A Proper Pursuit (28 page)

Mary cupped her hand around my ear again and whispered, “They have
nudes
.” I stifled a sigh.

Viewed from the outside, the state pavilions were all very different from each other and seemed very interesting to me, but the only building that Mr. Claxton’s guidebook allowed us to enter was the Illinois State Pavilion.

“Why would we waste time here?” I asked. “We live in Illinois. We can see the real thing every day.”

Herman stared at me, oblivious to the irony. “The pavilion offers a chance to learn something new about our state. The guidebook says it will be ‘very interesting.’ ”

I dutifully wandered through the Illinois building, longing to see exotic displays that were truly very interesting. I didn’t find General Grant’s memorabilia interesting in the least, nor the Women’s Corn Kitchen featuring one hundred different ways to prepare Illinois’ favorite agricultural product—corn. I couldn’t imagine that the pavilion had earned even an “interesting” rating, let alone “very interesting.” I decided to start my own rating system: “boring,” “exceedingly boring,” and “I’m-falling-asleep boring.” In the “exceedingly boring” category was a huge mosaic of a prairie farmyard, complete with cattle and horses, made entirely out of seeds and grains. Herman stood before it awestruck.

“Look, Mary! Even the frame is made from ears of corn.”

“My word,” she murmured. I stifled a yawn.

We walked around the fairgrounds all morning, following the approved path as if it would lead us to buried treasure. As Herman narrated the highlights for us, I learned that he was very fond of statistics.

“Did you know that the fair has more than sixty-one acres of lagoons and waterways, and over three miles of intertwining canals?”

“My word …” his sister replied breathlessly. I wasn’t sure if it was from wonder or the brisk pace Herman set.

Whenever he began a sentence with “Did you know… ?” I braced myself for another batch of statistics, invariably followed by another awestruck, “My word …” from his sister.

“Did you know,” he asked as we viewed the enormous Manufactures and Liberal Arts Building, “that you’re looking at the largest building in the world? The fair is comprised of fourteen Great Buildings and more than two hundred others—at a cost of twenty-eight million dollars.”

“My word …”

“Did you know,” he asked as we approached the Electricity Building, “that each of that building’s ten spires is one-hundred-seventy- feet high? The fair uses more than one hundred twenty thousand incandescent lights and seven thousand arc lights.”

“My word …”

“Did you know,” he asked as we viewed the Horticulture Building, “that this building houses the world’s largest collection of horticultural products? The gardens feature a half a million pansies and one hundred thousand roses.”

“My word …”

We spent a considerable amount of time in the glass-domed Horticultural Building, viewing an endless number of plants and flowers. It earned my highest rating for boring. I longed to see something truly exciting.

“Does the guidebook recommend any foreign pavilions?” I finally asked.

“A few, but I’m not sure we’ll have time for any of them.”

I decided that I would never suffer from insomnia again if I married Herman Beckett. Nelson Kent, on the other hand, might not be faithful to me, but he would take me to Italy and Paris.

“Do you ever feel the urge to see the world, Herman?”

“Not really. If one can’t find contentment at home, one is unlikely to find it anywhere else.”

Could that be true? Did the fact that I had been discontented living in Lockport mean that I was doomed to a life of discontent? If so, I may as well marry Nelson and be discontented but rich.

Shortly before noon we at last viewed something that was “remarkably interesting.” The Fisheries Building featured ten aquariums displaying beautiful, fascinating worlds that I never knew existed beneath the seas. I got so carried away that I found myself asking Herman, “If you could choose to live on another planet or to live under the sea, which would you choose?”

“I wouldn’t want either,” he replied. “I’m content where I am.” His sister nodded.

“Suppose you
had
to choose?” My impatience and frustration must have shown; perhaps in the way I stomped my foot. Herman turned from the aquarium to gaze at me with a look of concern.

“I don’t understand why the question is so important to you, Violet.”

I didn’t know either. I couldn’t stop thinking of Silas and how much fun he’d had answering my questions.

On the way out we passed a statue that reminded me of Cupid, and I found myself asking, “Do you believe in love?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know—falling in love, love at first sight, true love, everlasting love. Or do you think it’s only found in fairy tales?”

