Calico Spy

by Margaret Brownley

  Oh, that boss. “I would think you would welcome the help.” She didn’t mean to sound critical, but she couldn’t help it.

  The Pinkerton National Detective Agency had resources not available to local lawmen. Not only did the arm of the agency have a long reach, the Pinkerton files contained an astounding amount of information on many known criminals in the country. Instead of complaining, the sheriff should be thanking the Lord for his good fortune in working with such a well-run organization.

  “It can’t be easy tracking down outlaws way out here,” she said. Most small towns couldn’t afford the money or manpower to chase down criminals much beyond town limits.

  “Nothing’s easy, but I’d sooner work with a snake than work with a Pink.”

  His biting words made her cringe inside. He sure didn’t mince words. Still, she sensed that had she been a man he would have stated his opinion even more strongly. So everything she’d heard about Sheriff Whitman was true. What would he say if he knew he had two detectives in town? Better not break the news to him until after she contacted St. Louis headquarters. Her boss didn’t like his female employees working alone without local backup, but maybe he would make an exception in this case. Especially if a second operative was nearby.

  She gestured over her shoulder. “I better get back before I’m missed.”

  “Allow me to see you home.”

  She eyed him thoughtfully. “Don’t you have a detective to catch?”

  “He’ll wait till tomorrow.” He shrugged. “It’s a small town. No one can hide from me for long.”

  That’s what she was afraid of. “I—I hate to take you out of your way.”

  “Actually, you’re not. I live on Front Street just up the road from Harvey’s. If you don’t mind, I need to pick up my horse on the way.”

  “Is that the black one in front of your office?”

  He nodded. “Name’s Midnight.” He crooked his elbow. “Shall we?”

  Despite his disagreeable stance in regard to the company she worked for, he had a way about him that was irresistible. His smile alone could melt the hide off a steer.

  She slipped her arm through his, not because she thought she needed protection, but because of the role she played. Dark night. Strange town. Recent murders. Under those circumstances any Harvey girl would welcome the sheriff’s presence. Turning down his offer might seem odd if not altogether suspicious.

  Upon reaching his office, she pulled her arm away.

  “Here he is,” he said, untying the horse from the hitching post.

  “Pleased to meet you, Midnight.” She ran her hand along the gelding’s smooth nose.

  They started along the deserted street toward the restaurant. He led his horse by the reins as they walked.

  “From now on I insist you stay inside after dark. Least till I catch the killer and we know the town is safe again.”

  “Is that an order, Sheriff?” she asked.

  “Nope. Just plain good advice. Same advice I gave all the Harvey girls. Even Ginger.”

  His words hung between them like a funeral wreath, and a cold shiver ran down her spine.

  In contrast, the restaurant’s brick building loomed in front of them as big and happy as some of its regular customers. The slogan FRED HARVEY MEALS ALL THE WAY was painted onto the side of a covered wagon.

  “Thank you,” she said, stifling a yawn. It had been a long, hard day. Sleep. She needed sleep.

  The sheriff perused the imposing two-story building with a rueful look. “How do you propose to get back in? Through a window or down the chimney?”

  She smiled mysteriously. “I have my ways.”

  He leveled his gaze on her. “New in town and already you know all the ins and outs, do you?”

  “Not all of them,” she said with meaning. “But I will. Good night, Sheriff.”

  She hurried down the alleyway, stopping once to look over her shoulder. He had mounted his steed, and, outlined against the moonlit sky, horse and man melded into one.

  He seemed trustworthy enough. Not that she could or would trust him. Not completely, anyway.

  Putting her trust in men had gotten her nothing but heartache. First, her father had let her down with his drinking. Then Nathan Cole, the man she had loved and hoped to wed. He’d led her to believe he cared for her. He’d escorted her to dances, took her on hay rides, and made her laugh. But it turned out he’d only used her to get to her sister Belle, whom he eventually married.

