Petticoat Detective

by Margaret Brownley

  He reached for his hat, and she felt an odd sense of disappointment. She didn’t want the evening to end.

  “You can’t go yet,” she said. It was all she could do not to bar the door to keep him there. Already she felt loneliness creeping into the room and sensed the ghosts of the past waiting to pounce.

  He donned his hat and tugged on the brim. “It’s late.”

  “Not that late,” she said. “Miss Lillian will think I … didn’t treat you right.” It was actually the other girls who worried her. Coral was already suspicious.

  He gazed at her for a long moment before slipping a hand around her waist and drawing her so close it was as if their hearts beat as one. He brushed his lips against hers, and when she offered no objection, he covered her mouth in a full but tender kiss.

  Melting next to him, she slipped her hands up the front of him and wrapped her arms around his neck. Thrilling to the sensations that rippled through her, she willingly returned his kiss, surprising herself by how much pleasure it gave her.

  All too soon he let her go, and she felt like something vital had been ripped away, the part of her that was real, perhaps. The part of her that was most vulnerable. It took every bit of willpower she possessed to slip back into her role.

  He looked equally shaken by what had transpired between them. Puzzled even. He stared at her for a long moment as if he sensed that the woman in front of him wasn’t the one that he’d kissed.

  “I’ll tell Miss Lillian you treated me just fine,” he said, his voice hoarse. With that he slipped out of the room.

  She grabbed the back of a chair to steady herself. Now she’d done it. Told him about her personal life, told him about the loss of her sister. He had enough information to uncover her real identity if he bothered to check. If either William or Robert Pinkerton found out what she’d done, she would be fired on the spot.

  What was it about this house that brought back the past in such vivid detail? Was it that nothing about Miss Lillian’s Parlor House was genuine? Certainly not the people who lived there. Even their smiles were false. It was as if this strange, phony world forced her to search within for something real, bringing long-forgotten memories of Cissy and the night she disappeared to the forefront.

  As for Tom Colton …

  Forcing herself to breathe, she turned and caught sight of her painted face in the mirror.

  The reflection staring back looked nothing like her. The eye makeup was intact, as were the rouged cheeks and powdered nose. All she was willing to claim as her own were her lips, bare except for the burning memory of his.

  It pained her to think that the woman he’d kissed—or thought he’d kissed—didn’t even exist.

  Pained her even more to wish that she did. For such a woman was likely to take such a kiss in stride and probably not give it a second thought.

  Instead of heading back to his hotel, Colton rode his horse clear though town. He rode past the church and cemetery, past the train station and empty stockades, to the wide-open Kansas plains. It wasn’t Texas. Didn’t smell like Texas, didn’t feel like Texas. Only the stars blazing overhead seemed familiar.

  Many were the times he’d ridden beneath the starry Lone Star sky, but never before had he felt like this. Like his whole insides were on fire.

  He needed to think. Or maybe he just needed to get his head on straight. Maybe then he could put the memory of her tear-filled eyes and sweet tender lips to rest.

  He shouldn’t have kissed her. Big mistake. He had no right to criticize his brother’s choice of women, not after tonight. Not after the way he felt when he took her in his arms. He’d meant to comfort her, that’s all. Instead, his heart had pounded like a blacksmith’s hammer against his anvil ribs.

  His hands tightened around Thunder’s reins, and he sucked in his breath.

  He’d practically drowned in those big green eyes of hers. The concern in their depths when he spoke of his brother had filled a hole inside that he hadn’t even known existed. Of course, none of it meant a thing. Not her sympathy and certainly not anything that fell from her lips. Services paid for, services rendered. Though heaven knows, he believed it was all real at the time. In the name of Sam Hill, what had he been thinking?

  Maybe he was just lonely. A strange town and all … He missed his ranch. Missed Davey, now more of a son than a nephew. He missed his cattle, his horses. But lately …

  Maybe it was time to settle down, get himself a wife. If he had someone waiting for him at home, he sure in blazes wouldn’t be longing after a woman of easy virtue, no matter how pretty her eyes or soft her lips or sorrowful her tale.

