“I’ve never known anyone with such green eyes,” Buttercup said. She applied green paint to Amy’s eyelids and stepped back. “See how that brings out the color?”
Amy stared at herself in the mirror, and the first thing that popped into her mind was Jezebel from the Bible. “It’s rather … loud,” she said. “Perhaps a little less.” A gallon less.
“Nonsense,” Buttercup said. “You look beautiful.”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” Georgia said, grinning. She had blackened her teeth with charcoal. “In the Labrador Islands, only women with black teeth are considered beautiful.”
“Why not just paint her face blue like they do in Greenland?” Coral asked.
“Or b–bind her feet like those p–poor women in China do?” Polly hobbled around on tiptoes.
The women continued to make teasing comments. Ignoring them, Buttercup held up a porcelain container. “You’re all wrong. Beauty comes from within … a jar.”
Laughter followed her comment, but Amy was in no mood to join in. This was all a waste of time, and she needed to get to work.
“I don’t know why we have to go through all this torture just for men,” she muttered.
All four women stared at her. “Is that w–what you th–think?” Polly stammered.
Amy was confused. “What else would I think?”
Coral leaned so close Amy could smell the tobacco on her breath. “Paint is a mask. It’s how we keep men from getting too close. He’s not looking at you. He’s looking at a woman who doesn’t exist.”
Georgia concurred with a nod of her head. “We don’t paint for men. We paint to survive.”
Chapter 8
By the time Amy left Buttercup’s room, her face felt ten times heavier. She didn’t think she could survive another day in this horrid place. Never had she prayed so hard or so much as she had these last five days. God, please, let’s get this job done fast, so I can leave.
A steady stream of men followed Miss Paisley’s departure, some to get haircuts and shaves, others to buy boots or to have fortunes read.
Mr. Studebaker was the only singing student, and for that Amy was grateful. Though the man’s futile attempts to hit a high C made her head ache, she kept her expression immobile for fear the heavy coat of powder would crack if she so much as grimaced.
Dressed in a vibrant red gown and her hair caught up in a cluster of ringlets, she waited at the top of the stairs for the last man to leave. Mr. Studebaker stopped to inspect a black leather boot. Catching sight of her on the second-floor landing, he doffed his hat and left.
At last! How she longed to finish this assignment and sink her teeth into a case less nerve racking. After this, she’d gladly go undercover as a librarian or even a nun.
Just as Amy reached the ground floor, Miss Lillian emerged from the parlor and stopped to straighten the merchandise.
The madam gave her a once-over and nodded approval. “Much better.” She moved a leather wader from one shelf to another.
“Why boots?” Amy asked. It seemed like an odd thing to sell at a place like this.
Miss Lillian pointed to the ROWDIES WILL BE BOOTED OUT sign on the wall. “When the railroad came to town, the workers gave us a heap of trouble. So I put up that sign next to a pair of men’s boots to show I meant business and wouldn’t stand for any nonsense.” She laughed. “I sold that first pair and ordered another. Soon the boots were selling even before I got them out of the box.”
“Sounds like someone’s trying to tell you to give up the guest business,” Amy said. God, probably. Hopefully.
“Then he or she would be telling me wrong. I couldn’t keep up this place by boots alone. The taxes—” She rolled her eyes. “Saloons and brothels pay for law and order in this town. Our taxes also built the new school building.” She straightened another boot. “People depend on the wages of sin more than they care to admit.”
Knowing that was true, Amy couldn’t argue the point. “How did you get into this … particular business?”
“I was born and raised in a bordello. Not as nice as this one, mind you. But since I was the only child, the residents all doted on me. I didn’t even know who my real mother was until I turned nine.” Miss Lillian’s voice took on an oddly impersonal tone, as if talking about someone else’s childhood.
Miss Lillian straightened a pair of hand-tooled boots. “I guess you can say I was born into the business.” A strained look crossed her face, but just as quickly it was gone and a tight smile took its place.
