A Lady Never Trifles with Thieves

by Suzann Ledbetter

  Our gazes locked, each daring the other to blink. “Eight children? Are you insane?”

  “Four, then.”

  “Two. A boy and a girl.” I patted my hair, as women do when thoroughly discombobulated. “But first, I want to take a horseback ride. Law, it’s been a coon’s age since Izzy’s had a fast, cross-country gallop. Or me, for that matter.”

  The Morgan’s ears swiveled. He stamped a forehoof, as though casting his vote in favor.

  Grinning huge, Jack started around the buggy.

  “We could pack a lunch,” I babbled on. “Make a day of it. After the heat relents, of course. Early fall would be nice. When the leaves are turning.”

  “Sounds good to me.” He took the seat beside me and unwrapped the reins from the whip-socket. A tongue cluck eased the buggy forward as smooth as a sleigh on ice. “Maybe earlier than that. I’ll have more free time when the men the chief loaned out to Sheriff Kite for posse duty get back.”

  A rash of Indian raids had impelled the newspaper to admonish, “Fear of Indians should not discourage rail travel in Colorado. Both the Denver and Kansas Pacifics are well guarded and the redmen know it.”

  The police chief’s contribution to public safety had been to assign a squadron of constables to help capture the renegades. The department was already undermanned, but railroads were the lifeblood of progress and prosperity.

  “No rush,” I said. “I have business aplenty to attend myself.”

  “Which includes introducing me to your father, before we head for the hills alone together.” Jack’s sidelong glance was brief but no-nonsense. “Darlin’, it’d be tragic on a grand scale if that look on your face got stuck, permanent.”

  “Don’t you darlin’ me, Jack O’Shaughnessy. I’m a grown woman and perfectly capable of—”

  “Respecting her elders’ respect for her.”

  As we turned onto G Street, I crossed my arms tight at my chest, bereft of a reply. God save the fairer sex from old-fashioned notions—especially those Papa would endorse.

  I trusted Jack second only to Won Li, but his provincial attitude sealed my lips against confiding the secret of Joseph Beckworth Sawyer’s demise. No one but Izzy knew of my dreams to create the world’s first all-female detective agency, specializing in the curtailment of stagecoach and train robberies. What gang of thieves would ever suspect lady passengers to let fly with sulphuric smoke bombs and disarm them while their eyes stung and wept from the fumes?

  Quite the lofty ambition for one who must have her father’s permission to venture beyond the city limits with her boon companion and a picnic basket.

  The buggy lurched as Izzy shied from three jaywalkers. Their entwined arms united them against Taos Lightning’s “strikes hard and leaves nothing standing” reputation. The Mexican firewater was said to be laced with gunpowder and strained through kegs of rusty nails to dissolve impurities such as thirsty insects, snakes, and small woodland critters.

  The drunk pedestrians tottered backward as one. The biggest lout bellowed, “‘Ey, watch where you’re goin’, bub.”

  Before Jack could respond, a horse came a whisker from colliding with us on the driver’s side. The rider swiveled around in the saddle, looked back, then reined in his mount, as if a wall had risen phoenix-like in front of him.

  “O’Shaughnessy! Praise glory, is that you?”

  Jack squinted through the billowing dust. “Hopkins? Holy Moses, man. Where’s the fire?”

  “A murder’s been done. Colonel Abercrombie’s, on California Street. Follow me.”

  “But—” Jack looked at me. His expression was as legible as ten-point type. Requisition the buggy and leave me afoot? Hand me the reins and sprint after Hopkins? Haste me home? Or take me along?

  Nails digging my palms, I sincerely believed I’d scream before he faced forward and shouted, “Hi-y ah.”

  The reins snapped smart on the Morgan’s rump. Pellmell, we raced after Constable Hopkins. Izzy’s shod hooves tattooed the packed earth. The rig swayed, its wheels jouncing over ruts sliced by heavier, broader conveyances.

  We slowed not at all at intersections. I imagined oncoming ore-wagons and fatal consequences but decided not to inquire why a deceased person was in need of such breakneck attendance.

  I knew Colonel Abercrombie’s title was honorary, in the tradition of Southern women being referred to as Miss, whether young, aged, married, or confirmed spinsters.

