“Th–that w–way we’ll be safe,” Polly added, her hand shaking like a wet dog.
Amy knew not to discount anyone as a suspect so early in the game, but it was hard to imagine nervous Polly wielding a candlestick holder. Coral with her snippy tongue and dark glances was still a consideration. Buttercup was certainly large enough to overpower Rose. Georgia was thin, but hardly a weakling. Then, of course, there was always Miss Lillian, but Amy doubted the madam would do anything that would harm her business.
“I can understand why you might want to protect yourselves.” In light of Rose’s death, Amy couldn’t blame them for wanting to be armed. Still, she always thought firearm safety undervalued, but never more so than today.
“Of course we need to protect ourselves,” Miss Lillian said. Little remained of the soft Southern drawl used on guests. Today, her voice had a steel-like edge. “Wasn’t that long ago that a woman felt safe in her own home, but those days are long gone.”
“It’s the railroad,” Coral said. “Nothing’s been the same since the iron horse came to town.”
Miss Lillian nodded. “Yes, but there’s nothing we can do about it except learn to fend for ourselves. So let’s get on with it, shall we? Before we all shoot each other.”
Miss Lillian had every reason for concern. It was obvious that Buttercup and Polly had no experience with weapons, and the others didn’t fare much better.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Georgia said with an anxious giggle.
Amy blew a stray strand of hair away from her face. “That makes two of us.”
Polly’s gun dangled from her hand like it was a dead rat or something equally unpleasant. “I’ve always been af–fraid of g–guns.”
Coral sneered. “You’re afraid of your own shadow.”
Polly tossed her head. “Am n–not.” She glanced around as if looking for someone to agree with her and finding none, fell silent.
Taking charge, Amy placed her hands on her hips. “Muzzles down,” she yelled, and all arms dropped to the side. “Now keep them down until I tell you to raise them.”
Georgia’s gun fell out of her hand and she stooped to pick it up. “It’s so small,” she said as if to apologize for her clumsiness.
“Don’t let the size fool you.” Amy walked back and forth in front of the women as she spoke. At nearly four inches long, derringers were stubby and lightweight. This made them the concealed weapon of choice. “Booth shot Lincoln with one of these. Just don’t try to shoot farther than ten feet away.”
“How come you know so much about guns?” Buttercup asked.
Coral’s eyes narrowed. “I was wondering the same thing myself.”
“My brothers taught me,” Amy replied. At least that part was true. She wasn’t about to tell them that she also graduated from the Pinkerton detective school at the top of her class.
Changing the subject, she lectured them on gun safety. Eventually, their eyes glazed over, and she ran out of ways to postpone the inevitable.
Now she would have to show them how to load and fire their weapons. God help them all.
She reached into her pocket and pulled her derringer from her thigh holster. Clouds hovered overhead, but the air was calm. Perfect for shooting.
“All right, men … uh … ladies. This is how you hold a weapon.” She explained how the two-shot over-under pistol worked and showed them how to open the breach to load their weapons. “Keep your finger off the trigger until ready to fire.”
Earlier, she’d salvaged three empty tin cans from the kitchen. Now she arranged them on the woodpile and walked back several paces. Raising her arm, she aimed, fired, and missed. Adjusting her aim, she fired again, and this time a can flew off the stack of wood.
“All right, on the count of three I want you all to aim at the woodpile. Keep your finger off the trigger. Don’t shoot till I tell you.”
She then stepped out of the line of fire—or at least she hoped she did. “Aim!”
The women lifted their arms and pointed their guns directly at the target. “The weapons are small but the kickback is—”
Just then Tom Colton barreled around the corner of the house, shooting iron in hand. Before she could issue a warning, a startled Polly cried out and fired. The shot triggered a chain reaction, and the other four guns went off in rapid succession. Birds rose from the treetops with loud squawks and a flutter of frantic wings.
For a moment, none of the women moved. When the smoke cleared, the only sign of Colton was his hat on the ground.
Snapping out of her shocked state, Amy ran to the woodpile with dread. “Mr. Colton!”
Tom had hit the ground hard and now lay spread eagle facedown. His hat had flown in one direction, his firearm in another.
Raising himself on his arms, he spit the dirt from his mouth. Miraculously, he was still in one piece.
Amy was the first to reach his side. She fell next to him in a cloud of shiny blue skirts, a horrified look on her face. “Are you all right?”
At sight of the gun in her hands, he raised his hands shoulder high. “Yes, but only if you don’t shoot.”
Eyes rounded, she slipped her shooting iron into her pocket and was all over him like a mother hen. She brushed off his vest and, taking his handkerchief, wiped the dirt from his face.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I heard gunfire and I thought you ladies were in trouble.”
Her hand stilled, and their gazes locked. “You could have been killed.”
“That’s for sure and certain.” Fearing he was about to be drawn into the depth of her eyes, he pulled his gaze away and glanced over the stack of wood. Five women peered back. “What in the name of Sam Hill are they doing with guns?”
“They’re scared. They fear that whoever killed Rose might kill them.”
“The way you ladies shoot, he needn’t bother. You’ll save him the trouble.” Since it appeared he was in no imminent danger, he pushed to his feet.
