Most of the trainmen were in their twenties and early thirties. They were a rowdy bunch who openly flirted with the Harvey girls and joked with the restaurant manager.
Ginger’s beau, Charley, was never among the group, though Katie always looked for him.
“Why can’t a locomotive sit down?” one of the men yelled out.
“I give up,” Pickens said with better humor than he ever showed his staff.
“Because he has a tender behind!” This brought gales of laughter from his companions.
Tully rolled her eyes. “If I hear that joke one more time I’ll scream.” She picked up a tray and walked toward the merry group with a full Harvey girl smile.
No sooner did the railroad workers and cattlemen leave than the local businessmen arrived. This was a more somber group who preferred reading newspapers to telling jokes.
Katie was quick to learn their names and had sent descriptions to headquarters. So far none had a known criminal record. James Wilcox ran the local hardware store and Harry Foxx owned the hotel. Both were family men with churchgoing wives and a bunch of children.
The postmaster, Carl Swenson, was a widower. Newlywed Evan Hopkins owned the bookstore.
Her favorite diner was the man known as Okie-Sam who always sat at the counter next to the cigar case. He, too, had red hair, though nowhere near as brash as hers. Teasing her about being a long lost relative separated at birth, he called her sis.
His friendly manner didn’t get him off the hook. She still sent his description to headquarters, and according to the telegram back, no one matching his description had a criminal record. Of course, that didn’t clear him completely. The Pinkerton criminal files were impressive but far from complete. At least they gave her a place to start.
Today Okie-Sam slid onto the stool and greeted her with a nod. “How’s my favorite sis?”
“If you don’t stop calling me that, I’ll have to start calling you brother.”
He laughed. “Brother, huh? People will think I’m a monk or something.”
“Not with your hair,” she said. If the brassy red color wasn’t bad enough, he made it even more noticeable by wearing it long and pulled back into a ponytail. His bushy red mustache and beard didn’t help, either.
She slid a cup of coffee on the counter in front of him and tossed a nod at his newly bandaged hand. “What happened to you?”
He discounted her concern with a shrug. “Cut it on some glass. The doc had to sew me up.”
“That’s too bad.” She glanced at the clock. The train was due to arrive in a few minutes, which meant she had less time to devote to locals. “Don’t you have to work or something?”
“Not me,” he said. “I’m what you might call independently wealthy, thanks to my royal family.”
She eyed him with curiosity. His cheap trousers, stained shirt, unkempt hair, and shabby boots pegged him at the low end of the economic scale—the very low end. “You have royal blood?”
“You could say that. My father is the king of spades and my mother the queen of hearts.”
She laughed. “You had me going there for a while. So you’re a gambler.” Judging by the poor condition of his clothes, not a very good one.
“Yes, but I only bet on a sure thing.” He tossed a coin on the counter and winked. “Right now I’m betting on your fine cackleberries and bacon.”
“I’ll have the same,” Sheriff Whitman said, slipping onto the stool next to Okie-Sam.
The unexpected appearance of the sheriff put her in a state of confusion, and it took her a moment to recall what Okie-Sam had ordered. Fortunately, a whiff of bacon reminded her.
She called the orders to the kitchen and reached for a clean cup and saucer. Bracing herself with a deep breath, she placed it on the counter in front of the sheriff.
Whitman tossed a nod at Okie-Sam’s right hand. “What happened there?”
Katie answered for him. “He cut it on some glass.”
The sheriff shrugged. “Guess that messes up your game.”
Elbow on the counter, Okie-Sam held up his bandaged hand and regarded it with a rueful stare. “For a while.”
Katie filled the empty cup. “Anything ever mess up your game, Sheriff?”
Whitman stared straight at her. “Not for long.”
He’d promised to keep her identity as an undercover detective secret, and she had no reason to doubt him. If only he didn’t look at her with such disapproval. So was it the woman he disapproved of? Or the detective?
