Calico Spy

by Margaret Brownley

  “Oh!” Miss Thatcher closed the leather journal and waved Katie over to her desk.

  Katie crossed the room and handed her the photograph. “Is that a family member?”

  “Fam—” The dorm matron shook her head. “It’s a picture of my fiancé.”

  “You’re engaged to be married?”

  “Was.” The woman heaved a sigh. “Matthew died during the war.”

  “I see.” So she’d guessed right. The war had ended long ago, but Miss Thatcher looked as forlorn as if her fiancé had died only yesterday. “I’m so sorry.”

  Katie tried to visualize Miss Thatcher in her youth, before grief took its toll and the years left their mark. But the vision that came to mind was of her dancing in the moonlight.

  “He was a handsome young man,” Katie said.

  Miss Thatcher’s lips curved in a half smile. “He was indeed.” She slid his photograph amid the pages of the diary.

  “How did you two meet?” Katie asked, fully expecting Miss Thatcher to order her out of the room. Instead the dorm matron seemed to welcome the opportunity to talk about the past.

  “We met at a revival.” She fell silent as if reliving the moment. “I wasn’t supposed to go,” she said with girlish delight. “My father forbade it. He said we could get all the religion we needed at our local church and didn’t need a bunch of strangers putting ideas in our head. But I went anyway, and that’s when I met Matthew.”

  Miss Thatcher seemed to have forgotten Katie’s presence, her voice too low and whispery to be meant for another’s ear. Intrigued, Katie leaned forward so as not to miss a single word.

  “One night I sneaked out to be with him, and we danced beneath a full moon.” She laid her hand on the leather book on the desk as if the memories written inside needed protecting. “That’s when he proposed.”

  Katie listened intently and didn’t dare move for fear of bringing the dorm matron out of her reverie.

  “And then the war came,” Miss Thatcher continued in a dreamlike voice. “He said he would only be gone for a short while. A couple of weeks at the most. Said he was going to ‘whup those Yankees’ and come straight home.” She let out an audible sigh. “So I planned our wedding.”

  The light dimmed in her eyes as the memory faded away. Suddenly seeming to recall Katie’s presence, she cleared her voice. “I’m sure you have other things to do beside listen to an old lady’s ramblings.”

  “You’re not an old lady,” Katie said.

  “I’ll be thirty-eight next month.”

  Katie thought of Chef Gassy and the way he looked at Miss Thatcher in the cellar. “No one would think a thirty-eight-year-old man old. Or call him a spinster. Is there even a male word for old maid?”

  Miss Thatcher surprised her by laughing. Without the usual dismal mask she looked surprisingly young and pretty. “I don’t believe there is.”

  As if to catch herself, Miss Thatcher composed her features and tucked a loose strand of hair back into the tight bun. “I never expected my life to turn out this way. I was certain I would be married with a houseful of children by now. Not chaperoning a bunch of spoiled—” She cleared her voice. “You know what I mean.”

  Katie had hoped for just this kind of opening. “Did you think Priscilla and Ginger spoiled?”

  Miss Thatcher frowned. “What kind of question is that? The poor women are dead. It doesn’t matter what I thought.”

  “So you did think them spoiled.”

  “Well, now that you mention it… Not Ginger. But that Priscilla. Mercy. She was always sneaking out at night to be with her beau.”

  “She had a beau?”

  “Not just one, but many.”

  “Really?” That was news to Katie. “Like who?”

  “One night I saw her with Culpepper. They looked like they were having a lover’s quarrel.”

  That was surprising. Culpepper hardly seemed the romantic type. Or at least as far as Katie could tell. She was no expert on men, but Culpepper kept pretty much to himself and didn’t strike her as a womanizer. At least she’d never noticed him flirt with the Harvey girls like so many of the other men did. Of course, employee romances were against the rules. Still, if he had taken a liking to Priscilla, the man could be grieving her death. That would certainly explain his withdrawn demeanor.

