Undercover Bride (9781634094573)

by Brownley, Margaret

  Katie’s stomach knotted. She was already in trouble with the restaurant manager. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “A minute might be too late.” The door slammed shut, and Mary-Lou’s footsteps echoed down the hall as she yelled for the other Harvey girls to hurry.

  Katie whirled about for one last look in the mirror and hardly recognized the image staring back. The black dress, with its high collar, starched white apron, and black shoes and stockings, made her look more like a nun than one of Pinkerton’s most successful female detectives.

  Even her unruly red hair had been forced to conform to Fred Harvey’s strict regulations. Parted in the middle, it was pulled back in a knot and fashioned with the mandatory net. The rigid hairdo did nothing for her, appearance-wise. All it did was make her eyes look too big and her freckles stand out like stars in a constellation.

  Sighing, she turned away from the mirror. It’s a good thing she’d chosen to be a detective as she had neither the looks nor housekeeping skills needed for landing a husband.

  Not that she was complaining. Two Harvey girls had been found dead, and it was her job to find the killer. It was the assignment of a lifetime, and it had landed in her lap. Working undercover was never easy, but so far this particular disguise was proving to be the hardest one yet to pull off. It was even harder than last year’s job as a circus performer. At least here she didn’t have to hobnob with lions, and for that she was grateful.

  She paused before leaving the room to check that her leg holster and gun were secured beneath her skirt, and uttered a quick prayer. God knows, she needed all the help she could get.

  Leaving the room, she raced along the hall and sped down the stairs. Just as she reached the bottom tread, the heel of her foot caught on the runner. Arms and legs flailing, she hit the floor, and the wind whooshed out of her like juice from a squashed tomato.

  Momentarily stunned, she laid facedown. Not till she noticed the black polished shoes planted in front of her was she able to gather her wits. Looking up, she groaned.

  The manager, Mr. Pickens, glared down at her, hands on his waist. A large, imposing man, he looked about to pop the buttons on his overworked vest. Judging by his bulbous nose and quivering mustache, his patience was equally tested.

  “Miss Madison. You’re late!”

  Her mouth fell open. Was that all he cared about? No concern for her welfare? No thought that she might be injured?

  “Well, are you going to lie there all night?”

  “No, sir.” She scrambled to her feet and smoothed her apron.

  His eyebrows dipped into a V. “Shoulders straight, head back, and for the love of Henry, smile! I want to see some choppers.” He spread his thin lips to demonstrate but did a better impersonation of a growling dog than a friendly waitress. “Do you hear me?

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “Choppers.”

  “Tonight you’re the drink girl. Do you think you can handle that?”

  Plastering a smile on her face, she nodded. How hard could it be to pour tea?

  He gave her a dubious look that did nothing for her self-confidence. “We’ll soon see. Follow me.”

  He led her to the formal dining room where tables were already set for the supper crowd. The room was decorated in shades of brown and tan. Floor to ceiling windows overlooked the railroad tracks. Beyond, fields of tall grass and wildflowers spread like a colorful counterpane beneath a copper sky.

  The restaurant was shorthanded, and she had been handed a uniform the moment she stepped off the morning train. After that she’d hardly had time to catch her breath. So many rules and regulations to remember. No notepads or pencils were allowed. That meant she was expected to memorize the menu. She was also instructed to radiate good cheer to even the most difficult of patrons.

  Her chances of lasting through the night didn’t look promising. The investigation into the two Harvey girl murders depended on her keeping her job as a waitress. No one at the restaurant knew her real name or her real purpose for being there. As far as anyone knew, she was simply a farm girl who traveled all the way from Madison, Wisconsin, looking for adventure and a better life.

  Pickens quickly pointed out the silver coffee urns and teapots. He stared at her with buttonhole eyes.” You do know the cup code, right?”

  “Uh.” There was a code for cups?

  “Cup in the saucer means coffee.” He demonstrated as he spoke. “A flipped cup leaning against the saucer is for ice tea. A cup on the table next to the saucer is for milk. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir, next to the saucer.”

  “As for tea,” he continued, and her heart sank. “The cup will be flipped upon the saucer.” He then explained how to tell if the customer wanted black, green, or orange pekoe tea by the direction of the cup handle. “Any questions?”

  She had plenty, but he didn’t look like he was in any mood to answer them, so she shook her head no.

  Satisfied that she had donned the proper attitude, or at least a Harvey-worthy smile, he turned and gave three quick claps and called the others out of the kitchen. “All right, ladies, take your stations!”

  “Don’t be nervous,” her roommate Mary-Lou said as they strode side by side to the back of the room.

  Easier said than done. Katie stopped to stare at the cups on the table. She’d come face-to-face with some of cleverest outlaws in the country, and she wasn’t about to let a china cup intimidate her. On second thought, maybe just a little. Did the cup handle facing right mean black or pekoe?

  Already her cheeks ached from smiling, but that was the least of it. Her collar itched and the stiff starched apron felt like a plate of armor.

  As if to guess her rising dismay, Mary-Lou said, “You’ll like it once you get used to it. You just have to work fast, be polite, and smile.”

  “Nothing to it,” Katie said. She only hoped she had enough energy left at the end of the workday for sleuthing.

  A loud gong announced the imminent arrival of the five-twenty-five. Windows rattled and the crystals on the chandelier did a crazy dance as the Southern Pacific rumbled into the station. With a blare of the whistle it came to a clanging stop in front of the restaurant.

