A/N: Thanks for your encouragement and kind words! I know this may seem like secondary character overload, but each and every one of them will reappear and have a substantial role in the plot. We can't be limited by only including two or three canon characters.

The victim is a fictional member of a real family that was prominent during the turn of the century in St. Louis. We'll meet historical members of her clan, but I'm going to try and avoid tarnishing their reputation as much as possible.

You'll probably be thinking at the end of the chapter: "Well, it can't possibly be that easy!" Don't worry, it definitely isn't.

Next time: Gemily has a long overdue conversation. Also, the chase is on.

George and Emily Take St. Louis

Chapter Two

"No one move!" George shouted out of habit, standing straight up in his seat. He didn't realize how ridiculous it sounded until it escaped his lips. The sudden shift in weight caused the boats to grind against the barrier, attracting a great deal of attention as they reached the end of the ride. They'd passed through some sort of curtain; the shadows cleared steeply, and then fell away to reveal the natural light of day.

Several passengers didn't wait for the ride to come to a complete stop against the barrier; flailing their limbs and pushing off against each other, they practically crawled the few remaining feet to the walkway. George caught a backhand to the face in the ensuing struggle; while he was regaining his balance, the others were expressing their concerns to the attendants, voices strained with fright.

While the adjoining cafe was quickly evacuated and one of the less stricken bystanders ran for help, Emily squared her shoulders and charged back towards the way they came.

Without a second thought he pursued her, stepping gingerly into the knee-deep water. Someone had had the foresight to shut off the powerful jets in wake of the tragedy, and for this he was grateful.

His hand stopped a hair's breadth from taking hold of her arm, before pulling it back. She had that determined look about her, which George knew better than to question.

Ignoring the hindrance her sopping wet skirts caused, Emily hoisted herself onto the platform. The victim had fallen some distance from the falling water, but the spray was still considerable. Gently she swept the woman's hair to one side, careful not to disturb the bullet wound, and pressed two fingers to a pulse point in her neck.

The doctor's grave expression was illuminated by the arrival of her companion, who had taken the care to roll up her bloomers before joining them, lantern held aloft as she beheld the scene.

"No pulse," Emily concluded, trying again with the inside of the wrists. Even in the muted light, George could see definite bruises from a struggle of some kind.

Now that he had the opportunity to give thought to it, he decided that Emily's friend was quite pretty. She wore her blonde hair in a no-nonsense bun, which only emphasized her ruddy facial features. Taller than he even in lifts and appearing stronger than some men he knew, she was every inch a working girl.

She cursed in some gruff-sounding foreign tongue and came to stand before them, her eyebrows knit together in concern. Several moments passed in relatively awkward silence. Truth be told, George wasn't sure where he might start to reconnect with someone he hadn't seen in almost a year-and at such an inopportune time! Thankfully, Emily spoke first.

"George," she began, in a perfectly even tone, "This is my friend-"

A hand was pushed in his direction, which he took to be the precursor to a handshake. "Anechka Kapralova. Dearest Emily is renting the room above my father's shop."

Dearest? Was this a new lover? No matter-perhaps he'd have time to agonize over that word choice later, but not when they were standing before a dead body. "I'm George Crabtree. I know Miss Grace from-"

"Oh, I know you," she said earnestly, her accent causing several words to slur together. "I've heard so much about you, Mr. Crabs-tree. All good things."

Good lord. All of a sudden he felt sick to his stomach. Accepting the foregone salutation, he took a moment to study the position of the fallen woman; her feet were pointing towards the center of the waterfall, yet her hair and shoulders seemed to be the only thoroughly wet portions of her.

Noticing that he'd been inching closer to her, Emily sought the opportunity to bring George back to earth. "The deceased was shot after having been in the water. See how the blood is fresh here. Perhaps our culprit initially attempted drowning."