  “You don’t think that he—”

  “Oh, no. I wasn’t suggesting—” Miss Thatcher stood abruptly as if suddenly recalling her duties as a chaperone. She peered at Katie with narrowed eyes, her back ramrod straight. “You will not say a word to anyone about what you heard here today. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, Miss Thatcher. Not a word.”

  “Now go.” As if to assure herself that she had regained her rightful position, she added, “You look a disgrace. Your apron…”

  “I’ll change.” Katie quickly left the room, closing the door behind her.

  She paused in the hall. Did Miss Thatcher kill the Harvey girls? She couldn’t discount the possibility. Especially since at least one of them had given her trouble. The woman was an odd one to be sure, but somehow Katie couldn’t help but think her bark was worse than her bite.

  With this thought in mind, she scurried down the hall.

  Chapter 33

  Two days later, things had pretty much returned to normal at the restaurant. Some windows were still boarded, but the trains had started running again and the roads cleared of debris. Getting the restaurant back in shape had required a huge amount of work from everyone. Debris had to be hauled away from the property and the outside woodwork painted. Inside, everything was covered in sand and grit.

  Katie stifled a yawn as she took her place behind the counter to wait for the twelve-twenty-five train. Her feet were sore; her back ached. What she would give for more sleep.

  Branch strolled into the breakfast room and headed straight for her station.

  She hadn’t seen him since the day of the tornado. From what she’d heard, he’d been organizing cleanup crews and helping to round up stray animals. His bristled jaw told her he hadn’t shaved, and he sure did look like he could use some sleep.

  Oddly enough, his unkempt appearance gave him a dangerous edge that only added to his appeal. Strangely, her weariness lifted and even her aches and pains seemed to vanish at sight of him.

  Without taking a seat, he leaned over the counter. “We need to talk,” he said without preamble, his heated breath fanning her face.

  “Not now,” she said with a glance at Pickens, who was looking their way. Buzz had already sounded the alarm, and the chandelier overhead jingled like sleigh bells as the train neared the station.

  Pickens rushed over. “Is there a problem, Sheriff?”

  Branch tore his gaze away from her. “No problem. Just thought I’d stop by and get me some of that English pea soup everyone’s talking about.”

  At mention of the soup, Katie almost laughed out loud. Orange juice was now a permanent ingredient. The new and improved soup had even earned an inch in the newspaper. Chef Gassy swore restaurant employees to secrecy. No outsider must know what gave the soup its unique zesty taste. He, of course, took full credit for the new recipe.

  Pickens lifted his pointed nose. “We now refer to it as the chef’s special.”

  Branch shrugged. “Well, whatever it’s called, it’s the talk of the town and I’ll have some.” He pushed away from the counter and sat at a table.

  “Well?” Pickens gave Katie the eagle eye. “Are you going to stand there all day, or are you going to take the man’s order?”

  Katie wiped her damp hands on the side of her skirt and walked around the counter just as the door flew open and train passengers began streaming inside.

  The dining room orders were taken in advance, but not in the breakfast room. Katie had a good memory for clues and anything pertaining to a criminal case, but a diner’s order tended to go in one ear and out the other. However, she had discovered that if she talked up one specific dish and ma
de it sound appealing, most if not all diners would order it. That sure did simplify things.

  Today she talked up the pea soup.

  As she hoped, all seven passengers—which included three men and four women—followed Branch’s example and ordered the chef’s special.

  When she returned with their orders, she noticed one of the men at her table whip out a photograph and hand it to Branch. The man was in his mid to late thirties. Hair the color of muddy water was parted in the middle and slicked down with grease. His thin nose and mouth were separated by a skinny mustache.

  She set the tray down on the tray stand and picked up a bowl of hot soup.

  “Name’s Sam Fletcher,” the man was saying, “and I need to find this woman.”

  Curious, she peered over the man’s shoulder and caught her breath. He was holding a photograph of Abigail.

  Just then Abigail walked into the breakfast room. Katie frantically waved her free hand to warn her and pointed to the man who she now suspected was Abigail’s husband.

