“Do you consider yourself a historian?” Tess asked.
“I believe everyone’s a historian,” Mary Yerkes said, and Daniel nodded, as if he had found a kindred spirit. “We are the historians of our own lives. Think of the way most people decorate their homes, how they keep scrapbooks and correspondence, as if awaiting history’s anointment. I’ve simply widened the scope beyond myself.”
Tess saw her point. “But why a museum dedicated to women?”
“Why not? Gracious, darling, they have a museum dedicated to the city’s sewer systems. Don’t you think women deserve one too?”
“Wouldn’t it be better,” Whitney asked, “if women’s history took its place alongside men’s, if we saw history as an inclusive panorama, as opposed to being totally Balkanized so every special interest group has to have its own slot?”
Mary Yerkes reached up and pinched Whitney’s cheek as if she were an adorably precocious child-no small feat, given that Whitney was as tall as Tess and there was little flesh to spare on her sharp-boned face.
“Darling, of course it would. You send me a telegram the day that happens, okay? Assuming I’m alive to see it.”
The four began to walk through the gallery, an open space created by knocking down most of the walls on what had been the grand first floor, although the sliding doors between the front parlor and dining room had been retained. It was hard to know if Mary Yerkes was a little daft or ironic like a fox. The Maryland in the movies section, for example, included Edith Massey who had starred so memorably in early John Waters films. But here, also, was Divine, Waters’s best-known star. Mary Yerkes had to realize that Glenn Mil-stead, as he had been born and as he had died, did not qualify for membership here. But, as she said, she was liberal about those she wanted to include, strict when she wanted to keep someone out. It was her museum, after all.
And she did have a photograph of Linda Hamilton, Tess noted, circa Terminator 2, with those wonderfully veiny arms. Tess had tried to develop her own arms to look like that but quickly realized she wasn’t prepared to make the dietary concessions that the cut look demanded. Nothing was worth giving up bread and pasta.
“Now, is there something in particular you wanted to know?” Yerkes asked as they wandered through the rooms, trying to take everything in.
“A local jeweler sent me here,” Tess said. “He thought you might know something about Betsy Patterson Bonaparte.”
“I was interested in her, when I was younger. The phase passed-it saddens me now to contemplate women who had to marry their way into history-but I did quite a bit of reading on her at one point.”
“Were you interested enough to read her correspondence or any primary documents from the era? I’m trying to find out if there are any mentions of gifts Jerome might have made to her-specifically a parure”- she stumbled over the French word, but Mary Yerkes nodded-“made from gold and emeralds.”
“It doesn’t ring a bell, but I’m an old woman. There are many bells that don’t ring in my belfry anymore. However, it’s something I could research for you, if you’d like. I have my own library on the upper floors, with all sorts of texts and articles about the clothing and jewelry of the day.”
Whitney, who could race through even the most comprehensive museum exhibits as if they were time trials, had taken everything in and was growing impatient, while Daniel had gone back to the literary display near the front. But Crow, still young enough to be indiscriminate about the way he stuffed his brain with facts and trivia, was entranced by the Mu-sheum. He had stopped in front of a case labeled poe’s women.
“Maria Clemm, with whom he lived. His mother, of course,” he said. “Virginia Lee, his cousin and bride. Elmira Shelton, the woman he was believed to be engaged to at the time of his death. I know all these. But who was Fannie Hurst?”
“A New York writer with whom he’s believed to have had a love affair,” Mary Yerkes said. “She was quite clever and talented in her own way. One story has it that when she went out one day and forgot her purse, she wrote a poem and sold it on the spot, in order to have cash.”
“Wouldn’t it have been easier,” Whitney asked, “to just go home and get her purse?”
Mary Yerkes ignored the question. “I wish I had something more than photographs for that display. But Poe objects are so hard to come by, and so expensive when one does find them. The books-well, I couldn’t touch those, and I don’t much care for collecting books anyway. But there are people who own locks of his hair, cut from his head as he lay in state. A professor I know has a piece of fabric from Virginia Lee’s trousseau. And the Nineteenth Century Shop, down in Southwest Baltimore, has a piece of his coffin. I can’t compete in those circles. Then again, few in Baltimore can compete when cash is the only consideration.”
“What do you mean?” Tess asked.
Mary Yerkes hesitated. Her protective veneer of irony was gone, and she looked more like the frail older woman she was. She was at least seventy-five, Tess realized, but her shrewd good humor gave her an ageless quality.
“There is a black market for all things,” she said, choosing her words with even more precision than usual. “People have approached me… or they used to, until they realized I had ethics. Still, I would hear rumors about things, every now and then. Rare things, things that belonged in museums, which had no innate value but could be priceless to serious collectors. Once, I admit, I was tempted, and I called the dealer a few days after our initial discussion to tell him I had changed my mind. He laughed and said I had been outbid, that the competition for his wares had grown quite intense.”
“The competition?”
“He did not choose to elaborate, but it was my sense this particular thief-after all, that’s what he was, although he called himself an antiques dealer-had found someone who was willing to pay almost anything for what he called ”Baltimorebilia.“ It was one of Toots Barger’s trophies.”
“Toots Barger?” Not even Crow knew this name.
“My dear, she was simply one of the greatest athletes Maryland has ever produced. She was a duckpin bowling champion. At any rate, he offered it to me, I said no, and later, in a weak moment, I had a change of heart. But when I called back he had gotten five times the price he originally named. I never heard from him again.”
“Would you tell me his name?”
“I would if I could remember it, but it wouldn’t help you much. He died at least five years ago. I do remember reading his obituary in the paper and feeling almost relieved, in a morbid way. He knew my secret, you see. He knew I had been tempted to do something wrong. Once he died, my secret was safe.”
“But you’ve just told us,” Crow pointed out. Tess could tell he was falling in love, in his own peculiar way. Crow’s flirtations were seldom sexualized; while other women watched their boyfriends tracking sweet young things, Crow was inclined to swoon for the eccentrics of both sexes. He was a slut for mankind. “Now it’s out again.”
“Ah, but you won’t exploit my weakness by trying to tempt me. At least, I hope you won’t. This parure: Does it exist, or is it merely a rumor?”