“I didn’t know you were a gambler, Sheriff,” Okie-Sam said.
Whitman’s gaze held hers. “Depends on the stakes.”
Okie-Sam’s gaze swung from the sheriff to her and back again as if he sensed the tension between them.
“One thing you’ll never see me gambling on and that’s marriage.” Okie-Sam paused for a moment and chuckled. “Nope. Ain’t never gonna happen. Too dangerous.”
The sheriff dropped a sugar cube into his cup and stirred. “I can think of a whole lot of things more dangerous. Can’t you, Miss Madison?”
“More dangerous than marriage?” she asked with an innocent air. “Nope. Can’t think of a thing.”
That night Katie waited until Mary-Lou was asleep before tiptoeing out of the room.
She closed the door softly and stood in the hallway straining her ears. It was only a little after eleven, and the gaslights lining the walls hissed and sputtered. When no other sounds broke the silence she made her way down the stairs, careful to walk on the side where the boards were less likely to creak. She had carefully mapped out the hall and stairs for loose boards.
A thin strip of light glowed beneath the kitchen door. Someone was still working. She opened the door to find the assistant cook, Howie Howard. He claimed the reduplicated name traced back to his Welsh roots and was not the result of parents lacking in imagination.
Tonight she found him chopping onions, tears rolling down his cheeks.
“You’re working late,” she said.
Howie looked up as she entered and saluted her with a raised knife. “Always work late on Thursdays. Got to get things ready for the weekend.” He was a thin, hatchet-nosed man with droopy eyes, crooked teeth, and high forehead. Like the other kitchen staff, he had small pea-size marks on the back of his hands and arms from the spattering of hot oil. He also had calluses on his right hand on the base of his fingers.
He certainly knew how to wield a knife. Chop, chop, chop and just that quickly an onion was reduced to tiny pieces.
Watching the flash of the blade, Katie couldn’t help but think of the way the two Harvey girls met their demise. Luckily she’d thought to attach her gun holster to her leg. She thrust her hand in her false pocket ready to draw if necessary.
“What are you doing up at this hour?” He scooted the chopped pieces to the side with the blade of his knife and reached for another onion.
“Couldn’t sleep.” She waited for him to finish chopping. “How do you like working with Chef Gassée?” she asked, taking care to pronounce the name in a suitable French way.
Howie shrugged. “He’s all right. It gets pretty hectic in here at times and tempers flare.”
He apparently had no intention of bad-mouthing his boss, and that was okay with her. It wasn’t the chef she wanted to talk about.
“One of the other girls told me that Ginger used to sneak out at night to meet her beau. Did you know anything about that?”
“I knew.” His knife stilled midair. “Sometimes I lent her my key to get back in. Now I wish I hadn’t.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“She might still be alive had I not helped her leave the house.” He pointed the tip of his knife at her. “So don’t go getting any ideas. No more giving out my key. Anyone wanting to leave the house after curfew won’t get any help from me.”
So Charley wasn’t the only one feeling guilt over Ginger’s death. “Has anyone else asked for help in leaving the house?”
He resumed chopping. “Not recently. After what happened, even I don’t like leaving the house after dark.”
She bit her lower lip. No sense asking for his key. “The alley cat got inside and into the pies. Do you know how that could have happened? Did you let him in?”
“Not me.” He paused with narrowed eyes. “Everything was locked up good and tight when I left. So don’t go blaming me, you hear?”
“I wasn’t,” she said. Touchy, aren’t we? Mary-Lou told her that Howie rented a room at the boardinghouse on Fifth. “What time did you leave last night?” she asked.
She hadn’t seen him when she left the house, nor when she returned, but he could have been in the cellar.
He chopped for a moment before answering. “I finished the prep work around… I don’t know. Nine or ten, maybe.”
If what he said was true, then he left the house before she did.
He lifted his knife off the chopping board. “How come you’re asking all these questions? Did the chef put you up to this?”
