The Case of the Petrified Man (29 page)

I said, “This flat tray will greatly aid me in my study and cataloging of tobacco.”

“You are most welcome.” Sam Clemens sat in my Client’s chair & crossed one leg over the other & struck a match on the heel of the lifted boot. Then he held the lit match to his pipe & got it going.

“Thank you,” I said, remembering my manners. “But why did you do this?”

“First of all, to apologize for flinging your tobacco collection to the ground,” he drawled. “Second of all, to say thank you.”

“You said my Big Tobacco Collection was ‘flapdoodle,’” I reminded him.

“That was before I heard how your ability to identify over one hundred kinds of tobacco helped you bring a Criminal to Justice and save the life of a poor serving girl. I am now a convert to the merits of collecting tobacco. You have inspired me!”

“I could use another two or three of these,” I said.

The door of my office opened. It was Bee in her bonnet. I observed some of the bounce had gone out of her step.

“Hello, P.K.,” she said. “I see you have company so I will not linger.”

Sam Clemens twisted around to see who it was. He did not rise from his chair but he touched the brim of his slouch hat. “Morning, miss,” said he.

Bee gave him a polite nod, then came forward & placed a parcel about the size of two bricks on my desk. “It is tobacco from Pa’s shop,” she said. “Samples of thirty brands I do not think you have. They are labeled and everything.” She chewed her lower lip & looked at the floor. Then she blurted out, “I feel real bad I didn’t help you the one time you asked. I felt sorry for that little girl & would have thought of a way to help if you had not taken me by surprise. That is my way of apologizing,” she added.

She looked at Sam Clemens & then she looked back at me. “I will not pester you any more about
you know what
,” she said. “If you need help again, please will you give me another chance?”

Before I could respond, she turned & hurried out of the shop.

Sam Clemens turned and watched her go.

I could not read his expression.

He looked at the parcel Bee had left. “Well, ain’t you going to open it?”

“Not now,” I said. “I will save it for later.”

Sam Clemens nodded & pulled a notebook from his pocket. “Then listen to this,” he said. “I want to hear your opinion of this article I have just penned about the death of the coward Absalom Smith.”

“I promised him we would not reveal his true identity,” I said.

“And we shan’t,” he said. “Nowhere do I mention his real name. Listen.” He read,
“About two o’clock Saturday afternoon Justice finally caught up with a Confederate deserter posing as a Music Hall Entertainer. Absalom Smith met his Maker during an auction of goods on B Street. At the inquest it was shown that he was shot several times before leaping from a second-story window and then being crushed by a quartz wagon. After due deliberation, the jury, sad and sober, but with intelligence unblinded by desire for revenge, brought in a verdict of death ‘by the visitation of God.’ The foreman also made this comment: ‘A cowardly deserter and professional punster has met the end he deserved: he was riddled to death.’”

Sam Clemens guffawed & slapped his thigh with the notebook. “Ain’t that bully?” he said. “With this sort of article, I feel I have found a vein I can mine for years.”

Here he stood up & leaned over the desk & grasped me by both shoulders.

I winced & wished people would stop grasping me by the shoulders.

“P.K.,” he said, “I never had but two powerful ambitions in my life. One was to be a riverboat pilot and the other a millionaire. I accomplished the one but failed miserably in the other, but now I have had a ‘Call.’”

“A Call?” I said, trying to squirm out of his grip.

“Yes! A Call!” he cried. “A Call to literature! Not literature of the highest order, you understand, but that of the lowest—i.e., humorous. I confess it is nothing to be proud of, but it is my strongest suit. And it is partly thanks to you!”

He let me go & picked up the cardboard box with the Stone Baby in it. “The boys at the Enterprise were pranking us both with this rock baby,” he said. “But it gave me the bulliest idea for my own hoax article. My account of the ‘Petrified Man’ has been a Wild Success. It is being reprinted in newspapers all over the country. Subscriptions of the
Daily Territorial Enterprise
have gone up ten percent, according to Joe Goodman.”

His pipe had gone out so he put down the Stone Baby & struck another match on the sole of his boot & put it to the bowl & puffed. “As a bonus,” he said through a cloud of smoke, “I have exacted vengeance on that varmint George Sewall. Even though I misspelled his name in the article, people are writing to him and visiting him by the drove. They are all demanding that he take them to Gravelly Ford to show them the Prodigy. Haw-haw!”

“Why is it all thanks to me?” I said.

“Well, if you had not left that rock baby lying around and made me mad, then I would not have kicked it and got the notion to write my own version,” he drawled.

“But the Petrified Man was all a big story, wasn’t it?” I said. “You made it up.”

He chuckled and puffed his pipe. “Course I made it up,” he said. “That makes my vengeance all the sweeter!”

“Vengeance is the Lord’s,” I said. “Be careful your revenge does not backfire upon you.”

“Dang it, Pinky,” he puffed, “don’t be so sanctimonious. Come on over to the Niagara Music Hall & Billiard Saloon. Let us engage in some jollification. I believe El Dorado
Johnny is still laid out on the Billiard Table there. I will stand you a sarsaparilla and we will see if he is still a good-looking corpse. We will toast my ‘Call to Humorous Literature.’” He puffed his pipe some more and added, “No doubt your presence will attract another shooting affray by and by.”

“I am sorry,” I said. “But I hear the church bells calling the faithful to worship. Are you coming?”

“Not if I can help it,” he said.

I WALKED DOWN TO D STREET
alone to attend my first church service in Satan’s Playground. I reckon I was about as clean as I had ever been in my life. I wore my buckskin moccasins and trowsers, my blue woolen coat with the six brass buttons & my black felt hat with the hawk’s feather in it. I had sent my faded red (not pink) flannel shirt to be cleaned at Hong Wo’s and was wearing a brand-new pink flannel shirt instead. Yes, it was Pink. Not faded red but pink. I like flannel because it is real soft & I had got used to the color pink, too.

