But it saddened Tess that neither she nor Whitney could compile an even partial list of Maryland heroines as they walked from Whitney’s office at the Talbot Foundation to the Mu-sheum’s headquarters on Calvert Street. No, it was Crow and Daniel Clary, whom she had invited as a lark, who knew much more when it came to Maryland ’s hit parade of double-X chromosome cases than either of its native daughters.
“Elizabeth Seton, of course. She’s a saint,” Crow began.
“I’ve heard of Seton Hill,” Tess said.
“Barbara Mikulski,” Daniel said. “Former social worker who became a U.S. senator. Rosa Ponselle, the opera singer.”
“Billie Holiday.” That was Whitney’s offering. Bareheaded, she seemed not to notice how cold it was, or that snow was expected to start falling at any moment. Her pale face did not redden, which made her green eyes darker and harder. Like emeralds, Tess thought, her mind back with the parure bracelet.
“But she was actually born in Philadelphia,” Daniel pointed out. “Remember when the Blight publicized that, how people just kind of ignored it because it wasn’t what they wanted to hear?”
“Well, if you want to believe what you read in the Beacon-Light,” said Whitney, who had once worked at the paper and consequently had more disdain for it than anyone else Tess knew. “Besides, there’s a statue of her over in West Baltimore. So she must be from here.”
“There’s a bust of Simón Bolívar in a park in Guilford,” Crow said. “Does that mean he’s from here? Now, come on, can’t you think of anyone else who might be in a museum devoted to famous Maryland women?”
“Wallis Warfield Simpson,” Whitney said. “The Cone sisters. Did I tell you I went to a fund-raiser at the museum once, and one of the local restaurants was serving garlic mashed potatoes scooped into little focaccia funnels, in honor of the Cone collection? I don’t know. I can’t imagine that’s what the sisters had in mind when they donated all their Matisses and Picassos to the BMA, seeing their name turned into a potato snack.”
“Linda Hamilton.”
Tess was immediately embarrassed by her lowbrow pop-culture contribution, especially when Crow, Whitney, and Daniel chorused in unison: “Who?”
“The actress from the Terminator movies. You know, the one with the arms. She’s from the Eastern Shore.”
“Oh, well, movies,” Whitney said scornfully. “If that counts as history, we’re all in trouble.”
“If it doesn’t, I’m afraid the Maryland Mu-sheum is in trouble.”
From the outside, the Mu-sheum was just another Calvert Street rowhouse, in the seedier upper reaches of Mount Vernon. The other rowhouses here had been subdivided into apartments or turned into offices for architects and lawyers. This one was better kept than its neighbors, however, with window boxes, empty in winter, and the sparkling-white marble steps that Baltimoreans so fetishize.
Inside, the tiled vestibule was clearly on familiar terms with ammonia and strong cleansers. The brass fixtures gleamed and Tess felt almost guilty for leaving a fingerprint behind when she pressed the call button beneath a hand-lettered notecard, mm.
“M amp;M’s?” Whitney asked hopefully. “Marilyn Monroe?”
“ Maryland Mu-she-um, I guess.” Tess could not quite get the name out without a giggle and a sigh.
A throaty whisper answered Tess’s ring, and the interior door’s lock was released.
Tess had expected a private home with a few framed photographs and glass cases of dusty artifacts, but the rooms they entered were as professional looking as any small gallery, with blond wood floors, white walls, and track lighting. A rectangular shadow box, featuring Maryland ’s writers, was hung on the wall to their immediate left.
“Anne Tyler, of course!” Whitney said. “I see her at Eddie’s.”
“Do you ever try to talk to her?” Daniel asked.
“Of course not. If you know enough to recognize Anne Tyler, you know enough not to approach her.”
Don’t be so imperious, Tess wanted to hiss at her friend. You’ll scare him off.
The other books and photos in the case included Leslie Ford, a mystery writer from the 1930s; Gertrude Stein, who had passed some time in Baltimore with Alice B. Toklas; a woman known for one book, Here at Susie Slagle’s; and Sophie Kerr, who had used the money she made as a popular novelist to endow the country’s richest literary prize, at Tess and Whitney’s alma mater. Then there was Zelda Fitzgerald-who had come to Baltimore primarily for its mental hospitals, alas-and Louise Erdrich.
“Louise Erdrich?” Crow asked. “But she’s from out west somewhere, lived in New Hampshire, and then moved to Minnesota. How does she qualify?”
“Got her MFA at Johns Hopkins.” It was the whis-pery voice that had admitted them, but Tess couldn’t see anyone. “I was going to put Grace Metalious in there too-her second marriage took place in Elk-ton-but I think I’ll wait and devote a special exhibit to Peyton Place later. I’m very liberal in what constitutes a local, if it’s someone I want to include. I can also be quite strict, if it’s someone I want to exclude. You’ll notice Maria Shriver is here but not Kathleen Kennedy Townsend. I can’t help feeling she’s something of a carpetbagger, even if she is lieutenant governor.”
The curator-owner had been lurking behind a glass display case, which was possible because she was quite small. Well, she was short. It was hard to ascertain her body’s proportions, given the voluminous yards of silk in which she had wrapped herself. That, and the snowy white turban she wore, made her look like a fortuneteller or psychic. But the white puff on her head wasn’t a turban, Tess realized on second look, just her hair, teased into a hard bubble. The Mu-sheum curator looked a little like a better-kept version of the distracted-looking women seen wandering the city’s streets, muttering to themselves. The women who walk, as Tess thought of them, for they stalked through their empty days with a palpable sense of mission, speaking sternly to themselves.
But this woman had something the crazy women didn’t have, a sense of irony, a self-awareness of her eccentricity that made her approachable.
“You’re the young woman I spoke to on the phone,” the curator said, moving toward Whitney. People always assumed Whitney was in charge. “I’m Mary Yerkes.”
“No, I’m the one who called, Tess Monaghan,” Tess said. “Whitney Talbot and Crow Ransome came along because they’re interested in Maryland history, while Daniel Clary works at the Pratt.” She had used Whitney to provide plausible cover for this visit, and Crow was trying to stick close to her side these days, determined to go with her where Esskay and Miata could not. “But Whitney’s family foundation often underwrites projects such as yours. You might want to chat with her about what you do, apply for a grant.”
“Oh, no,” Mary Yerkes said, smiling, fiddling with one of her earrings. They were clip-ons, quite large, silver tabby cats with gleaming blue eyes. “I don’t want anyone else’s money, because I don’t want anyone telling me what to do. This is a very personal project. I won’t even apply for nonprofit status. Then again, there is no profit-I just put my collections together and let people come by and see them. I refuse donations.”
“But how do you support yourself?” Daniel asked.
“With money,” the curator replied, eyes narrowed, as if she found the question odd. “Oh, you mean, where does the money come from? I had a little inheritance from my father. You see, Father didn’t believe in higher education for women. So he sent my brothers to college and invested the money he would have spent on my tuition, saying it would be my dowry. But I fooled him; I never married. By the time he died, that little stake of money was worth quite a bit. I think I got the best end of the deal. Because the only reason I wanted to go to college was to read history and literature, and it turns out you can do that on your own. So my brothers have degrees; I have my historical mission and one million dollars, thanks to the wonders of compound interest.”