Calico Spy

by Margaret Brownley

  Katie could think of another possibility. It wasn’t unusual for criminals to return to the scene of the crime. Maybe this Charley fellow was feeling guilty. Maybe that’s why he returned to the house. She didn’t want to think he was looking for a new victim.

  “What about Priscilla? Did she have a beau, too?”

  Before Mary-Lou could answer, the door flew open and the dorm matron, Miss Thatcher, walked in. “Lights out, ladies,” she snapped.

  From what Katie had heard from the others, the woman ran the house like a general at war. She lacked the proper uniform, but no general’s scowl could compare.

  Stick thin with a long, pointed nose, straight mouth, and what looked like a perpetual frown, she was apparently one of the few employees not required to smile.

  Regarding Katie with an icy stare that sent chills spiraling through her, Miss Thatcher picked up, with thumb and forefinger, the white apron carelessly tossed on a chair.

  “Is this yours, Miss Madison?”

  Katie swung her feet onto the floor and sat upright on the bed. “Yes, ma’am. I was just about to take care of that.” Dirty clothes were to be placed in the hamper in the hall. The laundry was sent to Newton, Kansas, to be washed, but each girl was responsible for ironing and starching her own uniform.

  Miss Thatcher let the apron drop like one might release a dead rat. Her gaze settled on Katie. “You’re still in your uniform.”

  Feeling like a schoolgirl caught stealing, Katie rose to her feet. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You do know the rules of the house.”

  She wasn’t sure which rule Miss Thatcher referred to as there were so many, but to be on the safe side she threw her shoulders back and smiled. That failed to lessen the scowl on Miss Thatcher’s face. If anything, it made it worse.

  “Do I amuse you, Miss Madison?”

  “No, Miss Thatcher.”

  “Then take that silly grin off your face.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The dorm matron’s dark eyebrows drew together. “For your insubordination, you will report to kitchen duty at five a.m. Do I make myself clear?”

  Insubordination? Katie glanced at her roommate, who shrugged. Since she was pretty sure that making a face would not earn her any favors, she kept her expression composed.

  “Yes, Miss Thatcher.”

  Without another word, the woman turned off the brass kerosene lamp, throwing the room into darkness. She stopped in the doorway, her figure outlined in the soft glow from the hallway light. The way her ears stood out made her head look like a sugar bowl.

  “Good night, ladies.” With that she swept out of the room with a rustle of silk, the door closing with a quiet but no less commanding click.

  “What a witch,” Katie said, plopping down on her bed to pull off her shoes and stockings.

  Girlish giggles rose from Mary-Lou’s side of the room.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You.” Mary-Lou burst into another round of laughter. “Your first day here and already you’re in trouble with Mr. Pickens and Miss Thatcher. It takes most girls at least a week to accomplish that feat.”

  Katie hadn’t meant to antagonize anyone. Certainly not the dorm matron. The woman probably knew more about the girls in her care than anyone else.

  Katie grimaced. Somehow she would have to find a way to get back in the woman’s good graces. The manager’s, too.

  For Mary-Lou’s benefit, she breathed out an audible sigh. “I tend to get off on a bad foot at times.” Perhaps her roommate could give her some pointers on how best to handle Miss Thatcher.

  “You can’t say that about the sheriff,” Mary-Lou said.

  “What do you mean?” The memory of the lawman’s intriguing dark eyes and crooked smile surprised her with its intensity.

  “No one, and I do mean no one, ever persuaded Sheriff Whitman to wear a coat. You’re the first.”

  For some unknown reason, that brought a smile to Katie’s face—the first heartfelt smile since arriving in town.

  Chapter 6

  As much as Katie enjoyed the soft, luxurious bed, the stress of starting a new job in an unfamiliar place kept her tossing and turning.