Herman’s face turned the color of beet juice. “Honestly, Violet. Does it matter what I think?”

“I would like to know.”

“Well, then, I would have to say I believe love exists—although I would be highly suspicious of love at first sight. I believe love is something that grows over time as two people get to know each other.”

He whipped open his guidebook and gave it all of his attention, cutting off all further discussion of love. “Let’s see, now… .What’s next?”

“How about a gondola ride on the lagoon?” We were standing alongside one of the many canals, and the boats looked as graceful as swans as they glided over the water. The gondoliers in their colorful costumes added to the illusion of adventure and romance.

“The lines are too long. The guidebook says we would waste too much time waiting. Besides, the admission fee is rather expensive.”

But Herman did consent to eat our picnic lunch on the grass alongside the lagoon so we could watch the gondoliers poling more fortunate fairgoers across the water. Mary unpacked her picnic basket and passed around the ham sandwiches she had made.

“What do you want in life, Herman?” I asked. It must have been the Grecian-style buildings with their multitude of pillars that had made me so philosophical.

“I would prefer a simple life with a peaceful home in a quiet town like Lockport,” he replied. “I couldn’t stand to live in a big city like Chicago with all of this noise and dirt and rushing around.”

“Wouldn’t you like to travel and see new places?”

“As I said, I believe that we are happiest when we learn to be content at home. We should want nothing more than the life God has given us. Why try to be something we’re not?”

Contentment. I didn’t have it. In truth, it sounded boring—like the last stage one reaches before falling asleep. House cats were content, and they slept all day.

“I would like to have a happy home,” Herman continued. “A refuge I could return to after a day’s work.”

“What about fun?”

“Well, I enjoy boating in Dellwood Park in the summertime … skating in the winter … attending church on Sunday. I would like to have children and a family… .”

“A family,” I repeated. I was suddenly reminded of my father and Murderous Maude. “Speaking of families, have you heard that my father plans to marry Maude O’Neill?”

“Yes. They seem very content.”

I tried not to roll my eyes. “I understand you know Maude O’Neill quite well. Tell me, was she content with her first husband?”

“I’d rather not say.”

He didn’t have to; his face said it all. He not only was blushing, his wooly-caterpillar-eyebrows were kissing as voraciously as Nelson and Katya had. Mary rummaged through the picnic basket as if searching for her ticket out of this conversation.

I suddenly recalled something that I’d learned from Ruth’s detective novels:
Sometimes it’s not what people
say
that’s important, it’s what
they
don’t
say
. If Maude and her husband had been happy, why not say so?
“Mr. O’Neill was a wonderful man. They were so happy. She was
devastated when he died.”
Herman’s silence spoke volumes.

“Why won’t you tell me, Herman?”

“It isn’t right to gossip.” He started to rise, but I gripped his arm, stopping him.

“It isn’t gossip. She’s going to marry my father. She will be my … my stepmother.” I winced as I said the word. How I hated it. “Listen, I know that my father’s first marriage ended unhappily, so I’d like to know if he’ll find happiness the second time around.”

“I’m not in a position to say.” He broke free and stood, then offered me a hand up as well.

This detective business was very hard work. I had read about reluctant witnesses in Ruth’s
True Crime Stories
, and now I had encountered one. I decided to try a different approach, hoping that my feminine charm would do the trick. I linked my arm through his as we started walking and mustered all of my feminine weapons: my coy, flirtatious voice; my enigmatic smile; my fluttering eyelashes. I gazed up at him adoringly.

“Listen, Herman, just tell me one thing: do you think Maude loves my father or is she still pining for her first husband?”

“I hardly think she is pining for him! He—” Herman stopped, horrified that he had said so much. “I never meant to gossip.”

“I know. I don’t think telling someone the truth is in the same category as gossip.”

“Maude O’Neill is a wonderful woman,” he said, showing more passion than I had ever seen from him. “She deserves a happy life with a good man like your father.”

“How did she and my father meet? As you know, I’ve been away at school for the past three years.”

