Petticoat Detective

by Margaret Brownley

  Then there was his wife or mistress to consider. Did she sew her own clothes or favor French fashions? Did she do her own cooking and cleaning or depend on hired help? Even church tithing could provide clues. Some outlaws had been known to pay penance by giving vast sums to churches or charities.

  Amy stared at the list of names still to investigate and sighed. It didn’t look like her work would be done anytime soon. That meant she was stuck at the parlor house for only God knew how long.

  Later that afternoon, Amy scurried downstairs anxious to speak to Miss Lillian. Having whittled the original forty-two suspects down to twenty-five, she still had questions she hoped the madam could answer.

  The house was oddly quiet, but that was only because Georgia and the others had decided to visit Rose’s grave. However, voices greeted her as she crossed from the stairs to the parlor.

  Seeing that Miss Lillian had a guest, she paused beneath the archway. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had a visitor.”

  “It’s all right.” Holding a teapot in one hand, Miss Lillian waved her into the room with the other. “You remember Reverend Matthews, don’t you? From the funeral?”

  The reverend stood. Today, he wore his spectacles, but his fob chain dangled, so either he’d misplaced or forgotten his watch. “Ah, yes, you’re the new girl.”

  Amy didn’t know what to say. A man of God having tea with a madam?

  He chuckled as if enjoying a private joke. “I know what you’re thinking. But I can assure you, I’m here on the Lord’s business.”

  “He’s here to pick up his new boots,” Miss Lillian said.

  The reverend held out his foot to show off his new brown leather footwear.

  “Very nice,” Amy said.

  He grinned like a schoolboy with a new slingshot. “Did you know that God used shoes and feet in the Bible to show acceptance, humility, and deliverance?” His eyes twinkled. “So Miss Lillian is doing the Lord’s work, too. Only she doesn’t know it.”

  Miss Lillian set the teapot down. “Don’t make me out to be a saint, Reverend. The last time I looked, the saints were all dead.”

  “You’ll be happy to know you have little danger of receiving sainthood. I am, however, obliged to point out the dangers that lurk in the garden of evil. So many people fail to see the connection between pleasure and sin.”

  “Sit and finish your tea, Reverend,” Miss Lillian said. “Sermons and tea should never mix.”

  He bowed. “Very well.” He glanced at Amy. “Would you care to join us?”

  Amy’s mind scrambled for an excuse. “No, thank you. I—”

  A loud crash came from another part of the house, and Amy jumped. Mr. Beavers hopped off a hammock and vanished beneath a settee.

  “What on earth …?” Miss Lillian shot to her feet, and the three of them rushed from the room to investigate.

  A gaping hole was centered in the middle of the dining room window. Someone had thrown a brick. Amy flew to the window to peer outside, glass crunching beneath the soles of her shoes.

  Seeing no one, she pulled away. “Quick, the key!”

  Miss Lillian wasted precious moments unfastening the key from her waist. By the time Amy worked the complicated lock and dashed out the front door, the street was empty and the perpetuator nowhere in sight.

  Just to make certain, she raced to the gate and glanced as far as she could see in all directions. Whoever had thrown the brick was probably young. Certainly young enough to run fast.

  Pocketing her gun, she returned to the house. The housekeeper, Beatrice, was already sweeping up the glass in the dining room, her thin mouth as tight as her bun.

  “Did you see anyone?” Miss Lillian asked.

  Amy shook her head and handed over the key. “Have you any idea who would do such a thing?”

  Miss Lillian shrugged. “Roughly half the population of this town. There’s not a woman out there who wouldn’t like to see this place burn down.”

  Amy doubted the brick thrower was a woman. No one wearing a skirt could run that fast.

  Reverend Matthews held the brick up to the light as if it contained some secret message from God. “Let’s finish our tea,” he said amicably. “And I’ll tell you what the Bible says about fallen bricks.”

  Chapter 15

  Thared, Tenfer. Monster tay me.”