Miss Lillian glared at him as if he was the one in the wrong. “You can’t say you weren’t warned, Mr. Colton.” She sniffed. “I told you danger lay ahead.”
“Can’t argue with you there, ma’am.” He reached down for his hat and brushed it off. He then picked up his Peacemaker and jammed it into his holster.
“W–we’re learning to sh–shoot,” one woman stammered. The recoil had evidently hurt her hand. Holding her arm by the wrist, she shook it.
The woman in the bright yellow dress gave a nervous giggle. “I feel so much safer now.”
Tom slapped the hat on his head. “Wish I could say the feeling was mutual.”
“That’s enough for today,” Amy called. “We’ll practice more tomorrow.”
One by one, the women headed for the house.
Miss Lillian followed at the rear and paused by the back door. “Would you care for some refreshment, Mr. Colton? Or perhaps you would allow me to read your fortune? On the house, of course. It’s the least I can do for your … inconvenience.”
He scratched his temple. The woman had an interesting way with words. “No inconvenience, ma’am. I like being ambushed by a bunch of gun-toting women.”
Amy’s laughter rippled through the air. Momentarily caught off guard by the musical sound, his gaze met hers, and he wondered not for the first time how she ended up in such a place. All too soon the laughter faded away, but the memory remained.
“Very well,” Miss Lillian called. “Coming, Amy?”
“In a minute.” In a softer voice, she asked, “So what are you doing here?”
“I waited for you at the hotel.” He tilted his head. “Thought you might have information for me by now. Perhaps the names of Rose’s clients.”
“Guests.”
“What?”
“They’re called guests.”
He pushed his hat back with a finger to his brim. “If we’re gonna work together, there’s something you should know about
me. I’m not much for beating around the bush. I’m what you might call a simple man. I like keeping things plain and uncomplicated, and that includes language.”
“Does that go for women, too?” she asked. “The plain and uncomplicated part?”
“It’s been my experience that them’s the best kind.” He hung his thumbs from his gun belt. Not that Amy was in any way plain. Complicated, yes. Plain, no. “So if it’s all the same to you, ma’am, I’d appreciate it if you’d be straightforward with me. It’ll make things a whole lot simpler.”
“I’ll get you the list you want. Is that straightforward enough?”
“It’ll do. For now.”
Her eyes met his. Today they were the color of freshly mowed grass. “I really am sorry for what happened,” she said. “The guns—that wasn’t my idea.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Thank God for bad aims.”
She smiled. “And quick cowboys.”
Every time she smiled it was as if some unseen signal passed between them, and today was no different. “Why do I get the feeling that you don’t belong here?”
The smile vanished, and the light in her eyes seemed to dim. He wished he hadn’t said anything, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. She was throwing her life away. There had to be something he could say or do to make her see that.
“I’ll be in touch.” She started for the house, but he stopped her with a hand to her wrist.
“I’ll be mighty obliged for any help you give me.” The encounter with the man named Buckeye had shaken him more than he wanted to admit. If what he said about Dave was true, he didn’t know how he would live with that. How he would break the news to Dave’s son waiting back at the ranch.
Aware, suddenly, that the madam was still watching and looked like she was about to charge him good money, he released Amy’s arm.
“I’ll help you the best I can,” she said in a hushed voice. “Just as long as we keep it simple between us.”
“In other words, keep my nose out of your business.”
She gave him a half smile, but even that was a treat. “We understand each other.”
“I doubt it’ll ever come to that, ma’am. The understanding part, I mean.” Never in a million years would he understand a woman in her profession.
“Probably not. But it’ll be fun trying.”
“Now there’s a thought,” he said.
She walked away and, with a quick glance in his direction, vanished into the house.
A noticeable chill filled the air and the trees began to sway. It was as if the sun had vanished with her. Sudden wind kicked up the musty smell of rain.
Annoyed with himself for letting the lady get to him, he made a dash for his horse tethered in front of the house. With a little luck, he’d make it back to his hotel before the storm.
Peering down at the street from her bedroom window, Amy had mixed emotions as Tom Colton rode away on his shiny black horse. No sooner had he vanished from sight than a flash of lightning zigzagged across the sky followed by a sudden downpour.
Streams of water raced down the windowpane as if to chase away her unbridled thoughts….
Was Tom Colton the Gunnysack Bandit? The question had been very much on her mind these last couple of days. If the answer was yes, then perhaps the real reason he wanted her to spy was to find out what, if anything, the other women knew about him.
That business about his brother sounded true, but that could have been a ruse and the letter a forgery. The outlaw had terrorized Kansas for the past four years and had outwitted the country’s smartest detectives and lawmen. Obviously he was no fool, and neither was Mr. Colton. The man could charm the gold out of a rock.
So was he or was he not the Gunnysack Bandit?
She didn’t have the answer yet, but one thing was clear: she hoped to God he wasn’t.
Chapter 12
The next day Amy sat in her room at the Grande Hotel and Bath House. Maintaining a hotel room was a luxury, but it afforded her much-needed privacy.
