Petticoat Detective

by Margaret Brownley

  So why, then, was she in such a place as this? A place where even God might be tempted to hang His head in shame …

  He sucked in his breath. He’d spent most of his life trying to figure out why people made the choices they did. He and his brother had had the same opportunities. The same home life, the same religious upbringing, but they couldn’t have been more different had they been born on opposite sides of the planet.

  He took some of the blame for that. His father died when Dave was knee-high to a mustang, leaving the two of them in the care of an invalid mother. Tom, being the oldest by three years, looked after his then six-year-old brother. At least he’d tried.

  They’d attended the same one-room schoolhouse. Tom was a model student and he did his best to tutor Dave. But Dave had no interest in book learning; he was more interested in creating mischief to the point that he was always in danger of being expelled. And would have been had his teachers not felt sorry for the family.

  Tom took the blame for some of Dave’s pranks to save his brother’s skin. That only made Dave more sullen and difficult to handle. Eventually he quit school and left home, upsetting their mother and sending her to an early grave.

  At twenty, Tom followed his dream and joined the Texas Rangers. A year later, he heard that Dave was married and he felt encouraged. Nothing tames a man like a wife. Perhaps the worst was over. For five years, he never heard a word from Dave, had no idea where he was or even if he was still alive.

  Then one day, Tom tracked down a group of stage robbers who had terrorized the Panhandle for months, only to find the leader was his very own brother.

  It nearly killed Tom to handcuff Dave and turn him over to local authorities. That’s when he learned Dave’s wife had died of smallpox, leaving him a widower with an infant son.

  While his brother was incarcerated, Tom cared for the boy. He fully expected Dave to return for his son when he left prison. That didn’t happen; Dave served his time, but Tom had no idea what happened to him afterward. Not wanting to be in a position of having to arrest his brother a second time, Tom left the Rangers and started a small cattle ranch in the San Antonio Valley, taking Dave’s son with him.

  That’s when Tom discovered he had a knack with horses. A gift, some called it. Horses weren’t like people. Treat a horse well and the animal generally returned the favor.

  He never thought to hear from his brother again, never wanted to. Almost hadn’t opened the letter addressed to him in his brother’s hand, when it finally came. He feared Dave would be coming for his son. For more than ten years, Tom had cared for the boy—treated him like his own. He wasn’t about to let the lad go without a fight.

  The letter carried a Goodman, Kansas, postmark. When he finally cut through the wax seal, he read the letter with growing skepticism. His brother had written about finding God. Said he was ready to be a good father to Davey and wanted to make his boy proud. He was also engaged to be married to a woman named Rose. He asked if he could bring Rose to the ranch. Said his fiancée had information about the Gunnysack Bandit and feared for her life.

  It wasn’t the first time his brother claimed to have turned over a new leaf. Nor was it the first time Dave had spun a cockamamie story about supposed danger.

  Ignoring the letter was the easy part; learning about the single bullet to his brother’s head nearly tore him in two. Having to tell eleven-year-old Davey his father was dead was about as close to torture as Tom ever hoped to get.

  He felt responsible. Dave had reached out for help, and he had let him down. Some brother he was—some man.

  His horse pawed the ground, bringing Tom out of his reverie.

  “What’s wrong, boy?” For answer, the gelding bobbed his head up and down and nickered.

  After running his hand along his horse’s slick neck, Tom untied the reins from the hitching post and jammed his foot into the stirrup. Astride the saddle, he glanced up at the windows of the tall brick house. The red lamp had been turned off, and in the dark of night the house gave no clue as to its real purpose.

  The glass panes of the second floor glowed in the pale moonlight, and a curtain moved in an upstairs window. Someone was watching him. In the recesses of his mind came a vision of green eyes.

  Chapter 5

  It rained that early April morning of Rose’s funeral. Somehow that seemed fitting.