“The chef?” she asked and frowned.
“Did he ask you to spy for him?”
“No, of course not,” she said. “I’m just… curious about the cat.”
He grunted and began chopping again. Did he believe her? Hard to know. She wanted to ask more questions, but since that would only make him more suspicious she decided against it.
“Good night.” She left the kitchen and headed back to her room. If what he said was true, then someone else had opened the door last night after she had returned to the house. Either that or the cat had let himself in, and somehow she doubted that.
Chapter 16
Katie woke the next morning to the sound of the howling wind. It growled and snorted and scratched at the windows like an angry cat demanding entrance.
The wind lasted for the next two torturous days, making it hard to leave the premises. Dust filled the nose, the eyes, and mouth until even the food tasted like grit. But no one complained more than the bookkeeper, Mr. Culpepper, whose watery eyes looked like two red marbles.
“Can’t see a blasted thing,” he growled as he sat by the front door collecting money from diners. “Can’t tell my mother from a jackrabbit.”
Each time someone entered or left the restaurant, sand crept over the floor like an army of tiny ants. The wind kept blowing, and the omnibus boy wielded his broom. His name was Ken Montgomery, but everyone called him Buzz because he darted around like a bee. Of all the workers, he was the hardest to interview, mainly because he was always on the move.
In his mid to late twenties, he was in charge of the heavy cleaning. He complained about the railroad workers and local cowboys messing up his floors with their dirty boots or leaving grimy fingerprints on the brass doorknobs.
“I think this is it,” Okie-Sam added between mouthfuls. “Kansas is finally about to blow away.”
The wind kept Katie inside but not the locals. The citizens of Calico struck Katie as a hardy bunch. They took a sort of civil pride in saying that Calico’s summers blazed the hottest, the winters the coldest, the locusts the hungriest, and the wind the most torturous. Living with the whims of nature made them hold on to life with one hand and God with the other.
By the second day of relentless wind, Katie’s patience was spent. She decided to embrace a Kansan’s tough skin and venture outside. She was anxious to check the corner where Ginger’s shoe was found. Not that she expected to find anything at this late date, but no stone must be left unturned during an investigation.
Head bent against the wind, she protected her face with an upraised arm. The hem of her skirt flapped against her ankles, and strands of flame-colored hair escaped from beneath her bonnet. The town windmill spun and squealed like a pig caught in a trap.
Reaching her destination, she glanced around, shielding her eyes from the wind the best she could. The Calico Bank commanded one corner and a general store the other. Across the street was a lawyer’s office and land assayer.
At ten thirty at night, all businesses would be shuttered and most of the residents in upstairs apartments already asleep. That meant if Ginger was in trouble she had two choices: run toward Saloon Row or return to the Harvey House. The restaurant was closer, but not by much. Why not run to the closest saloon where people were awake and more likely to help?
She was still pondering this as a gust of wind slammed into her. It lifted her bonnet clear off her head and carried it away. It would have blown her off her feet had it not been for two strong arms that materialized seemingly out of nowhere.
A male voice shouted in her ear, but the gushing wind muted the words. Blinded by dust, she had no idea who he was or what he had said.
With a sturdy arm around her waist, her rescuer guided her into the bank, protecting her from the wind with his tall, straight form. Inside, he released her.
“Whew.” She blinked her eyes and pushed the stray hair away from her face. “Thank you—” She looked up and caught her breath. “Sheriff!”
Her watery eyes did nothing to mute his powerful presence, and her knees threatened to buckle.
He inclined his head. “We meet again.” He hung his thumbs from his belt. “What are you doing out in this weather?”
Before answering she glanced around, but the only person present was the teller behind a cage counting money.
She and the sheriff faced each other. Standing close, they were like two bookends holding up a single slim volume. Nevertheless she kept her voice low. “Pinkertons never sleep, nor do they let a little thing like the wind stop them.”
