Monroe Wilder.
It had taken Scott’s patience and a few inquiring missives to track down the gentleman whose musical talent had lassoed Kinsey’s admiration during the cousins’ impromptu stay in Omaha. Finally, a successful connection followed by Wilder's correspondence of an accepted invitation brought a best man and puzzled groom to stand on the Stockton station's platform while scanning the disembarking passengers.
********
Omaha, Nebraska
Dear Mr. Lancer,
A truly pleasant surprise to receive your letter. Yes, I do remember playing my violin for a lovely couple, newlyweds, who were stranded in Omaha several months ago. Pachebel’s Canon in D never had a better audience than the young lady on your arm.
I must admit I’m still chuckling after reading the dilemma, the confusion and finally a confession of the ruse you and your cousin pulled off to secure the last room at the Grand Central. Bravo, sir!
To give you an answer to your query, it would be an honor to perform at Miss Furlong’s matrimonial ceremony. I believe this is the first time I’ve filled the role as a surprise wedding gift. By far a compliment of the highest standard.
May I add your gracious insistence on covering the traveling expenses, although thoughtful, is not necessary. Booking passage on the Transcontinental can be done here in Omaha. I only ask for your guidance in acquiring the necessary boarding in Stockton.
Now, I too must offer my own confession. I mentioned your letter to a few of the gentlemen who also performed at the Firemen’s Ball which you and your cousin attended. They have fond memories of the little lady’s admiration of our “extraordinary talents” (her descriptive, not ours, I assure you). In a nutshell, a few of the boys have offered to accompany me and provide additional musical selections at Miss Furlong’s wedding. So, Mr. Lancer, if you wish to have a full ensemble for your guests to kick up their heels, the proposal stands with great pleasure.
I look forward to receiving your final decision.
Respectfully yours,
Mr. Monroe Wilder
********
Scott’s concern regarding his memory’s ability to recognize the violinist dissipated along with the train’s last exhale of steam. With a Stradivarius case neatly tucked under an arm, Monroe stood out from the rest of the travelers. “Mr. Wilder!” A hailing wave captured the musician’s attention, spurring the gent to weave through the crowd toward his host.
“Mr. Lancer!” Monroe’s warm smile and spirited handshake spoke of his enthusiasm. “A pleasure to see you again, sir. We appreciate your time in providing us with a welcoming committee.”
“We?” Seth, challenging the number of arrived strangers, stepped into the conversation. “Us?”
“The boys will be along shortly. They’re at the baggage car.” Monroe patted the violin case. “I insisted Camilla stay at my side for the trip.”
Westcott’s confusion deepened with a dusting of trepidation. “Boys?”
“Ah, very good.” Wilder’s nod traveled down the length of the train. “Here they come.”
Like the Red Sea parting for Moses, people milling about on the station’s platform stepped aside for the jovial troupe of men toting their curious collection of instruments: two violins, a banjo, a guitar, one cello, two trumpets, a piccolo, one bass drum, a french horn and a spit-shined tuba.
“Gentlemen, welcome.” Scott placed a hand on his business partner’s shoulder. “Allow me to introduce the groom, Mr. Seth Westcott. Seth” - An arm swept out - “I give you Omaha’s Orchestraband.”
*********
“Orchestraband ‘s not an actual word.”
Tugging on the final loop of his tie, Scott cocked an eyebrow at the mirrored reflection of an amused Westcott sitting behind him in the hotel room’s chair. “It is in Omaha.”
“And Kinsey will be happy there’s a tuba in the middle of the vineyard oom-pa-paing while she proclaims I do?”
“She’ll be over the moon.” A brow furrowed in bluffed second-guessing. “I think.”
Raps on the hotel door sustained the jesting. “Ah, that must be Tillie the Tassel. Wait until you experience this woman’s talented dexterity. By far, second to none.”
“Sweet Jesus from above.” Seth’s prayer aimed at the ceiling bounced back. Obviously, the Good Lord wasn’t taking any responsibility for the evening.
The turn of a brass knob revealed their visitor. “Tillie the Tassel?” A tall silhouette’s formidable query planted silent, sheepish grins on the room’s occupants before morphing into fatherly acknowledgment. “Son, your voice has always resonated rather well through wooden doors.”
Westcott’s snorted guffaw brought him to his feet for a greeted handshake. “Mr. Lancer.”