If this was so, it wouldn't have been fast enough. The image of the three women making quick tracks towards the exit came to mind. They were indeed the last ones through the Magic Whirlpool before himself, and even in the dimmest of light a corpse couldn't be mistaken as an illusion.

"She was a woman of means, this poor soul," Anechka observed, indicating the expensive lace yoke around her collar. "And she was wearing cosmetics when she passed. I'd wager to say her hair was shoulder length and partially curled."

This was, of course, before the poor lady had been dragged underwater and beaten, but those were details a public citizen wouldn't have ordinarily picked up on.

Emily caught on to his confusion and remedied it. "Anechka is a portraitist for the Metropolitan Police Department. That's how we got on, similar interests and all."

He nodded and sized the Russian expatriate up once more, not as a romantic rival, but a brother in arms. And, despite the dire situation, she returned his smile.

Muffled voices reached them from some distance away, followed by the barking of dogs. Thankfully, only three members of the local constabulary entered the chamber, one after another. Two of them wore blue uniform coats and matching trousers, their nightsticks tucked securely into their belts. The gentleman at the front was dressed much in the manner of William Murdoch, but the lapels of his dusky suit sporting several medals. Strangely enough, he was the only one armed, the handle of an exquisitely carved pistol jutting out of its holster.

"Out of the way, madam. The coroner is on his way," one of the men asserted, making a gratuitous waving motion with his hand.

"I'm a doctor," Emily ground out, and didn't look up from her work.

Sensing that they were mere moments from being tossed out on their backsides, George took a moment to introduce himself, even flashing his badge from the billfold in his pocket.

The man in the center took all of this in, the corners of his prodigious mustache twitching with contemplation. Finally, he noticed the silent third party. "You're the young lady that does the sketches for the boys on the beat, aren't you?"

It was as if all the confidence in Anechka's demeanor dissipated in that moment. Ducking her head, she avoided eye contact with her superior.

This was a bad sign, but George had dealt with more disagreeable people. At last the man of the hour arrived, a gray-haired physician toting a massive bag of tools. He was shortly accompanied by another, a working class sort sporting overalls and a broad swipe of machine grease across his cheek.

"It's the durndest thing, I told you," the attendant huffed. "Three girls came in, three girls came out. They wanted to have a private tour. Who was I to refuse two dollars?"

The American coroner stopped short, causing a small pile up. Squinting into the near darkness, he exclaimed, "Dr. Grace? Is that you?"

Emily at last surrendered her protective stance over the deceased, pulling herself up to full height. "Dr. Haynes! Why, I haven't seen you since-"

"Graduation," he concluded, and stepped between her and his coworkers. "It's quite alright, gentlemen. She's a former pupil from my days at that women's college in Ontario."

The coincidence simply floored him. Was there anyone in the city that Emily didn't know, or summarily couldn't win over?

"It's not the first suspicious death at the fair," the mustachioed man, who soon introduced himself as Detective Kidwell, confessed. He made a quick survey of his surroundings before returning to the same exact position. "And certainly not the first shooting."

George didn't see the sense in making such inane comments that contributed nothing to the investigation. The good doctor sighed deeply and helped Emily roll the victim over to a supine position, one hand clasped against her temple from which blood still flowed.

"That ain't one of the girls that come in. There was a redhead, a pretty fair thing, and a dark headed girl." The laborer trundled over and disappeared partially behind the waterfall. A wretched mechanical grinding sound came from the wall and the cascade shut off almost immediately.

Now that they could hear one another without shouting, George asked, "Was the redhead wearing a pink dress? And one of her friends, a green one?"

"I reckon they were," he answered, a little bewildered at his precise memory. "But there weren't no blondes gotten on my ride at that time, just so's you understand. This 'un looks familiar, though."

One of the officers took a step forward and studied the girl's death mask, her eyes wide and mouth gaping with abject terror. "She ought to. Everyone in these parts knows Celia Vandeventer."

