Katie shrugged. “You’d be amazed what you can learn at five in the morning.”
Okay, maybe she panicked a bit upon seeing flames shoot up from the iron cookstove. Any emergency that didn’t require the use of a gun tended to floor her. Outlaws she could handle. But grease fires? Not so much. How was she to know that throwing water on one would make it worse? Homemaking was not her strong suit; catching bad guys was.
If having the manager and dorm matron breathing down her back wasn’t worrisome enough, her name was now mud to a certain temperamental French chef.
A series of sneezes preceded the entry of the man who had been introduced to her the night before as Stanley Culpepper, the Harvey House bookkeeper. Sneezing into his handkerchief, he took his place at the table by the door, his eyes and nose red. He handled all restaurant finances, which included collecting meal money from customers, paying vendors, and writing employee paychecks.
“Hay fever’s killing me,” he muttered to no one in particular and sneezed again.
His shoe—polish–dyed hair offered a startling contrast to skin as white as a newly peeled potato. Next to the leather-faced railroad workers and cattlemen, he looked like he’d just emerged from a cave. His John Wilkes Booth–type mustache seemed almost too thick for his face and his nose too short.
Frayed cuffs told her he wasn’t married, but the bruises on his knuckles puzzled her. Had he been in a fight?
“Good morning, ladies,” Mr. Pickens said, drawing Katie’s attention away from Culpepper’s hands.
The manager perused the dining room, his gaze flicking from table to table. He pulled out a measuring stick and checked that the silverware at one table was placed the same distance from the edge. Dishes had to be correctly positioned, the two birds on the Blue Willow bread plates at precisely twelve o’clock.
Satisfied that all was in order, he then turned his attention to the four girls who stood like wooden ducks at a carnival waiting to be knocked over.
It was the second inspection of the day, and Mary-Lou assured her there were more to come. The first one had been done by the dorm matron, who wiped their faces with a damp sponge to make certain no one wore face paint.
“Miss Madison! Is that a spot I see?” Pickens pointed to her apron.
She looked down. “It’s just a speck of water, sir.” The starched aprons had to be spotlessly clean at all times, and already she’d changed hers twice that morning. The starched fabric seemed to attract the least bit of dust or moisture.
Pickens stared at her like a bug to be squashed.
Refusing to be intimidated, she lifted her chin. “It will dry.”
“Yes, it will, Miss Madison. But not on you.” He pointed to the kitchen. “You have twenty-nine seconds to change into a fresh one.”
“But—”
“Twenty-eight seconds!”
Chapter 10
Branch swung the door of the empty cell open to let the man named Woody Baker walk in.
A grizzled man in his sixties, Woody had a wooden leg, a toothless smile, and a scar on his forehead. He probably wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for Branch arresting him with clocklike regularity for loitering. The town had no ordinance against lounging by public buildings, but jail was the only way of keeping him from starving or, during winter months, even freezing to death.
The widow Bisbee provided the jail food for a stipend. The meals weren’t fancy, but they were nourishing and the cot reasonably comfortable. A couple of days of food and rest and Woody would be good to go again. That is, until next time.
After getting Woody settled, Branch sat at his desk, his chair squeaking beneath his weight. So far he’d failed to find the detective. The man was as slippery as a wet bar of soap. But not for long. Every saloon and businessman in town had been told to be on the lookout. It was just a matter of time. Meanwhile, he might as well work on the Harvey case.
Though he had his notes memorized, he went over each handwritten notation in the thick Harvey file word for word. Had he missed something? Overlooked an inconsistency? Failed to put two and two together?
Weeks of investigation had failed to turn up a single suspect. With an audible groan, he scrubbed his hands over his face in frustration. He was no closer to finding the Harvey killer now than when he’d first begun the investigation.
He’d questioned everyone in town at least twice, and the railroad workers many times more. He’d gone over the victims’ rooms with a fine-tooth comb and checked the background of each Harvey House employee for former criminal activity. He’d even cabled the French military police force gendarmerie asking for information on Chef Gassée.
All he had to show for his work was a file full of worthless information.
Much as it went against his grain, maybe he should step back and let the Pink take over. See if the hired detective could do any better at solving the crimes. Two young women were dead, and as much as he hated to admit it, he was stymied. So far his prayers for God’s help in arranging a break in the case had not been answered.
Or at least not in the way he’d hoped. He pinched his forehead. Why did help, if that’s what it was, have to come in the guise of an organization for which he held nothing but disdain? Was this God’s idea of a joke?
The front door swung open, and he dropped his hands to his desk. The widow Mrs. Bracegirdle stepped into the office, cane first. He stood ready to help her to a chair if necessary. As if to guess his intent, she motioned for him to stay where he was.
Obstinate as a barn full of mules, she hadn’t aged in thirty years. She looked eighty when he was knee-high to a milk stool, and she looked eighty now. Thin white hair framed a face as wrinkled as an old peach pit. Skin hung from beneath her chin and shook like a turkey’s wattle when she spoke.
Still, he had a soft spot for her. Not only had she given him candy when he was a youngster and remained his most avid supporter through the years, she was one of only two people in town who knew the truth about his son.
