Whistler in the Dark (6 page)

Jeremy rolled his eyes, and Emma felt her cheeks burn.
You'll never sell a newspaper like that
, she scolded herself. But honestly! English was obviously Mr. Torkelson's second language, and he needed a bath a great deal more than a newspaper.

But Mr. Torkelson nodded. “Oh, ya! Mr. Spaulding told me you were coming.”

“Here's an example of my mother's work.” Emma spread the old newspaper carefully on the plank that Mr. Torkelson used for a counter. “
The Twin Pines Herald
will be a weekly.” Her voice was still skinny, and she tried to flesh it out. “It will have both national and local news.”

“How much will it cost?”

“Annual subscriptions, paid in advance, are four dollars. Advertising space is four dollars for six lines for six months.” She opened her notebook and waited with pencil poised.

He grinned. “Ya, sure, I'll subscribe.”

“You
will
?” Emma released her breath in a whoosh. “Oh, thank you! I'll write your name down. You can stop by the print shop and pay my mother.”

“Don't got time for that. I'll give you gold dust up front.”

Crackers! Her mother hadn't said anything about taking gold dust.

“That's fine,” Jeremy said, nudging her—hard—in the ribs.

Emma's eyes widened as Mr. Torkelson pulled a small leather pouch from his pocket and poured a trickle of gold granules onto a small scale. Some were tiny as grains of sand, some bigger. Squinting, Mr. Torkelson added small round brass weights to the other side of the scale. After removing a pinch of gold dust, so that the scale was balanced, he scooped the tiny pile onto a piece of paper, folded it up, twisted the ends, and handed it to Emma. “Here.”

Emma tucked the twist into her pocket. “Thank you!” Her first sale—paid in gold dust! She wanted to whoop. Then she remembered the rest of her assignment. “Oh, yes—is there anything new in the freight business?”

Mr. Torkelson rummaged in his pocket and brought out a pouch of tobacco as he considered. “Well, one of my boys iss bringing in a load of goods this afternoon—the store-keep ordered three new bolts of calico for the store. The ladies might like that, ya? Ah! And I almost forget. The paper shipment iss due this afternoon, too. Mr. Spaulding ordered it for you ladies. I'll have it hauled to the print shop when it arrives.”

Emma nodded, scribbling. “Wonderful. Thank you again.” She shook his grimy hand before she and Jeremy headed back outside.

“Our first subscription!” Emma said happily. Was this how Mother felt when she accomplished something new?

“You did pretty good,” Jeremy allowed. “Once you got started.”

“But I needed your help about the payment.”

“Your mother will need to get a scale. Most folks around here pay up with gold dust. Nuggets are scarcer—they're worth a lot of money.”

Emma and Jeremy found more enthusiasm as they made their rounds. The barber, who worked from his wagon, subscribed. So did the hard-muscled woman who took in laundry. The blacksmith and the livery-stable owner both wanted to advertise their businesses in the newspaper. No one acted unfriendly or suspicious.

“Let's stop by Mr. Spaulding's office,” Emma said as they neared the center of town. “I want to tell him how well we've been doing.”

A rock propped open the land-office door. Emma paused in the doorway, admiring Mr. Spaulding's large, ornate desk and several gleaming chairs upholstered in black horsehair. A table held a row of ledgers, and several large maps hung on the back wall. An oil lamp with a fancy base adorned one corner of the desk, a brass coatrack and matching umbrella stand stood near the door, and a square carpet graced the floor.

But Mr. Spaulding, at the desk, sat over an open ledger with his head in his hands. Emma could just make out neat columns of figures marching down the ledger page. Suddenly he muttered an oath and snapped the book shut.

Emma rapped on the door frame. “Mr. Spaulding?”

His head jerked up. “What? Oh—come in.”

“We just wanted to tell you that everybody we've talked to this afternoon subscribed to the newspaper,” Emma said. “We should have
The Herald
up and running in no time.”

He rubbed his temples. “I only hope it's not too late.”

Emma glanced at Jeremy Thunderation! Was Mr. Spaulding giving up on Twin Pines before she and Mother even got the newspaper going?