But Amy saw and she knew; beneath the fixed smile and Southern good manners, shielded by a barrier of heavy paint and perfume, beat a heart full of sadness and maybe even regret.
Words of God’s grace and mercy bubbled up inside her, and it was all she could do not to voice them. It almost killed her to keep quiet. She felt like Peter denying his Lord. Not that she had a choice. Her job required her to act a part, and that meant keeping her faith to herself. Just don’t let me hear a rooster crow, God.
Amy wasn’t the only one acting a part; Miss Lillian was doing a pretty good job of it, herself. Hiding her main trade behind a myriad of respectable activities allowed her to pretend she was a successful and legitimate businesswoman.
People lied to themselves all the time rather than face a painful truth. Amy’s own father denied his drinking habit, but he wasn’t alone. She once captured a train robber who gave half his ill-gotten gains to a church widows’ fund to pay penance for his dastardly deeds. Claiming to be a philanthropist, he was shocked by his arrest and insisted that transferring money from a train safe into a poor widow’s hand didn’t make him a thief.
Having arranged the boots to her satisfaction, Miss Lillian raked Amy over with a critical eye. “We’re open for business tonight.” With a swish of her gown, she headed for her office. “I trust you’ll be ready.”
Amy dashed after her. “Wait! There’s a problem!”
Miss Lillian paused at the threshold. “Problem? Problem?” Motioning Amy inside, the madam sat behind her desk and thumbed through a stack of mail. “What are you talking about? What problem?”
Amy lowered herself onto the only other chair in the room, the bustle forcing her to perch on the edge of the seat. She chewed on her lip but stopped beneath the madam’s critical stare.
With a flick of her wrist, Miss Lillian slit an envelope open. “Well, get on with it. I haven’t got all day.”
Despite the madam’s impatience, Amy had good reason to hesitate. Mr. Pinkerton was adamant about operatives following the rules, which meant revealing her occupation was strictly forbidden. Entrusting even family members was grounds for dismissal. It made life difficult and long absences hard to explain. No beau willingly pursued a woman with the annoying habit of leaving town at a drop of a hat to bury yet another “relative.”
But this was an emergency. Without enlisting Miss Lillian’s help, she was doomed to failure. She only hoped that what she was about to do didn’t come back to haunt her.
“What I’m about to tell you must be kept in the strictest confidence.” As if that wasn’t clear enough, she added, “No one else can know.”
Miss Lillian lifted her gaze from the letter in hand “Good heavens, don’t tell me you’re a virgin.”
Amy drew back. Miss Lillian made chastity sound like a disease. “It’s worse than that,” she said wryly. She reached over the back of the chair and nudged the door shut. Thus braced, she turned and lowered her voice.
“I’m a detective working undercover. I work for the Pinkerton National Detective Agency.”
Miss Lillian dropped her letter opener and sat back. Her carmine-rouged lips formed a perfect O, and her eyes looked ready to pop out of her head. “But … but you’re a woman!”
“Yes, so I’ve heard.” That was generally the first thing out of an outlaw’s mouth whenever she whipped out her Pinkerton badge. One had even made the mistake of laughing in her face. He was probably still laughing, but since
he was behind prison bars, she tried not to take it personally.
Miss Lillian’s startled expression faded. “Are you looking for Rose’s killer?”
“Possibly,” Amy said, though that wasn’t her assignment. Her job was to track down the Gunnysack Bandit, but Miss Lillian would be more likely to help her if she thought it was about Rose.
“What else do you do? Don’t tell me you track down philandering husbands?”
Amy shook her head. “Mr. Pinkerton refuses to take on cases that involve matters of the heart.” To put the madam’s mind further at rest she added, “Nor would he ever accept an assignment that would reflect poorly on a woman’s reputation.”
“How rare. A man with integrity.”
Amy smiled. Not everyone would agree. In years past, the Pinkerton agency had been criticized for what some considered questionable tactics.
“I hope whoever killed Rose hangs,” Miss Lillian said, then lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Is there money in that sort of thing? Detecting, I mean.”