  Amy twisted and turned until her bedding tied up in knots. She flopped over on her back and stared at the ceiling. The house seemed especially restless tonight. Its studs groaned and joints creaked. Was it possible for a house to absorb the fears and worries of inhabitants? Or was it simply the ghosts of the past having a bad night?

  The half moon peered through the open window, and lace curtains fluttered in the gentle breeze. Shadows danced across the room much like Cissy’s last words danced in her head.

  The sheriff believed that Cissy had wandered from the house in the middle of the night. “Children do that all the time,” he’d said.

  Now as then, she questioned his theory. Cissy woke up crying on that long-ago night and claimed a monster had tried to take her. Amy calmed her down and told her that it was just a bad dream. “There’s no such thing as a monster.” But what if it hadn’t been a nightmare? What if someone really had tried to snatch her sister out of her bed? The questions persisted now as they had done for years with no answers in sight.

  Though Amy was only twelve at the time, she blamed herself for not taking her sister seriously and investigating. Why hadn’t she? And why, after all this time, did the memories still haunt her?

  Turning her back on the past, she glanced at the mechanical clock. Unable to read the face, she slid out of bed and carried the clock to the window. The silvery light of the half moon bathed the street, and the trees swayed gently. It was only after midnight, but she felt as if she’d been twisting and turning all night. A movement caught her eye. Another brick thrower?

  She pressed her head against the glass pane and squinted. A stick-thin figure hurried through the gate. Unless her eyes were playing tricks on her, it sure did look like Georgia.

  The woman vanished into the folds of the night. Where was she going at such a late hour? Did she have a lover?

  Amy grabbed a dressing gown and shoved her arms into the sleeves. It was filmy and, like all the parlor house garments, offered little in the way of modesty. It would have to do. She shoved her handgun into the pocket.

  Opening her door quietly, she stuck her head through the crack and peered into the hall. A gaslight on the wall hissed and sputtered, but otherwise all was quiet. Pulling the door shut behind her, she tiptoed past the other rooms to the stairs. Padding barefoot down the edge closest to the railing where the stairs were less likely to creak, she crossed the entry hall to the door. It was still bolted and locked on the inside.

  Feeling her way through the dark hall, she reached the kitchen. She ran her hand along the kitchen counter until she found the lantern. After lighting the wick, she searched the pantry and pushed against the well-stocked shelves in search of a hidden door. Nothing. She checked the windows in the mudroom, but all were locked and looked as if they hadn’t been opened in years. The back door, too, was locked from the inside.

  So how did Georgia escape?

  She returned to the kitchen and decided to wait. Sooner or later Georgia would return. Please, God, let it be sooner. She was cold and in desperate need of sleep.

  It wasn’t more than twenty minutes later that footsteps alerted her. She turned off the light and ducked behind the counter in front of the icebox.

  A sudden movement by her side startled her. Mr. Beavers!

  The cat rubbed against her with loud, rumbling purrs—a fine time to be friendly. “Go away,” she whispered. She pushed against him, but that only made him purr louder.

  The cellar door creaked open, and Amy held her breath. Mr. Beavers made enough noise for a choir.

  Amy peered around the counter. Georgia’s dark form emerged, and the cellar door closed behind
her with a muffled thud. She stood perfectly still, her raven hair gleaming in the light of the half moon.

  Amy debated whether to confront Georgia now or later and decided to wait. She was more likely to get the truth out of Georgia if she had more information.

  Mr. Beavers’s purrs now sounded like a chugging train. Georgia moved toward the counter. Amy gave the cat a good shove with both hands. Mr. Beavers protested with a loud meow before streaking away.

  Georgia gasped as the cat ran past her. “Dumb cat,” she muttered. She pulled off her slippers and ever so quietly tiptoed away on stocking feet.

  Amy sat on the cold kitchen floor and leaned her back against a cupboard until the squeaking floorboards overhead told her Georgia was now upstairs.