“Ah, the groom. I trust you’ve not acquired cold feet.”
“No. However, your oldest has been trying his damndest.”
“Sir.” Scott extended his own welcoming grasp. “Everyone’s travels went well?”
“Very well. Your brother reports Teresa, Jelly and a porch swing wedding present were escorted safely to the Westcott’s. Johnny’s now downstairs being subjected to The Rattler and his reminiscing of bachelorhood over a bourbon.”
Seth nodded in speculation. “Knowing my grandfather, I’m guessing he’s also embellishing tall tales with equal vigor.”
“Well, if that’s the case” - Scott rubbed his hands together in anticipation - “We best get moving before one of those elderly statesmen confesses to a tryst with Tillie the Tassel.”
********
Chicken vol-au-vent, rolled rib roast, grape jelly, potato souffle, larded grouse with bread sauce, plates of oysters in half shells, all complimented by poured glasses of Westcott wine. Emily had indeed assembled an outstanding menu which the kitchen staff at the Stockton Hotel executed with perfection.
It had taken minimal effort in persuading Monroe Wilder to provide musical selections during the evening’s festivities, including a rousing rendition of For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow each time a cork popped with toast given - of which there were many.
Before libations ruled his handling of the King’s English, Scott poured glasses of Pommery and offered up his own salute to the groom. “Here’s to a fortunate man! May his love for my cousin be as enduring as the ancient oaks, their bond as strong as the finest wrought iron, and their future as bright as a candlelit ballroom. A toast to a union blessed by fate, and a lifetime of happiness to come!” A chorus of Hear! Hear! concurred.
********
Fresh air.
As the night progressed and not wanting to contribute additional cigar smoke already fogging the room of boisterous men, Scott had quietly stepped outside to light his own Cuban. Walking off some of the wine to clear the mind seemed prudent, thus inspiring his strides to take a course with no particular destination.
“Marvelous party. Well played, sir.”
Stopping in front of an emporium, Scott observed his image cast backed by the storefront window with a familiar figure standing behind. “Thank you, George.”
“However, I found your toast a bit flowery.”
“And what words would you have offered?”
“Never thought you’d ask.” A distant rumble of thunder cleared MacCallister’s throat. “Here's to women in red dresses and high heeled shoes. May they steal all your money and drink all your booze.” George sipped from a champagne glass with a broken stem. “You must admit, old boy, it’s straight and to the point.”
“That it is.” Scott grinned. “Although, more fitting for the Bell in Hand and Millie.”
“Ah, Millie.” Cigar smoke swirled around MacCallister’s face and Union hat.
“I would have thrown you one helluva stag party, George.”
“Of course you would’ve! Goes without saying! Bad show on my part for getting shot out of the saddle and quite the dumbass for doing so. Ask anyone. They’ll agree.”
“A toast.” Glowing embers from Scott’s cigar took on the role of a raised glass. “To an outstanding young gent with impressive gallantry. He appreciated life and Millie’s commodities.” Melancholy dipped a chin. “Hear. Hear.”
“Who’re you talkin’ to?”
Turning, Scott saw the face of his old friend had been replaced with one of a younger brother. “Just thinking out loud.”
“Think I’d like t’hear more about Millie.”
“I’ll save those tales for our ride back to the ranch.” Scott blew a smoke ring to float above Johnny’s head. “What brings you out here?”
“Murdoch started singin’ what he’s sayin’ are Scottish toe-tappers. And let me tell you, the ol’ man may call a tune, but he sure as hell can’t carry one in a bucket. Sounds so bad that fiddle player finally gave up and started drinkin’.”
His brother’s deadpan delivery caught Scott by surprise, resulting in coughed smoke mixed with laughter. “Well then, we best get back to seeing it’s the vino that causes everyone’s morning headaches and not our father’s failure in hitting the right note.”
Absent-mindedly, Scott glanced back at the Stockton emporium’s storefront window where the proprietor had taken great care in displaying available merchandise for his patrons. “Johnny. Hold up.”
A small wooden rack tucked to the right of a pair of fashionable leather boots boasted a sign in bold, handwritten lettering.
NOW AVAILABLE!
THIS MONTH’S ADVENTURES
from
BEADLE PUBLICATIONS
Out of the several dime store novels, positioned for passersby to easily read enticing titles, one author’s name froze Scott where he stood.
J. S. LANCE
It was lovely finding this, J S Lance ?