It wasn’t a question Amy had expected. “Why, yes, I do get paid.” Compared to most jobs women held, she got paid rather handsomely, though nowhere near as much as her male counterparts.
“I didn’t know that women could be detectives. Why didn’t someone tell me this before?” She sounded peeved. “Detecting sounds like a whole lot more fun than giving singing lessons.”
“It’s also easier on the ears,” Amy said.
“On the voice, too, I imagine.”
Seeing the cogs turn in Miss Lillian’s head, Amy hastened to add, “Yes, but the job can be tedious at times and quite boring.” Amateur detectives often hindered investigations. She didn’t want the madam getting any ideas. “It’s also dangerous.”
“I imagine so. That’s why you carry a gun, right?”
“Yes, but fortunately I’ve never had occasion to use it.” She prayed she never would.
Miss Lillian pondered this a moment before asking, “So what else are you detecting? You couldn’t possibly have known in advance that Rose would be killed. So why are you really here?”
Already having said more than she’d planned, Amy hesitated. “We have reason to believe that the man known as the Gunnysack Bandit is one of your”—she almost said johns, a word Miss Lillian had banned—“guests.”
Miss Lillian gasped and her thin eyebrows practically disappeared into her frothy hairline. “That awful outlaw? Why, that’s impossible. I run a respectable business here. Why would you think such a thing?”
“A few weeks back, Rose made a deposit at the bank that included stolen money.”
Miss Lillian’s eyes widened. “Are you saying that Rose had something to do with the Gunnysack Bandit?”
“It’s possible she didn’t even know it. We were hoping she could tell us where she got the stolen bills.” After a pause, she added, “The truth is, I shouldn’t even be telling you this.”
“It’s a good thing you did. Is that what you were doing outside the other night with Mr. Colton? Detecting?”
Blue eyes and a crooked smile flashed through Amy’s mind and a warm, pleasant feeling crept up her neck. “Yes.”
“My word. You don’t think that he—”
“I honestly don’t know.” She didn’t want to believe that Colton was the bandit, but neither could she discount it. At this point of the investigation, everyone was suspect. Thinking she heard a sound, she jumped up and tore open the door. Mr. Beavers the cat scooted into the room and disappeared under the desk.
She closed the door but kept her hand on the brass knob. “There were only two guests here the other night when Rose was killed—Mr. Colton and one other.”
“Mr. Pepper, owner of the Pepper Hardware and Medical Dispensary,” Miss Lillian said.
“Mr. Colton was with me.” At least part of the time.
“And Mr. Pepper was with Buttercup.”
Buttercup had said as much to the marshal. “Were the outside doors locked during this time? The back door, too?”
“Oh yes, I always keep the doors locked at night. You can’t be too safe these days. I once hired a bouncer, but he kept falling asleep while on duty.”
“Who else has a key?”
“Why, no one.” She lifted the key chain from around her waist and jiggled it. “I keep them with me at all times.”
“So no one can come or go without your knowledge. Is that correct?”
“Absolutely.”
Amy hesitated. “When was the last time you saw Rose alive?”
“I didn’t actually see her. I spoke to her through the door. Told her Mr. Colton wanted to talk to her. She said to send him up.”
Prior to Mr. Colton entering the room, Amy remembered hearing someone in the hallway. She was fairly certain now that it had been Miss Lillian.
“Did Rose’s voice sound normal?”
Miss Lillian was quiet a moment. “Far as I could tell.”
“How much time passed between sending Mr. Colton upstairs and discovering Rose’s body?”
“I don’t know. Not long. A few minutes.”
“Who found the body?”
“I did. I have strict rules about preserving guest privacy. When I noticed Rose’s door ajar, I went to close it. That’s when I saw her on the floor.”
Amy chewed on her lip as a worrisome thought crossed her mind. Did Mr. Colton kill Rose? What if instead of entering the room across from Rose’s in error as he claimed, he had been looking for a means of escape?
