A Lady Never Trifles with Thieves

by Suzann Ledbetter

  His insinuation was clear, but I plastered on a befuddled expression.

  “Don’t you think that Irishman ought to know that we all ate the same food, but nobody else took sick on Gert’s cookin’. The only one that did, we’re layin’ to rest this afternoon.”

  I checked the impulse to argue that Belinda Abercrombie had been strangled, not poisoned. If Gertrude Hiss was the inside informant, why would she kibosh the Abercrombies’ engagement with the Estabrooks?

  Ye gods and little fishes. That applied as equally to Gert and Sam Merck as conspirators, as it did to Pansy and Jules. And neither ruled out the mysterious Good Samaritans as accomplices. But then which or whom had robbed the McCoynes and Whitelaws?

  After again contorting into a makeshift sidesaddle position, I surveyed the sky, feeling very small and wishing for a vision of Papa’s face in the rack of broken clouds. A wink would sustain me. A thunderhead would take the slump from my spine. In my muddled mind, I heard him laugh and say, “There’s more to being an Indian princess than poking eagle feathers in a headband and whooping to beat hell.”

  I’ll swan, Papa’s health may have suffered since his demise, but somehow, he was getting smarter with each passing day.

  I spurred Loralei with my one available heel. There was more to being a private investigator than gilt letters arced on a storefront window, too. Princess or detective, maybe playacting was all I was cut out to do.

  Self-doubt colored my demeanor a proper shade of aggrieved when I called at the Estabrook estate. A titianhaired countrywoman of Jack O’Shaughnessy’s showed me to a morning room off the grand hall.

  I seated myself in a velvet-upholstered chair by the fireplace, for fear a misdrawn breath would precipitate an avalanche. An invading militia could lurk behind the room’s forest of potted banana palms, hibiscus, and ferns. Gimcracks by the score cramped every horizontal surface, including the hearth. Posed on layered Turkish and Armenian rugs, a litter of ceramic pug dogs ogled me as though lunch were overdue and they might be compelled to fend for themselves.

  Ornate clutter was all the rage, but the room’s super-abundance of clocks had me praying Jesus I’d vacate the premises before they tolled the hour.

  Elise Estabrook was a handsome woman whose regal carriage belied her advanced years. Hands clasped in front of her, she scrutinized me through a pair of half-spectacles. “My maid tells me you’re investigating Belinda Abercrombie’s death.”

  Before I could respond, she went on, “On whose behalf, Miss Sawyer?”

  “I keep my clients’ names in strictest confidence.”

  Especially, I thought, when I don’t have one. As I’d told Won Li, Belinda Abercrombie deserved justice. Somewhere between her home and the Estabrooks’ parlor, I’d realized how desperately I needed to prove to myself and everyone else that I was capable of delivering it.

  “Well,” Elise said, “I suppose there’s no harm in telling you what I told the police…”

  I pulled back my shoulders. “My confidentiality also extends to those involved in a case under investigation, Mrs. Estabrook.”

  A slender eyebrow rose in amusement. “You do have the jargon down pat, don’t you?” She removed her eyeglasses and tapped them on her chin. “Hubert Abercrombie and my husband are friends and business associates—precious ore, real estate investments and the like.

  “Belinda Abercrombie and I detest each other. She has—had—the social graces and intellect of a chimpanzee. Hubert, of course, was besotted with her beauty and, shall we say, willingness to please.”

  “Did she love him?”

  “Hmmm. What an odd question.” Elise traced a statue of a moon goddess, then examined her fingertip for dust.

  “Yes, I think she did, in her own way.”

  “And Avilla?”

  “Poor child. She was only six when she lost her real mother during a cholera outbreak. Barely thirteen when Hubert introduced Belinda as his new wife—a fait accompli, as it were.

  “To be fair, Belinda was very sweet to Avilla. I can’t say she was necessarily a mother to her, but perhaps that was for the best. There wasn’t much age difference between them, you know.”

  It was obvious my hostess was a thespian at heart. She relished being center stage, even in her own hideously overdecorated parlor. When I asked about the cancelled dinner party, Elise said, “It was typical of Belinda to wait until the last minute to send regrets.” She flinched. “You must think I’m a terrible shrew, but I was relieved when her note arrived. Witty repartee is not only wasted on a dolt, it’s perfectly exhausting. How was I to know the evening was to be her last on earth?”

