Parlor Games: A Novel Part 8

Once I'd seated myself, Dougherty rolled his chair up close to the desk and snapped to alert. He opened a drawer, extracted a bulky envelope, and handed it to me. "My client asked me to convey this to you."

The envelope bore my name, but no other markings.

"Please, open it," he said. "Be sure you're satisfied with the contents."

I lifted the envelope's unsealed flap and pulled out two stacks of crisp bills secured with paper bands. Dougherty likely wanted to see me drool and count, but I merely thumbed the bills of one stack, a.s.suring myself they were all hundreds and sufficient in number to sum to twenty thousand dollars. "Yes, this is as agreed."

"Mr. Andrews asked me to arrange one more detail." He tilted his head back and studied me through the bottoms of his shifty eyes.

How, I mused, could I have ever found this man the least bit appealing? I slipped the bills back into the envelope and met his gaze.

"I'm to escort you directly to the train station."

"You expect me to leave town?"

"That's the general idea."

"Without my belongings?"

"With whatever you have on your person. And the money, of course."

"And what am I to tell my friends?"

"Tell them whatever you like. It's your choice: Take the money and leave town, or don't take the money and leave town."

Mr. Dougherty, who is not lacking in confidence, had a barouche waiting outside the bank for us. He escorted me to it, opened the door, and held out his oafish hand. I placed my hand lightly atop his and, holding myself erect and balanced, stepped up into the carriage.

Dougherty settled opposite me in the roomy compartment. I leaned back against the black leather seat, withdrawing from the window's view, and said, "This was your idea, wasn't it?"

Dougherty curled his fingers and studied his nails. "Only advising my client on what's in his best interest."

"And do you think it's a crime for a girl to try to lift herself out of poverty?"

Dougherty checked the nails on his other hand, as if trying to annoy me with his blase manner. "How you got to Carrie Watson's is no concern of mine."

"You're no stranger to the place, either. I knew the minute I laid eyes on you I'd seen you there."

Dougherty swung one of his long legs over the other. "Mr. Pinkerton understands it's all in the line of work. I specialize in lady criminals."

"Your a.s.sociation with Miss Watson compromises your own legitimacy."

"I, unlike you, have nothing to hide."

"Do you think I'm ashamed of trying to help my poor widowed mother?"

"One would hope you'd stay within the bounds of the law in doing so."

"And printing up fake stock certificates-is that within the law?"

"I do what is required to meet my clients' needs."

"You may be a Pinkerton, but you're not above the law. One of these days, some judge will instruct you accordingly."

"So far, every judge I've crossed paths with has been more interested in apprehending the criminals than the crime-stoppers."

"And the engagement of a girl trying to better herself is a grievous crime, indeed."

"Come, come, Miss Davidson, I suspect you never intended to marry Mr. Andrews."

"That, Mr. Dougherty, is a matter of the heart beyond even your fine investigative powers."

He threw his head back and chuckled. "You've got about as much heart as any other wh.o.r.e."

"I suspect the size of my heart far exceeds yours." His oily voice and manner of superiority rankled to the bone. "And I suppose you're proud of yourself. Proud of making a career of outmaneuvering women who are disadvantaged by their gentle s.e.x."

"Gentleness is not something I'd accuse you of."

"And you are certainly no gentleman. Does your mother have any idea of your despicable line of work?"

"I also have a poor and widowed mother. I'm confident she approves of my profession, which is something we can't say about your mother."

"You have no idea whatsoever of my mother's circ.u.mstances."

This invigorating exchange ended at the train station, where I boarded the Chicago & Northwestern for points north, hoping to never again set eyes on Reed Dougherty. But that was not to be.

MY FIRST DIAMONDS.

MILWAUKEE AND MENOMINEE-JUNE-NOVEMBER 1888

By the time the train pulled into Milwaukee, I had devised a plan for rea.s.sembling my belongings, as well as my composure. I posted a letter to Melissa and Melody, with a hundred-dollar bill inserted, explaining that an urgent family matter had necessitated travel to Milwaukee: Would they please purchase a portmanteau and pack and ship my personal effects to the Plankinton Hotel on Grand Avenue?