  It had rained the day they buried Amy’s father, and her mother said it was heaven crying. Her pa had started drinking heavily after his three-year-old daughter, Cissy, had disappeared in the middle of the night, never to be heard from again. Some said he literally drank himself to death.

  The thought of heaven crying comforted her then as it comforted her now. God really did care about His lost sheep.

  The madam led the way to the cemetery like a general marching to war. Umbrella held high to accommodate her unwieldy hat standing three stories and a basement tall, she looked neither left nor right.

  All five women, including Amy, followed behind like ducks in a row. All sported large feathered hats to match their colorful gowns. All held umbrellas over their heads and wore kid gloves.

  The rain was a blessing as it allowed for modesty. Amy wore a tiered shoulder cape over her emerald-green dress. Miss Lillian insisted that her “girls” never leave the house unless properly attired, coiffed, and painted—a downright nuisance.

  Obviously, Miss Lillian had never tried to climb through a window, run across a roof, and climb down a tree wearing such garments. Had she done so, she might have settled on a more conservative uniform.

  Certainly, she would have insisted on more substantial footwear. Anything would be an improvement over the dainty slippers she insisted her girls wear. No decent woman would be caught dead showing her ankles, and Amy felt naked without her high-button boots.

  The memory of one of her slippers falling on top of Mr. Colton brought an unbidden smile to her face and a scowl from the woman named Coral.

  Reminded of the solemn occasion, Amy snapped her mouth shut and tried to look appropriately somber. Rose’s death had complicated her investigation, which now had to be conducted with care and sensitivity. Miss Lillian’s girls weren’t particularly friendly to one another. If anything, they regarded each other with suspicion and maybe even jealousy.

  Still, their grief for Rose seemed real, as did the fear for their own safety since her death.

  The women paraded along the boardwalk in silence. Out of habit, Amy kept her gaze focused on the windows as they passed each establishment, not to admire the array of goods but to watch behind for followers. An operative could never be too careful.

  Men stepped out of the way and pretended not to notice them. Mothers with small children detoured across the street or ducked into shops as if the women’s mere presence would corrupt little minds.

  Amy lowered her head in an effort to hide her blazing face. Posing as a strumpet at the parlor house was one thing, but here on the street she felt like a penny waiting for change. She sighed. Great guns! There had to be an easier way to make a living.

  A carriage slowed as it drove by. Pulled by two large black horses, the carriage was fitted with bright, shiny carriage lamps and rubber-tired wheels fitted with inner brass rims. Amy never expected to see such a fine carriage in a small prairie town. She caught only a glimpse of the passenger, a man in a tall top hat.

  “Who is that?” she asked Coral.

  “That’s Mr. Monahan.” The dark look that crossed Coral’s face made Amy shiver. “He’s got the dimes. He’s so rich, he practically owns the town.” As an afterthought, she added, “He always asked for Rose.”

  This latest bit of news got Amy’s attention. It also explained the way Coral glared at the carriage. “Do you think he’ll be at the funeral?”

  Coral gave her a sideways glance. “No respectable citizen would so much as admit to knowing Rose, let alone attend her funeral.”

  “Seems to me she should be pitied rather than censured. A young woman l
ike that murdered …”

  Coral’s lip curled. “You really don’t know how things work, do you?”

  “I know how things work,” Amy snapped. If growing up with a drunken father wasn’t bad enough, her job as a Pinkerton required her to associate with society’s worst criminals. Sometimes it was hard to remember that good, honest people actually did exist.

  The group strolled pass Lloyd’s Haberdashery and Insurance (we’ve got you covered) and Joe’s Funeral Parlor and Lending Library (read where it’s quiet). Despite the rain, a group of children circled the ice wagon parked in front of the hotel, clamoring for ice chips.

  Amy cast a longing look at the hotel. If only she could find a way to sneak inside and retrieve her own clothes.

  From the Grande Hotel and Bath House it was only a short distance to the church and the iron gates in back leading to the cemetery.

