Hooked (23 page)

Clearing his throat and sticking his forefinger into his collar in a manner he assumed Wilberforce must do when confronting nine observant women, Gage closed the catalogue and put it behind his back.

“Thank you for coming, ladies,” he began, words
circulating inside his head like an old newspaper, dry and dusty. “The Bissell carpet sweeper company was founded in eighteen seventy-six by Melville Bissell, and is headquartered in Grand Rapids, Michigan.”

The reddish-orange haired woman he believed was Mrs. Dufresne stared at him through wire bow spectacles perched on her thin nose. Without blinking. She appeared hinged on his every word.

Gage forgot where he was, then had to recover. “Uh, Mr. Bissell's wife, Anna, grew frustrated with the sawdust that embedded itself in their carpet. You see, Mr. Bissell used to be a crockery salesman and their store connected to their home so he had to walk back and forth and he tracked in sawdust . . . obviously from the store.” He swallowed, not liking the way that Plunkett woman was eyeing him as if he'd exposed a hole in his trousers.

“I don't abide sawdust,” Mrs. Plunkett remarked with the sourness of a lemon candy—minus every drop of sugar. “My Hy tracks sawdust footprints on my carpets all the time when he comes in from our mercantile. He has no consideration for the trials we women have to go through to keep our homes in shipshape order.”

“That's why you need a new sweeper, Mrs. Plunkett,” Meg warmly interceded with a glance at Gage. “So you can collect those hard to pick up shavings.”

Meg's smile wrapped Gage in an invisible warmth—and filled him with a sense of obligation. He felt he owed her his best shot. When all the bull from the evening was over, and the ladies marched out armed with their hats and coats, he was going to tell her the real reason he was in Harmony.

Mrs. Plunkett made a noncommittal
humph
in the
back of her throat over Meg's comment about a new sweeper.

Gage proceeded, walking in front of the center-table. “Mr. Bissell's ingenious design was a success and word quickly spread about his invention. People began to ask him where they could purchase such a sweeper for themselves. And the rest, as they say”—he tried to interject an iota of melodrama—“is history.”

The Elward woman laughed.
He hadn't been funny.
She wore so many beads and jeweled ribbons, she made a jangling noise when she dabbed her nostrils with her pink handkerchief.

Undaunted, Gage said, “Mrs. Rothman, you may find it interesting to know that in eighteen eighty-nine, following Mr. Bissell's untimely death, Mrs. Bissell stepped in and took control of the company.”

“Yes, Mr. Wilberforce, I was aware of that,” Mrs. Rothman replied without a missed stitch in her needlepoint.

Damn.
He'd hoped to draw the conversation out. Now what? He had to look in the catalogue and actually try and make a carpet sweeper sound enticing. He'd rather face a nest of hornets. And from the unhurried study Mrs. Plunkett gave him, she'd be more than willing to stir up the hive.

Removing the booklet from behind his back, he opened the cover to the table of contents and skimmed the list of models. Randomly, he picked the Grand Rapids to showcase first.

His discomfort was like a steel weight. He held the book up so they could see. And he could see over the top to read the description because he didn't know diddly.

“Bissell's Grand Rapids is the most famous of the Bissell's, generally accepted as the standard of the line. It contains the patented Bissell Broomaction—the only device invented which makes a sweeper self-adjusting to every kind of carpet—”

“How does it perform on hardwood floors?” came the question from a skeptic.

Gage cringed.
Mrs. Plunkett.
He would have liked to plunk her out the window. She had an attitude worse than an editorialist with a case of writer's envy.

“Just ducky,” he replied, trying not to grit his teeth.

Fortunately, the trio on the divan appeared to have some faith in him. Mrs. Treber. Mrs. Kennison. Mrs. Calhoon. None of them looked at him as if he didn't know spit from shoe polish.

“This particular model,” he woodenly went on, “has our automatic reversible bail, which holds the sweeper always firmly on the carpet.”

“Bails are the bane of my existence,” Mrs. Plunkett announced. “The bail on our Prize model Bissell is broken.”

It took all Gage could muster not to lunge at the woman and knock the wind out of her. She was fast spoiling his pitch. “Madam,” he enunciated in a voice so stiff with pleasantness, he could have rung the starch out of his words, “you should report your malfunction to your salesman.”