After swearing her to secrecy all those years ago, he hadn’t mentioned it since and neither had she. He’d hoped that somehow she’d forgotten and accepted Andy as his own flesh and blood, but that was probably only wishful thinking on his part.
The only other person who knew his secret was Reverend Bushwell. That was because everyone else who knew the truth had either left after that terrible tornado wreaked havoc in the town or had since passed away. At one point it looked as if the town would die with them. Then along came the railroad, bringing with it new families, new life, and a whole set of new problems.
He waited for Mrs. Bracegirdle to settle herself in the chair in front of his desk before seating himself. She leaned her cane next to her side and smoothed her purple skirt.
He knew Reverend Bushwell wouldn’t reveal his secret and until recently hadn’t worried about Mrs. Bracegirdle. Lately, though, she’d been given to strange hallucinations and wild imaginings. He never knew what she would come up with next.
Last month, she claimed to have been abducted by a man on a white horse. The month prior, she claimed that she found a stranger in her bed. No one was there, of course, and he had a hard time convincing her of that, but he was beginning to see a pattern.
“Hi, Woody,” she called to the man in jail. Everyone in town was on a first name basis with his resident prisoner.
Woody rolled over on his cot. “Howdy, Miz Bracegirdle.”
“Who’s been in your bed this time?” Branch was teasing her, but one wouldn’t know it by the serious look on her face.
“No one.” She regarded him with faded blue eyes. “The reason I’m here is that there’s a strange noise coming from next door.”
“From next door, do you mean the bank side or the barbershop?” She lived on the second floor over her son’s dry goods store.
“From the apartment over the bank,” she said. “And it keeps me awake at night.”
“Sorry to hear that.” Out of respect for her, he would have to che
ck it out, of course. Just as he’d checked out the marmalade cat that screeched like a bad opera singer and interfered with her sleep. The animal’s owner didn’t take kindly to having her cat’s tonal deficiencies compared to opera, saying no cat of hers would put on such airs.
“What kind of noise?” Branch asked. “Can you describe it?”
“It’s a tapping sound. And sometimes I hear a scraping. Occasionally there’s a bang.”
“Sounds like a ghost to me,” Woody called from his cell.
She pulled a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and daintily dabbed her nose. “Whatever it is, it’s a nuisance. How’s a body to sleep with that racket? That’s what I want to know.”
“How long has this been going on?” The bank closed at 5:00 p.m. and didn’t open until nine in the morning.
“For several weeks.”
He raised his eyebrows. “And you’re just getting around to telling me about it now?”
“It stopped for a while but then started up again. The sound was particularly loud early Sunday morning.”
“Maybe it’s a church mouse,” Woody called and laughed at his own joke.
Ignoring him, Branch folded his arms across his chest. “Okay, I’ll check with the bank president and get back to you.”
“That would be very nice.” Today her eyes looked clear and focused. Maybe there really was something to her complaint.
“It looks like I’m not the only one who didn’t get any sleep,” she said.
“What?”
“You look like you missed a few winks yourself.”
Branch raked his hair with his fingers. Looked that bad, did he? Small wonder. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since the first Harvey girl was found dead. Since he’d failed to find Priscilla’s killer, he blamed himself for Ginger’s death. If the killer wasn’t found soon, he might kill again.
“Just working hard,” he said.
Tucking her handkerchief into the sleeve of her dress, she reached for her cane with a gnarly hand and rose from her chair, bones creaking. “You know what they say about all work and no play.”
“Makes a man rich,” Woody called.
“Don’t I wish?” Branch said and grinned.
Fearing she was about to get started on his nonexistent love life again, he stood and walked around his desk. Work and his son took up all his time. He didn’t want to think about anything else.
Taking her by the arm, he escorted her to the door. “I’ll let you know what I find out at the bank.”
Just as soon as he tracked down that Monkey Ward detective.
Chapter 11
Katie paused outside the kitchen door.
Sneaking away from the Harvey House was no easy task, especially during the morning hours. It had been two days since the fire, and Katie hadn’t been able to escape Pickens’s watchful eye. Today, however, he was nowhere in sight.
The timing couldn’t be more perfect. Fortunately, Chef Gassy was busy yelling at the man hired to paint the smoke-stained wall and ceiling. Unfortunately, the painter dripped white paint into the chef’s prized English pea soup.
“Balourd!” Gassy yelled, and the man turned almost the same color as the newly painted wall.
While the two were going at it tooth and nail, Katie snatched an entire apple pie and quickly ducked into the empty dining room and out the door.
She had no intention of revealing her true identity, but maybe if she kept her eyes and ears open she might learn something about the case from the sheriff. The trick was to ask the right questions without drawing suspicion. If she mentioned seeing a man in front of the Harvey House at night, she might be able to determine whether Ginger’s beau was a suspect.
With a little luck she could conduct her business with the sheriff and return to the restaurant before anyone noticed her gone.
It was a warm spring day with not a cloud in the sky—too nice to be confined inside.
