Suffragette to death, p.1
Suffragette to Death, page 1
Suffragette to Death
Barbara Schlichting
Copyright
Copyright © 2018 by Barbara Schlichting
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, products, logos, slogans, organizations, events, places, and incidents are products of author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or products or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Formatting by Rik – Wild Seas Formatting
First Lady Press books
http://www.barbaraschlichting.com
Dedicated to all the First Ladies, former and present.
Bless them for all they’ve done for our country.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Books by Barbara
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
WORD to DEATH
Disclaimer
Books by Barbara
An Experienced Goods Detective Squad
The Forger
Ila Looking Out
The Gin Game
Single Title
THE BROKEN CIRCLE
White House Dollhouse Mystery Series
SPANGLED to DEATH
WORD to DEATH
CLUED to DEATH
SUFFRAGETTE to DEATH
HISTORICAL FICTION
BODY ON THE TRACKS
POETRY
Blood Red
Bike With Me
PICTURE BOOKS
Red Shoes by Barbie Marie
Martha Washington: HER FIRST FEW DAYS AS FIRST LADY
NON-FICTION
Immigrant Snap Chat
You can write to Barbara Schlichting at schlichtingbarb@gmail.com.
You may also contact her through her website.
If you so choose, you may sign up for the newsletter on the website.
Chapter One
I woke early to a beautiful summer day.
Before leaving home, I kissed my handsome husband, Aaron, and walked out the door. The walk to my White House store near downtown Minneapolis, brought me past several ground-out cigarette butts near the bar appropriately named Pracna on Main. The rest of the way wound near the Mississippi River and a small park where children played, plus the old Grain Belt Brewery, now a library. There’s also a bike trail. In a few short minutes, I was unlocking the store’s back door.
I wanted to spend a few minutes with my assistant, Nancy. Nancy bears an uncanny resemblance to First Lady Edith Wilson. I’m not the only one who’s noticed; when Russ Lippmann, a Woodrow Wilson biographer, director and owner of the neighborhood theater met Nancy, he immediately sought her for a role. His Rose Garden Theater featured historical plays about First Ladies and he thought Nancy would be perfect for their new play about Edith Wilson.
I promised to help Nancy learn her lines, as it would give me a chance to find out more about Edith Wilson. I knew only a bit about her, and wanted to learn more.
The back door was still locked, so I knew that Max, my upstairs renter, wasn’t up, and that Nancy hadn’t arrived. The security code was Dolley Madison’s birthdate. After punching it into the pad, I opened the door and stepped inside.
In the workroom, I found a doll’s head carved, which meant that Max (who was also my employee), had spent the previous evening carving it. It’s my job to paint the doll’s head. Today I would paint Edith Wilson’s face. My clients liked the natural look of my dolls. I sew the inaugural gowns, but not the Presidents’ outfits. Those are easily purchased from a store in New Jersey. When the dolls are ready, then they’re sold with the appropriate White House dollhouse. With my cell phone, I took a moment to send Max a message to tell him the head was beautiful. As I hit send, a new message popped on the screen from Nancy. She wanted to know if a blueberry muffin and coffee were on the agenda? Of course I said, yes!
I walked into the showroom, and took a minute to
glance around. I made sure that the autographed pictures of First Ladies balanced evenly and that my framed doctoral diploma hung behind the computer where the checkout counter and cash register stood. Another wall featured my collection of miniature dollhouses and beside them my Penny dolls. I gave them a once-over with a duster, pinching my nose to avoid the particles.
Two days ago, I’d purchased Wilson memorabilia from a First Ladies descendant only online site. I’d
purchased Edith Wilson’s dollhouse and number of her papers plus a diary. I’m distantly related to Dolley Madison, and the site is privately owned by an Adams descendant. I wanted to show the dollhouse to Inga who owns the antique store on the opposite end of the block from the theater. I displayed it near the storefront window to draw in customers. My shop is just a short hop, skip, and a jump from the Mississippi River, which flows over St. Anthony Falls. The falls once harnessed energy to mill Gold Medal and Pillsbury flour. The other side of the river is downtown Minneapolis. This neighborhood is home to some of the oldest buildings in the city. Not far down Main Street is the historic Stone Arch Bridge, built by James J. Hill, the railroad magnate. I was pleased that our location fit right in with all the nearby historic sites.
I gazed out the front window. The cobblestone
street slowed a few motorists, but not all. Russ Lippmann walked past, heading toward the theater. He glanced in my direction, changed his course, and entered my store.
“Russ, how nice of you to come in.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t taken the time to look around.” Russ smiled as he gazed around the room. “My mother would love one of these houses.”
“Who was her favorite First Lady?”
“Oh, probably Abigail Adams. She loved how Abigail told John not to forget the ladies.”