Mr. Spaulding pushed his pen and inkwell away, closed the ledger, and reached for a large, polished wooden box sitting on the side of his desk. Opening the lid, he slipped the ledger inside on top of a pile of papers. Then he closed the box and snapped a tiny lock in place. The box was made of warm golden wood, with swirls in the grain. It reminded Emma of the box where her father had kept
his
correspondence tools. Father's box had those same unusual swirls in the wood. As a child, Emma had loved to trace them with a tiny finger, and to hide little surprises for Father in the box—a flower, a tea cake she'd brought from home …

Emma drew a deep breath, swiping away a tear. Unexpected reminders of Father still punched like a fist. She avoided Jeremy's curious gaze by focusing on one of the maps. Unlike the others, it was encased in a frame carved from walnut and gilded with paint. “Mr. Spaulding? What's that?” Emma pointed.

Mr. Spaulding led them to the map, which showed a small city. Emma had seen similar maps back in Chicago. Prepared by insurance companies, they were called bird's-eye maps because they were drawn from the perspective of a bird approaching overhead. Every building and street was clearly visible.

Mr. Spaulding regarded the map sadly. “This was my vision for Twin Pines.”

Emma stared. The Twin Pines of the land speculator's dreams was a bustling town of shops and homes and churches and schools, laid out on a neat grid of clean streets around a pretty town square. The map artist had added carriages and pedestrians, all looking stylish and serene. It was the town Mr. Spaulding had described in his letters.

“Oh my,” Emma murmured.

“Oh my, indeed.” The land agent shook his head.

“Mr. Spaulding, don't give up yet,” Jeremy begged.

“We're picking up lots of subscribers,” Emma reminded him. “Oh, and the freight-wagon man said he expects that the paper shipment you ordered will arrive today! We'll soon have our prospectus ready to go.”

Jeremy waited until they were outside before letting out a long breath. “Whoo! He sure seemed down.”

“Business must really be bad. Maybe he had to borrow money from a bank to buy up all the land around here, and now they want him to pay it back.” Emma sighed. “Where to now?”

Jeremy led her toward the general store. “Mr. Boggs will be glad to meet you,” he promised.

Inside the store, Emma recognized Mr. Boggs as the short man she'd seen dispensing the mail the day before. He was busy with a woman who was fingering bolts of cloth, so Emma had a chance to look around. The store offered barrels of crackers and cornmeal, piles of gleaming tin basins and lamp chimneys, boxes of buttons and soap, and shovels and buckets—all the basic necessities. But there wasn't much variety. And the prices! Fifty cents for a single pickled egg. A dollar for a peach. Common calico, thirty cents a yard.

“I'll be right with you two,” Mr. Boggs called. He pulled pieces of brown paper from a huge roll behind the counter, unwound string from a big ball of twine, and wrapped the woman's goods. “Thank you, Mrs. Barker,” he said, and then he turned to Jeremy and Emma. “Who's your new friend here, Jeremy?”

When Jeremy made the introductions, Mr. Boggs beamed. “I'm glad to support the paper. In fact, I'd like to talk with your mother about printing some special broadsides. Notices of sales and new items.”

“We can do that,” Emma promised. “My mother can tell you what it will cost.”

Before they left, Jeremy asked for two peppermint sticks. “My father said it was all right to put it on his account,” he said. Once outside, he cocked his head at Emma. “Come on. Let's take a break.”

He led Emma down a narrow alley that ran between Mr. Spaulding's land office and the saloon, away from the noise and filth of the main street. They emerged beside a towering pine tree—or was it two pine trees? Emma looked at the twisted trunk and wasn't sure if two trees had grown together, or if one tree had produced two trunks.

Jeremy dropped beneath the overhanging branches. “This here's the twin pines. Mr. Spaulding had his land office built right in front because he thought it was a good landmark. It's one of my favorite spots.” Emma hesitated—wearing her best dress hadn't been a bright idea after all—then sat down beside him. He handed her one of the peppermint sticks and grinned. “Here.”

“Thank you!”

“Everybody seems happy about the newspaper,” Jeremy said between licks of his candy.

“
Somebody's
not happy.” Emma gave Jeremy a sideways glance. Surely she could trust him! “My mother wants to believe it was a joke, but I really want to find out who stole the press handle and left that note. All morning, every time we passed someone, I'd think, ‘Is it
him
?'”

