The Jewel and the Key (40 page)

But no. People were stepping aside to let him pass.

The station felt bigger than it was in her own time. Crates of apples were piled up by a kiosk, where a man was doing a brisk business in fruit and newspapers and candy. People sat waiting on smooth wooden benches and in deep leather chairs. The ceiling was much higher, elaborately decorated with carved leaves and flowers, and frosted globes of light hung from it. Tides of perfume assaulted her senses and muddled with the smell of corned beef, fried onions, and the gunpowdery scent of cigars. The aroma of the food grew stronger as Reg led them across the vast waiting room toward the café.

The place was packed. A shining brass railing divided it from the main station, and people sat at a long counter behind the railing. Beyond that, Addie could see crowded tables covered in crisp white cloths. A small military band—a trumpet, a clarinet, a tuba, and a trombone—had set up by the entrance and was blaring out Sousa marches. Soldiers and their friends were lifting glasses and yelling toasts only to be drowned out by the music. Asian women in starched white uniforms moved through the crowds, holding trays aloft. Here and there, she could see lovers holding hands at the tables, their cups of coffee untouched at their elbows.

Emma Mae was sitting at the counter looking out into the station. Beneath the gauze veil that hung from her hat brim, her gaze swept the room.

Her eyes snagged on Peterson first and widened in astonishment. Then she touched her throat, half rising from her seat, as her gaze lit on Reg.

He shook his head warningly as they shoved their way closer through the crowd of revelers. “Don't react,” he told her quickly. “And don't tell anyone I'm here or that you're expecting me. There's a policeman following us.” He rammed his hand into his pocket, took out a silver money clip, and slid it into Emma Mae's hand. “Hold this for me until Peterson and I can change our gear.”

“Should I put it in your duffel?” She pointed to the floor.

“No. Keep it for now.”

Emma Mae sank back onto the barstool, her face nearly as white as the marble bust Addie had seen on the piano at the Jewel. Her eyes traveled from her son to Peterson. “I was afraid of this. Andrew talked Mr. Humphries into telephoning the police.”

“We figured.”

“They'll close the Jewel. He said they could if they find we've been hiding anything—or anyone.”

“Let's go.” Peterson tugged Reg's arm.

Addie turned quickly and saw the policemans helmet bobbing above the crowd, only a few yards away. “You can't. He's right behind us. You
have
to bluff it.”

Emma Mae looked wearily at Gustaf Peterson. “Who should I say you are? You can't be Reg.”

“He's Uncle Rob,” Reg said. “Do your best, Ma. We need to get rid of the copper.”

Quickly, Emma Mae's features relaxed into a warm and loving expression; her eyes shifted away from her son and gazed at Peterson. She extended her arm over the narrow counter, tenderly folding Gustaf's rough workman's hand in hers. “Rob! I'd nearly given up hope of seeing you!” She gave a tinkling laugh, let go of his hand and dropped the money clip into her handbag.

The waitress, red-faced and harassed, swooped in with a bottle of pale sparkling liquid and two glasses.

“Celery soda. Isn't it ridiculous? So barbaric not to have champagne. Three more glasses, please,” Emma Mae ordered.

“Not for the workman.” Reg stepped back, slightly apart from the rest.

“Two, that is. One for my brother and one for my—”

“Niece,” Addie filled in.

“Sophie.” Emma Mae gathered Addie into a quick embrace. “My, you've grown,” she said dryly. “Raise a toast with me, both of you. I feel maudlin, but I want our parting to be a happy one.”

Reg sprang forward suddenly, and Addie heard him whisper to Peterson. “Give me my enlistment papers. Just in case—they're in the pocket.”

Peterson shoved his hands into the deep pockets of the greatcoat.

“No, not that one,” Reg said impatiently, but then sank down on one knee and started fumbling with the laces on his boot.

The policeman was right beside him, a big hefty man in late middle age, struggling to catch his breath. He doffed his hat to Mrs. Powell. His blue jacket strained across an assertive belly. “Nice family group,” he remarked. He bowed from the neck and pulled a badge from his breast pocket.

Emma Mae looked innocently puzzled, and Addie did her best to follow suit.

“Detective Larson,” the man said. “I'm guessing you're Mrs. Powell, who owns the Jewel?”