“They’ve known each other for several years. Mr. O’Neill worked for your father at one time.”

His words horrified me. What if Maude and my father had fallen in love before Mr. O’Neill’s death? What if I continued to probe and discovered that Father was Maude’s accomplice in the murder?

“You’ll be home for their wedding, I assume?” Herman asked.

“Huh?”

“When are you coming back to Lockport?”

I wanted to shout,
“Never!”

“I-I’m not sure,” I said instead. Perhaps I should stop my investigation. But how else could I prevent Father’s marriage?

I pondered my dilemma for the next hour or so as we journeyed through the fairgrounds. None of the exhibits fascinated me as much as the aquariums had. And many of them, like the display of every type of paper money the government had ever issued, were astoundingly boring. But when we came upon a replica of the Liberty Bell made entirely out of oranges, it was such a ludicrous sight that I had to cover my mouth to keep from laughing out loud. I glanced at Herman to see his reaction and caught him staring at the bell with a look of wonder on his face.

“Isn’t that a marvel?” he asked. “It even has the famous crack!”

“My word …” Mary breathed.

A giggle that I could no longer suppress sputtered out. Once unleashed, my hilarity bubbled forth until I was laughing out loud.

“Violet? What’s so funny?” Herman asked.

“That bell! I think it’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen!”

“Excuse me?”

“Aren’t there better things to do with a couple of crates of oranges? I mean, why not pass them out to the poor children instead of gluing them into the shape of a bell?” Now I sounded like Louis Decker. Herman gazed at me as if I’d spoken blasphemy.

“Sometimes I don’t understand you at all, Violet,” he said, slowly shaking his head.

“They’re oranges, for goodness’ sake,” I said, still unable to control my laughter. “What do oranges have to do with the Liberty Bell? The founding fathers didn’t win our freedom by lobbing oranges at the British, did they?”

“Maybe we should move on.” People were staring at us—or more specifically, at me—and I could see that my laughter embarrassed Herman. I couldn’t seem to stop.

“Did George Washington cross the Delaware on a raft of orange crates?” I asked. “Did Thomas Jefferson toast the signing of the Declaration of Independence with a glass of orange juice? Did Patrick Henry say, ‘Give me oranges or give me death’?”

“I really think we should move on.” Herman marched me from the building as if dragging me to the headmistress’ office by my ear. Mary scurried behind us with her head lowered.

I was still wiping tears from my eyes when we emerged from the building into the sunlight. Herman paused for a moment to bury his nose in the guidebook, searching for the next marvel on his list, when all of a sudden I saw Silas McClure walking straight toward me. At least I thought it was Silas.

He was dressed like a British lord in a suit that was as finely cut and tailored as Nelson Kent’s suits were. He had grown a mustache and a neat goatee since the last time I’d seen him, and he wore a fedora on his carefully barbered head. He even carried a silver-topped cane.

“Mr. McClure?” I said as he approached.

He didn’t turn his head at the sound of his name, but continued to stroll straight down the pathway. A moment later he vanished into the crowd. Could I have been mistaken? Did Silas have a twin brother? And if so, was he a thief too? If so, he was a much more successful thief, judging by his clothing.

“Who was that?” Herman asked.

How in the world could I explain Silas McClure?
“Oh, just a thief
I met on the train to Chicago. I helped him and his pals pull off a robbery
the last time I visited the fair.”

“No one,” I sighed. “He resembled someone I know, but I guess it wasn’t him.” Yet the stranger had the same effect on me that Silas always had. My heart was chugging like an engine at full steam. I had to change the subject.

“I hear there’s a walkway on the top of the Manufactures and Liberal Arts building that offers a marvelous view. Does your guidebook recommend it by any chance?”

“It costs extra.”

I might have known.

The aroma of exotic food and spices rose to my nostrils in tantalizing fashion from dozens of pavilions we passed. We didn’t sample anything. The only food item Herman purchased was water from the Hygeia Water stand, and he complained about that.

“I think it’s outrageous to charge money for a drink of water! Water should be free. Just look—there’s a Great Lake full of water, right over there. What will they charge us for next? Are they going to make us pay for soil? Or for air?”