On the other side of the railroad tracks, purple, blue, and orange wildflowers mingled with tall prairie grass. Today, no cattle smell tainted the air. The door to the telegraph office was open and the tap-tap-tapping of the telegraph key floated to her ears.
Working in such close proximity to the telegraph office was a bonus. It made communicating with her St. Louis bosses a breeze. All telegrams to headquarters were to be addressed to “Aunt Hetty,” every word carefully concealed behind a cryptic code. If the telegraph operator thought anything odd about the daily cables to her “aunt,” he kept it to himself.
Holding the pie with both hands, she hurried down the alley and crossed the street to Main. The pastry was still warm to the touch, and the cinnamon smell made her mouth water. With a little luck maybe Chef Gassy wouldn’t notice one of his newly baked pies missing.
She still wasn’t sure how to handle the sheriff. They said that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. She only hoped the pie did the trick—though she doubted it would make him any less hostile toward Pinkerton detectives.
Suddenly she saw something that stopped her in her tracks. The man who had so rudely knocked her down two nights earlier had just entered the Calico Bank. She’d recognize his ugly mug anywhere. The sheriff claimed he was a Pinkerton detective. If so, he was a master of disguise, because no one looking at him would ever guess his true profession.
She frowned. He better not be her “protector,” that’s all she had to say. Or assigned to her case. Not that she’d ever worked on a murder case before. Her specialty was tracking down embezzlers, larcenists, and other so-called gentleman criminals. The most lethal weapon any of the previous offenders used was ink and pen.
So the Harvey girl killer wielded a knife. So what? She was ready for anything. More than ready. All she had to do was find the killer before the killer found her—or before she did something dumb like burning down the Harvey House restaurant.
Curiosity getting the best of her, she followed him inside.
Customers snaked up to the teller’s cage, and the man was at the very end of the line. She took her place directly behind him.
First she had to be certain of his identity, and there was only one way to tell if he truly was a Pinkerton operative. “Would you mind holding this for me?” she asked.
He looked startled but nonetheless took the pie plate from her. “Smells good,” he said, showing no signs of recognizing her as the woman he’d knocked off her feet. Hard to believe that with her blazing red hair, she could be so easily forgotten.
“Apple,” she said. She pulled a lace handkerchief out of her sleeve and waved it like she had been taught to signal another operative in public.
She then tucked the handkerchief back into her sleeve and took the pie from him.
Right on cue, he pulled out his own handkerchief and flicked it across his hand. She couldn’t tell if he was signaling her back or wiping away pie filling.
“Are you from St. Louis?” she whispered.
He shook his head. “Kansas City.”
Since they were working out of different offices, that meant he was probably working on a different case. That was a relief. Had Pinkerton sent another operative it would have meant a lack of faith in her abilities.
“My name is Miss Madison.” Operatives never used their real names when working on a case, not even with each other. “What’s your alias?” You never asked a working detective his real name.
“They call me Scarface,” he said.
She could see why. Not only was his face pitted with pockmarks, his nose had been broken and he had a nasty scar over one eye. Either he’d been run over by a train or had dealt with some mighty tough thugs.
“What are you here for?” Since other bank customers had taken their place in line behind her she kept her voice low. “Counterfeiting or larceny?”
“Bank robbery,” he replied, his voice hushed.
“I’ve worked a couple of those myself,” she said.
He gave her an arched look. “Is that so?”
&
nbsp; “A tough job. The last holdup nearly got me killed.”
“Yeah, well, you gotta be careful. The secret of success is good planning.”
“I know what you mean.” An undercover agent was required to invent a whole new history. She couldn’t just say she hailed from Wisconsin and was the daughter of a cheese maker; she had to be that girl. She also had to know a lot about cheese.
“And of course, you have to have good timing,” he added. “Today is Friday, and that’s always the best day to rob a bank. That’s when the railroad workers get paid.”
“Good to know,” she said. She’d never worked in such close proximity to the railroad and had no idea how or when the workers got paid. She glanced at the line in front of them and most were older folks. None looked like bank robbers, but one never could tell, and Scarface seemed to know his business. Maybe he knew something she didn’t.
“The problem with some robbers is that they wait too late,” he continued. “By noon, most all workers have cashed their checks, leaving the bank low on dough.” He pulled out his watch. “Ten forty. Like I said, timing is everything.”
“Do you need help?” she asked, keeping her voice low.
“Nah. I got it. I like working alone. Less chance of being noticed. But it’s mighty nice of you to offer.”
“That’s what colleagues are for,” she said. “Just watch out for the sheriff. He doesn’t have much regard for the likes of us.”
“They never do,” he said.
“Next,” the teller called.
Katie gestured with her head. “That’s you.”
He turned to face the bank clerk. “Watch and learn.” He stepped toward the window and slid a piece of paper through the hole in the cage.
She furrowed her brow. Was that a note warning the teller that a robbery was about to take place? It seemed like a strange way to operate, but then she was no expert in bank holdups.
The thin male clerk suddenly got all jittery, and his eyebrows bounced up and down as if pulled by a puppeteer’s strings.
Scarface glanced over his shoulder at her and winked. That’s when she noticed the clerk stuffing money into a bag.
Calico Spy Page 5