It kind of matches my name.

But if anybody says it is a “girly” color I will kick them hard in the shin without counting to ten or quoting Philippians 4:5.

The Methodist Episcopal Church was crammed to the rafters, as they say. I was surprised to see about 20 or 30 Soiled Doves there, along with a couple of Barkeepers and the Coroner for Storey County, Mr. George Sewall, not Sewell. Doc Pinkerton & his wife were there, too, & Isaiah Coffin with Miss Belle Donne on his arm.

(His dash to her side in the presence of a crazed killer had revived their Love.)

My Lawyer, Mr. William Morris Stewart, was also present. He told me he had put my fourteen hundred dollars back in my account and repaid Big Gussie and her Boarding House Girls the six hundred they had raised for my bail.

I sat near the back of the church on the end of a pew so I could make an easy escape if necessary. Sometimes Sunday services make me squirmish and I need to get out in the fresh air. Gussie & the girls all waved at me from the other side of the church. They were got up in their Sunday finest and they looked bully.

Mrs. Zoe Brown was there, too, in her finest mourning dress of black, trimmed with black lace ruffles. Martha stood beside her, wearing the pink calico dress and white boots, but with a brand-new hat on her head. It was straw with little pink flowers that matched her dress.

(I suppose I will have to buy two new calico dresses &
bonnets & pairs of button-up boots. One to replace the ones I had taken from Isaiah Coffin’s clothes cupboard & one for my very own Prim Little Girl Disguise. But I do not mind. At least this time I can buy boots that fit.)

The Rev. C.V. Anthony preached a nice sermon on the Grace of God and we sang some hymns that reminded me of Pa Emmet and Ma Evangeline. I always feel closer to God with the sky above me, rather than a church steeple, but this was not too bad.

After the service ended, I stood outside the church in the sunshine, watching the legs & feet of each person who stopped to thank the Reverend.

From a nearby sage bush a quail called out, “Chicago! Chicago!” to remind me of my goal.

I thought, “When I am ready.”

When Mrs. Zoe Brown & Martha appeared in the doorway, the Reverend bent his head & prayed for them. Afterwards, they came over to where I stood, beside the Reverend’s future rose garden.

“We come to say good-bye,” said Mrs. Zoe Brown in her soft Southern accent.

“We’s going to Frisco!” said Martha in her strong Southern accent.

“You are leaving Virginia City?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Zoe Brown. She slipped her arm around Martha. “We are setting out right now, while the weather is still fine. We will take Sally’s rig. When we get to Frisco, I will set up as a milliner with Martha my apprentice.”

“Jess like Miz Sal was gonna do,” said Martha.

I said, “Are you sure that is the best plan? I have heard it takes about four days to reach Frisco with your own gig. Those steep mountains tire out the horses something awful and then there is the ferry from Sacramento. You and Martha would do better to sell the gig and team and buy passage on a stagecoach.”

“No,” said Zoe Brown. “I have made up my mind and planned our route: Van Sickles station tonight, Monday in Strawberry Flat, Tuesday in Sacramento, then the ferry to San Francisco. It is my way of honoring poor Sal. Also,” she added, “the Reverend has just asked the Lord to bless us with Road Mercies.”

“I will add my prayers to his,” I said.

“Fortune favors the brave,” said Martha.

Zoe Brown opened her little reticule & fished out a gold coin worth $20. She said, “I want to reward you for helping Martha.”

I reckoned it was a lot of money for them.

“I don’t need that,” I said. “I have got plenty of those in my strong box over at Wells, Fargo & Co. You keep it. That reminds me,” I added. I reached into my pocket and pulled out Martha’s cross & chain and held it out to her. “You should have this. It will remind you of Sally.”

Martha looked at me all wide-eyed and then up at Zoe.

Zoe Brown’s eyes were swimming with tears and she said to me, “Are you sure?”

“I am sure.”

“Oh, P.K.!” whispered Martha. “Thank you!” She took the cross and chain and Zoe Brown helped her put it on right then and there.

“Well, we’ve got to give you
something
,” said Zoe Brown. She looked at Martha & Martha looked at her. Then, before I could stop her, Zoe Brown grasped me by the shoulders & pulled me forward & gave me a kiss on the cheek. Martha giggled & kissed me on the other cheek.

As I scrubbed off the dampness with my coat sleeve, I thought, “What is it about Virginia City?”

“Oh, P.K.!” Zoe Brown had her hands on her hips & was shaking her head. Then she fished in her purse and brought out a striped paper bag. “Have these, too,” she said. “Acidulated drops.”

“Thank you,” I said, taking the candy. “These are much nicer than kisses.”

“P.K.,” said Mrs. Zoe Brown, “do you ever
not
say exactly what you think?”

I thought about this. Then I said, “Only when I am lying.”

Mrs. Zoe Brown laughed. It was the first time I had heard her do such a thing. It made her look real pretty. She said, “If ever you come to Frisco you must promise to look us up.”

I put an acidulated drop in my mouth & nodded. “I will.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

They left me & went up to the street and I saw Sissy and Sassy, the two white mares, hitched to Sally’s lacquered buggy in front of Big Gussie’s Brick House. I watched black-clad Zoe Brown & pink-clad Martha climb up into the shiny black
carriage. They both sat in front & Zoe Brown herself gathered up the reins & flicked the whip & Martha waved good-bye with a new handkerchief.

I watched as they clopped right past & then south along D Street & finally out of sight.