  Now as always when she couldn’t sleep, she turned to the Lord. God, don’t let me mess up this job. You know how my mouth gets away from me and I say things I shouldn’t. You have my permission to bang me on the head if I don’t curtail my tongue. And please forgive my envious heart. I’m sure You had a good reason for giving me hair the color of a rooster’s comb, and maybe one day You’ll let me know what that reason is.

  She ended her prayer with a sigh but was no closer to falling asleep than before. As much as she needed the rest, everything she’d seen and heard since arriving in Calico kept running through her head. A surreptitious look or hasty conversation might or might not mean much, but no detective could afford to discount anything.

  Somehow she had to find a way to talk to the sheriff in private. She only hoped her boss had exaggerated Whitman’s dislike of Pinkerton operatives. He was nothing like what she’d expected. A man willing to help out a poor waitress he’d only just met couldn’t be all that difficult to deal with, could he?

  She’d considered identifying herself earlier, but too many people were present. She didn’t want to take a chance on blowing her cover.

  The memory of the sheriff in that too-small coat made her giggle, and she quickly covered her mouth so as not to waken Mary-Lou.

  Turning over, she pounded the pillow with her fist and closed her eyes. Startled by the vision of the sheriff’s handsome square face, she flopped on her back and stared at the ceiling.

  Reading faces was a necessary part of her job, and she was better at it than many of her colleagues. The sheriff had strong features—a sign of integrity. Though he seemed outgoing and friendly enough, she’d nonetheless sensed his reserve. It was as if he’d purposely held part of himself back, the part that most intrigued her.

  The thought made her groan. Homing in on a criminal’s deepest secrets was her job. Prying into the sheriff’s private life was absolutely off-limits, no matter how much she was tempted. Her Pinkerton boss expected results, and he expected them fast. She had no time to lose, and working with the sheriff might save her precious time.

  He knew things about the victims and crime scenes that were not in the Pinkerton report. That made him a valuable resource.

  She turned to her side. “Report to kitchen duty at 5:00 a.m.” What time was it now? It seemed like she’d been twisting and turning all night.

  She reached for the mechanical clock on the bedside table. Quietly she slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the window. Between the full moon and gas streetlight there was just enough light filtering through the lace curtains for her to read the hands on the clock. Much to her surprise, it was only a little after eleven.

  Someone had described insomnia as twisting and turning all night for an hour, but this was ridiculous.

  Nudging the curtain aside, she gazed down at the moonlit street, and a movement caught her eye. A man stood next to the lamppost gazing up at the house. She quickly drew back. Was that the dead girl’s beau, Charley? She glanced outside again.

  There was only one way to find out. Dropping the curtain in place, she felt in the dark for her clothes.

  Branch picked the stranger out the moment he walked into the Silver Spur Saloon. The detective sat at a table by his lonesome. Probably trying to familiarize himself with the town before starting his investigation.

  He definitely acted like a Pinkerton detective. No question. Not only was the man new in town, he huddled over his drink as if trying to make himself small and invisible.

  If Branch wasn’t so incensed at the thought of having to deal with the private detective, he might have laughed. The man in his Monkey Ward clothes—new denim pants, shirt, and boots—stood out like a sore thumb. And that wasn’t even mentioning the barely creased hat.

  If the Pinkerton agency insisted up
on sending its city-slicker detectives here, the least they could do was learn how to dress them properly. Most of the cowboys and railroad workers in town hadn’t seen a pair of new trousers or boots for a dozen or so years, not since Andrew Johnson was in office.

  Branch had expected the detective to check in at the hotel or, at the very least, Miss Grayson’s Room and Board that day, but he’d done neither. Puzzled, Branch did a methodical search of saloons, and the Silver Spur was the fourth one he’d visited that night.

  The place was in full swing. Old man Taylor played a lively tune on the mouth organ, which he blew with great diligence. Along one side of the saloon a faro game was in progress.

  Branch walked up to the stranger’s table, pulled out a chair, and sat.

  Monkey Suit looked up, revealing an ugly man with pockmarked skin, broken nose, and small, beady eyes. If it was possible to scare a criminal into going straight, that was the face to do it.