  She stood and walked to the cellar door. She had checked the cellar earlier in the week and found nothing of interest. Obviously, she’d missed something.

  The dark hole of the underground room gaped before her, and her mouth went dry. She liked cellars almost as much as she liked rattlers—especially in the still of night.

  Turning back to the kitchen, she relit the kerosene lantern and, holding it over her head, started down the stairs.

  The cellar smelled musty, and dust tickled her nose. Cobwebs hung from raftered ceilings. Along the length of one wall stood a row of narrow windows. They were too high to reach and probably hadn’t been opened since the house was built.

  She moved the light across the rough brick walls. Old furniture was piled in one corner. A couple of trunks and a rocking chair clamored for space with a glass-paneled secretary and, inexplicably, a child’s rocking horse. A folding screen stood in one corner, each panel painted with scenes of nature.

  She stepped over a wicker basket and moved a panel. This time she saw something she had previously missed. The screen hid an alcove and stairs. At the top of the stairs a trapdoor opened to the back of the house.

  So there was a way in and out of the old house without going through Miss Lillian. This could explain how Rose’s killer managed to enter and leave without being seen. Georgia obviously was familiar with the hidden door, but how many of the other women knew about it? How many in town?

  The next morning after breakfast a horse-drawn wagon with CUBBY’S WINDOWS AND FINE LAMPS painted on the sides pulled in front of the house.

  While the man known only as Cubby replaced the broken dining room window, Amy walked out to the backyard to check the trapdoor from the outside.

  It really did feel like spring. The temperature was somewhere in the low seventies, and fluffy clouds floated across an azure sky. Rays of golden sunlight filtered through the trees, and the warmth was a welcome change from the cool interior of the house.

  Overgrown bushes against the back of the house hid the cellar trapdoor. Unless someone was specifically looking for the entrance, it was almost impossible to find.

  She walked the width and breadth of the yard. Old wizened trees prevented all but the most stubborn flowers from surviving. A rambling rosebush climbed up a leaning fence in an effort to reach the sun.

  The house lacked neighbors but not wildlife. A jaybird squawked loudly as it chased a squirrel down a tree. A rabbit ran across her path and dived into a hole. From somewhere up above came the tap-tap-tapping of a woodpecker, but she couldn’t locate it.

  Buttercup walked into the yard, and her presence caused a sudden twitter of birds. It soon became apparent why when she dumped a pan of table scraps into a bird feeder.

  Amy joined her. Already, yellow-winged birds fluttered down to peck at pieces of suet. “I’ve never seen so many different types of birds.”

  “That’s because Rose put food out for them every day,” Buttercup said. “Now I do it in her memory.”

  “I noticed several bird books in Rose’s room.” Amy knew very little about birds and could only identify a few.

  “She loved birds and sat for hours watching them. She even left little pieces of yarn outside for their nests.”

  Buttercup nudged Amy with an elbow and pointed upward. A large black-and-white bird sat on a window ledge, preening in front of a second-story window.

  “He comes every morning to primp in front of the glass. Rose said he was a magpie.”

  The way the bird turned first one way and then the other made Amy laugh. “He’s a regular Beau Brummell.”

  Buttercup pulled her gaze away from the windowsill. “A bow what?”

  “Brummell. He was a very fashionable man.” Buttercup couldn’t read and had little education. Regretting having mentioned someone known mostly through literature, Amy quickly changed the subject.

  “It sounds like you really miss Rose.”

  Buttercup heaved a sigh and looked about to burst into tears. “The others … they make fun of my weight. Rose never did. She was kind to me.”

  Amy had so many questions she wanted to ask, but Buttercup suddenly pointed to the fence. “Oh, look at the hummingbird,” she said, smiling.

  Amy’s gaze followed her pointed finger. Like a jeweled ball being tossed in a game of catch, the tiny bird flitted from blossom to blossom. It hovered in the air for a moment, its green wings but a blur, then darted away.

