Katie listened but didn’t say a word. Tully garnered proposals like a gunfighter collected notches.
“You know what they say about us Harvey girls,” Tully said, exchanging a cool iron for a hot one. “Marriage proposals for the pretty ones take but a day. The less attractive ones have to wait three days.” She looked straight at Katie. “How many marriage proposals have you received?”
“Me?” Katie felt her face grow warm. She shook her head. “None.”
Mary-Lou as usual jumped to her defense. “Give it time. She’s new.”
Abigail lifted an apron off the ironing board and hung it on a wooden peg. Whenever talk turned to marriage, she normally remained silent or left the room. Such talk seemed to bring back unwanted memories of the life she had escaped.
But today she surprised Katie by saying, “I think she’s already spoken for.”
“I am?” Katie tightened her grip on the wooden handle of the sadiron. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Abigail lowered her voice. “I’m talking about the sheriff, of course. I saw the way he looked at you this morning at breakfast.”
“I didn’t notice.” Katie had been so busy juggling orders she’d hardly had time to give the sheriff more than a cursory glance. She lowered the iron to the bib of the apron, hoping for a change of topic.
Much to her dismay, Mary-Lou persisted. “Maybe you should. He’s nice to look at and always treats us with respect.”
Katie managed to pretend disinterest, but the apron she was ironing sure did take a beating. If it wasn’t already flat it would have been. “I guess he’s okay.”
Mary-Lou laughed. “But only if you like handsome, tall men with dark dreamy eyes—right?”
Katie’s mind was still on the handsome part when suddenly Abigail cried out, “Your apron!”
“What?” Katie lifted the iron and stared in horror at the brown scorch mark on the starched white bib. There was no help for the apron. Nor for her blazing cheeks.
By the start of the third week, Katie had the restaurant routine down pat. The cup code? Now that was a different story. So was taking orders. Whose bright idea was it to make Harvey girls work without benefit of pen and paper?
She had better luck remembering the names of the locals. Some of her favorites included Bert the blacksmith, a large dark-skinned man with a robust smile and a ready joke. Reverend Bushwell had breakfast every day except Sundays and always spread good cheer along with a Bible quote or two.
She also knew all the cowboys by name. The names all corresponded with physical features, so memorizing them was a cinch. Tall Texas Joe and Big Foot Pete were her favorites and always good for a laugh. But as a whole the cattlemen were more closemouthed than the AT&SF trainmen, which probably meant they had more to hide.
Not only were rail workers more verbal, they dealt out marriage proposals like faro dealers dealt out cards. Katie was taken aback the first time one proposed to her. She soon learned it was done in jest. In no time at all she found herself promised to a dozen or more men. For once she felt like the belle of the ball rather than a wallflower.
The unaccustomed attention amused her to no end. Her sisters should see her now. They wouldn’t recognize their dull, redheaded, freckle-faced sister.
Long-Shot was another favorite local. He’d run for every possible office in the county, including sheriff, and lost. Whenever he walked into the restaurant someone would invariably call out, “Hey, Long-Shot. What are you running for next?”
Long-Shot never seemed to take offense. Instead, he’d throw out an answer such as dogcatcher or grave digger, and the place would explode with laughter.
Katie envied his ability to laugh at himself. That was something she had never been able to do, but she was learning. Oh, yes, indeed she was. When the railroad workers teased her about her hair and freckles she gave back as good as she got.
They called her Red and Carrot-Top, and her freckles earned her the name Sprinkles. In return she called the workers such names as Ironman, Rails, and Groundhog.
Her banter never failed to bring a roar of laughter from the men and an approving nod from Long-Shot. “That’s the way to do it,” he’d always say. “Don’t let them get to you!”
Not only was she having fun, but joking around with the men gave her ample opportunity to interrogate them.
“Hey, Ironman, did you know Ginger?”
