildfires, were readying to prosper. Alexandra circumvented a residential neighborhood and entered the heart of downtown along East Main Street. Trolley tracks and horse paths had long since faded off with the advent of the automobile.
The long jaunt carrying a heavy Globe Trotter leather suitcase left her overheated due to her choice of a suede skirt and fringe jacket. Dressing comfortably in springtime Montana was impossible, as it could hit ninety degrees at noon and tease snow flurries by sundown. At least her Stetson hat would hide the fact that she’d once again lost her daily tussle with her flowing blonde hair.
She veered into the Gallatin Bank & Trust. A manager informed her that a new policy forbade firearms on the premises. He minded her Mauser 98 while she saw the teller.
The Wild West was yesteryear.
Cash-in-hand, Alexandra rushed to the Rialto Theater. It was the opening day matinee for the movie Metropolis and seemed the best shot to say goodbye to Oliver Martin. She felt disappointed he had not attended her graduation as promised. He was a soft-spoken, studious sort, who always dressed in the same wool sweater-vest and bow tie. A lot of books had been kicked out of his hands over his skittish school days, many of a fantastical pulp magazine variety.
Over the year, he had become her chief confidante.
Upon placement of an ad soliciting information on the lupine beast that had attacked her long ago, he had been the only one to return a serious reply. Her brothers had conjectured it to be a hellhound; beasts reputed to be messengers for the Devil and guardians of Hades. It had unsettled Alexandra for years. Oliver had produced a faded news article discovered in the archives of the Avant-Courier, where he worked as a typesetter. A similar creature had been killed in 1886 after savaging livestock in the Madison Valley. It was recited in Ioway Indian legend.
They called it a “Shunka Warakin.”
Hearing that it was tertiary in origin had brought Alexandra great relief. As hoped, Oliver was the first in line.
“Hey, fella. Anything new crossing the wires?”
“Charles Lindbergh might visit. Keep that under your hat.” After Alexandra concluded her hug, Oliver added, “I’m sorry. My mother’s sick and I’ve been working overtime so I can travel to Omaha.”
She rubbed his arm. “I’m off to England to see my brother.”
“Wow! I hope to go someday. They don’t take warmly to rifles.”
“I’m still tinkering over a way to hide it in my suitcase.”
They shook farewell. When Oliver disengaged, a fifty-dollar bill remained. He said, “I can’t accept this.”
“Sure you can. I bet Nebraska is lovely in June. Safe travels.”
A Model-T pickup came to a screeching halt. Kari Solvang stood on its bed, needing to plant a hand atop her black mortarboard to secure it from toppling. Her lively blue eyes and red-lipsticked mouth set off her ashen hair and complexion to the point they appeared electrified. “Have you heard? He’s heading this way!”
“Who, Charles Lindbergh?” Alexandra yelled back.
“No, the Dark Strangler!” Kari pulled her roommate aboard. “They spotted him near Great Falls.”
Alexandra took a seat as the truck rumbled on. “He has only a few more days to get me.”
Over recent months, the news services had ginned up hysteria over the strangulation killings by a new genre of thrill killer. The murders had started in California and then trended up the Pacific Coast. Tabloid reports speculated the maniac copulated with his victims, postmortem. The entire nation was now on high alert, awaiting portentous word of his whereabouts.
Alexandra’s interest in serial murderers could be traced to her time in New Orleans. Her stay had come at the height of the notorious “Axeman Murders.” With the great conflict extinguished but Spanish flu still ablaze, her mother had traveled to England. Alexandra had been abandoned to share a Creole townhouse with the ever-baleful Adelaide de Chantraine. Her aunt’s heartless demeanor had been most demonstrable during tutelage on the corporeal nature of female sexual etiquette. It had been more vulture bites and wasp stings than any birds and the bees.
Kari lit a Lucky Strike and passed it over. “Have you decided?”
Alexandra lifted the cigarette from her puckish lips. “I might freelance taking photographs of wildlife. Sell them to magazines. I’ll settle somewhere along the Mediterranean first.”
“Egypt? How romantic to kiss a man under the desert sky.”
“Too many mummies.” Alexandra snickered, blew out a ring, and passed back the smoke. “I can barely tolerate having one.”
“Sardinia?”
It elicited a raised eyebrow. “Too many Sardinians.”
“Greece! The sun, the sea, the dark-haired fishermen...”
“I can’t abide feta cheese!”
Alexandra made a sour expression. Kari held the gusto for this to run all day, depending on her knowledge of a globe. Her steadfast friendship kept Alexandra’s waning spirits in check. Upon becoming roommates, Kari took the bottom bed. It had suited Alexandra fine, being an upper bunk type, not grounded whatsoever. She had spent time with the Norwegian Solvang clan during school breaks, though she’d never quite taken to eating lutefisk.