  Swallowing the rocklike lump in her throat, she ran around the building and pushed against the dining room door. Much to her relief, the wooden spoon she’d jammed in the sill was still in place, and the door swung open to her touch.

  She felt her way through the dark dining room, moving silently from chair to chair. A soft scraping sound made her reach for her gun. She froze in place and waited.

  “Anyone there?” she called.

  When no one answered, she quickly exited the dining room and took the stairs two at a time.

  Chapter 8

  There ought to be a law against starting work at 5:00 a.m. Having precious little sleep, Katie stifled a yawn as she made her way down the stairs, through the still-dark dining room to the brightly lit kitchen.

  Never had she seen such a place. Harvey had spared no expense in making his restaurant as modern and efficient as possible, complete with running water, gas lighting, gleaming wood cabinets, and soapstone counters.

  The chef greeted her with a pointed look at the clock on the wall. She was five minutes late.

  His name was Chef Gassée—an unfortunate name for a cook, no matter how elegant he pronounced it. He was a high-strung man with a pencil-thin mustache and tea-strainer nose. His healthy crop of curly black hair was topped by a white linen toque, the height and pleats giving it the appearance of a Roman column.

  He pointed in the direction of the plucking station where a dozen or more chickens waited to be undressed. Small rounded heads hung over the side of the counter, the beady eyes all staring at her.

  Stomach churning, Katie looked away. She pretended to be a farm girl, but in reality she had been born and bred in the city. She was used to buying her tin goods from a grocer and meat from a butcher. Criminals she could handle, dead animals… not so much.

  How does one say “I don’t pluck chickens” in French?

  The chef took a hen by the feet and dipped it into a large pot of boiling water. After a few seconds, he lifted the fowl out of the pot and tugged on a feather. Not satisfied with the ease by which the feather came out, he dunked the bird into the water again. He then flung the dripping chicken onto the counter and gestured for her to get to work.

  She cleared her throat and shook her head. “Me”—she pointed to herself—“no pluck chickens!” She waved her hand sideways in what she hoped was a universal gesture for the word no.

  “Well,” he said, arms folded. Only it sounded like vell. “Le poisson.” He pronounced the word poison, pwasson.

  “Yes, yes, oui, oui. Chicken… uh… poison. Pwasson.”

  He pointed to another table—this one filled with dead fish waiting to be scaled and gutted. The staring eyes and gaping mouths made the chickens look almost friendly in comparison.

  “No, no.” She gasped. “Pwasson,” she said, careful to pronounce it the French way. Fish are poison.

  “Oui, oui.” He gestured wildly and confused her by nodding. His toque teetered back and forth like a tree that couldn’t decide which way to topple.

  He handed her a knife that could, in a pinch, pass as a saber. “Le poisson!”

  His scowling expression told her he meant business and no amount of pleading would make him change his mind. Taking the knife in hand, she clenched her teeth and turned to face the silver-scaled corpses. Zeroing in on the largest, she afforded the creature that same fish-eye stare it gave her.

  Here goes nothing. Holding the handle of the knife with both hands, she raised it over her head. At the count of three she bro
ught the blade down, and it hit the body hard. The fish popped up, head still attached, and zoomed across the room. It plopped tail first into a pan on the stove, splattering grease everywhere. Flames shot up like orange streamers dancing in the wind.

  Gasping, Katie sprang into action. She grabbed the pan of water off the chicken table and tossed it onto the blaze. The instant the water hit the stovetop it burst into an inferno. Orange flames scaled the wall and lunged at the ceiling like fiery swords.

  Letting out a howl that sounded more animal than human, Chef Gassy yelled something in his mother tongue that needed no translation.

  Fist pumping the air, he chased her around the counter twice before deciding that his efforts would be better spent putting out the fire. Cursing in French, he tossed an entire five-pound bag of salt on the stove and whacked the wall with a dish towel.

  The moment the flames died and it looked like things were in control, Katie made a hasty retreat. She ducked out of the kitchen and ran up the stairs to her room.