  Abercrombie owned several department stores scattered throughout the Territory. Via his original mercantile in Kansas City, he’d grubstaked Colorado-bound prospectors in exchange for shares in their as-yet undug mines and creekside claims. Enough of them reaped such handsome rewards that Abercrombie had sold his Missouri store and reestablished himself in Denver City.

  Constable Hopkins’s arm signaled a turn to the left ahead. The buggy careered on two wheels around the corner and would have evicted me had I not braced my feet on the floorboard and throttled the armrest.

  My impressions of California Street were swift-drawn. It was more residential than commercial, but vacant lots outnumbered those developed for either usage. Transplanted cottonwoods, elms, and maples lined its parkway and would eventually shade the earthen street.

  At midblock, a pinkish sandstone mansion was ablaze with light. Every mullioned window, of which there were multitudes, vanquished the darkness. An amber flood streamed out of the open, double-doored entrance.

  Rubberneckers gathered on the manicured lawn, unmindful of flower beds, shrubbery, and common decency. One enterprising lad had climbed onto the fountain, affording himself a ringside perch and a bath in the massive, scalloped bowl.

  Jack halted the buggy in the crushed stone driveway. He stepped out, holding the reins for my slide across the seat. “I hate leaving you to drive yourself home.”

  “It can’t be helped. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

  He kissed my cheek and smiled, though I could see his mind was already fixed on what horrors might be found inside the house. “Straight home, Joby. And keep your eyes peeled for ruffians.”

  I promised I would. I didn’t promise when that journey might commence. Before Jack’s broad back disappeared into the mansion’s glowing maw, I took a small notebook and pencil from my reticule, then cached the bag under the seat.

  Izzy’s black coat shone with lather from his southward lope. Poor fella was blowing some, too. I patted his mane and told him his pluck and patience would later be rewarded with an apple and a bucket of oats.

  Just inside the Abercrombies’ foyer, an urn of Grecian design full of hothouse flowers had been toppled from its table onto the white marble floor. On a bench curved to conform with the muraled wall, a Negro manservant comforted a maid sobbing into a dishtowel. Both were dressed in nightclothes.

  The manservant glanced up. His red-rimmed eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  “I’m Josephine Sawyer, of Sawyer Investigations.” I displayed my notebook. “There are questions I must ask of you momentarily, but do take this respite to compose yourselves.”

  He nodded, returning his attention to the maid, now hiccoughing with every breath.

  A relieved sigh blew through my lips. Acting with authority was often as good as having some. The Denver City police force employed no women, but my dark blue suit was as tailored as a uniform and had small brass buttons at the placket and cuffs.

  My gaze tracked the elegant, serpentine stairway from where disembodied voices drifted downward. Turning, I surveyed the distance from the top of the stairs to the mahogany front doors. Heavy brass locks, as sturdy as they were decorative, gleamed against the ruddy wood.

  A plush runner of tapestried wool protected the stairway’s treads and muffled the footfalls of anyone trafficking upon them—most certainly, mine. The voices guided me down a wide corridor painted a rich egg cream color and trimmed in purest white.

  At its end, in a soft-lit room, a girl of perhaps eighteen sat in a wing chair drawn up beside a bed. Wisps
of hair had escaped their pins and veiled her features. She was murmuring to a gray-haired man lying beneath a shawl, a hand tented over his face. A Bible marked with a scarlet ribbon lay open on the end of the bed.

  Colonel Abercrombie, I presumed, and his daughter. Her name I’d read in the newspaper’s society page, but couldn’t recall. Thinking of all the bedside vigils I’d sat with Papa when he’d come home sick, or hurt, or nigh delirious from exhaustion, a stab of envy startled, then shamed me. Just because my father was lost to me in this life, it was horrid to begrudge Miss Abercrombie hers.

  An open door on my left revealed a boudoir decorated in blush pinks, golds, and ivory. Jack knelt beside the figure of a woman clad in an aqua dressing gown. She was sprawled on her back in a most indelicate position. Her hair was long, wavy, and the color of chestnuts. I guessed her to be in her early thirties.

