Gasping, she blinked in disbelief and almost dropped the pie. Scarface was robbing the bank!
After her initial surprise, she forced herself to think. She’d confronted her share of bank robbers, of course, but never during an actual holdup. It was always days or weeks afterward following a thorough investigation and with law backup in tow.
Now she was on her own.
Balancing the still-warm pastry in one hand, she walked up to him and tapped him on the shoulder. The instant he turned his head, she hit him square in the face with the pie.
Not only did this bring an uttered curse from her target but indignant protests from customers standing in line.
One woman clucked in disapproval. “Of all the rude things.”
“The nerve!” muttered a man wearing a bowler.
By the time Scarface had recovered enough to wipe the buttery syrup out of his eyes Katie had already reached into her pocket for her weapon and held him at gunpoint.
A heavyset woman at the counting desk screamed and flung a handful of money in the air. “She’s got a gun!”
Chaos followed the announcement. People ran out of the bank, crashing into those running inside to see what all the commotion was about.
Scarface looked about to bolt, but a click of her gun relieved him of that notion. “Wise decision,” she said.
Globs of apples slid down the bank robber’s face to his shirt and dripped to the floor. The messy syrup failed to hide his red-faced fury, but he did what he was told.
“If you had asked nicely, I would have split the money with you,” he griped.
“A likely story,” she said. “Move!” She gestured with her pointed gun. “If you try anything, I won’t hesitate to shoot.”
Before they reached the door, the sheriff ran inside. He slid to a screeching stop in front of them, revolver in hand, his stance as wide as his shoulders. He took one look at Scarface, still covered with pie, and directed an inquiring gaze her way.
“Caught him holding up the bank,” she explained.
Astonishment crossed Whitman’s face as he regarded the would-be thief dripping in syrup. “You’re a bank robber?”
Scarface cursed. “Announce it to the world, why don’t you?”
Chapter 12
Branch shoved Scarface into the empty jail cell next to Woody’s and slammed the metal door shut with a bang.
He’d made the man wash before locking him up, but the cinnamon smell of apple pie still lingered. No complaints there. That was a whole lot better than how most of his prisoners smelled.
Woody wrinkled his nose. “What’s he in for? Robbing a bakery?”
“Nope. Bank.”
Woody pushed out his lips. “You don’t say.” He frowned. “With a mug like that he musta been sittin’ in an outhouse when lightning struck.”
Branch hung his hat and keys on wall hooks and turned to Miss Madison. She sat on a chair by his desk, feet together and hands folded on her lap. He’d told her to sit and not move, and surprisingly she’d obeyed without a word.
“He says you’re a bank robber, too.”
She sure didn’t look like any criminal he’d ever dragged into his office. If anything, she looked as prim and proper in her black-and-white uniform as a schoolmarm—at least from the neck down. Above was a different story. The sun slanting through the windows turned her hair into red flames, an annoying reminder of how appealing those same copper locks looked in the moonlight.
Irritated by the thought and more than a little miffed that he’d misjudged not just one person but two, he slid a hip onto the edge of the desk and regarded her with narrowed eyes. Was that what she was doing the other night? Casing the bank?
Branch waited for her to either confirm or deny the accusation, but she remained silent. Was Scarface telling the truth? Hard to believe. Even so, he wasn’t letting the lady out of his sight until he had some answers.
“Said you were riled that he got in line first to rob the bank.”
Something flickered in the depths of her eyes, and he sensed an inner battle taking place. At last she leaned forward. “It’s worse than that,” she whispered.
He lowered his voice to match hers in volume. “Worse?” Blast it all! She was accused of bank robbing. How could it be worse?
She held a hand at the side of her mouth like a woman about to impart the most tantalizing gossip. “I’m a Pinkerton detective.”
He reared back. Had she pulled out a knife and stabbed him, he wouldn’t have been more surprised. Shocked, more like it. Stunned. “You?” he sputtered, forgetting to keep his voice low.
With a meaningful glance at the cells, she mutely reminded him that they weren’t alone.
This time his voice was barely audible. “But you’re a—”
She visually challenged him to continue, but he thought better of it. He couldn’t believe it. All this time he’d been looking for the detective and he—she—had been right under his very nose.
She pulled a badge out of her pocket and held it in such a way that only he could see it. The polished metal shield said Pinkerton, all right. Clear as day.
He studied her in total disbelief. Hard to believe. She sure didn’t look like any detective he’d ever encountered. He leaned forward, his voice barely a rumble in his chest.
“Harvey indicated they were sending a male detective.”
She met his gaze with bold regard. “It’s better for him not to know the details.”
Branch doubted Harvey would agree. The man ran a tight ship and would control the moon and the stars if such a thing were possible. “And you think you’re going to solve the Harvey girl killings?”
Her eyes flashed. “I caught the bank robber, didn’t I?”
“Can’t argue with you there, ma’am.”