  Branch wasted no time on introductions. “I know who you are and what you’re doing here.”

  The words were barely out if his mouth before the man tossed his drink at Branch and took off running.

  On his feet in a flash, Branch gave chase. The Pinkerton detectives might not know how to dress, but they sure did know how to run—his opinion of the organization went up a begrudging notch.

  Shouldering his way through the crowd, Branch rushed through the swinging doors. He looked left, right, and straight ahead before spotting the man halfway down the street already.

  “Stop!” he yelled.

  The man ran fast as cannon fire, and Branch had a hard time keeping up. For the love of Pete, how was it possible to run that fast in a new pair of boots? Much as he hated to think it, maybe it was time to get him some of that there Monkey Ward leather.

  Chapter 7

  Katie let herself outside, careful not to make a sound. The front of the restaurant faced the railroad tracks, and the back faced Front and Main. Charley stood on the street side.

  After wedging a wooden spoon in the doorframe to keep the door from closing and locking, she ran along the alley. Mindful that the bodies had been found here, she kept her hand on her gun and her senses alert. The alley separated the restaurant from the baggage room, ticket booth, and waiting room. In light of the recent crimes every shadow suggested danger.

  The scent of cattle from the nearby stockades made her nose pucker. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked, but otherwise all was quiet. She reached Front Street, but Charley was gone.

  Disappointed, she turned back to the house but then changed her mind. She couldn’t sleep, so maybe a brisk walk would do her a world of good. If nothing else, it would give her a chance to get the lay of the land. She certainly wouldn’t have time during the day. Sticking the gun in her waist for easy retrieval, she crossed Front to Main and stepped onto the boardwalk.

  Many Kansas towns had grown in leaps and bounds in recent years due to the long cattle drives, but the railway was making such drives unnecessary. Some small towns had already suffered economic hardship as a result, but not Calico. By all appearances, it seemed to be thriving.

  Walking quickly, she passed rows of shops and businesses built from brick and native limestone. A large general store took up one corner, the Calico Bank another. A barber, gunsmith, saddle shop, seamstress, bakery, and bookstore stretched along Main Street in orderly fashion.

  A doctor shared an office with an undertaker, which seemed like a conflict of interest.

  She reached the sheriff’s office, and her pace slowed. Though the lights were off, a black horse was tethered in front. The horse nickered softly and pawed the ground.

  “What do I get if I put on one of them there straitjackets?”

  His voice sounded so clear and distinct in her head that for a moment she imagined she’d heard the real thing. Startled by the pleasant shiver that ran down her spine, she quickly moved away.

  At least now she knew where the sheriff’s office was located. A dim light shone through the window of the Calico Gazette next door. A bespectacled man was bent over a long table, painstakingly placing type onto a metal-framed stick.

  She was just about to return to the Harvey House when the sound of running feet stopped her. She turned but not soon enough to step out of the way. A man barreled into her and knocked her down.

  Landing on her fanny, she yelled, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  The man kept running without as much as a backward glance.

  “Of all the—”

  A second man suddenly bounded around the corner. Before she could pull in her legs he tripped over her foot and fell facedown on the wood plank sidewalk in front of her. His hat landed several feet away.

  Katie gasped, and her hand flew to the gun at her waist. “Are… are you all right?” she squeaked out.

  The man pushed himself upright on his hands, the badge on his vest winking in the street light.

  “Sheriff?” She pulled her hand away from her waist.

  He squinted at her. “It’s me, all right.” He climbed to his feet and his full six-foot-something height towered over her. “You’re the new Harvey girl. Miss Katie Madison.”

  For some reason it pleased her that he remembered her name. A ripple of awareness reached all the way to her toes. “The coat girl,” she said and smiled.

  One corner of his mouth lifted upward. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “I was just about to say the same thing,” she said.