  What had been a fair complexion was splotchy and mottled. A double strand of pearls was cinched round her slender throat. Blood-tinged welts ribbed the skin above and below. Her eyes were closed as though in sleep, but her expression of sheer terror she’d take to the grave.

  Two men stood near her slippered feet, their hands clasped in front of them. One was Constable Hopkins. The other was unknown to me. I slipped behind them into the chamber, hoping for a few seconds’ reconnoiter before anyone took notice.

  Two massive, claw-footed wardrobes stood like sentries in the corners of the room’s far end. The doors were closed and locked with tassled keys. Between them was an upholstered settee strewn with a rather ugly saffron dress, a chemise, petticoats, and stockings. A silver coffee service rested on a tray table in front of it.

  Pricey gilded statuettes, receptacles, candlesticks, and foofaraws were displayed on matching, marble-topped dressers and chests. Separately, the accessories were pieces of art. In toto, each was as distinctive as a pile of autumn leaves.

  The carved walnut bed whose headboard rose within an inch of the ceiling had been neatly turned down, but the bottom sheet was rumpled and a pillow was askew and devoid of its lace-trimmed casing. Nearby was a mirrored dressing table cluttered with crystal atomizers, pots of creams and lotions, a monogrammed silver brush, hand mirror and comb, and ornate trinket boxes. The lower drawers had been rifled; the contents of the two deeper ones were dumped on the floor.

  A draft wended from French doors accessing onto a balcony. I moved nearer, stepping carefully over a jewelry case laying splayed open and empty on the Brussels carpet. I’d just glimpsed a rope knotted around one of the balcony’s wrought-iron rails when a hand gripped my arm and none too gently.

  “Judas priest.” Jack glowered down at me, a spark of homicidal mania in his eye. Through clenched teeth, he said, “What the hell are you doing up here?”

  “Investigating.”

  “Snooping’s more like it.”

  “It appears the victim interrupted another burglary-in-progress and paid with her life. I don’t recollect the newspaper mentioning the rope was left behind at the McCoyne and Whitelaw robberies, but the uncased pillow—”

  “Joby—”

  I grimaced and tried pulling from his grasp. “You’re hurting me.” He wasn’t, but he apologized and unhanded me all the same.

  My eyes slid to the dead woman. Constable Hopkins had removed his coat and laid it over her head and torso. “If that’s Mrs. Abercrombie, she’s not much older than her daughter.”

  “Stepdaughter. The deceased, first name Belinda, is—was—Hubert Abercrombie’s second wife.”

  “Oh? How long have they been married?”

  “I don’t know yet, and it’s none of your concern.” Jack looked over his shoulder at the other men. “Now you scat back to that buggy and hie for home.”

  “No.”

  He started. “No?”

  “You can force my ejection, if you care to make a scene.” I jutted my chin. “A screaming, shin-kicking donnybrook, similar to our encounter at Madame Felicity’s.”

  His voice dropped an octave. “Are you threatening me, Miz Sawyer?”

  Of course I was, but only figuratively. If Jack called my bluff, I’d exit with all respect due the departed and her loved ones. “Oh, don’t be such a fusspot. Just ignore me altogether. You know I won’t meddle in your investigation.”

  “You already have.”

  “Observing is not meddling and this matter does concern me. This very afternoon, Garret McCoyne and Avery Whitelaw showed keen interest in hiring my father to recover the jewels stolen in the prior robberies.”

  Jack shifted his weight, as if debating whether to assist me bodily out the front door, or perhaps the balcony, versus a more sedate approach to my unofficial presence. “Lord have mercy, if the chief ever finds out…”

  “Well, I certainly won’t tell him, and I’m sure your men can be persuaded against carrying tales.”

  He massaged his brow, muttering a psalm. The Twenty-third, I believe. “All right, but make yourself scarce before the coroner gets here. He’s had it in for me ever since he declared that ax murder last February a suicide.”

  I tendered a demure nod to Hopkins and the other man, then decamped. As I traversed the corridor, I recorded in my notebook the burglar’s method of egress, a description of the pillow slip, and the relative positions of the French doors, jewel case, and the body.

  I’d have preferred interviewing the household staff downstairs, but would delay until the coroner was sequestered in Belinda Abercrombie’s bedroom.