  The rain had stopped, and a watery sun peeked from behind the clouds, touching the earth with fingers of golden light. But even with the change in weather, not one outsider attended the simple graveside service.

  Rose was to be buried beyond the Christian area, behind a weathered fence reserved for criminals, vagrants, and other social undesirables. The young woman would be shunned even in death.

  The stubble-bearded preacher who was probably in his mid-to late-fifties looked pleasant enough. He greeted Miss Lillian with a nod of his grizzled head.

  “Are you going to give us a bad time, Reverend Matthews?” the madam asked.

  “No more than usual,” he replied. Tall black hat askew, he patted down both pockets of his frock coat before locating the Book of Common Prayer.

  Out of habit, Amy scrutinized him as she mentally went down the Pinkerton checklist. Height: five foot eight. Eyes: hazel. Hair: mostly gray. He had the contented look of a married man, and if his generous girth was an indication, his wife knew her way around the kitchen.

  The ridge on his nose meant he generally wore spectacles. Had he forgotten them? Lost them? Or were they broken?

  Though the circumstances were definitely awkward, he seemed as perfectly at ease around a bunch of sinners as he no doubt was in the company of the choir.

  He checked all his pockets again. He gave up the search with a shrug and opened the prayer book. Amy added absentminded to her mental list.

  He adjusted his arms to and fro until he found a comfortable position in which to read.

  After opening the ceremony with the reading of scripture and respectful prayer, he gave a short sermon sprinkled liberally with words like forgiveness and redemption.

  His discourse had a sobering effect on the group, and they all stared at the plain pine coffin in silence.

  As the preacher droned on, a movement on the Christian side of the fence caught Amy’s attention. She recognized Mr. Colton’s tall, straight form at once. Arms folded, he leaned against a towering gray tombstone, watching her. He acknowledged her gaze with a finger to the brim of his hat. Recalling the last time they’d met, her cheeks flared, and she cast her gaze downward.

  The man had made a perfect nuisance of himself. While most of Miss Lillian’s “guests” had accepted the temporary closing of the bordello in memory of Rose with good grace, he had not. Instead, he had appeared on the doorstep with annoying regularity and insisted upon talking to her.

  Though she longed to finish the conversation begun the night she fell out of the tree, Miss Lillian denied him entry. Amy didn’t dare show her hand by going against the madam’s wishes. Fortunately, he never gave up. Now here he was again. There had to be a reason he was so persistent. Her inquiries about him had mostly garnered blank looks from Miss Lillian’s girls. So what is your game, Mr. Colton? And what exactly is your interest in the Gunnysack Bandit?

  Chapter 6

  The preacher returned the Book of Common Prayer to his pocket. “Would anyone like to say something on behalf of the deceased?”

  No one knew Rose’s last name or even if she had a family, but the other women appeared eager to talk about her.

  The blond woman named Polly went first. She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief and stuttered, “R–Rose was the k–kindest person I ever met. She was p–p–popular with everyone.”

  The preacher cleared his throat and kept his gaze focused downward, his blunt-fingered hands held in prayer.

  Polly’s eyes widened and she glanced around in a panic. “I—I meant she was p–p–popular with us girls.”

  Next to her, Coral shook the water off her closed umbrella. Today she wore a bright gold frock that complemented her dark complexion if not her critical expression. “You don’t have to apologize for Rose.”

  “I w–wasn’t apologizing, Coral.”

  “Sounded like it to me.”

  A moment of strained silence followed the exchange, and finally the preacher asked, “Anyone else wish to say something?”

  “She had dreams. Big dreams.” The words were spoken by the woman who called herself Buttercup, a name that said more about her generous girth than her orange-red hair.

  After a short pause Coral added, “And she didn’t want to be here.”

  “None of us want to be here.” This came from a stick-thin woman with raven hair named Georgia. “And I’m not talking about a cemetery.” Her gaze flicked around the circle of mourners. “Though certainly no one wants to be here, either.”