  I stifled a grin. The woman’s lack of reserve was refreshing. “I appreciate your candor, Mrs. Estabrook.”

  She tossed her head. “I’m somewhat notorious for it, I’m afraid.”

  “Were other guests in attendance?”

  “No. The men had business to discuss after dinner and I planned to develop an excruciating headache if they closeted themselves in the library too long.”

  She raised a hand, palm out. “To answer your next question, Durwin, my husband, and Hubert are concerned that the government may follow Europe’s adoption of an exclusive gold standard and suspend the coinage of silver. It’s politics as usual and as boring as bird-watching, but men must have some excuse to puff on cigars and puff out their chests.”

  “Mrs. Estabrook?”

  Elise looked up at the maid standing in the doorway.

  “Thank you, Neva. I’ll be along after I show Miss Sawyer out.” Turning to me, she added graciously, “Unless you have more questions?”

  I shook my head. “You’ve been most generous with your time, Mrs. Estabrook.”

  “I wish I had more of it. Fresh ears for stale blather are always welcome.” She rested a hand on the doorknob. “Are you attending the funeral this afternoon?”

  I’d chosen a black ensemble for my condolence call on Avilla and Hubert Abercrombie, unaware the rites for the recently departed Belinda would be held so soon. Jules mentioned the funeral, but I’d assumed Avilla was out making arrangements for tomorrow, not today.

  “I will, if my afternoon appointment doesn’t interfere.”

  Elise said, “This rush to burial is positively scandalous, but I’m sure this ghastly heat is responsible. In any event, I think the ritual of sitting a vigil with the dead is beyond macabre. I’ve already told Durwin to plant me before I’m cold. If he displays my corpse in the front room, I’ll haunt him till the end of his days.”

  Seven

  Izzy and the again driverless buggy were parked outside the agency. Jack O’Shaughnessy sat in the narrow awning of shade the building afforded. A basket lay at his feet. He was gnawing on a piece of fried chicken.

  “You’re eating my lunch.”

  “You stole my horse.”

  “One has nothing to do with the other.”

  “Does, too.” Jack’s mouth curved up in a greasy grin.

  “Spending half the livelong day walking from pillar to post makes a man plumb famished.”

  I waved at the buggy. “Izzy walked. You rode.”

  “No, ma’am. The buggy was here before I was.”

  Won Li must have left it and my lunch and hotfooted it home. The coward.

  I pried my leg from the pommel and slid off the saddle without assistance. A bummer strolling the opposite side of Champa saluted my alacrity. At least, I preferred to think that was the cause and not the indecent length of stockinged limbs I’d exposed.

  Reticule extracted from the saddlebag, I picked my way round the fly-blown souvenirs of continuous oxen, horse, and mule traffic. Soot and fine ash belched from factories skimmed the roofs of tall buildings. Denver City was a beautiful metropolis as long as pedestrians didn’t look up, down, or inhale.

  Jack carried the basket inside and put it on my desk. “I’ll have you know, I didn’t eat but half what’s in there, and I didn’t touch the pie.”

  Without bother
ing to smooth my skirts under me, I collapsed in the chair. “Your restraint is admirable. Won Li makes the best fried chicken in the Territory.”

  Jack rested a hip on the corner of the desk. He looked haggard and tetchy around the edges. “Holding my appetite in check pales in comparison to the restraint I showed at the Abercrombies last night.”

  I made a face. “Did I interfere? Did I leave the house in a timely, discreet fashion?”

  “Yes. And no. I’ll give you discreet, but timely would have been when I told you to vamoose. As for interfering, you did that first step you took into the house.”

  I threw up my arms in exasperation. “You’re just being difficult.”

  “I’m trying to keep you from getting hurt. Or worse.” He chafed his hands. “A second-story man is one thing, darlin’. The line between stealing and murder is one most burglars will go to jail for before they’ll cross it.”

  “I know. That’s what bothers me about this whole case.”

  “Well, it isn’t bothering you enough. Killer-thieves are first cousins to bank robbers. They go in with their minds already made up to take lives to spare their own. That’s why they’re about the most dangerous hombres a lawman’ll ever come up against.”