  Her husband and stepdaughter were still lodged in the room at the end of the hall. She seemed bewildered by my introduction but said her name was Avilla and confirmed her relationship to the deceased.

  Hubert Abercrombie invited me to take a second wing chair. He was in his fifties, but his skin was as yellowish as tallow.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Abercrombie.”

  “Did you know Belinda?” he asked.

  “Miss Sawyer is with the police, Father.”

  I saw no reason to correct Avilla on a minor technicality.

  Mr. Abercrombie beseeched the patterned ceiling.

  “Avilla and I were right here when—” Pain suffused his expression. “How could this have happened? And why?”

  Avilla sighed and sat back in her chair. “It wouldn’t have had we dined with the Estabrooks as planned.”

  I noted the name and question-marked it. At the time of the previous burglaries, the owners had been away for the evening.

  Avilla went on to explain that Belinda had complained of an upset stomach shortly after lunch. “When it didn’t abate, I sent Jules to the Estabrooks with a note of apology.”

  “Jules is your butler?”

  “Majordomo, actually. He’s been with Father for as long as I can remember.” Anticipating my next question, Avilla added, “Jules’s wife, Pansy, is our maid, and we have a cook—Gertrude Hiss. She’s only been on staff a few months.”

  “Did your former cook resign?”

  “Retired. Yolonda was almost a second mother to me—or grandmother, I suppose. She moved with us from Kansas City, but instead of helping, the mountain air only worsened her rheumatism.”

  Avilla frowned. “I’m not terribly fond of Gertrude’s cooking, but my stepmother’s people were a generation’s remove from the Old Country. For Belinda, I think the sauerbraten and gurkensalat were like letters from home.”

  I asked, “Were Mrs. Abercrombie and Gertrude acquainted before she was hired to cook for you?”

  “Of a sort. Gertrude’s mother and Belinda’s father were distant cousins.” Avilla hastened to add, “So distant, Gertrude and Belinda weren’t aware of the relation until they stumbled upon it in conversation, after Gertrude was hired.”

  “It must have been odd, learning that an employee was kin.”

  “Four or five times removed,” Avilla stressed. “Hardly more than a coincidence, really. Gertrude was glad to have the work. If Belinda played favorites with the staff, I never saw it.”


  Ah, but had Gertrude expected her to?

  A moan rattled out from Mr. Abercrombie’s throat. “How’ll we ever break the news to Belinda’s poor mother? She’s still in mourning for her husband, and now—”

  “Just rest, Father. I’ll see to it. I’ll see to everything.”

  “Murdered. Almighty God, what is this world coming to?”

  New male voices and a terrible racket funneled down the corridor. The coroner, who was also an undertaker, had arrived with his lackeys. Any who spied me would take me for a neighbor or family friend, but it wouldn’t be long before inquiries of an official nature were launched.

  “Mr. Abercrombie, can you tell me how the evening transpired after Jules was dispatched to the Estabrooks?”

  Avilla shot me a scathing look. I understood her desire to spare her father more anguish, but such was impossible in a homicide investigation.

  Abercrombie waved an arm as though swatting at a moth. “We ate a cold supper, then my wife retired to her bedchamber to rest. The next I knew, Pansy screamed and burst in here, shouting that Belinda was dead.”

  Avilla patted, then chafed, his hand. Her fingers were as long and tapered as a pianist’s, but every nail was bitten to the quick. “Father and I reviewed store accounts after supper. We partook of a brandy in the library, then came up here, as is our custom. He isn’t much of a reader, but enjoys listening to Bible passages.”

  She smiled. “When I was little, reading wasn’t my best subject in school. Our nightly ritual began as recitations. Now Father teases me about spending too much time with my nose in a book.”

  Papa had done the same, only his tone was thankful, not teasing. Until curiosity propelled me toward physics, pyrotechnics and chemistry, as long as I had a book in hand, I wasn’t wreaking havoc on the citizens of Ft. Smith.

  “Did either of you see Mrs. Abercrombie when you came upstairs?”

  “She was fine—still queasy, but her stomach was settling when I checked on her,” Mr. Abercrombie said. “I kissed her. Told her I’d peek in again before retiring for the night.”

  “How long was that before Pansy raised the alarm?”