The Pinkerton brothers would complain about the added expense, of course, but it couldn’t be helped. Her chameleon-like ability to adapt to her surroundings generally served her well. But this … this was altogether something different. No other assignment had required her to stay in character around the clock, seven days a week. No other case had challenged her on so many levels. Perhaps the hardest part of all was the necessity of keeping her faith in God under wraps and not let it slip out in general conversation as it tended to do.
She also had a practical reason for maintaining a hotel room. As the new girl, she was given the least desirable room at the parlor house. That didn’t bother her; the broken lock on her door did.
Coral and the others thought nothing of walking in without knocking. She was in constant danger of being caught going over Miss Lillian’s ledgers or writing her reports.
Hand on the back of her neck, she rolled her head to work out the kinks. Her report to headquarters was still missing the names of Miss Lillian’s guests, so she opened the ledger.
The madam kept perfect records, and every transaction, whether for entertainment, singing lessons, boots, haircuts, or fortune-telling, was recorded in clear, precise handwriting.
A total of forty-two transactions were recorded the week prior to Rose depositing stolen money into her bank deposit. Amy felt a surge of excitement as she studied the names of the men who had done business at Miss Lillian’s, including the marshal who, according to the ledger, purchased a pair of leather boots.
Miss Lillian paid her girls by check, but Polly explained that sometimes the men gave them a little something extra on the side. That meant Rose could have gotten the stolen banknotes directly from one of the guests. But which one? Not Tom Colton. He wasn’t even at the bordello on the week in question. In fact, his name showed up only once, on the day of Rose’s death.
The marshal’s name posed a problem. Pinkerton operatives were required to introduce themselves to local lawmen, and she had planned to do so that very day. Not only was it a matter of courtesy but also of necessity. Obtaining the marshal’s cooperation was part of the job.
But what if he was the Gunnysack Bandit? It wouldn’t be the first time a lawman had turned to a life of crime. Politicians, lawyers, and doctors were also known to participate in illegal activities. And only last fall, a minister had robbed a train to build a church. A detective couldn’t afford to discount anyone.
She copied the names onto her writing tablet to include with her report to headquarters. Reports were required to be accurate to the last detail and any dialogue recorded verbatim. Though she had to think hard to accurately record her conversations with Miss Lillian—and that of the four working women—Amy had no trouble recalling every word exchanged with Tom Colton.
“Does that go for women, too? The plain and uncomplicated part?”
“It’s been my experience that them’s the best kind.”
The memory of his voice was so clear it was almost as if he were in the room with her. She shook her head to clear her mind. Somehow she had to conquer whatever hold he had over her. She had a job to do. That meant she had no time for silly schoolgirl fantasies.
Forcing herself to concentrate on her report, she wrote until her fingers ached from gripping the pen.
The Pinkerton National Detective Agency had the world’s largest collection of mug shots in its criminal database. So the first order of business was to see if any of the forty-two men had a criminal record. This required detailed descriptions, and Miss Lillian had been a big help in this regard.
Amy reread what she had written and frowned. She may have gotten a bit carried away in describing Mr. Colton’s eyes as peacock blue with flecks of gold. The French dressmaker’s influence, no doubt.
Satisfied that at last she was making headway, she wrote a separate list of the men for herself and one for Colton, though she had yet to decide whether to give it to him. Completing her tasks, she drew the draper
ies shut. She then pulled a dress, two skirts, and matching shirtwaists from her valise and tucked them into the carpetbag borrowed from Miss Lillian. Last, she added the ledger.
She cracked open the door and peered cautiously down the hall before stepping outside and turning the key. His room, number fourteen, was several doors away, and the very thought quickened her pulse. Attributing the sudden warmth rushing to her cheeks to a sudden bout of anxiety, she headed for the stairs.
No one would be surprised to see a woman of easy virtue at the hotel, but the last thing she needed was to bump into Mr. Colton. If he really was the Gunnysack Bandit, he might have hired her just to keep her under surveillance. She’d best watch her step around him until he had been thoroughly checked against the agency’s vast file of known criminals.
The second-story landing was empty, but people milled around the lobby below.
She was halfway down the stairs before noticing Mr. Colton seated in the sitting area, reading a newspaper.
Ducking her head beneath the banister, she turned and raced up the stairs to the top landing. Was there another way out of the hotel? Perhaps a second set of stairs for domestic help?
“Bless my soul. Fancy meeting you here.”
She glanced over her shoulder and her heart nearly stopped. The three church ladies stood beaming at her. Pushing her spectacles up her nose, Mrs. Givings was the first to speak.
“We are putting a Good Book in each of the empty rooms,” she explained, pointing to a box filled to the brim with Bibles. “We thought weary travelers might appreciate a comforting word.”
“Yes, I’m sure they would,” Amy said. She peered over the railing just as Mr. Colton rose and headed for the staircase. “Let me help you.”
Holding her valise in one hand, she scooped several leather-bound Bibles from the cardboard box with the other. The three women’s mouths dropped open.
“Oh, but that won’t be necess—”
Not giving Mrs. Givings a chance to finish, Amy sprinted down the hall, dropping a Bible as she fled. “I’ll go this way,” she called.
Petticoat Detective Page 8