“Our first champion for equal rights,” I said. “It’s too bad that Abigail had such trouble with arthritis
and couldn’t travel much. She wasn’t in the best of health once John became president.”
“The historical White House is so plain compared to the one we have nowadays, isn’t it?”
“Yes, and more gracious looking, I think.”
“More welcoming—like come in and have a look around,” Russ said. “I love it. Once the production run is finished, I’ll bring Mother down here to take a look.”
“Thank you. I’m looking forward to it.”
Russ walked out the door. I watched him as he headed toward the theater and thought how his silhouette reminded me of the former president, Woodrow Wilson. I turned toward the sound of the back door opening.
“Hey, Nancy.” I waved her over. “How much do I owe you for the muffins?”
“Forget it, Liv. I’m just happy that you’re here. It’s hard learning all these lines, and then Russ gave me a different script last night,” Nancy said. She set the bag of muffins down and handed me my coffee cup.
“What? Tonight’s your opening. Besides, he can’t do that, can he? He’s not the playwright,” I said. I noticed that Nancy’s brown eyes were bloodshot, and her usual neatly combed, long brown hair was unstyled. Her outfit was a wrinkled summer dress. “What’d you do? Sleep in your clothes?”
“No. I grabbed them from the clothes basket.” She gulped down the muffin. “Didn’t eat much except a bag of popcorn last night. I’m starved.”
“Let’s see that script.” I took it from her offered hand. “I’ve read through it once because I had wanted
to audition for the first lady role. Neither the president nor the first lady were depicted very well. What pages did he change?”
“Pages twelve through fourteen and further into Act Two as well,” Nancy said.
“Russ is not the playwright, is he?”
“No. Ann Michel is,” Nancy said. She flipped through the pages to the cover, and handed it to me for a look.
“This doesn’t make any sense. The script is rewritten so that it depicts more about Edith Wilson’s role in the White House as First Lady especially when her husband was seriously ill. The new title explains her role to a tee, Meet Presidentress Edith Wilson. How she handled the Suffragettes and how she supported him during the war,” I said. “The script must be unlicensed, for the rewrite to legally happen.” I flipped through it and read the marked changes in the first few pages. “What’s he talking about here, anyway?”
“Unbelievable. -You’d think Russ would know better.” Nancy’s eyes opened wide.
“He’s the Wilson biographer and probably doesn’t want a dim light shown on the president.” I frowned. “St ill, I think you’d better speak to the director or producer.”
“I’ll talk to the stage manager, Linda.” She sat down and stared up at me. “Now what do we do?”
“We rehearse the lines just as they were written.” I opened to page one. “Where are you having trouble?”
“Right…” she got up and touched the spot on the page, “There.”
“Okay. Why don’t you go from, ‘You can call me Mrs. President.”
Nancy began to speak her lines: “You can call me Mrs. President, but truly, I relay to the President what’s important, and he dictates what’s needed, and then signs it. And I hand it over to the proper cabinet member.”
I read the other parts and corrected Nancy as needed. At the end of Act I, I said, “That was good. Only four places where you were a bit off.”
“Yes, but what’s going to happen when Russ hears me recite these lines and not his rewrites?”
“Did he redo the script which refers to the Suffragists and the Night of Terror? The lines had surprised me because President Wilson’s Fourteen Points happened in 1919 and the Suffragist movement in 1917. The women protested outside of the White House for six days.” I read further. “He’s deleted all of this! I can’t believe it! Women almost died for the right to vote.” Fuming, I stared at her. “He can’t remove this. Those women fought hard. They lost their homes and families to march for equality.”
“I know. That’s what makes me so angry,” Nancy
said.
“I agree. When do you rehearse next?” I asked, scanning the script.
“Ten.” She glanced at the clock. “Fifteen minutes.” “Talk to the stage manager.” I handed back the
script.
“You’re right, I will,” Nancy said. She finished her drink and threw all the paper scraps into the garbage. “As a matter of fact, I think that I’ll do it right now.”
“Walk softly and carry a big stick, as Teddy Roosevelt once said.” I nodded my approval. “By the way, will you be able to work in the store today?”
“We’re supposed to rehearse this morning and our call is five-thirty for this evening’s production. Act I begins at 7:00 sharp.” She brushed herself off. “I was hoping to go home and take a nap after rehearsal. I’m beat.”
“If you need to, you can get some shut-eye here.
Maybe Max will let you use his couch.” “I’ll text him.”
“No matter what, Aaron and I will be in the audience tonight. Break a leg!”
“Thanks! But, I hope not!”
Nancy left, and I strolled to the front door and unlocked it. After turning the Closed sign to Open, I went over to the computer and decided to do a search on the origin of the expression “break a leg.” The source said that actors considered it bad luck to wish each other “good luck,” so they said “break a leg” instead. It fit under the guise of superstition.