“I am.” Emma Mae tilted her head. “Can I help you, Officer?”

The cop's eyes traveled slowly from Peterson to Addie and finally came to rest on Reg, who had stood up again, eyes still fixed on his feet. But when Detective Larson turned back to Emma, Addie saw Reg glance impatiently at the clock on the wall. Only fifteen minutes now before the train boarded.

“Just a few questions, ma'am,” the detective said. “I realize this isn't the best time.”

“Of course. I'll do my best to answer.”

Larson pointed at Peterson. “Is this man your son?” Emma Mae laughed her silvery laugh, and Gustaf, taking her lead, managed a faint chuckle. “My son? How old do you think I am, Officer?” The detective smiled thinly, not joining in. “This is my brother. I have two sons. One is a solicitor in Olympia. The other is still at college.”

A shadow crossed Reg's face.

“Rob Hamlin.” Peterson shook Larson's hand and Addie tensed. He
had
managed to flatten out his Swedish accent, but he still didn't sound native-born. The officer frowned. Peterson, though, went on, gesturing at Addie. “And my daughter, Sophie.”

Addie half whispered, “Pleased to meet you,” and tried to look bashful.

Larson turned back to Peterson. “I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. Hamlin, especially at a time like this.” He pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket and said to Emma Mae, “But it says here it's your son who's supposed to be reporting for duty. That fellow who called from the theater told us.”

“
What
fellow?”

The detective glanced back at the paper again. “Humphries? He's from the APL, so we got to listen to him. Called us up, told us your son was on his way across town with an escaped prisoner.”

“
What?
What nonsense! How would my son come by an escaped prisoner?”

“You tell me. We don't have any reason to doubt Mr. Humphries.”

Emma Mae hesitated, as if debating whether to speak. “I hate to cast aspersions, Officer, but as I was leaving, one of the ushers told me Mr. Humphries had brought a flask to the theater and was putting away shots of moonshine like a stevedore. Normally we'd evict anyone who did that, but ... The point is, if you let a man in that state send you on a wild goose chase...” She shook her head disapprovingly. “It doesn't seem right, especially when we're saying goodbye!”

The waitress returned with several long-stemmed glasses clattering in the crook of her arm. “Use what you need. I don't have time for special orders.” She lowered the glasses onto the bar and scurried away.

“But I'm not so sure it was a wild goose chase,” the detective said. “Your brother and your niece and...” He eyeballed Reg. “Who are you, exactly?”

Reg looked sullen. “Mack.”

“Mack who?”

Don't say Beth!
Addie thought furiously.
It isn't funny!

“Duffy.”

Addie rolled her eyes, wondering if Reg ever lost the urge to make jokes. “I drive for the Powells,” he added.

“That correct, Mrs. Powell?”

Emma Mae nodded.

Larson looked annoyed. “Humphries told us your name was Peterson and you were on the lam. Though by my count, you got a good few years before you'd match the man they described. Got a union card?”

Reg shook his head.

Without preliminary, Detective Larson stepped over to Reg and began searching him. Addie's stomach knotted.
Peterson better not have any other Wobbly stuff stashed away in his pockets,
she thought. Anger flashed in Reg's eyes and Addie could tell it was all he could do not to knee Larson in the groin. But then he picked up his character, and his face settled into an expression of resentful deference.

“You're not planning on searching
all
of us, are you?” Emma Mae gathered her velvet jacket about her disdainfully. Addie shifted her bag nervously on her shoulder, thinking of what was inside it.

Larson let go of Reg. “No, ma'am. But your family's got some explaining to do. Even if this fella ain't Gustaf Peterson and everything else that Humphries said was wrong, I still got to ask why these three just came from the
Daily Call
office. That's an IWW paper. On the booze or no—and that's a serious charge, Mrs. Powell—your four-minute man got that right.” The detective pulled a small notebook out of his pocket. “The report from Bryant said Peterson's daughter works for you. And there was some kerfluffle over a pistol when he went to the theater to question her. No one's claimed it yet, by the way. Given all that, I think it's fair to ask what your family was doing visiting Sam Sadler and his crew this evening.”

Emma Mae turned her gaze on Reg and Peterson. Addie could see a flash of fear, but then it was gone and her expression was composed. “The IWW? What
were
you doing with that crew?”