  The smile vanished from Buttercup’s face. Amy hated to return to such a depressing subject, but she so seldom had a chance to speak to any of the women alone.

  “I need to ask you something. Did you know that Rose was with child?”

  Buttercup’s eyes widened. “No, but she wouldn’t be the first who got herself in a family way.”

  “I suppose not. I heard she was seeing someone and it was serious. Dave or Dan somebody.”

  “Dave. I met him a couple of times. He wasn’t like the others.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I think he really cared for Rose. Brought her flowers and books and stuff.” Buttercup sighed. “It’s too bad what happened.”

  “You mean when he was shot?”

  “That, too. But I’m talking about the argument they had just before he died. Right here in this yard.”

  “Do you know what they argued about?” Amy asked.

  “Something about him wanting her to go to Texas, but she said she wouldn’t go without him. That’s all I heard.”

  So the part about Dave asking for his brother’s help was true. “Rose must have been heartbroken when he died.”

  “She was heartbroken all right.” Buttercup tossed a small piece of suet to a noisy blue jay perched on the woodpile. “She didn’t get out of bed for a week. Miss Lillian called the doctor, but it didn’t help much. After a while, she did try to eat, but she wasn’t the same.”

  “Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to hurt her?”

  Buttercup glanced at the house as if to make certain they were still alone. “I think she was scared of someone. One of the guests.”

  “What makes you say that?” Amy asked. Everyone else she’d questioned insisted that Rose had no enemies.

  “The week before she died, she wouldn’t sleep alone. She slept on the floor in my room.”

  “Did she tell you who she was afraid of?”

  “No, but …” Buttercup gave the house another quick glance. “I got the feeling it was Mr. Monahan.”

  Since Monahan was at the top of her list of suspects, Amy wasn’t surprised to hear his name. Coral said he was the richest man in town, and from what little Amy had been able to turn up on him, it appeared to be true. His house alone had cost more money than what most people in town saw in a lifetime.

  “Why would she be afraid of him?”

  “I don’t know, but one night I heard them arguing. The next day she stayed in her room.”

  “Did you hear what they were arguing about?”

  Buttercup shook her head. As if suddenly remembering the rule forbidding gossip, she backed away, pail in hand. “I better go.”

  Amy made no move to stop her. She needed time to think. She could understand why Rose might argue with her fiancé. But Mr. Monahan
? Why would she argue with a guest?

  Unless … She considered a new theory: What if Monahan was the father of Rose’s baby? Maybe Rose threatened to go public and Monahan refused to let that happen.

  It made sense but was still only speculation. Even if she was right, solving Rose’s murder wouldn’t necessarily bring her any closer to tracking down the Gunnysack Bandit, and that’s what she was paid to do.

  One by one, the birds took flight until at last the bird feeder was deserted. She started toward the house, but something stopped her. A strange sensation came over her, and she shivered.

  She glanced about the yard, but all was quiet. Even the magpie had taken flight. She scanned the widows. The draperies and shades were drawn shut.

  Still, unable to shake the feeling that someone was watching, she hurried to the house and banged on the back door until the cook let her in.

  Chapter 16

  Her conversation with Buttercup still very much on her mind, Amy hurried into town later that morning to mail her report to Pinkerton headquarters.

  She walked quickly along the boardwalk, looking neither left nor right. She didn’t want to see the disapproving stares or judgmental looks. It was bad enough having to feel their gazes.

  Though the sun was warm, her shoulder cape was securely fastened. Her bright purple gown set her apart from the “respectable” women whose modesty and morality were properly stated with drab gray or stoic black dresses. Amy would have had a better chance of blending in had she worn a pickle barrel.

  It was now the middle of April. It didn’t seem possible that she’d been living at Miss Lillian’s Parlor House and Fine Boots for more than a week. She had precious little to show for her efforts. But then again, Rose’s death caused the loss of valuable time. She had to move slowly so as not to rouse suspicion.