“The salesman was my husband, the nincompoop. He exchanged the carpet sweeper for credit. It was already two years old. I told Hy he had gotten the short end of the stick with his deal, but what was done was done. And I'm made to suffer for it.”

Mrs. Wolcott spoke up. “Prudence, perhaps my husband can fix the sweeper for you. He's very mechanically
inclined. He made the clock that hangs over our parlor fireplace.”

Mrs. Plunkett wrinkled her nose. “The clock that's a zebra's backside with the wagging tail that ticks the minutes?”

Her chin lifting, Mrs. Wolcott wouldn't buckle under to the barbed remark. “It's quite accurate. It was one of his wedding gifts to me, and I'll cherish it always.”

“My Johannah received a bridal gift from my aunt on my mother's side,” Mrs. Treber chimed in. “A tea service entitled Spring Butterfly. The handles on the cups are the most delicate china butterfly wings you'd ever see. The saucers are ashes of roses, alabaster, and teal. With gold around the edges. They're simply divine.”

That's all it took. One mention of a tea service and the room hummed with excitement like a beehive that had been invaded by a bear.

Pitchers, platters, dishes, servers, cruets, vases, trays, tureens, celery holders, finger bowls, jelly dishes, pickle jars; figurines in silver, porcelain and cut glass; art glass; embroidered pillows; memory books and paintings.

The women rattled them off so fast, their voices were like those of auctioneers. Each trying to out-do the other; each new item bringing “oohs” “aahs” and a fast change into the next thing to be gushed over. Even the pragmatic Mrs. Rothman succumbed to the fever.

The collar on Gage's white Oxford shirt moistened with sweat; he had to clamp his jaw tight to keep it from ticking. He was trapped in feminine bedlam with no escape.

Some minutes later, Meg stood and called the parlor to order. “Ladies, as much as I'm enjoying our discussion, we owe it to Mr. Wilberforce to give him our full consideration.” To Gage, her cheeks flushed from the animated talk of women's paraphernalia, she said, “Please proceed.” Then she sat back down.

Their amusement having died from their eyes, the ladies stared at him once more. Gage's mind floundered. Maybe he ought to mention flatware and duck out of the house as soon as they were preoccupied with what patterns it came in.

Instead, he fingered the catalogue pages and stabbed his forefinger between two sheets of the paper. He chose the carpet sweeper on the left-hand side of the page to continue with. “Thank you, ladies. Next is our . . .”

Over the next half hour, he went through every single model. He talked up rubber frictions, rubber furniture protectors, pure boar bristle everlasting brushes, cases of popular wood and wood veneer, the advantage of cyco bearings—
whatever the hell they were
—and no noise or oiling, pans that opened at once by an easy pressure of the finger, trimmings that were nickeled, and spring dumping.

When he was finished, his underarms were damp and he could have used a stiff shot of bourbon. But he had a new respect for salesmen. It was a horror of a job. And from the looks on their faces, he hadn't impressed a single woman. Not even the sympathetic ones.

Closing the catalogue, he nodded his thanks. “If you don't mind, ladies, all this talking has made me thirsty.”

Gage quit the parlor, went through the dining room
and into the kitchen for a much needed glass of water. The butler, Finch, looked up on Gage's intrusion. He sat at the table reading a newspaper spread between the salt and pepper shakers.

“Did they get too much for you, Mr. Wilberforce?” Finch queried with a grin. “You're looking a little soggy.”

“I could use some water.”

“I'll do you one better.” The butler stood and disappeared into the pantry; he came back with a bottle of brandy. “For cooking purposes,” he amended after Gage lifted his brows.

Finch took two glasses from the cupboard and poured a splash of the amber liquid in each one.

With a nod of thanks, Gage took the glass and knocked back the brandy in one swallow.

“Tough job. Selling things for a living, that is,” Finch commented, taking Gage's empty glass and setting it in the sink.

Gage thought about what he really sold: printed words. He had always been tough on people to get at the truth. Maybe he'd been going at it wrong all these years. Just make them sit through a Bissell sales presentation and they'd be spilling their guts before he ever got halfway through, just to get him to shut up. But he didn't say that. Instead, he simply said, “Somebody has to do it.”