If he was Rose’s killer, he could also be the Gunnysack Bandit. Standing more than six feet tall, he certainly fit the description physically, at least according to witness accounts.
As much as she hated to think Colton guilty of anything but an attractive smile, she couldn’t ignore the possibility that he was the man she’d been sent to track down.
“Did you know that Rose planned on leaving?”
“I’m not surprised. They all buck at the halter eventually. But most come back. It’s a hard world out there.”
“There’s talk that Rose planned to marry.”
“Really?” Miss Lillian shrugged. “Like I said, a hard world.”
“Some would say this life is hard,” Amy said.
“Some people might say the same about being a woman detective.”
Amy would be the first to admit her life was difficult. Her job made it impossible to marry or maintain a home of her own, but at least she could look God in the eye. She couldn’t say this out loud, of course. She needed the madam’s help. It wouldn’t do to alienate her, so she abruptly changed the subject.
“I have a room at the hotel. If you would allow me to work here undercover, I’ll be able to watch your guests. One of them could be the Gunnysack Bandit. I will, of course, need to come and go as I please.”
Miss Lillian considered her request for all of a minute. “My girls might think it odd that you’re not entertaining guests.”
“That’s why I need your help to cover for me. I also need access to your ledgers and client list.” She indicated the key chain in Miss Lillian’s hand. “I noticed Rose’s room was locked. I need to do a more thorough search of the crime scene.”
“You can count on me to help in any way I can.” Miss Lillian pulled a key off her key ring and handed it to Amy.
Amy felt like a weight had lifted. Miss Lillian’s willingness to help would make things a whole lot easier. “Thank you. I’ll return it as soon as I’m finished.”
Miss Lillian heaved a sigh. “Rose didn’t deserve to die like that.” Her shoulders fell as did the corners of her mouth. “To think it happened here under my very nose.”
“No one blames you.”
“I blame myself.” Miss Lillian rubbed her forehead. “It’s my job to keep my girls safe.”
“The best thing we can do for Rose right now is to find her killer.” If Colton was right about the Gunnysack Bandit killing Rose, then catching him would give Rose the justice she dese
rved.
Miss Lillian appeared cheered by the thought. “I can’t believe I’m working with a real live detective.” She afforded Amy a brilliant smile. “This is more exciting than reading a dime novel. Would I be entitled to the reward for the capture of the Gunnysack Bandit? I’ll use it to do something in memory of Rose.”
“We can discuss that with the marshal when the time comes,” Amy said. “But of course, if you speak out of turn—”
“No need to worry. Men used to want my affection.” She paused for a moment as if thinking back on lost youth. “Now all they want is my discretion. I reckon you could say I’m in the business of keeping secrets.”
Amy stood. “I’m counting on it.” Little did the madam know how much.
Chapter 9
Tom Colton sat in the hotel lobby and pulled out his watch. It was half past four. The lady—Amy—was late. Or maybe she wasn’t coming. He tucked his watch back into his vest pocket and waited. Now that Rose was gone, the green-eyed beauty was his best bet for finding the information needed to track down his brother’s killer.
Another twenty minutes passed before he spotted her. Pausing at the entryway, she glanced around, her trim figure outlined by the bright afternoon sun. She was tall for a woman—about five foot eight—yet she carried her height with easy grace. Despite the unseasonal warmth of the day, she wore a prim and proper shoulder cape that would have done justice to a schoolmarm.
Had the very idea of a woman selling her body not been so distasteful, he might have laughed. Some lady of the night. Obviously the woman was in the wrong profession.
Despite her show of modesty, men gazed at her with covetous eyes. One man approached her, but she gave him the cold shoulder. She turned toward a young blond woman with a small child. For a moment it looked like she knew the young mother, but then she turned away.
He stood to make his presence known. Acknowledging him with a nod, she walked toward him with stiff dignity. No exaggerated hip swing, no fluttering eyelashes. No flirtatious moves. Just a walk, plain and simple, yet no less fetching.
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