“All right.” Had he expected her to pick them up? Having so little knowledge of domestic affairs, she hadn’t even considered that carting them back and forth to school might be her responsibility.
Elise called to him, and with a final good-bye he followed his children through the parlor. The front door slammed shut, and moments later the rumbling sound of wagon wheels drifted through the open window and finally faded away.
Then all was blissfully quiet.
Maggie quickly washed the breakfast dishes and scrubbed the sink. Should Thomas arrive home unexpectedly to find dirty dishes and an untidy house, he might wonder what she had done with her time. Not wanting to blow her cover, she was as diligent with the household chores as she was in her detective work.
Anxious to get started on her investigation, she decided to search Thomas’s bedroom first. Finding the stolen money hidden there seemed like a remote possibility; the most she hoped to find was a bankbook or key to a safe-deposit box.
Whipping off her apron, she tossed it on a chair and hurried down the hall to his room. The door was locked. Surprised, she drew her hand away from the brass knob. Why would Thomas lock the door to his room unless he had something to hide? Maybe there was a key somewhere.
A quick search of the house soon relieved her of that hope. Since she couldn’t search his room, she decided the next best thing was to drive into town and make contact with her Pinkerton partner. He’d arrived in town ahead of her.
Yesterday, while Thomas argued with the hotel desk clerk about the room he’d reserved for her, she’d wandered about the lobby hoping to make visual contact with her partner. Unfortunately, he was nowhere to be seen. She hoped to have better luck today.
Chapter 7
It was after ten by the time she’d harnessed the black horse in the barn to the buckboard and drove into town. Already it was hot, and the air shimmered from the heated ground. She was grateful for having the good sense to forgo her more stylish outfits for a lace-bibbed calico frock.
The main business area of Furnace Creek occupied two streets. A livery stable and blacksmith shop anchored the town on the north, the railroad station the south. An assortment of businesses, including a bank, hotel, icehouse, and general store, were strung from one end of town to the other like wash on a clothesline. The adobe buildings were fitted with false wooden fronts and faded signs that creaked in the slightest breeze.
She glanced at the sheriff’s office housed in a freestanding building. Usually, the first order of business for a Pinkerton detective was to introduce him- or herself to local lawmen. But Sheriff Summerhay had a run-in with Pinkerton detectives a few years back and now refused to work with them. It was better to stay out of his hair until she and her partner had uncovered tangible proof of Thomas’s guilt.
Horses tethered to hitching posts swung their tails to ward off flies, and wagons rumbled by filled with produce, dairy products, and other provisions.
She parked the buckboard across from the two-story hotel and set the brake. She was anxious to find her partner, but she had to do it discreetly. No one must see them together.
A familiar voice assaulted her ears. “Readallaboutit.” It was the same paperboy seen at the train station.
He was a sorrowful sight. Unless she was mistaken, his were the same clothes worn the day before. Same patches, more wrinkles. He showed no sign of recognizing her.
She stepped onto the boardwalk next to him. “Why aren’t you in school?”
He stared at her through a curtain of dirty, stringy hair. “Don’t get paid for goin’ to no school.”
She frowned. “What’s your name?”
“Linc,” he said. “Short for Lincoln.”
“Lincoln what?”
Jones.”
His parents must have once had high hopes for the boy to name him after a president. “Your ma and pa dead?” she asked. It was the only explanation she could think of to explain the boy’s neglected appearance.
His eyes gleamed with suspicion. “How’d ya know that?”
She shrugged and reached into her drawstring handbag. “How much money did that thief take from you yesterday?”
He glanced at her bag, and a calculated look crossed his face. “Ten dollars.”
She raised an eyebrow. He’d have to sell a hundred newspapers to earn that much, and his bag wouldn’t hold many more than a dozen or two.
She narrowed her eyes to show she meant business. “The truth.”
He adjusted his canvas bag. “How’d ya know that’s not the truth?”
“Your nose turned blue,” she said.
His hand flew to his nose and his face turned red. “Two dollars,” he said.
She drew a bill from her purse and stuffed it in his hand. “The lie gets you only one.”
Thomas’s Fine Tinware was shoehorned in between Ben’s Saddles and Jake’s Gunsmith shop. She waited for the sprinkler wagon to pass before crossing the street, the heels of her high-button shoes sinking into the muddied ground. She opened the door to the jingle of bells and wiped her feet on the doormat before entering.
Angry voices greeted her. An argument raged in the back room of the shop.
“I told you I know nothing about it,” Thomas yelled. “Now get outta here.”
A man emerged and stormed through the shop. He didn’t so much as acknowledge her. She barely got a glimpse of his angry red face when he brushed past her and out the door.
She whirled to find Thomas watching her. “I’m sorry. I came at a bad time.”
“No, no, not at all.” He looked genuinely happy to see her, and once again she was forced to conquer her unwelcomed response to his smile. “I’m glad you came.”
She pointed a finger over her shoulder. “An unhappy customer?”
He shook his head. “I wish it was that simple. That was Charlie Cotton, my former brother-in-law.”