Ironman was burly with a squinty face. The anchor tattooed on his arm and his sea leg swagger marked him as a former sailor. “Charley’s girl? Yeah, I knew her.” He shook his head. “Terrible thing.”
“Charley said he was playing faro when she died,” she said. “He feels guilty.”
“Yeah, well he should feel guilty. He cleared us all out that night. Left me with nothing more than a plugged nickel.”
Little by little she learned the whereabouts of most of the regulars on the night Ginger died. Those with no alibi remained on her suspect list and their descriptions sent to Pinkerton headquarters.
Her duties didn’t allow for much free time. In between meals, the girls were expected to keep busy. That meant polishing silverware, a chore no one liked. It seemed like everything was silver: vases, coffee urns, pitchers, and cutlery.
“If you come to my wedding,” Tully announced during a silver-cleaning ordeal, “don’t anyone give me silver.”
Katie didn’t mind the cleaning and polishing as much as the others, for it gave her a chance to listen, observe, and think.
Setting the tables was her big bugaboo. You couldn’t just set a plate any old way. Oh, no. Each plate had to be placed an equal distance from the table’s edge. The water glasses had to be a certain length away from the knives, and the starched napkins folded just so.
Currently, the restaurant employed only the four Harvey girls, including Katie, and was understaffed by half as four girls had quit after Ginger’s death. At least three more women were due to arrive at the end of the month after completing a thirty-day training course. Katie avoided the monthlong training by using falsified references stating she was an experienced waitress.
Aside from the manager, bookkeeper, and omnibus boy, Chef Gassy had three cooks and a baker working under him. Two of the cooks were Mexican and could speak no English. Between the chef and his fractured English and the Spanish-speaking cooks, it was a wonder that the kitchen ran as smoothly as it did.
The ebony-skinned pantry girl attracted Katie’s curiosity. Cissy never spoke, ate by herself, and quietly retired to her room at day’s end. Katie’s every attempt to be friendly had been rebuffed.
The only ones who lived on the premises were the Harvey girls, Cissy, and Miss Thatcher. Even local girls were required to stay in the dormitory. The other employees roomed at the nearby boardinghouse or in town.
Pretending she was looking for salt, Katie was finally able to corner Cissy in the kitchen making salad. She guessed the girl was in her early twenties. She wore her hair parted in the middle and pulled back like the Harvey girls, but her frizzy locks defied any effort on her part to be smoothed into a neat and tidy bun.
“How long have you worked here, Cissy?” she asked.
Deerlike eyes regarded her with suspicion. “Six months.”
“So you knew Priscilla and Ginger.”
“Kind of.”
“What do you mean, kind of?”
“I never talked to them, and they never talked to me.” With an air of dismissal she continued tearing lettuce leaves apart and tossing them into a bowl.
Refusing to take the hint, Katie persisted. “But you lived under the same roof. How could you not talk to each other?”
Cissy cast a glance her way. “Don’tcha know? I’m just the pantry girl.”
“I’m sure it won’t be long until you become a Harvey girl.” Though the girl would have to improve her demeanor before that happened. Grammar, too. Mr. Harvey was a stickler for proper English.
Cissy shook her head and gave Katie a wistful look. “Bl
ackies like me ain’t allowed to be Harvey girls. Them’s the rules.”
Chapter 19
Later that same day Katie stood at her station behind the counter, scanning the room. Had she not been so alert she might have missed Tully slipping a piece of paper to Buzz.
A pretty girl, a handsome young man. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was going on, but at this point in the game Katie couldn’t afford to overlook anything or anyone.
She waited for Buzz to take his place by the gong outside and quietly followed.
As rigid in countenance as he was in dress, he wore an immaculate white shirt and razor-creased trousers. His brown hair was neatly trimmed and nails perfectly manicured. Had he fallen into a tub of starch he couldn’t have carried himself more rigid. He hardly seemed the type to resort to anything as messy as murder, but of course the possibility couldn’t be discounted.
