Parlor Games (15 page)

At the judge’s urging, the pace picked up in the afternoon. Still, Frank’s attorney explained that he was unlikely to complete his direct examination of her by the end of the day.

“Miss Shaver,” began Sawyer, “you traveled with the Baroness to Hot Springs, Arkansas, early in 1913, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And this was soon after your reconciliation with her?”

“Yes.”

“And how did the Baroness impress you on this trip?”

“She was decked out in jewelry and a dress fit for a queen.”

“Can you describe all this for us?”

“She wore a yellow-diamond necklace that she said was worth a hundred thousand dollars and a ring with two pear-shaped diamonds worth eight thousand. Her dress was royal blue with fancy gold filament woven into the front piece. And Tokyo’s collar was made of platinum and lined with an ungodly number of diamonds.”

“Who’s Tokyo?”

“Her French bulldog.”

The onlookers chuckled in amusement at Tokyo’s introduction into the proceedings. Even I was grateful for the touch of levity.

“How many diamonds were in the collar?”

“More than I could count—six hundred and eighty-eight, according to May. She said she’d been offered twelve thousand dollars for the largest one.”

“Did she make a point of telling you the value of these things?”

“She played coy at first, but, once I commented, she rattled off a string of high numbers that would’ve made anybody’s head spin.”

“And what conclusions did you draw about the Baroness’s financial status at the time?”

“What she probably wanted me to conclude—that she was as wealthy as King Midas.”

“And did this impression have any bearing on how you conducted your financial affairs with the Baroness?”

“It sure did. I assumed she didn’t need my money, except for short-term use, and that she’d return everything she borrowed and be as generous with me as I’d been with her.”

“She led you to believe your friendship was a permanent and secure one, didn’t she?”

“Yes.”

I couldn’t see what in the world Frank’s wishes for a permanent friendship had to do with her financial claims, but since the judge called for a brief recess at that point, Sawyer had little opportunity to pursue the matter.

THE WILDS OF PORTLAND
PORTLAND, OREGON—DECEMBER 1888–NOVEMBER 1889

I
n December of 1888, I took the train to Portland and arrived to find a city redolent of mud, fresh mist, and the tang of fresh-sawed timber. During my stay at Carrie Watson’s, one of the girls had mentioned she’d spent a year at a reputable establishment in Portland run by Emma Black. So upon my arrival I presented myself to Miss Black, who kindly offered me a position, thus assuring me of a healthy income and a comfortable vantage point for learning the lay of the land in my new city.

Having no idea how long I might reside at Emma Black’s, I set about cultivating my relations with the other girls. One shapely twenty-eight-year-old, Sue Marie Littleton, appeared especially receptive to my sisterly overtures. She was uncommonly tall, a commanding five nine, with almond-shaped eyes, a wide, expressive mouth, and a statuesque neck. She barely bothered to tame her fox-red hair, securing the mass of it at the back of her head and leaving stray strands dangling deliciously about her temples, ears, and neck. Whenever I spied her entertaining in the parlor, be it with other girls or some of the gentlemen, she gamely invited me to join the group, smiling and regaling all of us with the self-assured presence of the actress she had formerly been.

One April day, when the sun had consented to show its bright face in Portland, I invited her for a walk. As we strolled down Broadway, Sue Marie tilted her hat to shade her face from the sun’s rays. Looking to me, she said, “Such a dainty parasol.”

“I purchased it in Chicago.”

“Your wardrobe could turn a princess green,” she said, lacing
the words with her homey Kentucky curl. “Chicago must have gone down easy with you.”

“It’s a fine city. I hated leaving it.”

“Why did you leave?”

“Why else? Heartbreak.”

Sue Marie cackled. “Not
your
heart?”

“A young man broke off an engagement with me. I couldn’t bear the city after that.”

“Oh, do tell the story.”

I liked Sue Marie, I truly did, and I sensed that we had much in common, but I wasn’t ready to bare my soul. “It’s not terribly interesting. And what about you? I’ve often wondered why you gave up the stage.”

“That was ages ago.”

“I don’t doubt you have great talent.”

“Ah,” she said, tossing her head to the side, “you’d be right at home on the stage yourself.”

I twirled my parasol. “I prefer to act on the stage of life.”

“Well, tickle me, aren’t we two peas in a pod,” said Sue Marie, taking my arm. “As for the theater, top billing and good pay only go to the cream of the crop, and, believe me, they have to scrape their way up. Besides, I’m after more money than that.”

It was my turn to laugh. “I understand altogether.”

We approached the corner of Broadway and Salmon, and she steered us onto Salmon, under the shade of the trees’ limey-green leaves. “How’d you like to be my partner?”

“Partner in what?”

“In finding a pot of gold.”

“How do you propose we do that?”

“First by saving enough money to dress like royalty.” Sue Marie flicked her hand, as if to say, the rest is obvious.

“Ah, my father always said: ‘It takes money to impress money.’ ”

She tipped her face toward mine. “We’d make a good team.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“As a preacher in the pulpit.”

“Then,” said I, “two peas in a pod we shall be.” And so began my saga with Sue Marie.