She managed to hide her surprise behind an expressionless face. Nothing in the Pinkerton files suggested Garrett’s dead wife had a brother; things just got a whole lot more interesting. “Why was he so angry?”
“He thinks I have something of his.”
Before he could explain further, the shop door opened and a portly man walked in. “Got my order ready?” he called. He was dressed in a gray suit, vest, and bow tie.
Thomas touched her arm, and a brief shiver rippled through her. “Don’t go away,” he whispered. He then walked behind the counter and addressed his customer. “Right here.”
The shopper acknowledged Maggie with a nod and doffed his hat. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” The gleam in his eyes revealed more than just a passing interest. “You must be new in town.”
“She came all the way from Indiana,” Garrett said.
“Is that so? Name’s Benjamin Mooney, president of the Bank of Arizona.”
She knew who he was. He had no way of knowing it, of course, but the Pinkerton National Detective Agency had initially investigated him along with all bank employees. The money stolen during the Whistle-Stop robbery was a bank transfer, and the chance of it being an inside job could not be ignored.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Mooney,” she said, holding out her gloved hand. “I’m Maggie Taylor.”
He took her hand and held it like a piece of delicate china. “Indiana, eh? That’s a ways away, all right. I’m from Mizz-zur-rah myself.”
“Are you now?” she said, smiling. Missouri was the train holdup capital of the country, and she’d spent a lot of time there in recent months. Of course, she would never say as much.
His carefully waxed mustache curled upward, as did the corners of his mouth. “Perhaps you would allow me the pleasure of giving you a tour of our little town.”
“That would be very kind of you,” she said.
“But totally unnecessary.” Thomas stepped between them, forcing the banker to release her hand. “Miss Taylor is my guest,” he said in a tone that left no room for argument.
Mooney looked from on
e to the other. “I see.”
Maggie wasn’t sure what the banker thought he saw, but he quickly backed away.
“Your package is ready,” Thomas said, and Mooney followed him to the counter.
While the two men conducted their business, she wandered around the well-stocked shop. Never had she seen so many household goods in one place. Tin dishes, pots, pans, and candleholders were piled high on counters and shelves in no particular order.
Every imaginable kind of lantern hung from hooks. Tin cabinet panels and ceiling tiles were stacked against the back wall. One section of the store was devoted to toys. Tin soldiers, toy animals, and small wagons surrounded a train engine similar to the one in the children’s room.
The banker finished his business and stopped to chat with her on the way out. “If Thomas here doesn’t treat you right, you know where to find me.” With that he left, package in hand.
She glanced at Thomas but couldn’t tell much from his bland expression.
She drew his attention to the toy engine. The man suspected of being one of two Whistle-Stop bandits was evidently interested in trains, though there was nothing in his background that suggested he knew how to operate one. That meant his partner in crime probably manned the engine while Thomas emptied the safe and shot the guard. As bad as the crime was, it seemed even more horrendous now that she’d met him and knew him as a warm and loving father.
“You made that?” she asked, studying the model.
He walked around the counter and joined her. “I did. I started by making toys for Toby and Elise. Much to my surprise I discovered a market for them.”
“Ever wish you could drive a train?” she asked, watching his face.
“Not me,” he said and laughed.
She ran her fingers over the engine and marveled at the details.
“It’s beautiful. I do believe you have a gift from God.” She groaned inwardly. Knowing how he felt about religion she really did need to watch what she said.
“A gift?” He studied her. “You’re the first one to accuse me of that.”
“Why, Mr. Thomas. You make a gift sound like a bad thing.”
“Calling me Mr. Thomas is a bad thing. I’d prefer that you call me Garrett.”
“Very well.” His insistence on informality had to be a good sign. For the first time since coming to Furnace Creek, she relaxed—or at least as much as she dared. “Garrett it is, but to be fair, you must call me Maggie.”
He smiled. “It’s a deal.” He inclined his head. “So tell me, Maggie. What brings you to town?”
“Nothing special. Just wanted to look around. Meet some of the residents.”
“I’m sorry I don’t have time to accompany you.”
“That’s all right.” The last thing she wanted was to have him tag along while she was working.
“If you need anything—groceries or personal items—just tell the shopkeepers to add it to my account.”
“Thank you.” Considering he had no way of knowing whether she was a spendthrift or thrifty, it was a surprising offer. Shouldn’t a small-town tinker be more careful with his money, especially one who lived as modestly as he did? Of course, if he really was the Whistle-Stop bandit, then he’d have no reason to worry about what she spent.
“Do you know Linc?” she asked, changing the subject.
“The paperboy? Only that his parents were killed a few years back during the Indian uprising. The boy is living with his grandmother. Why?”
“He should be in school.”
“A lot of children should be in school. Unfortunately, for some families, that’s not possible. Some live too far out of town. Some simply dropped out following the fire.”
She didn’t let on that she knew about the fire or the fund-raiser that led the investigation to his doorstep.
“There was a fire?” she asked.
He nodded. “The schoolhouse burned to the ground. It’s been rebuilt, this time from brick and adobe.”
“But why doesn’t Linc attend?”
“His grandmother needs him. His income supports the two of them.”
She now felt guilty for withholding the dollar. On the other hand, it wouldn’t do the boy any good to get away with a blatant lie.