Pretending she had stepped outside for air, she leaned against a post and fanned herself with her hand. On the other side of the railroad tracks the prairie stretched out for as far as the eye could see. A gentle breeze turned the tall grass into a sea of waves but offered no relief from the heat.
A sign on a wheelbarrow offered free rides to the hotel. It was meant as a joke, but one matronly traveler took it seriously and actually climbed into the handcart, much to the amusement of restaurant employees.
“It sure is hot,” she said. Though May had only begun, the wooden thermometer outside read nearly eighty degrees.
He agreed with a nod. “Looks like we’re in for an early summer.”
“Sure does.” A strand of hair had escaped from her bun, and she brushed it away from her face. “How long have you worked for Harvey?”
“Since the restaurant opened nearly two years ago.”
“So you knew both Priscilla and Ginger?”
“Yeah, I knew them.” He paused for a moment before adding, “Prissy and I started working here about the same time. Mr. Harvey wanted an experienced waitress, so he transferred her from Florence.”
“Sure is a shame what happened,” she said. His expression remained neutral, and he made no attempt to comment. “Any idea who might have wanted to harm them?”
He let the question hang for a moment before answering. “No, but—” He lowered his voice. “There’re some in town who would like nothing better than to see the restaurant fail.”
“But why?” Harvey had practically put the town on the map with his innovative approach to dining.
“It put Ma Gibson’s restaurant out of business, and there are those who think the Harvey girls are setting a bad example for the community. Some even say they’re serving more than just food and beverage here. Even my own pa thinks that and hasn’t forgiven me for working here rather than the family business.”
Katie felt her spirits sink. If what he said was true, then the suspect pool just got a whole lot larger. “I noticed that you and Tully seem close.”
“Shh.” He glanced around again as if to check for eavesdroppers. “We plan on getting married.”
That was a surprise, especially since Tully openly flirted with anyone in trousers, including the railroad workers.
“I thought it was against the rules for a Harvey girl to wed.”
“Only for the length of a contract. After that, they’re free to wed but can’t work at the restaurant anymore. Don’t tell anyone. Employees aren’t allowed to get involved with one another, and we could both be fired.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, why are you working here?” He couldn’t be making that much money. Certainly not enough to support a wife.
“Mr. Harvey promised to make me the manager of one of his restaurants. He’s opening a new one in Arkansas City, and he says it’s mine if I keep my nose to the grindstone. That’s why I’m here. I’m learning the ropes.”
That made sense. He certainly seemed ambitious enough.
“Once I’m made manager,” he continued, “there’ll be no need for Tully to work and we can get married.” He frowned. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”
“I won’t breathe a word,” she said.
From the far distance came the high-pitched wail of a train whistle. True to form, Buzz turned like a wooden soldier and struck the gong with his stick. The job might not require much in the way of skill, but he gave it all he had.
The dish-shaped gong was still vibrating when she turned and hurried back inside.
Katie was given a promotion of sorts, much to her surprise. Instead of working behind the counter, she was now allowed to work the tables. That meant having to deal with a more involved and complicated menu.
The gong had announced the arrival of the twelve-twenty-five, and Katie sighed with irritation at spotting the sheriff walk through the door. Since the day he rescued her from the wind, they had called a truce of sorts and were no longer at loggerheads.
Still, she had a hard enough time serving a bunch of strangers under Pickens’s critical eye without the sheriff’s distracting presence. All he had to do was walk into the room and suddenly she couldn’t think of anything else. Today was no different. She was so busy staring at him she almost poured the coffee in a diner’s lap.
He paid his money and headed straight for her station. Lunch was served in the breakfast room, so no jackets were required. He greeted her with a crooked smile and touched the brim of his hat with his finger.
Heat rose up her neck. “These seats are taken,” she said, her voice thick with swirling emotions.
She hoped he would take the hint and sit at another station, but no such luck. Instead, his gaze circled the table.
“Nine are taken,” he said pulling out a chair. “That leaves one chair empty.”