They were now twenty-two years old, college graduates for whatever it was worth, and ready to howl.
Most passing cars were basic models, but a few ritzier offerings like a Mercedes-Benz or Alvis 12/40 spun Alexandra’s head. She knew herself to be an abysmal driver yet skilled vagabond, and it pleased her she held no impulse to drop a thousand on something sporty. Some hailed having a vehicle as the pinnacle of freedom, but she considered them to be the epitome of captivity. With owning one came a need for a place to park it, which would quickly metastasize into a house, marriage, and a sedentary existence.
Alexandra realized money would change her—it was inevitable—but at least for today, she would not buy a car. A year touring wherever awaited. Montana was a long way from Tipperary—a long way from everywhere—and distant adventures beckoned.
Once having her fill, she might return and purchase something fast, wild, and beautiful to build her life from the horse stables up.
The pickup slowed to cross a pole bridge, which offered a majestic view of the scenic canyon along the Gallatin River. Wildflowers and effervescent pines abounded, and occasionally a cotton-soft cloud settled upon a snow-capped mountain peak to form a perfect halo.
Alexandra lifted a camera from her bag. It was a Leica-1 35 millimeter; a graduation gift from her father and the best on the market. The compact unit with its chrome fittings and faux leather casing had innovative features, including a shutter speed dial, a collapsible lens, and an attachable range finder.
It was perfect.
While taking a photograph of Kari flaunting a coquettish pose, Alexandra spotted a hitchhiker loitering ahead. The disheveled man appeared middle-aged and gave nothing of a nefarious impression, yet he looked out of place. Months ago, it would be common courtesy to offer him a lift, but with a corpse-copulating madman on the lam, the unkempt straggler was out of luck.
Alexandra retrieved from her suitcase a package left outside their dorm room. She studied the card. It read “Alee, something to curl your hair when a man can’t be found.–Love, the Girls.”
It stunned her since few of the coeds at Hamilton Hall exhibited any camaraderie and she was often a target of teasing. Other than Kari, the only classmate Alexandra felt a kinship with was Rebecca, who the others razzed by calling her “Becky Bucktooth.”
It seemed unfair, as Becky’s overbite was hardly conspicuous.
Alexandra opened the gift. It was a wood box inscribed with a logo: The Electrex. United Drug Company of St. Louis, USA.
Within rested an odd, corded device. It appeared more like something used in a malt shop than the pronged metal curling iron they’d heat upon the radiator coils on a Saturday night. It included several unusual attachments.
Neither held a clue what it was.
“It doesn’t appear to have come with instructions.” Alexandra passed the box to Kari and took a drag on her cigarette. “Perhaps we can ask your mother how it works.”
The pickup slowed. Four cars idled along the roadside. A dozen young men dressed to impress were sharing a bottle and boisterous laughter. One car flaunted a University of Montana pendant in the back window. The damn grizzlies were invading.
Kari hollered, “Are you Missoula boys heading to the gala? I hear it will be the berries.”
Two headed over. One said, “That’s right. Promise me a dance?”
Alexandra stood and held out a hand. “It will cost you a hit of hooch in advance.”
The lad was all grins and passed it up.
The pickup kicked up dirt and rumbled off, repeatedly beeping its horn. As the duped grizzlies gave good-natured chase, Alexandra waved them farewell. “Go Bobcats! Too-da-loo, boys!”
—‡—
SIX YOUNG WOMEN SHARING a hotel room was not problematic. Five dolling themselves up in one small bathroom—pandemonium. Alexandra slept while the other girls battled for the mirror amidst temporary truces involving swapped jewelry and makeup. For tonight, the newly christened Gallatin Gateway Inn was the main stage for all of Montana.
The hotel room came courtesy of Becky Bucktooth’s father being a bigwig for the Milwaukee Road. The railroad magnates had financed the inn to cater to tourists visiting Yellowstone Park and it would provide a fiscal boon to the state. A fleet of White Motor Company touring cars would transport those coming down on a new electric spur from Three Forks. Among the inn’s novelties was a phone in each guest room.
It was the ringing of one that awoke Alexandra. Everyone was gone. She scrambled over to answer it.
It was Kari calling from the lobby. ... “Get up. Let’s blouse!”
Alexandra laughed and hung up. She was in no hurry. From the window, she could see the expanse of humanity spreading the grounds. A big band within a gazebo was entertaining a full dancefloor, as two thousand attendees caroused beneath stringed lights and a clear evening sky. She wanted to be part of it, but not for too long, and went about filling the bathtub. She gathered neglected letters retrieved from her dormitory mailbox and browsed over them once taking the plunge.
One from the University of Chicago left her flabbergasted.