To a.s.suage the sting of a broken engagement and my untimely dislodgment from Chicago, I purchased a few essentials: undergarments and a petticoat; two new day dresses and an evening gown; an ivory hairbrush set; some tortoise-sh.e.l.l hair combs; and a pair of French-kid shoes. Yes, Milwaukee's merchants separated quite a few of my hundred-dollar bills from me. Then again, I couldn't stroll the halls and lobby of Milwaukee's finest hotel, the Plankinton, day after day in the same dress, even if I did possess an envelope fat with cash.

I found Milwaukee a poor sister to Chicago, its lakefront mired with ships of trade and transport, the June weather just as muggy as Chicago's but without the cooling avenue breezes, and its shops second-rate by comparison. Wandering its downtown streets, I did discover five jewelers with fine enough wares, I hoped, to satisfy my yen for some special purchase. Though they were not as rich as Chicago's jewelry stores, choices still abounded, requiring multiple visits to three select shops. Should I settle for a jewel-studded brooch in the shape of a fan with matching earrings? Would a ruby-and-platinum filigree ring suffice to impress dinner companions? Did I require more instruction on the qualities of pearls before venturing the purchase of a pearl necklace? All my doubts and questions vanished one late-June morning upon a third visit to Ernst and Son Jewelers.

"Miss Davidson, we have a new item which may soon be released for sale. Come, let me show it to you." The elderly Mr. Ernst led me behind the counter, and as we pa.s.sed the well-stocked gla.s.s cases he steadied his hunched torso by sliding a hand along the cases' oak frames. We were the only two in the store, save for the younger Mr. Ernst, who busied himself arranging the display in the front window. A bouquet of pastel-pink lilies graced a gla.s.s center table, permeating the store with sharply sweet aromas.

"Yes, yes," he muttered upon opening the door to his small office, "I daresay you'll find this of interest. Please, have a seat."

"How kind of you to think of me," I said, settling onto a simple wooden chair. Neat stacks of papers covered one side of his desk. He closed the door, and the room's mustiness overcame the showroom's lingering floral scent.

Mr. Ernst flicked the switch of his lamp, and its incandescent bulb lit up a fuzzy circle on the desktop. He eased down into his desk chair and tugged at a side drawer, opening it wide enough to pull out a flat case. Gripping the case with both hands, he set it down, then opened the cover and swiveled the case around and under the lamp's glow to reveal its contents.

I restrained a gasp. Against the case's black velvet interior, secured around a raised ridge, lay a gold necklace of seven yellow diamonds. The center diamond, a beveled rectangle, glistened in its thin-edged gold casing, and the three diamonds branching from each side of it decreased in size, but not l.u.s.ter, showing off the middle diamond like bridesmaids attending a bride. I had never before seen yellow diamonds, and the artful setting of these seven gems electrified me. Fingering the delicate gold chain, I said, "Yes, it's lovely. Quite unique."

"The middle diamond is ten carats, and the diamonds on each side sum to ten also. Thirty carats in perfect balance."

I pulled my head back to evaluate the effect. "Why, yes, I see what you mean."

"And yellow diamonds are, as I'm sure you know, much sought after. These are from South Africa."

"And what is the cost of this necklace?"

"If it should be released for sale, it will be thirty-eight hundred dollars."

"Oh, I'm afraid that's out of my range."

"I can't say for sure it will be put on the floor anyway."

"It is a private sale, then?"

"In a manner of speaking." He brushed his palms together. "I must work out some details with the former owner."

"Then I imagine some sadness attends this piece."

"Yes, Miss Davidson, you are so right."

"Well, I thank you for showing me. And if you should release it for sale, perhaps we can speak again."

I returned to the Plankinton for luncheon. There, seated in a plush, high-backed chair, under glistening crystal chandeliers, I imagined that necklace gracing my throat, playing off my emerald-green gown, and garnering admiring looks from the gentlemen and ladies strolling among the magnificent furnishings of the Plankinton's lobby and corridors.

Three days later, I returned to Ernst and Son. "Mr. Ernst, I happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I'd inquire about that lovely necklace."

Once we had settled comfortably in his back office, he said, "Your timing is superb, Miss Davidson. I have this very morning worked out the details of the sale."

"So it is for sale?"

"Yes, under one condition."

"I'm willing to entertain your condition, though I must say the price is still something of an impediment."

He pulled the necklace case out of his drawer and flipped it open toward me. "You will never find another necklace like this, I can a.s.sure you."

I resisted the urge to glance at the piece and instead studied him. "And the condition?"

