Calico Spy

by Margaret Brownley

  “It’s your turn,” she said, pulling another coat off a wooden peg.

  “I’m not wearing—”

  “But you have to, Pa,” Andy said. “It’s my birthday.”

  Something flickered in the depths of Katie’s eyes. “You were saying?”

  Branch hesitated. His choice was to stand up for male emancipation or give in like a lassoed calf.

  She had him over a barrel, and he couldn’t do a thing about it—except to disappoint his son. That he would never do, especially on his birthday. Feigning good humor, Branch turned and slipped his arms through the sleeves of the coat she held up for him.

  The coat was ridiculously small, and he stood like a scarecrow with his arms spread out.

  Andy giggled in delight. “Mine’s too big and yours is too little,” he said. “Isn’t that funny?”

  “Hilarious,” Branch muttered.

  Katie looked like she was trying to keep a straight face. “I think you both look like codfish.” As an aside to Andy she said, “That’s restaurant talk for a well-dressed diner.”

  “I feel more like a sardine packed in a can,” Branch grumbled.

  This time Andy laughed so loud the other three Harvey girls stopped what they were doing to stare.

  “Come along and I’ll show you to your table,” Katie said, acting all businesslike for her coworkers’ benefit. In a softer voice for Branch’s ears only, she asked, “Would you rather another waitress serve you?”

  “I think Andy would object to that.”

  “And you? Would you object?”

  His gaze met hers, and something snapped between—a spark of lightning. “Should I?”

  “Most definitely.” She pulled out a chair and held it for Andy. She then handed out bills of fare, one for him and one for Andy.

  “I’ll have coffee,” Branch said.

  “One cup of joe coming up. And what about you, young man? Would you like some of our splendiferous moo juice?”

  Andy frowned. “What’s moo juice?”

  “Why, it’s milk, of course.”

  Andy giggled, his shoulders shaking with delight. He was obviously having the time of his life.

  “Tonight’s special is twelve alive in a shell.” She lowered her voice to a conspirator’s whisper. “Those are oysters, and they’re not the friendly type.” Louder she said, “But I recommend Bossy in the bowl….” Covering her mouth with her hand as if telling a secret, she interpreted. “That’s beef stew.” She cited several other options.

  Andy hung on to her every word as she explained the meaning of the strange lingo.

  At one point his eyes almost popped out of his head. “Are those real bullets?”

  She laughed. “Bullets are what we call baked beans.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Branch said.

  Andy’s head bobbed up and down. “I want some bullets, too.”

  “Two orders of beef on the hoof and bullets coming up,” she said as she headed for the kitchen.

  “And don’t forget my moo juice,” Andy called after her.

  Branch was so busy watching his son’s bright face he failed to notice that someone else had entered the dining room.

  “Fancy meeting you here.”

  Gable’s voice sent chills down Branch’s spine. Through sheer determination he was able to manage a polite nod. The man had shaved off his beard, and his hair was now neatly trimmed. His appearance was greatly improved, but then, so was his resemblance to Andy. They had the same color hair and similar brown eyes.

  Icy fingers clutched Branch’s heart, and his muscles tightened. “I thought you’d left town.”

  “Nope. Just checking out the old homestead. Nothing left of the place. The current owners have rebuilt. Dottie would have loved the new house.”

  Branch clenched his hands tight. He had no patience with men who deserted their families. In his book, that meant Gable had no right talking about his wife’s likes and dislikes. He had no right mentioning her name at all.

  Gable’s gaze fell on Andy. “And who do we have here?”

  “This is my son, Andy.” A knifelike pain shot through his middle as Gable leaned forward to shake Andy’s hand.

  “Your son, eh?”

  “It’s my birthday,” Andy said with a bright smile.

  “Is that so? How old are you?”

  “I’m eight.”

  “Eight, huh? Well, happy birthday.”

  If Gable thought there was anything significant about Andy’s age it didn’t show. Instead he turned back to Branch. “Didn’t know you had a son.”

