Sara Paretsky (editor) - Women on the Case

WOMEN ON THE CASE: Introduction copyright 1996 by Sara Paretsky

PARTIES UNKNOWN BY THE JURY; OR, THE VALOUR OF MY TONGUE by P. M. Carlson copyright 1996 by Patricia Carlson

A ROCK AND A HARD PLACE by Nancy Pickard copyright 1996 by Nancy Pickard Trust

SOLAR ZITS by Liza Cody copyright 1996 by Liza Cody

THE ASTRONOMICAL SCARF by Ruth Rendell copyright 1996 by Ruth Rendell

ON THE EDGE by Inna Muravyova copyright 1996 by Irina Muravyova. Translation copyright 1996 by Marian Schwartz.

NIGHTFIRE by Eleanor Taylor Bland copyright 1996 by Eleanor Taylor Bland

BENEATH THE LILACS by Nevada Barr copyright 1996 by Nevada Barr

NOTHING TO LOSE by Frances Fyfield copyright 1996 by Frances Fyfield

THE SURPRISE OF HIS LIFE by Elizabeth George copyright 1996 by Elizabeth George

ONLY A WOMAN by Amel Benaboura copyright 1996 by Amel Benaboura. Translation copyright 1996 by Jeremy L. Paretsky.

MILES TO GO by Dorothy Salisbury Davis copyright 1996 by Dorothy Salisbury Davis

A LESSON IN MURDER by Andrea Smith copyright 1996 by Andrea Smith

MISS GIBSON by Linda Barnes copyright 1996 by Linda Barnes

GREEN MURDER by Susan Geason copyright 1996 by Susan Geason

THE BARONESS by Amanda Cross copyright 1996 by Carolyn Heilbrun

7.62 by Pieke Biermann copyright 1996 by Pieke Biermann. Translation copyright 1996 by Ines Rieder and Pieke Biermann.

ILL GET BACK TO YOU by Susan Dunlap copyright 1996 by Susan Dunlap

SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER by Helga Anderle copyright 1996 by Helga Anderle. Translation copyright 1996 by Tobe Levin.

DREAMS OF HOME by Dicey Scroggins Jackson copyright 1996 by Mary Jackson Scroggins

HAMLETS DILEMMA by Linda Grant copyright 1996 by Linda V. Williams

LOST DREAMS by Myriam Laurini copyright 1996 by Myriam Laurini. Translation copyright 1996 by William I. Neuman.

A WITCH AND HER CATS by Antonia Fraser copyright 1996 by Antonia Fraser

BELLADONNA by Barbara Wilson copyright 1996 by Barbara Wilson

PUBLICITY STUNTS by Sara Paretsky copyright 1996 by Sara Paretsky

THE CRACKS IN THE SIDEWALK by Marcia Muller copyright 1996 by Marcia Muller

PERFORMANCE CRIME by Lia Matera copyright 1996 by Lia Matera

P lease, I beg you! Dont ask me to recount the story of that cruel night in 1892! As Shakespeare says, On horrors head horrors accumulate. I have nightmares to this day! Besides, I was not the tragedys heroine. Im bound to admit that I was merely the comic relief. Or worse.

But if you insist

To begin with, my handsome gray bengaline gown with bouffant Parisian-style sleeves was not suited to the night wind that blew chilly as a graveyard into the open door of the railroad car. But the conductor remained adamant. Madam, you must get off here.

I fluttered my eyelashes at him, doing my best to appear a proper lady, though I feared he had long since realized that I was of the theatrical profession. But, sir, my family in St. Louis can pay amply when we arrive. Surely you can allow a young lady a few more miles in the middle of the night!

Madam, St. Louis is more than a few miles on. The Chesapeake and Ohio is not in the business of giving free rides to St. Louis. So saying, the conductor thrust my small steamer trunk and my Gladstone bag onto the station platform. I leapt from the train and lifted my trunk, attempting to heave it back aboard, but with deafening blasts of steam and screeches of metal on metal, the train began to move. My trunk and I thumped down onto the platform. I shook my fist at the conductor and shouted into the departing clamor of iron and steam, The worm of conscience still be-gnaw thy soul!

There was no response. The train disappeared into the blackness. I shivered again and opened my trunk to get out my worn blue traveling cape, my blond wigfar warmer than any hatand a cigar. I pulled the wig over my red hair, wrapped the cape about me, and sat down on my trunk for a smoke and a good think.

Was ever a lady so beset by misfortune? Ticketless, penniless, jobless, hungry, and lonely, I was in sympathy with the perturbed spirits that seemed to ride the frosty March wind. I missed my brother, who had long since died for the Union cause, and my dear Aunt Mollie. I sorrowed that my beloved elocution tutor, the illustrious English actress Mrs. Fanny Kemble, was failing and might soon join them in their heavenly abode. So, too, my famous colleague Edwin Booth was in decline, seldom leaving his grand home on Gramercy Park. I tapped the ash from my cigar and grieved for the passing of a glorious era.

The great Sarah Bernhardt was still alive and well, of course, but that was of limited consolation to me just now, for she too was touring the American provinces and had cut deeply into my troupes profits whenever our paths crossed. I was hard put to leave enough with my friends in St. Louis to provide for my dear little nieces spring toilette. My troupe had continued to New Orleans, and not having to contend with Bernhardt, our first night there had been reasonably profitable. I had dared to hope again. But disaster had struck. Our handsome leading man, succumbing to the charms of the French Quarter, had drunk himself into such a stupor that the patrons began to stamp and to throw unpleasant objects at us amid shouts demanding their money back. Leaving the drunken Richard in a blinking heap center stage, we scurried for the stage door, only to find the managers men there before us. We did not escape until they had emptied our pockets completely so that they could reimburse the angry audience. Thus I was forced to board the train in New Orleans in great stealth, and without benefit of ticket.

And now, the Chesapeake and Ohio had struck the crowning blow, removing me from the train and abandoning me heartlessly in the middle of the night! Do you wonder that I felt forlorn? I found myself longing for my dear departed friend Jesse James, who was handy at wreaking revenge on selfish banks and railroads.

I looked about. The few passengers who had alighted by choice had long since left the station, and the ticket master, snug in his office, would most likely chase me from the waiting room. The rails, reflecting the dull gleam of the station lamps, disappeared north and south into the inky Tennessee night. To the west, the great dark Mississippi rolled. A few shacks and piers could be made out along the near shore, but they appeared to be deserted at this hour. To the east, the city of Memphis slept. I remembered spending three days here with dear Mr. Booths tour five years before, in 1887. Being short of funds, Id inquired of a kindly Negro letter carrier if there was a way for an honest lady to earn a few pennies to get her dress repaired, and he had introduced me to an ambitious young teacher at the colored school who desired elocution lessons. Aside from these industrious people, who were doubtless fast asleep somewhere in the colored section, I knew no one in Memphis, and remembered it as one of the sleepier river towns.

The ghostly wind rattled through the weeds and fluttered a corner of my cloak. With a last puff on my cigar, I lifted my Gladstone bag and my heavy trunk and hid them under a stack of grain sacks that were awaiting shipment. I headed for town on the slim chance that I might encounter a kind-hearted and helpful gentleman still awake.

I picked my way along the pitch-dark street that led away from the river. But when I reached Front Street, the first crossing, I saw lights and several small clusters of gentlemen standing and talking in the street. The Front Street tavern was doing a brisk trade even at this late hour. I paused to pull my rouge from a handy pocket in my bouffant sleeve, applied just a touch to my lips, and went in.