  With a sigh, he tugged on the reins and turned back to town. Sleep, he needed sleep. He’d been in town for nearly three weeks and had nothing to show for it. He’d hoped and prayed he would find his brother’s killer. More than that, he’d hoped to prove to his grandpappy that Dave really had turned over a new leaf and deserved to be buried in the family plot. For young Davey’s sake.

  But his chances of finding out anything that would exonerate his brother looked about as promising as a summer drought.

  He’d give himself one more week. Seven days. If he didn’t find any new clues by then, he was out of there. Seven days, God. Surely You can keep me away from temptation’s clutches for seven more days.

  Chapter 21

  Long after Tom Colton had left her room, long after he’d mounted his horse and ridden away, long after her heart finally stopped pounding, Amy sat staring out of her bedroom window. He was a complication she hadn’t counted on. A complication she didn’t need.

  She no longer thought him guilty of anything except good looks and charm, but that didn’t let her off the hook. Not only had she broken the number one rule of an undercover agent by revealing personal information, but she’d also allowed herself to become distracted.

  It had to be this house. Never had she felt so out of place, so utterly alone. Sometimes she wondered if even God dared to tread between the wanton walls.

  She was so deep in thought she almost missed the man in the checkered suit lurking outside. Pressing her forehead against the glass pane, she followed his progress until he disappeared by the side of the house.

  She dropped the curtain. It was time that she and Mr. Checkers got to know each other.

  Moments later, she let herself ever so quietly out of the cellar trapdoor. Earlier, a zephyr had blown across the Kansas plains, but tonight the air was still, and stars glittered like diamonds upon a black velvet sky. From the distance came the sound of a fiddle and what sounded like the baying of a wolf, but nothing from nearby.

  Gun held by her side, she moved silently through the backyard and peered around the corner of the house.

  She spotted Checkers before he saw her. Actually, it was the shadow of his hat that gave his location away behind the bushes. He appeared to be trying to look into one of the first-floor windows.

  Gripping her gun, she moved in close. “Who are you and what do you want?”

  The bushes rustled and his head popped out. She couldn’t see much of his face save the whites of his eyes. “Blimey! Is that a gun?” he asked in a nasally British accent.

  “Yes, and I know how to use it.”

  He lifted his hands shoulder high. “Don’t shoot.”

  “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”

  He sniffled. “You’ll mess up my suit.”

  “That would do you a favor.” She lowered the gun to her side, and he dropped his hands.

  He stepped out of the bushes and into the stream of light shining from the window. “You near scared the living daylights out of me.” He brushed himself off. “You could have given me heart failure.”

  “That’s what you get for sneaking around.”

  “I wasn’t sneaking around. I’ll have you know I’m working.”

  “Working?”

  He cleared his throat. “I’m Winston Walker the third. I work for the Pinkerton National Detective Agency.”<
br />
  Not only was the man a sneak, he was as shy of the truth as a goat was feathers. “Try again.”

  He looked insulted. “You don’t believe me?”

  “Mr. Pinkerton strictly forbids operatives from using alcohol and foul language. I happen to know that you’re guilty of both. He also frowns on peeping Toms.”

  “All right, all right. You got me. I don’t work for the old bloke, and I don’t much care for his sons. But I am a private detective.”

  She sighed. That’s all she needed. Private sleuthhounds were as welcome as a swarm of bees. Most didn’t have the slightest idea what they were doing and often had a negative impact on Pinkerton investigations. Shadowing was an art, requiring a person to be present but not noticed. Not only did his checkered suit stand out like a red flag, the clumsy use of a newspaper that day in the hotel pegged him as an amateur.

  “What makes you such an expert on Pinkerton?” he asked.

  She fell back on the stock reply kept for such occasions. “I have an uncle who works there.”