“I suppose.” Finch leisurely sipped his brandy and sat back down to glance at his newspaper.

Folding his arms across his chest, Gage asked, “What rag are you reading?”

“Montana Herald
. I believe it's printed up near Helena.” The butler wet his fingertip with a quick press against his tongue, then turned the long sheet to the
next page. “The only newspaper in town. It doesn't have any local interest pieces. Kennison's baseball team is without a star pitcher this year after Will White ran off with Pearl Chaussee—that stage actress who was in town early March playing Cleopatra in
Antony and Cleopatra.
The show only ran two nights because the Women's League of Harmony voted it was unconstitutional for a woman to display her legs in a pair of tights in public. I find that newsworthy.”

“You do?”

“Don't you?”

Gage shrugged. “Women in tights have never bothered me.”

“I wasn't referring to Pearl Chaussee. The newsworthy part is Kennison's Keystones needs a pitcher who can burn up the catcher's glove. Opening day is only two and a half weeks away.” Finch took a sip of brandy. “I think a newspaper should advertise for a man who can throw strikes.”

As Finch's simplistic ideas rolled around in Gage's mind, Meg came into the kitchen. She appeared somber and with almost an imperceptible note of apology on her lips.

She quietly spoke. “Mr. Wilberforce, you may return to the parlor now.”

With a rake of his left hand to brush the hair from his temple, Gage followed her.

The parlor was empty except for Mrs. Rothman who'd remained seated in the same chair she had occupied during his presentation. On his arrival, she stilled her hands and said, “I'm sorry, Mr. Wilberforce.”

Sorry for what?

The room had cleared. He didn't have to write up
any orders. Although, he was somewhat slighted that his efforts hadn't produced at least one sale of a carpet sweeper—he'd done a reasonable job, if reading catalogue text counted for something—he could also walk away thankful his livelihood didn't depend on Melville Bissell's modern apparatus.

From the look on Meg's and Mrs. Rothman's faces, they pitied him his failure.

“Ladies, I assure you it's all right that the others have left.” To console them in some small way and make them believe he was disappointed, he added, “I wasn't at my best this evening. My fault things didn't go better.”

“But you tried so hard,” Meg said, her tone sympathetic. “If it's any comfort, the ladies thought you very charming.”

Mrs. Rothman laid down her needlework. “I heard them say so myself, Mr. Wilberforce.”

“They've never said that about King Merkle or Orvis Schmidt when they've delivered their pitches,” Meg reflected with optimism. Then with a frown added, “but they've always bought something from them. Why is that?”

“Probably because they make the product sound invaluable,” Mrs. Rothman pointed out. “They could talk a duck out of its feathers—not that that's a trait to be admired.”

“No, it's not,” Meg agreed. “I'd rather have a salesman who's unassuming instead of self-glorifying.”

“There's always next time, Miss Brooks.” Gage put the Bissell catalogue back into his case, wanting to forget about the sweepers.

“But you did make one sale this evening,” Meg said
with promise. “I have decided to purchase the Grand Rapids model.”

Gage stilled. “You needn't do that.”

“Oh, but I want to. Grandma and I are going in half-and-half on the cost. Neither one of us are very fond of housework—” She cut herself short as if what she said was taboo. “That is to say, housework would be made faster if one had a top of the line model carpet sweeper helping them whisk over the rugs.”

“Miss Brooks, I don't want you spending your money because you feel like you need to help me with my sales.”

“But I want to.”

“I'd rather you didn't.”

He had to talk privately with Meg before he left her house. Words of explanation were few in his head. How could she understand the why of things? That she couldn't buy a carpet sweeper from him because he didn't really sell them. That he thought Wayne Brooks didn't measure up. All she would hear was he thought her brother was dishonest, and that he was using her to discredit him.

Whichever way Gage chose, it would be hard for Meg. But he sensed she was the type of woman who wanted the truth, no matter how raw. Her emotions would be just as ragged. He hoped he was prepared to soothe her. He didn't handle hysterics well, or tears. He was better with swearing and damning his soul to eternal hell.