"The buyer must agree not to wear it in Milwaukee."

I brushed a hand over the middle diamond. The piece was as beautiful as I remembered. "Really? How unusual."

"Yes, I'm inclined to agree with you." Mr. Ernst braced an arm on his chair and shifted his weight.

"May I ask the reason for this condition?"

"It's a sad story, I'm afraid." He scratched at his fuzzy gray side-burn. "A personal tragedy."

I leaned back and gazed at him, but he offered no elaboration. "I don't mean to pry, sir, but if I am to seriously consider such a significant purchase, I should like to understand the grounds for the condition."

"A reasonable request," he nodded. "But I must ask for your discretion in this matter."

"Of course, I would hate to deepen the sadness surrounding it."

He braced his elbows on the desk and leaned over them. "The owner, whose name I cannot reveal, recently lost his wife. She died quite unexpectedly, of the galloping pneumonia, after a trip abroad on which he had surprised her with this very piece. Now the poor gentleman can't look at the necklace without the most painful of memories. He wishes to sell it and never again lay eyes on it. And he demands that the sale be conducted privately."

Mr. Ernst had held his story back so long, and then told it so earnestly, that I questioned its veracity. I was willing to wager the piece was stolen. "The poor gentleman," I said. "I can altogether understand the sentiment behind his wishes."

"I don't believe he would have wanted me to say as much as I have. I trust you will not repeat his sad story, or the circ.u.mstances under which you learned of it."

"No, I wouldn't dream of it," I said, determined to test my theory. "But I honestly can't afford to pay more than twenty-eight hundred dollars for this piece."

Mr. Ernst stroked the loose flap of skin sagging from his neck. "I'm afraid I cannot sell it for such a low price."

"What a shame. I might perhaps be the perfect buyer. As you know, I'm only stopping briefly in Milwaukee. And am unlikely to ever spend much time in Wisconsin."

"Yes, well, there's something to be said for that." He wove his fingers together. "Would you consider bringing your price up a bit. Perhaps to thirty-two hundred?"

I pinched my mouth into a thoughtful pucker and studied the piece. "If you will meet me halfway, at three thousand, I can a.s.sure the utmost secrecy in this matter."

And so I turned someone else's sorrow-or knavery-into my own immeasurable delight. Despite the expense, I have never regretted the purchase. That necklace returned every cent invested in it, and more.

After eleven leisurely days in Milwaukee I received my portmanteau from Chicago, checked out of the Plankinton Hotel, and continued the train journey to my dear family in Menominee.

In the ensuing months, the compensation I'd received from Mr. Andrews slipped through my fingers as freely as fine grains of Lake Michigan sand. What reason did I have to squirrel away the money? After all, life is a carnival, and I could well afford the price of admission.

My most satisfying purchase was the Menominee home I bought for Maman, Paul, and Gene. Maman's grat.i.tude was well worth the fifty-eight hundred dollars it cost. When I brought her around to see it before closing the sale, she exclaimed, "Oh, May, it's a dream come true," and threw her arms around me. Paul, of course, inquired about how I could afford the purchase of such a fine house, and I had to explain my heartbreak over Dale's breach of our engagement and how his father, the cause of the breach, had at least had the decency to recognize the damage he'd done to my reputation. The whole family rallied around me that summer of 1888, and I in turn took delight in procuring Queen Anne furnishings and some lovely oil paintings for their new home.

Five months after I left Chicago, my funds had dwindled to a dangerously low level, and Menominee presented no means of fattening my purse, let alone affording a modic.u.m of entertainment. How tedious the ticking of the great mantel clock became, how wearisome Paul's constant prodding about how I should be managing my funds, how musty the house's shut-in air. I craved new adventure.

Our family had finished Thanksgiving dinner and retired to the parlor when I announced, "It's time for me to move on. I believe I'll go west, to Portland."

"Whatever for?" Maman asked, as if I'd proposed joining the circus.

"To replenish my funds."

Paul huffed, "Don't know why you piddled away what you had."

"How I spend my money is my own affair. I have been generous with this family." What Paul didn't know or wished not to acknowledge was that his job at the lumber mill couldn't last forever. Sooner or later, he and the whole family would be dependent on me, though I knew better than to hurt his pride by laying that reality before him. The kindest course was to let him consider himself the family's mainstay as long as possible.