  “Talk about hard cheese.” He made a face. “Lately all I have is bad luck. Last year, I was this close”—he held his thumb and index finger a sliver apart—“to catching Jesse James and claiming the five-thousand-dollar reward. And what happens? He gets himself shot by one of his own men. The year before that, I was hot on Billy the Kid’s trail when he was gunned down by a sheriff….” On and on he went about lost rewards and glory. He was like an old fisherman grousing about the catches that got away.

  “So what are you detecting now?” she asked the moment she could get a word in edgewise.

  He lifted his pointed nose and lowered his voice. “I have it on good authority that the man known as the Gunnysack Bandit is from these parts.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I’m not at liberty to reveal my sources, but I have reason to believe that the Pinkerton agency dispatched an operative here.”

  She stiffened. “How do you know that?” The only way he could know was if he bribed a Pinkerton employee. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be the first time that some blabbermouth clerk or secretary had betrayed the company’s trust. Just wait till the principal hears about this!

  “Like I told you, I’m a detective.” He lowered his voice. “And I know who it is. I can pick out a fellow sleuth a mile away, and I’m telling you, it’s that Colton chap.”

  It was all Amy could do to keep from laughing out loud. “You think he’s a Pinkerton detective?”

  “Shh. He doesn’t want anyone to know, of course. I shouldn’t even be telling you. All that business about looking for his brother’s killer is rubbish.”

  The man was dead wrong, but she decided to play along. “So what are you doing here?” Something suddenly occurred to her. “Are you following me?”

  “Of course not.” He threw up his hands. “All right, I was following you. I need to ask you some questions.”

  She slipped her hand into her fake pocket and holstered her gun. The man was annoying but didn’t strike her as dangerous. “All right, but it will cost you.”

  He made a face. “No one does anything for free anymore,” he grumbled. In a louder voice, he said, “Why would a Pink be interested in a … soiled dove such as yourself?”

  She folded her arms. His holier-than-thou attitude was more offensive than the derogatory term. “I would think the reason was obvious.”

  “You’re winding me up, right? Since when does a man ask a”—he cleared his voice—“a woman of easy virtue to dine?”

  Okay, maybe he wasn’t as inept as she thought. A good question deserves a good answer, but at the moment she would settle for a mediocre response—if only she could think of one.

  “You tell me. You’re the detective.”

  “I believe he thinks you know something about the Gunnysack Bandit, and I aim to find out what it is.”

  “And how do you propose to do that?”

  Before he could answer, Miss Lillian came barreling around the corner like a runaway horse.

  “Ha! I thought I heard voices.” The madam stuck her hand out in front of the startled man. “That’ll be ten dollars.”

  Mr. Walker’s-slash-Checkers’s mouth dropped open.

  Amy couldn’t help but smile; where money was concerned, Miss Lillian’s timing was impeccable. “I told you it would cost you,” she said. “Say one more word and the price will double.”

  Max’s General Mercantile and Flower Shoppe was crowded when Amy walked in the following morning. An odd combination of cinnamon, tobacco, and coffee tickled her nose. Tin cans were stacked neatly on shelves. Clusters of onions hung from the rafters, and reams of calico were piled high on a counter ready to be cut. A potbellied stove stood in the center of the store surrounded by barrels of pickles, molasses, and kerosene.

  The store owner shoveled coffee beans into the red coffee grinder and turned the wheel. After grinding the beans, he scooped the grounds into a paper bag and handed it over the counter to a matronly woman with a walking cane.

  Amy was immediately drawn to the display of cut flowers. She picked up a bouquet of pink carnations wrapped in green paper. Raising the feathery blossoms to her nose, she watched the store owner behind the counter.

  Mr. Maxwell was a frequent guest of Miss Lillian’s and number ten on her suspect list.

  The stolen banknote had been folded only twice when Rose deposited it, making it unlikely that it had passed through a third or fourth person. It was possible, of course, that a store customer had made a purchase with the bill and Mr. Maxwell had innocently passed it along. Possible, but given the almost pristine condition of the note, highly improbable.