I clicked from the site and opened a file about Edith Wilson and another on Woodrow. I wondered why Russ would want to change history? It was wrong. Everyone knew that Wilson had been near death after a stroke and the First Lady took over the office, dictating and running the nation as if she was president.
My cell phone rang just as a customer entered. The call was from Aaron, so I let it go to message. Glancing at the customer, I said, “Good morning. How may I help you?” She looked vaguely familiar, but I was unable to place her.
“Just here to look around.” She stopped right beside Edith Wilson’s antique dollhouse. “This isn’t for sale, is it?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I just purchased it and believe it had belonged to Edith Wilson.” I walked over toward her. “You’re awfully familiar. If you don’t mind my asking, who are you?”
“Linda—I’m the stage manager at the Rose Garden Theater. You’ve probably seen me walk past your window, that’s all.” Her tall, thin frame towered over me by a few inches. Her short blonde hair sparkled in the sunlight streaming through the window. She said: “Nancy just showed me what Russ did to the script.”
“And?” I held my breath.
“I told her to say the original lines. You can’t change them now, especially since she’s not a professional actor. It’s nerve-wracking enough for actors onstage without worrying about brand-new lines. The audience watching you, synchronizing your movements with your lines, stage light and sound changes, listening to the other actors recite, is really hard for a non-professional. I plan to speak to Russ in private when I get a chance,” Linda said.
“I’m glad.” I took a deep breath, and said, “It’s not right to trim history. The stories of the Suffragists and the struggle for equal rights need telling.”
“I agree. We still don’t have the ERA, but at least we have voting rights, thanks to those women.”
“Good! We’re on the same side.” I smiled and turned my attention back to the dollhouse. “I haven’t had a chance to look closely at this.”
“Well, I need to get back. I wanted to let you know not to worry about Nancy. She’s doing a great job.”
“Thank you,” I said. Linda’s smile lit up her face as we shook hands.
“See you later,” she said.
Back by the computer, I withdrew my phone and listened to my voice mail. “Honey, can’t make it to the opening tonight. I’ve been assigned another shift. Done at eleven. We’ll have all day tomorrow. Kisses.” I clicked from the message, and said, “Shoot!” aloud. I didn’t want to have to go alone to the theater, but this type of situation happens when you’re a policeman’s wife. I took a deep breath to try and shrug off the disappointment before redialing.
“Liv? Sorry,” Aaron immediately responded. “It can’t be helped.”
“Where will you be on patrol?”
“Right nearby. I’m going to try and sleep a little bit longer,” Aaron said.
“Good, you need your sleep,” I said. “I’m picking up some flowers for Nancy on her opening night, or do you think I should wait until after the show and give her a long stem rose?”
“Whatever you think is the thing to do.”
We disconnected and I called my grandma for her opinion about flowers. Her suggestion was a single
long stem rose at the end of the performance. I made a quick phone call and ordered one from the nearby florist, Yellow Daisy Floral. After, I logged into my store’s website and noticed that there’d been a number of views over the previous few days, and I hoped the picture of the antique Edith Wilson dollhouse would draw them into the store. I answered a few questions concerning First Ladies before logging off the site.
The morning fled by with a couple customers coming inside for a “look and see” stroll between the aisles. I was all caught up for the moment on sewing the inaugural ball gowns so I removed my quilt pieces from the bag I stored nearby. During the down time, I worked on quilt squares. This particular quilt was called the Texas Star which once was known as the Dolley Madison Star. I’d finished piecing a block together in the workroom when Max entered, carrying an Edith Wilson dollhead. He also had to tell me that tonight he planned to carve another Barbara Bush doll since a customer inquired about her yesterday. He made sure that we always had one doll to spare of each First Lady.
“Have you heard from Nancy?” I asked before he
walked out.
“She’s upstairs on the couch.” Max removed a cigarette from his pocket.
“Catch you later.” I knew he wouldn’t return anymore today. Carving dolls and looking after the store was his main job, but for extra cash, he picked up odd jobs. I never really knew what or where he worked besides his store hours. Basically, I trusted
him to take over when I had to be gone and Nancy wasn’t here. I respected his privacy.
I glanced at the clock and realized that it was time for lunch. Down the block was a hamburger joint, and I purchased one to go plus a glass of iced tea. The rest of the afternoon was spent sewing Edith Wilson’s inaugural gown. The black charmeuse satin trim on black velvet gave me a headache. I set the tiny gown aside to finish on another day. I picked up Barbara Bush’s royal-blue gown and stitched the velvet bodice and skirt. I finished the gown and readied it for the doll, which I still needed to paint.