The clientele at Emma Black’s wasn’t as uniformly distinguished as that of Carrie Watson’s in Chicago, but Sue Marie and I hoped that patience with what Portland had to offer would reward us in the long run. There was one particular fellow at Emma Black’s, however, whom I wish I’d never met, a physician by the name of Dr. Willard Farnhardt. Willard had a clear white complexion such as any woman would envy, but on him it looked sallow and ghostly. His eyes were sunk deep into his sharp-boned face and darted about like bats in flight. Lanky he was, nearly to the point of emaciation. The first evening I ever dined by his side, over the house’s home-cooked dinner, I observed him picking at his beef roast, drawing a few sinews to his mouth, and chewing laboriously. I came to suspect that his preferred nourishment was not meat, nor even liquor, but cocaine.

By November of 1889, Willard’s attentions had not only turned from amorous to matrimonial but taken on frightening proportions. He had issued an ultimatum: If I did not agree to leave Emma Black’s and become his bride, his life would be unbearable, his actions unaccountable. He expected an answer once and for all on the third Saturday in November. All day I dreaded his visit, and, as if in sympathy, the weather took a turn for the worse. The temperature plummeted to freezing, and arrows of icy sleet buffeted the house’s windows.

Willard greeted me in the main parlor, his gaunt physique clad in a black suit, scoop-front waistcoat, and stiff white shirt with sharp, winged openings at the collar. During dinner with all the other girls and gentleman guests, his mood remained decidedly dour, despite my efforts to cheer him or, at the least, entice him to join the conversation.

An
Oregonian
reporter launched our dinnertime discussion with news of the Nickel-in-a-Slot, a music machine that had just been unveiled in San Francisco; Willard scoffed at everyone’s enthusiasm for the new invention. When talk turned to Jack the Ripper’s depravity, I asked him to venture an opinion on the ripper’s psychical state. He merely snorted. While several of the other gentlemen speculated about whether Nellie Bly—who had just interrupted her journey to visit Jules Verne—really could make it around the world in less
than eighty days, I jested he should join their wager. And when Miss Black recommended a book she’d just read—
A Study in Scarlet
, with the brilliant detective Sherlock Holmes—I inquired as to his reading preferences.

He took none of this bait and offered only whispered asides to me—about how fetching I looked in my midnight-blue gown, how much he looked forward to our private time together, and how he intended to shower his new bride with gems of all shapes and sizes. After dinner, he declined to join the other gentlemen for cigars over a few rounds of poker and instead approached the maid who collected the evening’s fees and escorted me up the stairs to my bedroom.

He retracted the wick on my lantern until it dimmed to a dull flicker, removed a flask from his vest pocket, and gulped greedily from it. With a haughty laugh, he said, “That, I assure you, is the last time I will hand money over for the pleasure of your company.”

In the darkened room I could not read his expression, but my heart galloped at the foreboding in his words. “Please, Willard, let’s enjoy each other’s company and not worry about the future.”

“But the future is exactly what this is about, my dear. Have you forgotten I asked for your answer tonight?”

“No, not forgotten. Only hoped that you would understand the impossibility of what you propose.”

“Impossible? Why ever is my proposal impossible?”

“Because you’re a gentleman, and it wouldn’t be right for us to consider any other arrangement.”

“That, my dear, is not your concern. What you consider impossible is within your reach. How can you refuse the life I offer?”

“I’m not meant for such a life.”

“Do you dare to refuse me?” He backed up against my window. “Will you cast me out into the cold world by denying my heart’s only desire?”

“No, I will happily see you every night. But I do not wish to marry.”

He unlatched the window and flung it open. Cold wind and sleet blasted into the room and whipped the sheer, lacy curtains into contorted whorls. My dresser lamp flared and died. His spindly torso twisted and turned, silhouetted in the window against the street lamps’ hazy glow.

Chilled, I hugged myself. “Willard, what are you doing?”

He climbed onto the windowsill. “You mean everything to me. Do you see that now?”

“Please, this is foolish. Come down.” I hastened toward the door, fear shooting through my veins like a lightning charge.

“Do you still refuse me?”

“Not you, I don’t refuse you. Only your offer of marriage.”

A wild-eyed grimace flitted across his face as he turned from me and—I could hardly believe my eyes—leapt from the window. A dull thud and bleating wail sounded from the street below.

“No,” I screamed. I flung my door open and ran down the stairs. “Miss Black, Miss Black,” I called, desperate to find her and only vaguely aware that I might be upsetting everyone who saw me rush through the central parlor, the sitting room, and finally the kitchen, where I found her. “Miss Black, there’s been a terrible accident. Dr. Farnhardt jumped from my window.”

The rest of that night was a blear of panic and disorder. Miss Black took command of the situation, ordering one of the maids to run for a doctor and another to contact the police commissioner. The doctor reported Willard had broken both his legs in the fall and summoned an ambulance to transport him to the hospital. Commissioner Eagleton interviewed me in Miss Black’s presence, assuring her that he considered the incident a curious mishap and nothing more. Then he left to check on Dr. Farnhardt’s condition—“both of body and mind,” he said, winking at Miss Black.

After the commissioner departed, Miss Black and I were left alone in her parlor office. “Pauline, this is a most upsetting state of affairs. Everyone is shaken up—all the girls, our clients, and me, too. I do not need this kind of attention.”

“I’m terribly sorry, I truly am. I did everything I could to reason with him.”

“You should have come to me earlier, as soon as he announced he intended to marry you at any cost. I do have some experience in these matters.”

“Yes, miss.” I cast my gaze downward. “I’ve learned a lesson.”