  Gee whillikens! There had to be an easier way to earn a living.

  Chapter 9

  Sheriff Branch Whitman sat at the kitchen table drinking his morning coffee. He was still annoyed at himself for letting that detective get away last night. No matter. The man couldn’t stay hidden for long.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the voice of his seven-year-old son. Andy was talking to the housekeeper. Hard to believe that the boy was about to turn eight. It seemed like only yesterday that Branch had dug through the rubble left by a deadly tornado and found the newborn infant stuffed in a cast-iron stove, umbilical cord still attached.

  The thought brought a wave of memories crashing down on him. Even now, after all this time, he couldn’t forget the horror of that long-ago day. There’d been tornados since, of course, but none as powerful. No one could live in Kansas for long without seeing the destructive force of a twister. But the one in ’72 was the granddaddy of them all.

  Thirty seconds and his life had changed forever.

  The cyclone pretty much destroyed the town, along with several farms. His house was spared, and had his wife been home where she belonged, her life would have been spared, as well.

  A midwife by trade, Hannah Whitman insisted upon working even after their marriage. Call him old-fashioned, but he hadn’t wanted her to work. A man’s job was to support his wife, and her insistence upon working made him feel like a failure in that regard. But that wasn’t the only reason he’d wanted her to quit. Hardly a week went by when someone hadn’t banged on their door in the middle of the night wanting her services, and he’d worried about her safety.

  She was at the Clayborn farm delivering Dorothy Clayborn’s firstborn when the tornado struck. The only one to survive was the infant. Somehow Hannah had the presence of mind to place the newborn babe inside the cast-iron oven before the tornado hit. The entire house had collapsed around it. The baby’s frantic cries had let Branch and the other rescue workers know where to dig. They found his wife’s body draped over the stove.

  Hannah had saved the child’s life, and it seemed only right that he keep the boy and raise him as his own. In all the confusion following the twister, no one questioned his right to do so. And why would they? The baby’s mother was dead. His father had died months before the tornado. Far as he knew, the boy had no other relatives.

  It seemed that Hannah had wanted to give him the son in death that she could not give him when she was alive. Her final gift to him. In return, he loved and cared for the boy as if he were his own flesh and blood.

  His housekeeper, Miss Chloe, walked into the room, and his thoughts scattered like feathers in the wind.

  “Law sakes, Sheriff,” she began, white teeth flashing against her dark skin. “That boy of yours will be the death of me yet.” She always called him Sheriff even though he’d asked her to call him Branch.

  Sheriff was a whole lot better than master, which is what she called him all those years ago when he first hired her to help with the baby. Having grown up on a Georgia cotton plantation, she wasn’t used to being treated like a member of the family. But she sure did learn and now thought nothing about giving him a piece of her mind should the occasion call for it.

  “What’s he doing now?” he asked.

  “Says he doesn’t need to go to no school. Says he knows everything.” She laughed that big belly laugh of hers, and her brown eyes shone with humor. “Lawdy, don’t we wish we could all say that?”

  In a way, Branch envied the boy. It had been a long time since he thought he knew it all. He was… what? Seven or eight at the time, and that was way back when his mother was alive and the world still made sense.

  “I’ll talk to him.”

  “Nah.” Her face grew serious. She wore a red kerchief over her kinky black hair and a bright floral dress that circled her full figure like a lampshade. “You got other things on your mind. I’ll set him straight. Don’t you worry none about that.”

  Andy walked into the room looking all spiffy for school. Smelled good, too. He wore knee-high trousers with red suspenders, long black socks, and a blue-and-white-striped shirt. Somehow Miss Chloe had even managed to corral the boy’s stubborn cowlick.

  Curbing the impulse to ruffle Andy’s hair as he was prone to do, Branch gave him a stern look. “You’re not giving Miss Chloe a hard time, are you, Son?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. See that you don’t.” Softening his tone, he asked, “Have you had your breakfast?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Humph.” Miss Chloe folded her arms across her ample bosom. “You call that breakfast? A half a sausage and a spoonful of eggs. That’s not enough to feed a hummingbird.”