His compatriot clicked his tongue in agreement. "She's pretty far from the family compound, I'd wager to say. This'll be a fine how-do-you-do on the society pages, that's for damn sure."

Now that they mentioned it, he could easily see the deceased having been a debutante. In her present state, she appeared no more than twenty years of age, though one couldn't be sure. Deep in thought, George shifted over and the toe of a water logged shoe caught on something.

Bending down, he reached into the murky water and retrieved a parasol, mostly white and tastefully emblazoned with orchid flowers. Even the doctors, who had been conferring quietly about their findings, stopped to examine his discovery.

Noting how the fabric had yet to be sufficiently stained by the Whirlpool, whose water was pumped seventeen miles upstream from the grubby Mississippi River, the policemen concluded that it was a recent loss. As it were, the technician recognized the handiwork of a nearby salesman, who made his livelihood by making daily rentals of straw hats and parasols to passersby. Each one was painted with a specific number on the hilt to hasten inventory, and this one was no exception. He excused himself to gather the man in question and his address book, if only it would speed up their investigation and allow business to continue for the day.

In the meantime, the unfortunate Miss Vandeventer was draped in a canvas bag and carried out to the atrium. George fully understood that he was outside his jurisdiction-as Detective Kidwell kept reminding him-but felt oddly responsible for the state of the victim, considering he may have been the last one to see one of her murderers. Even Emily, casting a long and indecipherable glance in his direction, shook hands with her former docent and moved off a few steps towards the exit.

Soon the two workers returned with the guest book. The umbrella salesman seemed utterly perplexed by his involvement in such proceedings, but soon located number sixteen in his logs.

"It was just a bit after midday. She'd been standing in front of Whirlpool for some time, you see, so I called her over. She said she'd been waiting for friends, and I jumped at the chance to make a sale. Here's her signature, stating that she understood she must return my property by a half hour after sundown. Plain as day. Eva Murdoch."

Crabtree felt an odd twinge of dread stir within his gut. Set apart, these weren't exactly uncommon names. But together and in conjunction with a suspicious death, it was enough to give him pause.

His former lover was back at his side, ushering him to sit down in one of the many chairs set aside for the patrons. Both recalled the escapades of one particularly conniving Eva Pearce, who used her charming looks to manipulate some of Toronto's finest. She possessed a level wit to her, such that even William Murdoch could scarcely contend with her deranged whims. The last they'd heard of her, she'd escaped asylum, but only after tricking her fellow inmates into nearly murdering Dr. Ogden. Her singular obsession with the detective was an unforgettable idiosyncrasy of the young lady, but surely she wouldn't have come all the way to St Louis in her never-ending quest for wealth and a subservient husband. Surely-

Anechka, who had been observing all of this unfold with silent deliberation, jumped at the opportunity to assist. She divested the man of his fountain pen and, turning the guest book over to a blank page, prompted, "Would you mind describing the woman, sir?"

The Missourian detective appeared bored with her attempts to help, delegating one of the constables to fetch a hearse buggy, and the other to proceed to Vandeventer Place with all haste to inform the family. He was clearly about immediate action, an unwelcome diversion from Station House Number Four's routine.

Meanwhile, George and Emily waited in silence as a woman's face slowly began to take shape. She had yet to remove her hand from his shoulder, and it weighed on him like a ton of bricks. Before he could reconsider, he met her halfway, and their fingers curled around one another. It was a comforting gesture more than anything. However, that didn't explain why his heart was beating out of time.

At long last the sketch was complete, and Anechka offered a modest, if immaculately detailed, rendering of a woman with a small smirk on her lips. Her dark curls fanned out from either temple, barely restrained by a gauzy headscarf.

For the both of them, it was safe to say that their holiday was officially over.

"Gentlemen-" George cut in, and attempted to stand. He found that his knees threatened to give out from under him, so he remained sitting. "We are dealing with a very dangerous fugitive. Please, if you will allow me, I must contact my superiors immediately."

(to be continued)