  He frowned. “What happened? Why are you sitting there? Don’t they let you sit at the house?”

  She gave her head an indignant toss. “I was knocked down by a very rude man.”

  His jaw hardened. “I’m afraid I’m to blame for that.” He took hold of her hand and pulled her to her feet with one easy swoop.

  Concern suffused his face as he looked her up and down. Had she only imagined that his gaze lingered longer than necessary on her tiny waist and soft, rounded hips?

  “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

  The smell of alcohol was overwhelming, and she pulled her hand away. The odor brought back too many unhappy memories of the past. “No,” she snapped. “He didn’t hurt me.”

  He inclined his head as if puzzled by her abrupt reply. “That still doesn’t explain what you’re doing out at this time of night.” Bending, he scooped up his hat. “Don’t you Harvey girls have a curfew?”

  She glanced at him askew. “Are you going to report me?”

  The glow from the gas streetlight turned his eyes into two golden stars. “No, but it will cost you another piece of pie.”

  She studied him. He might smell like a whiskey barrel, but he sure didn’t look inebriated. Didn’t act like it, either. “You strike a hard bargain.”

  The corner of his mouth inched upward. “Those are the only bargains worth strikin’.”

  Though she’d resolved not to be distracted by his masculine good looks, his crooked smile kept getting in the way.

  Noticing the dark wet spot, she pointed. “Your vest.”

  His hand flew to his chest. “We have our friend to thank for this.” He inclined his head in the direction of the vanished runner.

  Now that she knew its source, she was no longer put off by the strong alcohol smell. Overhead, the big full moon looked as large and round as a Harvey House pie, reminding her of their deal.

  “So what is your pleasure?” she asked. “Apple, mince, raisin, or coconut cream?” There was a fifth choice, but she struggled to think beneath the intensity of his gaze, and her mind went blank.

  “Yes to all,” he said, and she laughed. “I’ll be happy to pay to have a whole pie delivered to my office,” he said.

  “I’m sure that can be arranged.” He had no way of knowing it, but delivering food to his office could turn out to be a blessing. It would allow them to exchange information without arousing suspicion. It would also give her a legitimate excuse for leaving the Harvey House during daylight hours.

&nbs
p; She swiped at a strand of loose hair. Convinced she looked a fright, she lowered her lashes and tried to decide how best to announce her true identity.

  “So are you going to tell me or not?” he asked.

  She looked up. “Tell you?”

  “What you’re doing out here so late?”

  “Oh, that.” She weighed her answer and decided to stick with the truth—part of it, anyway. “I couldn’t sleep. It seems like you keep late hours, too.”

  “Not by choice.” He slanted his head. “I apologize for the man’s ill manners, but it’s no more than can be expected.”

  “You know him?” she asked.

  “No, but I will. I have reason to believe he’s a Pinkerton detective.”

  “A Pink—” She stared at him. Far as she knew, she was the only one sent here to work on the Harvey girl killings. Of course, someone from one of the other offices could be here working on another case.

  He nodded. “Yes, and it’s been my experience they think nothing of breaking the law for their own nefarious purposes.”

  His harsh tone left her momentarily speechless. The Pinkerton agency had received much in the way of criticism in recent years. She couldn’t argue with him there. But nefarious? That was a new one. Unfortunately, some detectives did use questionable tactics to get their man. But most, like herself, were law-abiding citizens who had helped capture some of the country’s toughest and most notorious criminals.

  “I take it you don’t much care for Pinkerton detectives,” she said, choosing her words with care. Better find out his true feelings before revealing too much information.

  He placed his hat on his head and adjusted the brim. “That’s putting it mildly.”

  What a pity he felt that way; and to think she had looked forward to working with him. “Why do you suppose he’s in town?” Since he brought the subject up first, she felt comfortable pursuing it.

  “Your boss sent him,” he said.

  “M—my boss?” she stammered.

  “Mr. Harvey came to my office to tell me to expect a Pinkerton on today’s train.”