  Andy’s picky eating habits were a bone of contention with his housekeeper, who considered any food left on a plate an affront to her cooking.

  Branch pulled the watch out of his vest pocket and flipped the case open with his thumb. “You better get a move on or you’ll be late for school.”

  Andy reached for his books on the table, held together with a leather strap. “Bye, Pa. Bye, Miss Chloe.” With that he ran outside, slamming the door shut behind him.

  Miss Chloe poured herself a cup of coffee. “That’s some boy you got there.”

  Branch smiled. “You won’t get any argument from me there.”

  “Want some breakfast?”

  “No, I’ll get something in town.” He gulped down the last of his coffee. He was anxious to track down that annoying Pink detective. The man deserved to spend the day behind bars. Assaulting a sheriff. Knocking a woman off her feet. No less than two days in jail would be sufficient. Make that three.

  The thought brought another one, equally disturbing, though far more pleasant. The vision that came to mind of Miss Madison sitting on the boardwalk made the corners of his mouth twitch.

  Come to think of it, she never did tell him what she was doing out so late. In light of the Harvey House killings, traipsing about at night was a fool thing to do.

  She was new in town, so it seemed unlikely she was meeting a beau. And why did he have the feeling that there was more to her than met the eye?

  The last thought brought back a flood of memories. She sure didn’t look like a Harvey girl last night. Not with her hair falling down her back and skirt in disarray, allowing a tantalizing glimpse of lace petticoats beneath the hem.

  Good thing her English employer was nowhere around. No doubt he would have sent her packing. Fred Harvey kept his female employees on a tight rein. Miss Madison didn’t strike him as one who could be easily controlled. It would be interesting to see how long she lasted.

  Snapping his mouth shut, he carried his cup and saucer to the sink.

  “Andy’s birthday is only a couple of weeks away,” Miss Chloe said. “Do you want me to plan something special?”

  “Yeah, we need to do something,” he said. “Maybe the three of us can have dinner at the Harvey House.” The thought popping out of nowhere sur
prised him. It obviously surprised Miss Chloe, too.

  “You got a problem with my cooking?” she asked, sounding insulted.

  “I like your cooking just fine.” No one could fry chicken better than she could, and her corn bread was out of this world. “I just thought you’d appreciate a night off.”

  “Well, if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather spend my time off with my husband.”

  “He’s welcome to come.”

  “Thank you, but after putting in a full day at the shop there’s nothing he likes better than to stay home and put his feet up on the hassock.”

  Branch nodded. Miss Chloe was so much a part of his and Andy’s life that sometimes he forgot she had a home of her own. Her husband was the local blacksmith, and they had raised three strapping sons.

  Whenever Branch worked late or was called out of town on county business, Miss Chloe simply took his son home with her and bedded him down. She lived a stone’s throw away, so Andy was never that far away and felt as much at home at her house as he did in his own.

  “Take the night off,” he said. Come to think of it, Andy might like eating in a restaurant for a change. A new experience like that might do wonders for the boy’s appetite. The idea had nothing to do with the new waitress in town—not a thing.

  He grabbed his hat and headed for the door. “Got to get to work.” If he was lucky, he’d catch that Pink detective before he caused any more trouble.

  “Will you be home for supper?” she called after him.

  He almost said no, but he’d missed a couple of meals with Andy already that week. “Count on it.”

  “Phew!” Mary-Lou held her nose. “Don’t know what smells worse, the horrid smoke or the smell of burned fish,” she said. They had finished serving breakfast to the locals and were now waiting for the morning train to arrive.

  “Le poisson,” Katie said.

  “What?”

  “Le poisson. That’s how you say ‘fish’ in French.”

  “I didn’t know you could speak French.” Mary-Lou looked impressed.