  Branch masked his inner turmoil behind a cool, calm voice. “I guess you didn’t stick around long enough to find out.”

  “Guess not.” Gable rubbed his chin. “Do you mind if I join you?”

  Branch clamped down on his jaw. He didn’t want Gable anywhere near Andy. Didn’t want him in the same town as Andy. But there really was no way to turn down his request without making a scene.

  He gave a curt nod, but before Gable took a seat, Katie suddenly appeared and stopped him with a hand to his arm. “I’m sorry, sir. These seats are reserved.” Her smile satisfied Harvey’s requirements but was far from the smile Branch had come to know.

  Gable frowned. “Reserved?”

  She nodded. “The train will be in shortly. If you like, I can show you to another table.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll get something to eat at the hotel.” He glanced at Branch. “See you around.” And just like that he left.

  Branch’s body sagged against the back of his chair. Crazy as it sounded, he had a mind to hug Katie for sending Gable away. She couldn’t possibly know what she’d done. Or how grateful he was. Still, he decided it best to say nothing. It would only make that curious mind of hers go to work, and that’s the last thing he needed.

  Katie lifted a glass of milk from her tray and set it on the table in front of Andy. “Moo juice for you,” she said. “And our very special beef on the hoof and bullets.” She then set two plates on the table.

  “Smells good,” Branch said.

  Andy waited for Branch to give a quick blessing before picking up his glass. He took a big gulp then set to work on his meal.

  Branch was surprised to see Andy diving into his food with such enthusiasm. Miss Chloe should see him now. On second thought, maybe not. She would only take the boy’s sudden interest in food as an affront to her cooking.

  Katie moved to Branch’s side, and he caught a faint smell of perfume. It wasn’t as strong as when he held her in his arms, but still pleasant. “And a joe for you,” she said. As she poured his coffee, she whispered, “Getting rid of your unwanted guest was my way of thanking you for the other night.”

  He sat back to look at her. “How did you know?” he mouthed.

  But already she had moved away and was fussing over Andy.

  Chapter 27

  That night like clockwork Miss Thatcher left the house. It was after eleven. Watching from the dark shadows of the breakfast room, Katie counted to ten before racing up the stairs to the dorm matron’s room.

  The curtains fluttered in the soft breeze, allowing just enough gas streetlight into the room to locate the box of safety matches on the nightstand. After lighting the kerosene lamp, she glanced around.

  The room was almost identical to the one she shared with Mary-Lou with one exception: it had only a single bed. Other than the rumpled blankets, the room seemed strangely vacant. Whereas the other bedrooms were decorated with photographs, vases of flowers, books, and other keepsakes, this room was as devoid of personality as its occupant.

  She started her search with the large oak bureau, checking each drawer one by one. The expected corsets, bloomers, and stockings were folded and neatly stacked. She found nothing of a personal nature except clothes.

  Next she flung open the paneled wardrobe doors. Plain black and gray dresses hung from wooden pegs. A pair of high-button shoes stood side by side at the foot of the bureau, the poin
ted toes dating them back to the War between the States. On top, band boxes held an assortment of hats, most of them sadly out of style. The room’s main purpose seemed to be storing articles from the past, much like a museum.

  She closed the doors and crossed to the steamer trunk beneath the windowsill. The flat-top traveling chest was unlocked. She raised the lid, releasing the faint smell of cedar. Folded neatly inside was a wedding gown.

  The unexpected find made her pause for a moment before reaching inside to touch the beautiful satin bodice. The top was embroidered with imitation pearls and edged in delicate lace. The skirt was full and meant to be worn over a hoopskirt. That dated the gown back to the war years.

  A vision of Miss Thatcher dancing beneath the moonlight flashed through her mind. Only this time it was a younger, happier bride she pictured, waltzing in the arms of a handsome groom.