He drew back and rubbed his chin. What in the name of Sam Hill were the Pinkerton principals thinking? Two women were dead, so what did the detective agency do? It put another in harm’s way. Now he felt obliged to look out for her welfare. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about.
“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but this is no job for a…”
She bristled with indignation, and her nostrils flared.
“Amateur,” he said for want of another word.
Her eyes blazed with sparks of fire. “You’re quite right. Which is why the office sent me.” Her whispered words lacked in volume but not in passion. “I always catch my man.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Do you, now?”
“Yes,” she said icily, “and I have a record to prove it.”
“And how many of them were killers?”
Her hesitation was so brief that had he blinked he might have missed it. “What difference does it make?”
“Aha!” he said and then remembered to lower his voice. “This is your first murder case, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Isn’t it?”
She glowered, and her lips thinned. “The same principle applies to all investigations regardless of the crime.”
“Is that what your Pinkerton bosses led you to believe?”
“It’s true. And if you weren’t so arrogant, you’d be happy for my help.”
“Is that so?” He now leaned so close to her that their noses were mere inches apart. So close that he could see the gold flecks in her eyes. So close he could smell the delicate fragrance of her perfume. “Why do I need your help?”
She showed no sign of backing down or even wavering. “We have resources. Mug shots. Criminal profiles. I’ve already sent headquarters descriptions of the Harvey House workers and regular customers.” She sat back with a satisfied look on her face. “I even sent a description of you.”
He pulled back. “Me?”
“Everyone in town is a suspect, and that includes you.”
Staring at her from beneath raised eyebrows, he was momentarily at a loss for words. He didn’t like being a suspect, but neither could he imag
ine anyone being so thorough.
“While you’re on a wild-goose chase, I’m checking out real suspects,” he said.
“A job that would be easier with Pinkerton help,” she countered.
They glared at each other like two wild animals meeting over a slab of meat. “Is that so?”
She tossed her head. “Yes, that’s so. Allan Pinkerton is an expert on the criminal mind, and he’s trained his sons well.” Her glance flicked over the messy stack of files on his desk. “You could learn a lot from them.”
“Yeah, well I’ve seen some of their work and, lady, I’m not impressed.”
“You should be. Their record for catching criminals can’t be matched!”
Seeing no advantage to pursuing the argument, he changed the subject. “So were you ever going to tell me who you were?”
“I considered telling you the other night.” She glared at him with reproachful eyes. “But you talked me out of it.”
“How’d I do that?”
“I believe the snake did it. You know, the one you would rather work with. Or maybe it was the nefarious part.”
He raked his fingers through his hair. “I guess I came on kinda strong, didn’t I?”
She lifted her chin. “Not as strong as some.”
He sucked in his breath. The woman posed more problems than a roomful of wild dogs. He tossed a nod at a sign on the wall.
“We have an ordinance in this town preventing anyone from carrying firearms.” Not that she needed a gun. Those big baby blues of hers would weaken even the most hardened criminal.
Her gaze lit on the sign. The stubborn look on her face told him that if he had a mind to disarm her he’d have a battle on his hands. “It says all men are to turn in their guns. It says nothing about women.”
Doggone it. She had him there. No matter. He wasn’t about to confiscate her weapon. Not as long as she lived under the same roof as a possible killer.
“If I hear from anyone that you’re carrying a gun, I’ll be obliged to disarm you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“See that you do.” He lifted a finger in warning. “I don’t know what kind of investigation you plan to conduct, but it better not interfere with mine.”
She leaned forward, and her eyes blazed. “I plan a thorough and professional investigation, with or without your help.”
“I don’t work with Pinks.”
She bopped her head. “And I don’t work with mule-headed sheriffs!” She rose from her seat. “Would that be all?”
“For now.” He slid off the desk, but for once his impressive height gave him no advantage. She didn’t even give him the courtesy of looking cowed. Instead, she snapped her head and glared up at him—a force to be reckoned with.
“I’m due back at the house,” she said. “I trust that you’ll keep my identity secret.”
He gave a curt nod. “As a professional courtesy, your secret’s safe with me. But I must warn you that I’ll expect the same consideration from you.”
She tilted her head. “Meaning?”
“Meaning that anything relevant to the case must be shared with me.”
“I report to my Pinkerton boss. No one else.” She turned to leave.
He stopped her with a hand to her wrist before she reached the door. “Holding back information is an obstruction of justice,” he hissed quietly.
Their gazes clashed like sparring swords. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“See that you do.”
She glanced down at his hand still on her arm, and he released her. Nothing in her stance or expression suggested compliance. Something told him his job just got a whole lot tougher.
“Good day, Sheriff.” This time she made no effort to lower her voice or hide her disdain. With a glance at the bank robber, she walked out of the office, the door slamming in her wake.
Hands curled by his side, he stared at the door long after she’d left.
“That’s some woman,” Woody called from his cell. “I’d say she’s got some snap in her garters. You should have just kissed her and been done with it.”
Branch spun around, muscles tense. Kiss the Pink detective? Not in a million years. Wasn’t going to happen. He had enough trouble as it was.