  He seemed friendly enough and greeted each customer with a smile and a joke. With his thick blond hair, parted in the middle and worn shoulder length, he reminded her of Hans Bergman, the notorious embezzler she’d tracked all the way to Canada.

  Standing nearly six feet tall, Maxwell fit the Gunnysack Bandit’s description in height, but a thick German accent made it unlikely he was the right man. Not one robbery victim had mentioned an accent.

  Still, she was required to provide a complete description to headquarters on every possible suspect, so a closer look wouldn’t hurt.

  “Why, Mrs. Monahan. How nice to see you.”

  The female voice drew Amy’s attention to two women standing next to a cracker barrel. It took no special talent to identify which one was married to the town’s richest man.

  A willowy blond, Mrs. Monahan was younger than Amy expected, probably in her late twenties, early thirties. She wore a stylish brown walking suit that probably cost more than Amy’s waterfall evening gown. The bodice was paneled with brown satin, and the collar and cuffs were edged with gold-beaded tulle. Her peaked crown hat was tastefully decorated with a nosegay of yellow flowers and tied beneath her chin with brown satin ribbons.

  Without warning, Mrs. Monahan’s gaze met hers, and Amy was struck by the look on her face. The woman’s expression darkened with the shifting emotions of anger, hatred, and despair, but most prevalent was sadness, and Amy felt sorry for her. She was married to the richest, most powerful man in town and had everything money could buy … but not a faithful husband. No amount of money could buy that.

  Unable to meet the woman’s gaze a moment longer, Amy turned and took her place in front of the counter behind a young mother with a small child. The little boy, dressed in a sailor suit, stared up at her. He had a round face, a fetching smile, and big brown eyes. She smiled back at him. She guessed he was around three, the same age as Cissy when she disappeared.

  He tugged on his mother’s skirt. “I wike that pretty wady,” he said, and Amy felt a pang. Cissy hadn’t been able to pronounce the w sound either.

  Her smile widened. What he no doubt liked was her bright scarlet dress and ruby-red lips. Children were drawn to bright colors. “I like you, too.”

  His mother turned and her face practically crumbled in horror. “No, you don’t,
Jimmy. You don’t like her. She’s not a nice person.” Leaving the items she intended to purchase on the counter, the woman yanked her son by the arm and practically dragged him out of the store.

  The other customers in line stared at Amy. Odd as it seemed, the silence was deafening.

  “May I help you?” the store owner asked in a thick German accent. He held out his hand for her money with an impatient gesture, as if he was anxious to get rid of her.

  Face flaring, she paid for the flowers and left the shop without waiting for change.

  Chapter 22

  Walking along Main Street, Amy couldn’t get Mrs. Monahan out of her mind. Not only was her husband a regular parlor house guest, but he appeared to have had some sort of relationship with Rose, as well. It was the most obvious explanation for the argument overheard by Buttercup. Had it been a lover’s quarrel? Or something more sinister?

  Perhaps Rose confronted him with her suspicions about his being the Gunnysack Bandit. If so, that would make him a suspect in her death.

  Though it was a warm spring day, her dark thoughts chased goose-flesh up and down her spine. It wasn’t just Mrs. Monahan that had upset her. She was still shaken by the encounter with the woman and her little boy. Did one ever get used to being shunned? Probably not.

  Her steps faltered as she passed the Grande Hotel and Bath House. Crazy as it seemed, the essence of Mr. Colton’s kiss still lingered. Not wanting to relive, yet again, the memory of being in his arms, she quickened her pace. It didn’t mean a thing, that kiss. Not a thing.

  Little that happened between the walls of Miss Lillian’s Parlor House meant anything. The only things that seemed genuine were the sobs sometimes heard coming from the other rooms in the still of night and the nightmares that plagued her sleep.

  No, his kiss hadn’t been real, no matter how much she wished otherwise. It had cost him dearly to be with her, moneywise. So who could blame him for simply demanding a service he’d paid for? He would have been within his right to expect more. Thank God he didn’t. He probably hadn’t given the kiss a second thought, so why should she?