For a split second she imagined seeing what looked like admiration in the dark depths of his eyes.
“So the shoe bothers you, does it?”
She tilted her head back in surprise. “How do you know?”
“It bothers me, too.”
She moistened her lips. “Any theories?” she asked.
“None that make sense. You?”
She hesitated. Was he really asking her opinion? “Maybe Ginger saw someone or something that frightened her, and ran.”
“Perhaps. Or maybe the killer dropped the shoe to get us off track.”
“Possibly. Or accidently dropped the shoe he meant to keep.” A serial killer in Chicago kept a trophy of each of his victims—a piece of jewelry. An article of clothing. “Were any of Priscilla’s personal belongings missing?”
“Not that anyone noticed.”
They tossed theories back and forth, their low voices creating an intimate bond that all but cut them off from the rest of the world.
But not from the wind; outside it continued to howl. The building creaked and groaned like the bones of an old man. But while nature rampaged beyond the walls, inside hearts began to thaw.
Surprisingly, she enjoyed his company. She had no idea how much she needed that, needed to talk without watching her every word. Working undercover was like being mentally and emotionally chained. Seldom did she have the luxury of talking openly about a case, except to her Pinkerton colleagues. One had to always be on guard. One misstep—one misspoken word—and her cover could be compromised.
Oddly enough, she sensed a loneliness in him that matched her own. She also shared his frustration at the stalled investigation.
“Two women are dead and I haven’t got a clue how to find the killer,” he admitted, and she sensed his difficulty in doing so.
She commiserated with a shake of her head. “Whenever I hit a wall my bosses tell me to go back to the beginning and start over as if it were a new case.”
“Does it work?” he asked with none of his usual condescension.
“Hasn’t so far.” She laughed, and he did, too.
She didn’t think about the time or the restaurant until a sound from outside caught her attention. Not the wind. Something else. She perked up her ears. Was that church bells? It couldn’t be. Not already.
“What time is it?” she asked.
He reached into his vest pocket for his watch. “N
oon.”
She gasped. “Oh no!” Where had the time gone? “The train—” She had less than a half hour to get ready for the lunch crowd. She whirled about and headed for the door.
“Wait,” he called after her.
But she didn’t wait; no time. The door practically ripped from her hand as she dashed outside, skirt swirling. The wind at her back, she ran all the way to the Harvey House on winged feet and a prayer. Please, please, please don’t let Pickens catch me!
Chapter 17
Branch headed straight for the bank first thing that Monday morning. The bank president had been out of town, so Branch had yet to talk to him about Mrs. Bracegirdle’s complaint.
Crossing the street, he sidestepped a pile of horse manure. The wind had finally stopped except for an occasional gust, but the sky was still murky gray from dust. Clay shingles, broken signs, and other debris littered the ground.
He waved to shopkeepers sweeping doorsteps and businessmen surveying the damage to roofs. Mrs. Bracegirdle’s son was boarding up his shop’s broken window.
Miss Katie Madison was very much on his mind. He could still envision her standing in the middle of the street in the wind. Fool woman. Stubborn as a sore tooth. Slight as she was in frame, she was lucky she hadn’t been blown away. Still, the memory of her bravely fighting the wind brought an unbidden smile to his face.
Much as he hated to admit it, her capabilities as a detective were impressive. Not only had she captured a bank robber, she’d given the case much thought and her theories and observation skills were equal to his own, if not better.
The woman might look fragile, but she knew how to handle herself in a pinch.
That didn’t make him feel any better about her safety. If anything, it worried him more as she was likely to take chances. Until the killer was behind bars, every woman in town was at risk, and that went double for the Harvey girls—real and make-believe.
Pushing his thoughts aside, he ducked beneath the loose wooden sign that swung back and forth on a broken chain, and strode into the bank. With only a quick glance at the line in front of the teller cage, he walked to the president’s office and rapped on the oak door.
Calico Spy Page 8