  Her suspicion was confirmed by the look of horror that crossed Abigail’s face just before she whirled about and fled the room.

  Katie was so intent on warning Abigail that she forgot she was holding a bowl of soup until Fletcher jumped up with a curse.

  Thick green broth ran down his arm and splashed across the photograph. He rubbed the picture against his trousers.

  “You dumb dame!” he roared. The room fell silent following his outburst, and all heads turned toward her table. “Look what you’ve done.”

  “I–I’m sorry, sir,” she stammered. “I’ll get you a towel.”

  “Don’t you come near me, you—” He drew back a fist as if to strike her.

  Branch jumped up and shot a hand to Fletcher’s throat. With one swift movement, he pushed him away from Katie. “There’s no call for you to talk to her like that. It was an accident.” He gave Fletcher a shove, and the man staggered backward against a chair.

  Still Fletcher refused to leave and continued to berate Katie. His curses were met with shocked gasps from the other diners, and one woman covered her young daughter’s ears.

  Branch leaned toward Katie, his voice low in her ear. “What would your Pinkerton bosses advise under such circumstances?”

  She’d told him he could learn a lot from her bosses, and apparently he’d not forgotten.

  “To reason with him,” she whispered back. “And politely show him to the door.”

  Branch nodded. “Good idea.” With that Branch stepped forward and threw his right fist into the startled man’s face.

  Fletcher flew back and hit the floor hard. Face purple, he glared up at Branch, hand on his bloodied nose. Branch yanked him to his feet, hauled him across the room, and tossed him out the door.

  “The next time I see your ugly mug I’ll lock you up.” Slamming the door shut, he brushed his hands together and turned.

  Applause greeted him. He acknowledged the crowd with an upraised hand and sheepish grin before taking his seat again.

  “Is that what you call polite?” she murmured next to his ear.

  “Absolutely,” he said quietly, and she detected a touch of humor in his voice.

  A matronly woman at Katie’s table lifted her eyepiece to her face. “I must say, Sheriff, you certainly put that awful man in his place.”

  The diner next to her concurred. “I just wish we didn’t have to travel on the same train as him.”

  Katie pasted on her most brilliant smile and hastened to pass out the remaining bowls of soup. She purposely engaged her diners in conversation and ignored Pickens, who looked ready to pounce on her at the first opportunity. Spilling soup on a diner was no less of a sin than eating a forbidden apple in the Garden of Eden.

  Fletcher soon forgotten, the diners oohed and aahed as they ate, and everyone agreed that it was the best pea soup ever.

  Just as the travelers rose to board the train, Branch whispered in her ear. “Meet me tonight.”

  The whistle blew with a blast of steam. The cranks shifted, and the wheels turned. The train moved out of the station with a loud clank and gradually picked up speed.

  “He’s gone,” Katie said from her place at the dining room window.

  Abigail stood behind her, craning her neck. “Are… are you sure?”

  “Saw him climb aboard,” Katie said.

  Abigail bit her lip. “It doesn’t matter. He won’t rest till he finds me.”

  Mary-Lou cleared the dirty dishes off a nearby table. “Who is he?”

  Abigail hesitated before answering. “My husband.”

  “You’re married?” Tully gasped, almost dropping a tray of dishes.

  Katie hushed her. “You mustn’t say a word.” She glanced at Mary-Lou. “Any of you.”

  “But being married is against the rules,” Tully persisted, this time in a lower voice.

  Katie glared at her. Tully was the last person to talk about rules. “Yes, and so is spousal abuse. The Bible clearly states that a man must treat his wife with love and respect.” Even with all her father’s faults, she never knew him to be physically abusive. He had been thoughtless, emotionally distant, and, at times, even uncaring, but never once did he raise his hand.

  Mary-Lou cast a look of sympathy Abigail’s way. “I’m sorry. We didn’t know.”

  Abigail looked close to tears. “I didn’t want anyone to know.”

  “Maybe it’s better this way,” Katie said. “Now we can all be on the lookout for him.”

  Abigail shook her head. “I can’t stay here.”