“The thought never occurred to me.”
Woody shrugged and manually arranged his wooden leg onto the cot. “Sure did look like it to me.”
Scarface concurred. “Looked like it to me, too.”
Chapter 13
Katie was still shaking after she left the office. How dare the sheriff treat her like she was some—what did he call it? Amateur!
Not only was the man arrogant, he was stubborn as a bulldog’s grip.
He had some nerve bossing her around like he had every right. Telling her what she could and could not do. Treating her like she was a child. Ha! Had it not been for her, Scarface would have robbed the bank and taken off before anyone knew what happened.
But did the sheriff give her credit? He did not. Oooooooh, he made her so mad! Just wait, Sheriff Whitman. We’ll see who solves the Harvey House murder case. Then we’ll know who the real amateur is.
The next morning, Katie was assigned to work behind the horseshoe counter in what was called the breakfast room, though lunch was also served there.
Abigail stood ready to train her. Most of the locals preferred eating in the less formal room as it didn’t require men to wear coats. It was also less expensive than the dining room. Because of a shortage of personnel, the breakfast room was closed for supper.
Despite its informality the same care and attention to detail were given to the decor. Mr. Harvey collected Indian art, and intricately woven Navajo rugs graced the walls next to shelves holding a variety of Indian pottery. Tall vases decorated with eagles and geometric shapes shared space with round hand-painted bowls.
Still early, the restaurant was empty. The moment the train arrived, Abigail would move to the dining room, leaving Katie to fend for herself.
Abigail pointed out the location of plates, cups, and silverware. A slender woman with brown hair and hazel eyes, she spoke in such a way as to not call attention to herself. She also had a habit of looking over her shoulder. Even as she instructed Katie, she kept a watchful eye on the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the railroad tracks.
Katie set cups and saucers upon the polished wood counter as instructed, along with silverware and linen napkins. “How long have you worked here?” she asked.
“Almost two months,” Abigail said with a wary glance. “I arrived just after Priscilla…” Her voice faded away.
“So you didn’t know her.”
“No.”
“But you knew Ginger.”
Abigail gave an audible sigh. “Yes, but only for a short time.” She arranged salt, pepper, maple syrup, and sugar on the counter. “I didn’t know about Priscilla till I got here. Now that two girls—” Her gaze circled the room as if making certain they were still alone.
Mary-Lou’s and Tully’s voices drifted in from the dining room. Outside, the omnibus boy paced back and forth. At the first sound of the approaching train he would strike the dish-shaped brass gong with a fabric-covered ball attached to the end of a wooden stick, thus signaling its imminent arrival to the staff.
“I’m not sure I want to stay,” Abigail finished at last.
Abigail was older than the others, probably in her mid to late twenties. No white line appeared on her left hand, but her habit of rubbing the fourth digit with her thumb and forefinger indicated the recent removal of a wedding band.
The way she visually tensed with the arrival of each train implied she was running from someone or something. An abusive husband, perhaps? Either that or she was wanted by the law.
“Do you fear for your life?” Katie asked.
Abigail pursed her lips as if trying to decide how to answer. “Don’t you?”
“Not really. Can’t think of anyone who might want to see me dead except Che
f Gassy.”
The tension on Abigail’s face morphed into a smile. “Don’t let him hear you call him that.”
Katie let the comfortable silence linger a moment before asking, “Did you know Ginger had a beau?”
Abigail nodded. “His name was Charley something. Seemed like a nice fellow.”
“You don’t suppose that he—?” A fork stilled in Abigail’s hand. “Charley? Oh no. He loved her.”
Lots of men claimed to have loved the woman they killed. Thomas Horton, a man recently caught by Pinkerton detectives out of the Chicago office, was now serving a life sentence for killing not one, but two women he professed to love.
Katie examined her nails in an effort not to seem overly interested. Harvey rules required daily manicures, and she was already three days behind.
“Any ideas who might have wanted to see her dead?” Katie asked as if calmly inquiring about the weather.
“No, but—” Again Abigail glanced at the windows. “The day she died she acted rather… strange.”
“In what way, strange?”
“She asked me to change stations with her. She seemed really upset.”
Katie frowned. “Why would she do that? Change stations, I mean.”
“I don’t know. I thought at first that she and Charley had broken up. He usually sat at her table.”
“Had they broken up?”
“Not that I know of. I mean… he took her death really hard.”
Katie thought for a moment. “Do you remember who was at her station that day?”
“Not really. Most were travelers just passing through town.”
Katie hesitated. She was pushing her luck with so many questions, but so seldom did anyone talk openly about the victims she couldn’t resist asking one more. “I know Mary-Lou roomed with Ginger, but who did Priscilla room with?”
“She roomed with Ginger, too. That is until—”
Two victims rooming together didn’t necessarily mean much. No more than a half dozen or so girls worked at the restaurant at any one time, and that limited room combinations. Still, details that didn’t seem important at first often turned out to be significant in the scheme of things.
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