  Jack translated my gesture correctly. From the basket, he removed a jar half-full of apple cider and twisted off the lid. The juice had lost its chill but quenched my thirst.

  I set the jar on the blotter. “Why Belinda Abercrombie? Why did the thief unleash his wrath on her? No one was harmed in the earlier robberies.”

  “The other folks weren’t at home at the time. If they had been, or walked in on it…”

  I shuddered at the implication. “Are you saying all three robberies were the same, other than the murder at the Abercrombie home?”

  Jack nodded. “Using a string of fake pearls for a garrote makes an ugly sort of sense. The killer grabbed what was close at hand.”

  “The pearls were imitation?”

  “Yeah, but expensive imitations.”

  “Did Belinda own any strands of real pearls?”

  Jack took a sheet of paper from his coat pocket. “Two, according to the list of missing jewelry Avilla wrote out for us.”

  “How many fake strings?”

  His eyes traveled the length of the paper and up again.

  “Just the one, I guess. There’s costume pieces on here, too, but no mention of another imitation necklace.”

  A sour taste coated my mouth. It wasn’t the residue of pressed apples. “Jules thinks you suspect him and Pansy.”

  “The butler did it?” Jack laughed. “Constable Hopkins was fawnching for an inside job, too. It’d wrap things up with a tidy bow, except he can’t explain how Jules and Pansy pulled off the earlier robberies.”

  “Accomplices?”

  In a tone suggesting the sun had scalded my brain, he replied, “Oh, so they hired outside help at the McCoynes and the Whitelaws, then messed in their own backyard at the Abercrombies? While the family was home?”

  I hadn’t been fond of the premise, but it was deserving of consideration. “I’m guessing you’ve overruled the possibility of them hiding in plain sight.”

  “Nothing’s been ruled out, darlin’.” Jack rolled a shoulder and groaned. Sleeping facedown on a law book was better than no sleep at all. “Nothing will be, till an arrest is made.”

  “Yes, but does the ‘messing in their own backyard’ argument include Gertrude Hiss and Sam Merck? I happen to have my own theory about them. If you’re interested.”

  “Talk fast. The chief, the mayor, the newspapers, and every nabob in town is screaming for swift justice. Until we’ve got a suspect in the hoosegow, nobody on the force gets as much as an hour’s leave.”

  I’d scanned the Rocky Mountain News banner headline when I replaced the edition on Papa’s desk that morning. DEATH STALKS DENVER CITY. SOCIALITE ROBBED AND MURDERED IN HER OWN HOME. The substance of the articles, I left to imagination. Doubtless the reporters applied liberal doses of theirs when composing them.

  “What if Gertrude and Sam planned to rob the Abercrombies while they were dining with the Estabrooks? When Belinda fell ill, they were so cocky about getting away with the earlier crimes they decided against a delay.”

  “Mighty risky,” Jack said.

  “Any riskier than Sam dodging all the people he owed money to? Saloon owners. Gamblers. His landlord?” I snapped my fingers. “Who, by the by, told me that Sam said he was coming into some money and would pay his back rent today.”

  Jack’s jaw fell, then snapped shut. “God smite me for a fool. I should have known it was you sashaying up and down Blake Street telling everyone you were Merck’s widowed sister.”

  Mustering poise wasn’t effortless, particularly in light of the spasm suddenly afflicting Jack’s temple and the corner of his left eye. How peculiar. From time to time, my father had been plagued by a similar tic.

  “I’m sure you’ll agree, I couldn’t introduce myself as a detective. Not a soul would have talked to me if I had.”

  Jack pushed off the desk. Sputtering gave way to arm motions common to a circus fire walker. “Mary, Mother of us all. How’s this for a what-if? What if Merck is our man? Or he’s in league with the killer? How long do you think it’ll take for him to divine who you are and shut you up permanently?”

  “Pshaw. For what earthly reason would anyone want to kill me?”

  “Present company excluded?” Jack cleared his throat.