  So what happened? Why the dress and no husband? Why did Miss Thatcher’s wedding never take place? Had her fiancé died in the war like so many other young men? Possibly.

  Katie sighed. It seemed she had more in common with the strange dorm matron than she would have guessed. Dreams of her own wedding had never materialized, though she’d not been so close as to order a dress. God had made it clear that He had other plans for her life, and none involved husband and children, no matter how much she’d wished otherwise.

  Why, oh why, did she always fall in love with men who could never love her back? Matthew Spacey had been the first. Then Nathan and now Branch…

  Alarmed by the unexpected thought, she gulped. She didn’t mean Branch. She’d learned her lesson in the past and wouldn’t make the same mistake again. He was still in love with his wife. Even if he wasn’t, he would never fall for a graceless redheaded woman—a Pinkerton detective, no less. No, falling in love with Branch was strictly out of the question.

  The lamplight hissed and flickered, bringing her out of her reverie. She would have to hurry to finish her search before the lamp ran out of fuel or the room’s inhabitant returned.

  She reached into the trunk. Hidden among the satiny folds was what looked like a diary. She lifted the leather-bound book and examined it by the lamp’s dim light. A tiny gold lock prevented her from skimming the pages.

  Returning the diary to the chest, she lowered the lid and stood. Hands at her waist, she glanced around the room before checking under the bed. Finding nothing of interest, she turned off the light and quickly left the room.

  One day later, Branch walked into the breakfast room, and Katie’s heart soared. It was early, and the railroad workers had yet to arrive.

  He paused at the entrance, a newspaper tucked under his arm. His gaze swept the room before zeroing in on her and bringing a flush to her face.

  He then made a beeline for the counter. No smiles today. Instead he looked serious as a signpost. He appeared not only disgruntled but tired. The fine lines in his forehead and around his eyes suggested he’d had little or no sleep.

  He straddled a stool, and she pulled a clean cup and saucer out from under the counter. “You’re up and about early.”

  He laid the newspaper on the counter and reached into his vest pocket. “You know what they say about the early bird.” He slid something across the counter. It was the note found on her pillow. The note reminded her that she had yet to return the Harvey file to him.

  She filled his cup and set it in front of him, puzzled by both his appearance and remote eyes. Instead of his usual open stance he sat hunched over as if to keep everything in—or maybe everything out.

  “Getting up early didn’t do much for the worm,” she said, hoping to tease a smile out of him. When none came, she picked up the note and slipped it into her pocket.

  “In that case, I’ll settle for the usual,” he said. “Apple pie.”

  Thinking he was kidding, she placed her hand at her waist. “For breakfast?” She was putting on a good show, and anyone watching would never guess how fast her heart was beating beneath her bibbed apron.

  He shrugged. “I believe in starting my day with dessert.” His congenial voice hardly seemed to go with his guarded expression. “And you owe me two pieces, remember?”

  “I remember,” she said, and she filled his cup. Instead of pie, she’d served him and his son cake, complete with a candle.

  She set the coffeepot down. “Anything?” she whispered, patting her pocket.

  He shook his head. It was no more than she expected. Still, she couldn’t help but feel disappointed.

  He sipped his coffee as he watched her. “The other night… How did you know to get rid of my unwanted company?”

  “Are you talking about Mr. Gable Jacob Clayborn?”

  Branch set his cup down. “Now looka there. The lady makes it her business to find out the man’s full name.” His eyes narrowed. “How did you know he wasn’t welcome at my table? Don’t tell me your Pinkerton bosses taught you to read minds.”

  “A woman knows these things.” She’d have to be blind not to have seen the look on Branch’s face as the two men talked.

  “Is that so?” He took another sip of coffee, but his gaze remained on Katie. Oddly enough, it was as if only the two of them were in the restaurant. Every word and look they exchanged held multiple meanings.

  “What else do you know about him?”

  It pleased her that he thought she knew more, and she accepted it as a compliment to her investigative skills. “Mr. Gable is a widower and served time in prison for embezzlement.”