“Couldn’t the church do something to help?” she asked.
His mouth dipped in a frown. “Been my experience that what happens in church, stays there.”
His harsh tone rendered her speechless. She thought the kindly minister who helped her through those difficult years of her youth was representative of all churchmen, but maybe not.
“My apologies.” He grimaced. “I have no right to saddle you with my personal views.” He moved to the counter and reached into the cash box. “Do you know how much Linc lost yesterday in the robbery?”
“That won’t be necessary. I reimbursed him this morning.”
He looked surprised. “That was a kind thing you did.”
“I guess you could say I have a soft spot for children.” She wasn’t just saying that to impress him. Had she not been a private detective she might have become a schoolteacher.
“You’re all Toby and Elise could talk about when I drove them to school this morning.” He chuckled. “It’s Miss Taylor this and Miss Taylor that.”
“They’re very sweet, your children,” she said. Recalling her own growing-up years as a daughter of an outlaw, she pitied them. It was always an outlaw’s family that suffered most.
“If Toby gives you any trouble, let me know.”
Toby again. “He strikes me as a very bright boy,” she said. “And most imaginative.”
Just then the door flew open and a tall, thin man stepped into the shop carrying a crate. “Only half our order arrived,” he called and seeing her, stopped. “Sorry.”
Garrett beckoned with his hand. “Come on over and I’ll introduce you.”
The man lowered the crate to the floor and ambled toward her. Dressed in dark denim pants and a checkered shirt, he wore a strange fabric hat gathered on top like a woman’s nightcap. The hat was tied beneath his chin with rawhide laces.
“I want you to meet my fiancée, Miss Taylor,” Garrett said. “Maggie, this is Panhandle.”
“Pleased to meet you,” she said politely. “Mr.—”
“Panhandle, ma’am,” he drawled. “Just plain Panhandle. Great name for a tinker, don’t you think?”
She smiled. “I guess it is.”
Panhandle gave her a yellow-toothed grin.
“You can start cutting tin for the Stewart order,” Garrett said.
Panhandle backed away. “Will do, boss.”
By the time he picked up the crate and vanished in back, the store was full of customers. Some stopped by to pick up orders, others just to browse.
Pretending to study a skillet, Maggie watched from the sidelines. Garrett seemed to know his customers well and even asked about their families.
He appeared to work hard and was successful at what he did. He also lived a modest life. So what had he done with the money stolen from the train?
Garrett worked behind the counter as he watched his fiancée exchange pleasantries with his customers. He didn’t mean to stare, but her smile was a magnet drawing his attention to her pretty pink mouth without any effort on his part.
With a start he realized he wasn’t the only one who seemed mesmerized by her. Not only had she caught the eye of his apprentice, but all seven male customers in his shop. Each man made it his business to walk up to her and introduce himself. Never had Garrett seen so many red-faced stammering fools in his life.
Not that he could blame them. A looker like her was bound to bring out the wolves. No doubt she could have her pick of men without scars or a soldier’s heart. Men with no children to care for. Men without blood on their hands.
The thought gave him pause. What right did he have for judging her so harshly? All she did was chase after a beggar in an effort to retrieve the paperboy’s money. While he…
&n
bsp; He pushed the painful memories away with a shake of his head. A woman like her could have her pick of anyone she wanted. If he had the brains of a grasshopper, he’d marry her before she figured out what a bad choice she’d made.
Chapter 8
Maggie left Garrett’s shop with more questions than answers. Why was Garrett arguing with his brother-in-law? “He thinks I have something of his.”
His share of the holdup money, perhaps?
What was his name? Cotton, that was it. And why did that name sound familiar?
Picking up her pace, she headed for the hotel. Her first order of business was to make contact with her Pinkerton partner.
A red and yellow box wagon pulled by a dapple gray mare was parked in front of the land office. DR. KETTLEMAN’S MIRACULOUS CURE-ALLS was written in big bold letters on the paneled siding.
A man stood next to the wagon dressed in a top hat and green checkered coat with a matching bow tie. “May I interest you in a bottle of snake oil, ma’am?”
“No thank you,” She walked past him and stopped.
“Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, and I will detect what ails you and offer you a miraculous cure.”
She should have known. Smiling, she turned and took a closer look at the salesman. This time she had no trouble seeing past the phony mustache and bold-colored suit.
His real name was Chuck Greenwood, and he, too, was a Pinkerton operative. Privately, she called him Rikker and he called her Duffy. Rikker was the name of the orphanage cat that used to curl up at the bottom of her bed. She pretended he protected her while she slept. Duffy was what Rikker called his favorite sister who died in childbirth.
Their pet monikers saved them from having to remember each other’s assumed names, which changed with each new case.
A portly man with a pox-marked face and close-set eyes, this latest disguise suited him to a T. Not only did he look like a snake-oil doctor, he had his sales pitch down pat. She couldn’t help but laugh—talk about hiding in plain sight.
Looking left and right and seeing no one around, she closed the distance between them. Rikker was more than just a coworker; he was also a good friend and mentor. Secretly, she considered him the earthly father she wished she’d had.
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