  “One, you’re too danged nosy for your own good. Two, we have no idea who the killer is and he has no idea whether you’re a threat or not. It’s smarter to get rid of you than take the chance. Three, if a couple of those hard cases you pestered believe you’re Merck’s sister and know he has a king’s ransom in jewelry stashed somewhere, they might use you to get to him. When they find you aren’t, what do you reckon they’ll do? Apologize for the inconvenience and take you home?”

  “Oh.” I squirmed and looked away.

  Mentioning the greater likelihood of being keelhauled by a freight-wagon than kidnapped by brigands presented a sore lack of diplomacy. So did insisting I’d taken care of myself quite handily with fists and firearms since I was knee-high to a short stump.

  Jack gripped the chair’s arms and loomed over me, his face was at once solemn and tender and very near mine. “You’re one of a kind, Miz Joby Sawyer. I’ve never known another woman quite like you.”

  “Are you complimenting me or praying for salvation?”

  “A little of each, I’d reckon.”

  Kiss me, I thought. I double-dog dare you. Not one of those granny pecks on the cheek you’re so inclined toward, either. A true, full on the lips, sockdolager of a first kiss to prove that mouth of yours is good for something besides nattering at me.

  “I know firsthand the evil some men are capable of, with no more thought than they’d give to slapping a mosquito,” he said.

  “So do I.” My gaze averted to his neck, which I could easily curl my arm around, pull him close and kiss him till his toes bunched so tight in his boots that he’d be hobbled for a minute or ten.

  Who wrote the rules saying men had all the liberties at their disposal and women were obliged to dither and stew, waiting for them to take one, if and when the damn fools ever shut up long enough to get crackin’.

  “I’m asking you,” he said, “plain as I know how, if you have an ounce of caring for me, don’t go chasing after the devil’s own.”

  He wanted to kiss me as much as I wanted him to. His eyes were heavy lidded and the irises as deep blue as sapphires. But I wouldn’t make a promise I was sure to break, just for the glory of feeling Jack’s lips on mine.

  I could have said if he cared for me, he wouldn’t issue ultimatums. Won Li worried incessantly about my safety and, in all honesty, for good and sufficient reason, but never once had he demanded an emotional kind of ransom from me.

  Putting voice to those sentiments was as futile as herding ducks to
a desert. To reverse Jack’s ultimatum by saying if he loved me he’d accept me for who I am was fighting hypocrisy with hypocrisy.

  Jack straightened and strode out the door. Through the window, I watched him unwrap Loralei’s reins from the rail. When he rode away, his profile was as abstracted as a cut-paper silhouette.

  It was half past two when Garret McCoyne and Avery Whitelaw arrived. I was preparing to finish my law book research in the comfort of home when the tall and short of them darkened my door.

  McCoyne glared at the opposite half of my desk. “Mr. Sawyer isn’t here.”

  “No. He isn’t.”

  “We had an appointment.”

  I stacked the books that had only served as ballast since I departed the house that morning. McCoyne’s apparent opinion that he left outhouses smelling like rose gardens inspired an adroit comeback. “Had my father made an appointment with you, would you have dallied half an hour for him to make an appearance?”

  The banker consulted his pocketwatch. The mine owner shifted uncomfortably. “You’re Mr. Sawyer’s daughter?”

  I nodded. Avery Whitelaw seemed a decent sort. Not as cockapert by far as McCoyne.

  “Did Sawyer send you in his stead to the Abercrombies with the police?” McCoyne inquired. “Daughter or not, we thought you were just a clerk.”

  My smile would have caused a rattler to seek the nearest hole in the ground. “Then you thought wrong, didn’t you?”

  “No insult meant,” Whitelaw said. “It’s the first I’ve ever heard of a woman investigator.”

  “Well, that truly is a surprise. Kate Warne was a Pinkerton operative from 1856 until her death two years ago. She was credited with saving President-elect Lincoln from an assassination plot during the inauguration.”

  “You don’t say.” Whitelaw’s chin rumpled. “It’s said that Allan Pinkerton stops at nothing to get his man. A real bulldog of a detective.”

  Who rather resembled one as well, I thought. The Scotsman was a cooper by trade until he rafted to a tiny island for lumber and happened upon a nest of counterfeiters. After a short stint as the lone detective on the Chicago police force, then a Special United States Mail Agent, Pinkerton founded his own agency and its slogan, “We Never Sleep.”