  Branch jerked his hand away from his cup. “Embezzlement?”

  She nodded. The Pinkerton agency collected newspaper articles from around the country for the sole purpose of keeping track of criminals. Names were then cross-referenced with crimes and filed away for easy retrieval. It wasn’t a perfect system by any means as it depended on lawmen to send in relevant clippings, but it was better than nothing.

  “Stole from a mine owner in Colorado.” Since she had received a telegram from headquarters in answer to her query, she was able to cite the date and place of his birth, past employers, and last-known address, all retrieved from the newspaper files. The Pinkerton logo We never sleep proved to be true in more ways than one.

  She doubted she told Branch any more than he already knew or suspected, but it gave her great pleasure to watch his eyebrows inch up in astonishment as she cited facts.

  His surprised expression soon gave way to suspicion. “Why would you bother checking up on him?”

  “The way you were acting, I thought perhaps he was a suspect in the Harvey case.”

  He shook his head. “Nope. Not a suspect.”

  He pretty much confirmed what she’d already found out. Clayborn wasn’t even in town when the killings took place. She waited for him to say more, and when he didn’t, she asked, “Anything else you wish to know about him?”

  “No, that will do,” he said. No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he corrected himself. “Well, maybe one thing. Do you know anything that might make him unsuitable for certain activities? Marriage, for example?”

  She lifted an eyebrow. What an odd question. “Only that he was working in Montana at the time of his wife’s death. It’s my guess he walked out on her.”

  He seemed to consider her answer a moment before asking his next question. “What about children? Anything that would indicate he’d make an unsuitable parent?”

  She slanted her head. Far as she knew, Mr. Clayborn didn’t have any children. So what was Branch really asking? And why? “You don’t think spending time in jail and desertion makes him unfit for parenthood?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “But given that criteria, half the men in the West would be rendered unfit.”

  “Only half?”

  He answered her question with a shrug. Something definitely didn’t sit right with him.

  She picked up a knife and sliced the pie. Fred Harvey insisted that pies be cut in fourths and not eighths like other restaurants. The piece filled the plate,
oozing a buttery syrup along with a sweet cinnamon smell.

  Hoping the pie would put him in a better mood, she pushed the plate toward him, and he reached for his fork.

  “Looks good.”

  “I stayed up all night baking it,” she replied.

  “Did you now?” He looked at her for a moment. Recalling the warmth of his arms and the strength of his shoulder, she averted her gaze.

  “Sounds like you’ve been busy,” he said. “Anything else you can tell me?”

  She chanced another look at him. “About Mr. Clayborn?”

  “About anything.”

  “That’s all I can tell you, but I do have a question,” she said. “What’s with you and Clayborn?”

  “Just some old business.” His voice was curt, his look dark, his meaning clear. He was done talking about Clayborn and intent upon pushing her away.

  “That covers a lot of territory,” she said, refusing to take the hint.

  He took a bite of pie, his manner as precise as a watchmaker. The barrier between them seemed formidable as a chasm too wide to cross.

  She moistened her lips. “Thank you,” she said, thinking a change of subject might help.

  He lowered his fork. “For what?”

  “For staying with me the other night.”

  His tight expression relaxed but only for an instant. “I hope you learned your lesson.”

  “What lesson would that be?” she asked.

  He dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “If you persist in meeting strange men at night, and sleeping in alleys, you’re just asking for trouble.”

  “Trouble is what I came here to find.”

  Before he could respond, Okie-Sam walked up and slapped him on the back. “Morning, Sheriff.”

  “Morning.”

  Greeting Katie with a tip of his floppy hat, Okie-Sam sat on a stool next to Branch and rested his injured hand on the counter. Today he wore his hair loose, and it fell to his shoulders like a stringy red curtain. “Always good to see our local lawman hard at work. So how you doing?”

  Branch tossed a nod at Okie-Sam’s bandaged hand. “Better than you.”