  All eyes turned to Miss Lillian, but she was too busy staring at the minister’s shabby boots to pay heed to the women’s laments.

  Silence followed as they watched two grave diggers lower the coffin and spade wet soil into the hole.

  The service ended with a prayer and collective sigh. The minister asked if anyone needed his counsel, and when no one did, he bolted like a jackrabbit in tall grass. Folded umbrella raised over her head, Miss Lillian chased after him, presumably to try and sell him a pair of new boots.

  Instead of following Coral and the others out of the cemetery, Amy lingered in front of the newly dug grave, giving Mr. Colton ample time to catch up to her. She didn’t want to appear obvious, but neither did she want to miss an opportunity to find out how he fit into the picture.

  He tipped his hat in greeting. “We meet again.”

  Recalling their last encounter, warmth crept up her neck. “Yes, what a surprise.”

  He gave her a crooked smile, and once again she was reminded what a handsome man he was. “About the other night … I hope Miss Lillian didn’t give you a bad time.” He raised an eyebrow in query.

  No, the bordello owner just watched her like a hawk, making it impossible to do much in the way of sleuthing. But she said none of this. Instead, she returned his smile with one in kind.

  “I told her it was all your fault,” she said.

  He laughed. “And no doubt she believed you.”

  His laughter made her smile, and for some reason she felt a surge of guilt. “I’m sorry Miss Lillian made you pay.”

  “It was worth it just to see you fall out of that tree. I trust the man you planned on meeting wasn’t too disappointed when you failed to show up.”

  She forced herself not to look away from his probing gaze. “I made it up to him,” she said, and immediately the light went out of his eyes.

  Disarmed by the disapproval on his face, she forced a deep breath. She didn’t realize she’d allowed her hand to grow slack at her neckline until his gaze dropped to her open shoulder cape. She squeezed the closure so tight her fingers ached.

  He pushed his hat back and studied her with quizzical eyes. “Excuse me for asking Miss … Amy, but have you worked for Miss Lillian long?”

  Her professional training kicked in, and she considered her answer carefully before responding. “The night Rose died … that was my first time at Miss Lillian’s,” she said in a conspiratorial tone. Mr. Pinkerton insisted that the art of gaining information required skill and fortitude, but she often got better results by playing on a man’s sympathy.

  Her ploy worked, or at least sof
tened his expression. “That explains it, then.” He frowned. “You looked scared enough to make the hair of a buffalo robe stand up.”

  She couldn’t help but smile at the image he invoked. “That bad, eh?” Her smile failed to coax one in return.

  “Have you been in the … business long?” he asked.

  “Awhile,” she said, and the censure on his face couldn’t be more pronounced. “Obviously you don’t approve.”

  He narrowed his gaze. “There are other ways to make a living.”

  “Only if a woman wishes to live in poverty.” She hated defending a profession she loathed, but she couldn’t afford to blow her cover.

  He cleared his throat and changed the subject. “Do all the ladies carry firearms?”

  She frowned. “Why do you ask?”

  He shrugged. “Just curious.”

  “Had Rose been armed, she might still be alive,” she said.

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” He stared at the new grave in silence. Studying his profile, she tried thinking of a way to bring up the Gunnysack Bandit without rousing suspicion.

  “I would like to make you a proposition,” he said.

  “A … proposition?” His disapproval of her profession apparently went only so far. This time she pulled her cape so tight she practically cut off her own breathing.

  “I want to hire you to do a little spying for me.”

  She stared at him. Did he say what she thought he’d said? “You want me to … spy?”

  “I have it on good authority that the man known as the Gunnysack Bandit is no stranger to the parlor house.”

  He had done her a favor in mentioning the outlaw’s name, but she was careful not to react. “You mentioned him previously.” She gave herself a mental pat for showing only the slightest interest. Too bad she got so little credit for her acting abilities.

  Colton’s face darkened. “Yes, and I’m anxious to find him. He’s a conniving thief and a cold-blooded killer.”