Reg opened his mouth, and then bit his lip, remembering he was just the hired man. Peterson was keeping quiet.
Someone has to answer,
Addie thought. “It was my idea.”

The detective swiveled his head and examined her again with his tiny snail eyes. “Yours?”

Addie nodded, thinking,
Oh, great. Why? Why was it my idea? Why would Reg's cousin Sophie from Montana suddenly get the idea to visit the Industrial Workers of the World?

But then she had it. It was nutty, but it was the only thing she could think of. Sophie was going to save Reg, of course. Wasn't that what girls
did?
Wasn't it in their genes or something, saving boys from themselves?

Grimly, Addie opened her purse and burrowed inside. She pulled out the folded newspaper she had taken from Andrew Lindstrom and handed it to the detective. Reg's eyes were burning into her back—she didn't have to turn around; she could feel them—but she couldn't help it if he was mad at her.

She looked pleadingly at Emma Mae. “I'm sorry, Aunt Emma! I
know
how furious you were with Reg for writing about those Wobblies in the prison.”

“Writing about—” Quickly, Emma Mae amended, “That's right. That did bother me.”

Addie turned to the detective. “One of the actors was trying to get my cousin Reg in trouble by showing this to Mr. Humphries. I was afraid he could go to jail for it. The dean wouldn't let him print it at the
Daily.
So someone gave him the crazy idea that he could get the IWW to print it.” She let her voice crack. “Dad and I wanted to make sure Reg didn't get into any more trouble. You know how he is, Aunt Emma!”

“Oh, I know
exactly
how he is.” Emma Mae's voice was brittle.

“So we had Duffy drive us over to tell Mr. Sadler not to accept any business from Reg; that if he did, Charlie would bring a lawsuit.” Addie squeezed out a tear. “Please say you're not mad at us.”

Emma Mae took Addie's hand and held it to her cheek. “I
am
a little put out with you, Sophie, for giving me such a scare. Detective, I'm so sorry to have wasted your time. And I'm sorry my relatives have made it so easy for you to think we're crazed revolutionists. We really aren't.”

Larson shrugged and stuck the newspaper in his jacket pocket. “That does clear up a few things. And I can check your story with Sadler. And with the provost. Who was that?”

“I—” Addie hesitated. “It was Professor Hanson. The point is the paper never got sold. So there's no harm done.”

Larson looked keenly at Emma Mae. “Where's your son now? Too busy writing subversive literature to say goodbye to his uncle?”

No one had thought of this. For a moment, Addie's mind went blank. She glanced at Reg. His face was ashen.

Peterson stuck his jaw out. “I told him to get lost.
That's
where he is.”

Emma Mae gasped.

Addie held her breath.
Don't say any more, Mr. Peterson. Don't let him hear your accent.

But Peterson put his rough workingman's hand on Emma Mae's shoulder. To Addie's relief, he flattened his vowels. “Sorry, Emma. I was mad! Playing the fool while you're working your fingers to the bone. It's more than I could stomach! You've spoiled him all your life, you know that.”

To Addie's shock, Emma Mae actually burst into tears. “You're right. I have!”

Addie thought this might be the most truthful thing anyone had said all night.

“All right,” the detective cut in. “Enough family drama. Mrs. Powell, you just keep that boy of yours out of trouble. Tell him we're keeping an eye on him.”

Emma Mae swallowed and said, “All right, Detective. I'll talk to him. I'm sure he'll listen to me.”

Addie glanced from Peterson to Reg, and then up at the clock above the ticket booths on the far wall, hoping that Detective Larson was done with them now.

But Larson pulled off his helmet and draped a leg over a free stool. “I hope so, ma'am. And, to show I've got no personal feelings in the matter, I'll pledge a toast in honor of your brother's service.”

He just wants to stick around to see if they're telling the truth,
Addie thought in dismay. But she managed to smile vapidly.

Emma Mae kept her composure. “We'd be honored, Detective.”

With a steady hand, she poured out four glasses of the soda and passed one to everyone except Reg. She held hers up and said, “Robinson Hamlin! May he honor his country and return safely home.” Addie could only touch the glass to her lips. She was afraid she would gag if she tried to drink.