They were offering her a stipend to travel to Mandatory Palestine and take part in an archaeological dig. She knew the article on her Papuan venture had hit the wires and gained print in newspapers. She was already booked to meet with James Ford, president of the Explorers Club, in New York.
This offer changed everything.
A starting point for a photography career was now on the table.
Alexandra passed on washing her hair, as it took forever and a day to towel dry. She shifted into overdrive: tossing on a silk envelope chemise, snapping herself into garters, wiggling into a beaded dress that came to a fringy halt at the knees, and securing a feathered headband. A few unclaimed necklaces and bracelets left strewn upon a bedcover were borrowed. With a touch of lipstick and eyeliner, she was nearing full flapper, though she’d never make the ultimate commitments of bobbing her hair or donning a cloche hat.
Alexandra took the stairs down to the expansive main hall and lobby. The structure was beautifully planned out in Spanish Colonial Revival Style, with its dark beams and doorframes accenting the yellow stucco walls to a tee. The hall was very warm. Once absorbed into the spirited crowd, she needed to bump and grind her way to a punch bowl. A first cup was downed in a gulp; the second with sophistication.
Kari and Becky hunted her down in the company of two fellows. “This is my brother!” Becky said. “He drove all the way from Iowa just for my graduation.”
“Alexandra.” She thought him dapper with his thin mustache and prancing grin. She did not protest his flask topping off her drink with either bathtub gin or smoky bourbon. She’d soon know.
“Robert Bucktooth, but my friends call me ‘Smooth Willy.’ My sister reports that you’re a veritable dervish of the ‘Charleston.’”
“So veritable, I’m banned from South Carolina.” Alexandra started fanning herself with a napkin and panicked at having failed to put on any underarm protectorate or taken time to rid her armpits of stubble. “I assure you, I’m not European. I simply forgot! Can we get some air?”
The five of them weeded through the crowd and emerged outdoors. To the first notes of “Deed I Do,” Kari was off with her lad.
To Robert’s request, Alexandra drained her cup and passed Becky her camera case. They took to the floor.
Alexandra removed her T-straps to avoid slipping on the grass. It was a difficult dance to pull off holding shoes while keeping her elbows locked to her sides. She managed until the rhythm and beat sped from sweet to hot. It inspired her to stop obsessing and cut loose. Midway through, the song came undone a few instruments at a time, and the crowd quieted. Governor John Erickson hit the stage.
“Come this September, our ‘Treasure State’ will host the man of the century... Charles Lindbergh, in his Spirit of St. Louis!”
The crowd erupted. Lindbergh had just completed his historic transatlantic flight, and his fame and status were approaching those of a deity. A fat man with thunderous handclaps guffawed, “Thirty-two hours of flight. Herculean feat. Truly, Herculean!”
Alexandra nodded. How “Lucky Lindy” had gone so long without peeing filled her with envy.
The governor added, “And it is with great relief that I inform Canadian Mounties have captured the Dark Strangler as he tried to cross the border!”
Cheers again thundered, and the band fired up.
Smooth Willy took Alexandra’s hand, but she declined to follow. He was a real corn-shredder and had copped too many feels while dancing. “I twisted my ankle. Afraid I’m done for the evening.”
Smooth Willy said, “I have ointment in my car that can soothe that in a jiffy. I work for the United Drug Company and travel the Midwest selling—”
“St. Louis, USA!” shouted Alexandra.
“—merchandise out of Missouri. I’m a big cheese in the biz.”
“You should include directions with your hair curling devices.”
“I know my onions. Which model is it?”
“The Electrex. I’d have you show me, but it’s in my hotel room.”
He flashed a predacious grin. “Let’s blow this joint and I’ll provide firsthand oral instruction.”
“Another time, perhaps.” The bourbon left Alexandra woozy. She looked away, hoping for Kari to rescue her, but there was no getting her off of a dancefloor.
Smooth Willy was undeterred. “In my car, I have powder that can rid your hair of lice.”
Alexandra stopped twirling a curly strand in her fingers, taken aback. “My hair does not entertain lice!”
He plucked something off her head. “My mistake. It’s confetti.”
She grimaced. “I feel a need for a water closet.”
“Don’t leave! Just gird your loins. A massage might relax you.”
Alexandra suddenly grasped why girls joined convents. “I always have to pee in the thick of things.”
“Have you ever considered a portable Gibbon-Walsh catheter? I have samples in my car.”
He certainly stored no shortage of things in his car. Alexandra was unsure if he was seeking horizontal refreshment or a quick sale. “What exactly is that and is it easy to operate?”
“It’s an insertable hose that collects liquids into a flask at the opposite end of your luscious lips. I can show you how it works. We can take a drive and look at the stars. Get to know each other.”