  Katie squeezed her hand. “You can’t keep running. You must remain strong. Men like that prey on weakness.”

  “I don’t know if I have it in me to be strong.” Abigail’s lips quivered. “He scares me, and I could be putting you all in harm’s way.” Tears flooded her eyes, and she let out a sob.

  Tully discounted this concern with a wave of her hand. “We already have a killer on the loose. What’s another?”

  Katie glared at her and shook her head. This was no time for jokes. The tension in the house felt almost palpable. Everyone seemed to be waiting for the next shoe to drop.

  Mary-Lou filled in the strained silence. “We won’t let him hurt you or anyone else.”

  Abigail dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “I don’t know that you can stop him.”

  “You’d be amazed what we can do.” Tully put her arm around Mary-Lou’s shoulder, showing surprising empathy. Tully could be kindhearted at times, but only when her protective armor slipped.

  “Don’t you know?” Tully asked. “We’re the Harvey girls!”

  Chapter 34

  Katie waited for her roommate to fall asleep before slipping from beneath the covers and planting her bare feet on the floor. She quickly dressed in a blue skirt and matching shirtwaist set out in advance and then pulled on her shoes.

  Not wanting to fuss with her hair, she let it fall down her back in a single braid. Moistening her lips, she let herself out of the room and tiptoed quietly down the hall to the stairs.

  Branch was anxious to talk to her, and she had a pretty good idea it wasn’t about the Harvey girl case.

  He waited for her outside the dining room doors, his shadow falling across the glass as she fumbled with the lock. Heart pounding, she slipped outside and closed the door after her without bothering with the spoon-in-the-threshold trick.

  “How are you getting back in?” he asked.

  “Through a side window.” Earlier she had unlocked not one but two windows. No sense taking a chance on being locked out again.

  “Another Pinkerton trick?” he asked.

  “Nope. Strictly my own.”

  They walked toward the bench outside the baggage room and sat.

  It felt cool but not unpleasantly so. The night air seemed eerily still except for moths flitting around the gaslight globe. Overhead the stars glittered as brightly as Harvey’s newly polished silver.

  Branch sat with his elbo
ws on his lap and rubbed his hands between his knees. Sensing his unsettling thoughts, she decided to make it easy for him.

  “He’s not yours, is he? Andy. He’s not your natural child.”

  His intake of breath only confirmed what she already knew. “I messed up, didn’t I? Telling you how Hannah died… If you figured it out, then—”

  “You’re worried that Clayborn might.” It wasn’t just a lucky guess; she had noticed the family resemblance when she saw them together at the restaurant, though it hadn’t registered at the time. Andy and Clayborn had similar hair color and eyes.

  “Yes, I’m worried. Now more than ever.”

  She let his statement hang for a moment before asking, “How did you end up with his son?”

  He sat back as if bracing himself. “It happened on the night of the tornado.” His voice was low, hesitant, and at times hoarse as he described how his wife had gone to the Clayborn home to deliver Dorothy’s baby.

  Even in the dim light she could see pain in the depths of his eyes as he related finding the newborn in the cast-iron oven. “I keep telling myself that God wouldn’t give me a gift like Andy only to take him away.”

  She rested her hand on his arm. “God gives; He doesn’t take.” That’s what her minister told her when she’d asked him why God had taken away the man she loved. For whatever reason, it had been easier to blame God than her sister or even the man who had dumped her, though in retrospect that made little sense.

  “I used to believe that was true. But after I lost Hannah…” He leaned back. “Dorothy told everyone her husband was dead. It never occurred to me that she would lie about something like that.”

  “Why did she, do you suppose?”

  “I don’t know. Pride, perhaps. I imagine it’s not easy for a woman to admit her husband ran off.”

  “I guess not,” she said, thinking of Abigail’s plight. It had been hard for her to admit to having an abusive husband. Thank God times were changing. Since Fred Harvey opened up his restaurants, women now had a legitimate means by which to support themselves. Staying in an abusive or unhappy marriage was no longer the only option left to women.