She sidled up to him. “Wouldn’t you rather be served by one of the more experienced girls?” she whispered in his ear.
“I’ll take my chances with you,” he said, and the tone of his voice made her draw in her breath. He glanced at the blackboard. “I’ll have the roast beef.”
Wiping her damp hands on the side of her skirt, she backed away and took the other orders.
The kitchen was a beehive of activity. Everyone was shouting orders, and Chef Gassy and Howie Howard shoved plates of steaming food onto trays faster than you could say Abe Lincoln.
Katie grabbed a tray marked number three and walked up to Mary-Lou. “Tell me again where the blue mussels are from?” She raised her voice to be heard above the noise. Why people cared one way or the other where food originated she couldn’t imagine.
“You mean Blue Point oysters, and they come from Long Island,” Mary-Lou shouted back. She reached for her own tray and started toward the breakfast room. Katie followed.
“And don’t forget to say that the quail is sage fed, the turtles are from the Gulf of Mexico, and the whitefish came straight from the Great Lakes,” Mary-Lou called over her shoulder.
Katie sighed as the two parted company. And she thought the cup code was complicated.
She set the tray on a small tray table at her station and lifted a steaming plate. She purposely ignored the sheriff, but she could sense his gaze on her, and warmth crept up her neck.
“Wonderful choice,” she said, setting the plate of oysters in front of a middle-aged woman who stared at the shellfish through a jeweled lorgnette like she was reading their fortunes.
“All the way from the Great Lakes,” Katie added.
“But I thought Blue Points lived in salt water,” the woman said.
“You must be thinking of their cousins,” Katie said. A detective had to think quickly and so apparently did Harvey girls. She chanced a glance at the sheriff. He kept his head lowered but not enough to hide the upward curve of his mouth.
Train passengers were served first, and most locals knew not to drop in during certain hours. For that reason she purposely kept him waiting until everyone else had been served before placing the plate of roast beef before him. He should know better than to arrive during her busiest time.
Though the other patrons were now on dessert, Katie’s table was still working on the main dish. That’s because the unpleasant man with the bald head and yellow teeth insisted he’d ordered chicken. His checkered coat pegged him as a traveling salesman. She couldn’t imagine what wares he hawked. Probably coffins or something equally as dour.
“Eat the blasted fish,” she muttered under her breath after unsuccessfully trying to reason with him. The only way he would get his right order was if she grabbed the chicken away from the woman who kept declaring her “fish” delicious.
Remembering the number one rule of the house, however, she did smile, for all the good it did her. The unhappy diner scowled back. By the time the travelers rose from their seats to board the train, Katie was ready to call it a day.
The sheriff was the last to leave the table. He stood lazily, tugged on his hat, and leaned closer. “It seems you’re a better detective than you are a waitress,” he said, his voice low in her ear. Reaching into his vest, he produced a manila folder. “Thought you might like to see this.”
He held it so she could read the name Harvey written on it. She stared at him with narrowed eyes, not knowing what to think. “Does this mean we’re partners?”
“Depends,” he said, his voice as noncommittal as his expression.
“On what?”
“Whether you agree to do things my way.”
“Over my dead—”
He stopped her with a shake of his finger. “My town. My rules.”
“You can take your rules and—”
Pickens called out. “Meeting in the kitchen.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “I’ll be right there.” She turned back to the sheriff.
He arched an eyebrow. “You were saying?” He dangled the folder in front of her and made no effort to hide his look of triumph. He knew how badly she wanted that folder. What he didn’t know was how far she would go to get it.
Without warning she snatched the folder out of his hands and ran. Racing out of the breakfast room, across the hall, and through the formal dining room, she ducked into the kitchen and peered through the open pass-through. He didn’t see her, but she could see him. He hadn’t moved from where she’d left him. Only his profile was visible, but it sure did look like a smile on his face. Now, wasn’t that the oddest thing?
Calico Spy Page 10