“It all sounds perfectly romantic, but it can’t wait. Pardon me.” She burst out in laughter, gathered her camera, and headed indoors.
“Good evening, Alexandra. Such a surprise to find you here.”
Alexandra cringed and turned. “Good to see you, Mother.”
Larisa Bathenbrook sat amidst a charmed circle of Helena’s most prominent. Though in her early fifties, she had skirted many of the blemishes that come with age and caroused with the bravado of one knowing it. Her vitality was not mystical, but an intrinsic beauty fortified by a smart sense of style, good family genes, and tight laces to her whale-boned corset. Beguiling and pithy in public, Larisa was never far from snorting fire behind closed doors.
Emma had inherited her wavy black hair and destined to fill out into a similarly voluptuous woman if not felled so young.
Alexandra could trace nothing to her mother unless she deemed perfect posture hereditary. Since starting college, they had not shared consecutive nights under the same roof. Larisa now used the Monvoisin mansion in Chicago as her primary residence, spending only the summer months in Helena. With each passing arose an opportunity to assess their ever-changing relationship.
Alexandra suddenly had the upper hand. Even the era was swaying eyes her way, as a more flat-chested, athletic physique for females was in vogue. For once, she did not lilt under her mother’s familiar, icy blue gaze, despite being caught dressed like a floozy.
“I missed you at my graduation,” Alexandra poked. She settled her camera case onto an open chair. “It would have been a kindness to have at least pretended.”
“I was present in spirit, same as your father.” Larisa turned to her flock. “The silly girl could have attended Smith, or Barnard, but elected to mingle with the local cowpokes and farm broods.”
“I’m certified to mark trees for clearing, put out wildfires, treat poison ivy, and can shoot a rabid muskrat from two hundred yards,” Alexandra said. “Any such needs, I’m your gal Friday.”
Larisa asked, “What are your plans to waste my family’s fortune?”
“I plan to travel the world and take photographs of things never seen before,” Alexandra said nonchalantly. “Build my resumé, so I can work one day for National Geographic. I’ll soon be off to Palestine to assist with an excavation of Megiddo.”
Larisa stood to confront her daughter eye-to-eye. “Need I remind you cannot step foot in the nation’s capital? You’re welcome to stay in Helena until you leave.”
“I’ll stop in to gather—”
Alexandra wavered upon observing a tall, morose man scowl at her getup in passing. Something about him vaguely rang familiar. She turned and frantically looked for the only top hat in town, but the man had inexplicably vanished in the crowd.
“Let’s take a walk.” Larisa grasped Alexandra’s arm. Over their crisp steps, she berated, “You look ridiculous in that flimsy outfit. I warn you to be less insolent!”
“Yes, Mother.”
They settled on the front lawn of the inn.
Alexandra freed her arm to reach under her dress for the crumpled pack of Egyptiennes Nerma cigarettes laced in her garters. Her father had sent them with the camera from Cairo, and as she seldom smoked, the carton might last her the rest of the year.
She asked, “Have you spoken to William as of late? I plan to drop in over my travels.”
“Nothing will ever change with William.” Larisa retrieved a lighter from her purse and handed it over. “You must pay your respects to Mistress Adel... to your aunt when in Europe.”
Alexandra lit up her cigarette. “Does she miss striking me with her whipping cane or allowing charlatans to kiss and fondle my...”
She needed a gulp of air to finish. “I think not. I will never forgive you for abandoning me to that witch.”
Larisa’s smoky voice became stressed. “Everything we have, we owe to Adelaide. Someday, you might come to appreciate the many sacrifices I’ve made for this family.”
“What family?” Alexandra rolled her eyes, not wanting to hear it. She thought to inquire over her parentage, but it was a hazardous nest to kick. “Has Archibald Bathenbrook paid call lately?”
The smack left Alexandra’s cheek red. “Respect your father!”
It was not an answer either way.
They returned to the lobby. Alexandra felt embarrassed that passing strangers had witnessed the reprimand. She reclaimed her camera case and retired to her room. Beyond the window, fireworks popped, eliciting a rapt chorus of applause from those gazing skyward. It was too dark to hope for a photograph.
Alexandra smirked, wishing for inventors to concentrate their genius on a photographic flash illumination method operable without blowing off a hand, or at the very least a tastier laxative than castor oil.
She opened her camera case and found a cocktail napkin inside. On it, someone had jotted “The date is written; the table has been set.” It was innocuous enough wording for such a festive setting, but what followed triggered a shiver: 3-7-77. The origin of this numerology remained debatable. Some believed it indicated a timestamp, while others contended it signified the measurements for a coffin or a secretive Masonic denotation. The meaning, however, was undisputed in all of Montana. Someone in her mother’s circle was sending her a threat or warning.
It meant “Get out of town!”