“I can't figure it.”

Emma's stomach curled as she remembered seeing that note. “Do you know a man named Dixie John? He stays at the boardinghouse. He wasn't very nice to me and Mother this morning.”

“He's a drifter. Gets gold fever every now and then and heads up to the hills. Comes back every time, either with gold to gamble and drink away at the saloon, or flat busted and looking for work. Ends up digging wells or chopping wood to make ends meet.” Jeremy shook his head. “He's an ornery sort. Had a hard time in the war, they say. Never got over the Confederacy losing.”

“My father was in the Union army. I wonder if Dixie John could be so bitter about that that he'd try to cause trouble for Mother and me. But …” She shook her head. “The press lever got stolen before he'd ever met us!”

Jeremy drew a deep breath and blew it out again, considering. “Well, he might have known your pa was a Union officer. I knew it.”

Emma stared at him. “How?”

“Your mother said so in her letter to Mr. Spaulding, and he told my pa.” Jeremy swatted a mosquito. “Your mother getting hired was big news.”

Emma turned that information over in her mind. “My mother said that a journalist looking to figure out a story asks simple questions—what, who, why. In this case, the ‘what' is that someone wants the newspaper to fail.” Emma thought for a moment, then pulled out her notebook. She wrote
Who
across the top of one page, and
Why
on the facing page. Underneath she penciled
Dixie John
and
Hates Unionists
.

Trying to sort things through sensibly felt better than just wondering and worrying. “What about Blackjack?” she asked. “Something about him made me nervous, and Dixie John accused him of cheating at cards.”

“Well … Dixie John might just be mad because he lost a few poker games.”

Emma twirled a pine needle between her fingers. “If Blackjack is dishonest, he might not want a reporter in town. He might be afraid that Mother will write an article about the accusations. It would be bad for his business.”

“Maybe.” Jeremy didn't look convinced.

Emma wrote
Blackjack
and
Something to hide?
in her book. “Can you think of anybody else?”

“Not offhand.”

Emma leaned against the tree trunk. It was pleasant to smell pine instead of the manure and garbage in the street. In this quiet moment, she could almost imagine the vision that Mr. Spaulding and Miss Amaretta Holly had for the town …

Emma caught her breath. Miss Amaretta hated Mother's Reform Dress, didn't she? And Mother had mentioned her interest in dress reform in her letter of application. “Before we got here, Jeremy, did you hear that my mother is a dress reformer?”

Jeremy wrinkled his forehead. “No. If your mother said so, I don't imagine Mr. Spaulding cared much—if he even knew what a dress reformer was.”

Still, Mr. Spaulding might have mentioned Mother's ideas about dress reform to Miss Amaretta. Could Miss Amaretta have stolen the press handle? Ridiculous! Emma couldn't bring herself to even mention that idea to Jeremy. Still, Emma scribbled
Miss A. H
. and
Disapproves of Reform Dress
before slapping her notebook shut.

“Let me know if you think of anyone else who might want to make trouble for us,” she said. “It means everything to my mother to make a go of it here.”

“To my pa, too.”

“I'm starting to figure out just how important the newspaper could be,” Emma said slowly. “To help attract a minister and schoolteacher and more farmers, and all.”

Jeremy sucked his peppermint stick for a moment, staring at his toes. “It's more than that to my pa,” he said finally. “My ma didn't want to come here. They argued about it, back in Indiana, after I was in bed at night. Pa said it would give me and my brothers a better foothold in life, to come out here where land was cheap. She finally gave in, but she up and died on us a few months after we got here.”

“I'm really sorry.” Emma understood. Did sudden memories still take Jeremy by surprise? Did unexpected reminders bring tears to his eyes—like that beautiful swirly-wood box of Mr. Spaulding's had for her?

“After we buried her, Pa stood over her grave and promised her that our farm would succeed. ‘It won't be a waste, Betty,' he told her. And then he bawled like a baby.” Jeremy swallowed hard. “Some folks farming up the valley from us have already bailed out. It would break my pa down if our place fails and we have to move on. The day Mr. Spaulding offered to buy Pa out, talking about how sorry he was that Twin Pines hasn't turned out like he planned, and how it looks like the whole place is going to go bust—that was a bad day.”