  Moments later, the door flew open and travelers filed into the dining room like a trail of weary ants. Only thirty minutes was allowed for meals before the train took off again. The Harvey House restaurants took pride in the fact that no one had ever been late boarding a train because of inept service.

  Katie planted a smile on her face and a prayer in her heart. God, please don’t let me be the one to break that record.

  Sheriff Branch Whitman looked up just as the door to his office flew open. A cultured but no less commanding voice shot inside. “Sheriff! I need a word with you!”

  Branch lifted his feet off the desk and planted his well-worn boots squarely on the floor. He recognized his fastidiously dressed visitor at once, though they’d never been formerly introduced.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Harvey?”

  The renowned restaurateur stabbed the floor with his gold-tipped cane. He was somewhere in his midthirties, but his meticulous dark suit and Van Dyke beard made him appear older.

  “You dare to ask a question like that!” Harvey pushed the door shut and gazed at Branch with sharp, watchful eyes. “You know as well as I that someone is killing off the Harvey girls.” His British accent grew more pronounced with each word. Even his bow tie seemed to quiver with emotion. “And what may I ask are you doing about it?”

  Branch slanted his head toward the chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat and—”

  “I don’t want a seat. I want to know what has been done to find the killer!”

  Branch indicated the stack of files in front of him with a wave of his hand. “I can assure you that I’m doing everything in my power—”

  “Balderdash!”

  Harvey’s impatience was no worse than his own. The killings had turned into one of the most puzzling crimes he’d ever
worked on. Despite weeks of investigation, he still didn’t have a single suspect. Given the nature of the town, that was odd.

  If a youth took a fancy to a pretty girl or a married man so much as thought about straying, the locals knew about it. Somehow folks even knew that a young one was on the way before the expectant mother. Yet, two young women had been murdered, and no one saw or heard a thing.

  “I can assure you that the person or persons responsible will be brought to justice.” Before Branch took over as sheriff three years ago, Calico was, by all accounts, the roughest, toughest, and wildest place in all of Kansas, rivaled only by Dodge City. But he’d single-handedly changed all that, and it was now a right decent town. Or was, before the two recent murders.

  Harvey’s eyes glittered. “It’s been six weeks since Priscilla’s death.” Priscilla was the first woman to die. Less than three weeks later, a girl named Ginger was found dead in an alleyway.

  “These things take time.”

  Harvey straightened a wanted poster on the wall with the tip of his cane. The man was as fastidious with his surroundings as he was in dress and speech. No doubt he took issue with the stack of folders and papers strewn haphazardly across Branch’s desk.

  “Too much time if you ask me. So what have you got so far?”

  “Right now, nothing.” Branch’s jaw clenched. He suspected the killer was a Harvey employee, but he wasn’t ready to reveal that information. Not yet. He couldn’t take the chance of word getting out that the crime was an inside job.

  “This is no less than what I expected from local authorities.” Harvey leaned on his cane and his eyes glittered. “That’s why I hired the National Pinkerton Detective Agency. Your services will no longer be needed.”

  Branch glared at him. Services? Harvey acted like he was firing one of his employees.

  “What happens in this town is my responsibility, and any outsiders—”

  “Will report to me!” Harvey snapped his mouth shut and leaned over his cane as if to challenge Branch to disagree.

  “Now wait just a minute.”

  Harvey’s expression darkened. “No, you wait. We’ve wasted enough time, and now a second girl is dead.”

  “And I will find her killer. Both their killers.” He didn’t know Priscilla all that well, but Ginger was his favorite waitress and had been known to bring his evening meal to the office if she knew he was working late. Since he refused to adhere to Harvey’s unreasonable regulations—particularly the no coat rule in the main dining room—she did him no small favor.

  “I’ll have something to report to you soon.” He sounded more certain than he felt. Each day that passed made finding the killer that much more difficult. Trails grew cold. Clues were lost. Memories faded. Even more worrisome was the possibility that the killer would strike again.

  “Not soon enough.” Harvey swung his cane under one arm and pulled his watch out of his vest pocket. “I’m sure the detective has arrived by now. If not on the morning or noon train, then the five-twenty-five,” he said, flipping the case open with his thumb. “I trust you’ll give him your full cooperation.”

  Branch stiffened. Over his dead body. “Now see here—” The last thing he needed was some inept detective running loose in his town. Last time the Pinkerton operatives were involved in one of his cases they let the bad guys escape. The Pinkertons were known for their bullying tactics and underhanded methods, none of which he would tolerate.

  Harvey tipped his bowler. “Have a good day, Sheriff.” He left with less fanfare than when he arrived.

  Branch pounded his fist on the desk. “Drat!” The town was his responsibility—no one else’s. The very thought of an undercover detective sneaking around like a mole in the ground set his teeth on edge.

  Came in on today’s train, did he? If the Pink was like most other passengers, he’d appreciate a good a meal. Was probably at the Harvey House Restaurant chowing down at that very moment. That was as good a place as any to intercept him. He pulled out his watch. He’d have to hurry if he wanted to reach the restaurant before the train left the station. Decision made, Branch shot to his feet and plucked his Stetson off the wall.

  One thing was certain. The man better enjoy his meal, because if Branch had his way, the detective would be back on that train before he could say cock robin.

  Margaret Brownley loves hearing from her readers and can be reached through her website. The author of more than thirty novels, she was a former RITA finalist and INSPY nominee. For more love and laughter in the Old West, check out Margaret’s latest books at www.margaret-brownley.com.

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