Undercover Bride (9781634094573)

by Brownley, Margaret

  “What took you so long to find me?” he asked.

  “Long? I’ve only been in town for a day.” Rikker was as impatient as he was clever. Nothing he hated more than sitting around waiting even though that was a very large part of a detective’s life.

  “How much did it cost you to bribe the hotel clerk into putting up a no vacancy sign?” she asked.

  “Not as much as it’ll cost me when our boss finds out you’re staying at Thomas’s house.”

  “He doesn’t have to know. At least not yet.”

  “I’d hate to be you when the old Scotsman finds out,” Rikker said.

  “Allan Pinkerton worries too much.” Since his stroke, his sons managed the company, but he was still very much involved in the planning and execution of investigations.

  “That makes two of us.”

  It wasn’t just her safety that worried the principal. This case was a thorn in Pinkerton’s side. They had been working on it for two years, and that didn’t speak well for an agency that had sustained much criticism in recent years for what some thought were bullying tactics. Allan and his sons were anxious to get some good press for a change, and catching the Whistle-Stop bandits would certainly serve that purpose.

  “I’d feel a whole lot better if you were staying at the hotel. If anything happens to you…”

  His concern touched her. “Nothing’s going to happen. At least not in front of the children.”

  “If our suspicions are right, we’re not only dealing with a thief, but also a killer. And I’m not just talking about the railroad guard. For all we know, he also killed his wife.”

  The memory of Thomas playing tag came to mind. His tenderness toward his daughter when she fell had seemed real. It was hard to believe that such a doting father could be a cold-blooded killer. But then, criminals came in all disguises.

  “Her death was an accident,” she said. That was the official ruling, and she had no reason to suspect otherwise.

  “I don’t believe in accidents, and if you know what’s good for you, you won’t believe in them, either.”

  “That’s what I like about you, Rikker. A person is always guilty until proven innocent.”

  “And I’m usually right.”

  Before she could reply, a matronly woman walked out of the mercantile carrying a basket in one hand and holding on to a small child with the other.

  Rikker shoved a bottle of snake oil into Maggie’s hand, and right on cue she pretended to read the label.

  Lifting his voice for anyone within hearing distance, he started his spiel. “That magical bottle contains the purest and most refined healing oil this side of the Miss’sippi. One teaspoon of this elixir and your troubles will be a thing of the past.”

  The woman walked by them without stopping, and when she was out of earshot he lowered his voice. “Watch your step. If he tries anything… sexual-wise, I mean, I want you out of there.”

  Heat rushed to her face. “Since when have you ever worried about my virtue?”

  “Since you insisted on moving into an outlaw’s house.”

  “Don’t worry. He might be a thief and murderer, but where women are concerned, he’s a perfect gentleman.” With the declaration came the memory of blue eyes and a crooked smile—a disconcerting thought she quickly banished from her mind.

  “I’m sure his wife appreciated being killed by a gentleman,” he said wryly.

  “We don’t know that Garrett killed her.”

  His eyebrows rose. “So now it’s Garrett.”

  “He insists I call him by his Christian name.”

  “The word Christian and Thomas should never be mentioned in the same sentence.” He glanced around. A man was unloading a wagon at the end of the block next to a windmill, but no one was close by. Still, taking no chances, he stabbed the label of elixir with his finger as if trying to sell it to her.

  “So what have you uncovered so far?” he asked.

  “Since I’ve only been here for less than twenty-four hours, not much. But I do know he has an overbearing aunt and two adorable children.”

  “That was in the report.”

  “Not the overbearing and adorable part,” she said. “Also, he has a brother-in-law. I heard the two of them arguing earlier. That’s the first I heard that his dead wife had a brother.”

  “Interesting. What were they arguing about?”

  “He thinks Garrett has something of his. His name is Cotton.”

  “Ah, now we’re getting somewhere. Mr. Cotton was confined to Andersonville the same time that Thomas was there. He was one of the men who tried to escape with Thomas. The other man was shot dead.”

  That’s why his name sounded familiar. “Do you think that’s where they first met? In prison?”

  “Actually they met before the war while Thomas was attending medical school. He might have even introduced Thomas to his sister.”

  It made sense. “It sounds like they must have been good friends at one time.” Nothing made two people closer than sharing an ordeal. “We know there were two men involved in the robbery.” One man backed the train away from the station and one robbed the safe and shot the guard. “Do you think Cotton was the second man? That would explain the bad blood between them.” It wasn’t unusual for criminals to have a falling-out.

  “Could be,” he said. “Have you sent a report to headquarters?”

  “Not yet. I’ll send one tomorrow.”

  “Drop it off here, and I’ll mail it for you. I’ve arranged to send regular shipments to the States so no one will think anything of it.”

  She nodded. “That will help.” Though everything was cryptically written, mailing daily reports without rousing suspicion always proved to be a challenge. She leaned closer. “Your mustache is crooked.”

  “It’s part of my charm,” he said, but he straightened it. “Be careful. You know where to find me if you need me.”

  Two men stepped out of the nearby general store, and Rikker took the snake oil out of her hands. Holding the bottle up, he hawked, “Step right up, gentlemen. Step right up.”

  Smiling in amusement, Maggie left Rikker and walked to Grover’s Mercantile to purchase a cookbook just in case things took longer than she hoped. Everything she knew about cooking could fill a postage stamp.

  Several women were gathered around a single bolt of calico. As Maggie neared they turned and stared at her as if she’d given off some sort of signal.

  “You must be the mail-order bride everyone’s talking about,” one woman exclaimed, and the five women closed in around her like the drawstring of a purse.

  “Yes, that’s right. I’m Maggie Taylor.”

  The matron in charge said, “Nice to meet you. I’m Miriam Higginbottom.” A barrel-shaped woman with steel-gray hair, she fixed Maggie with a pop-eyed stare through a lorgnette suspended from a gold chain around her neck.

  She quickly introduced the other four women. She talked so fast it was difficult to grasp their names. Mrs. Higginbottom then issued invitations to join the church quilting bee and ladies reading club.

  “Though you don’t have to be able to read to join,” Mrs. Higginbottom assured her.

  “Tell her about the dance.” This from the woman with tight, springy curls and a jutting posterior that had no need of a bustle.

  “Oh, yes.” Mrs. Higginbottom described the upcoming dance in great detail. “You and Mr. Thomas must come.”

  Maggie had never been to a dance and had no intention of attending one. She was here to work, not socialize. “I’ll mention it to him,” she said vaguely when she could get a word in edgewise, but by then Mrs. Higginbottom had already changed subjects.

  “So when is the wedding?”

  “Not till next month.”

  “Are you staying at the hotel?”

  “I’m… eh… staying at the house,” she said.

  The five women stared at her, and for a moment no one spoke.

  Maggie broke the strained silence. “There was no vaca
ncy at the hotel, so I’m sharing a room with Elise.”

  “Of course you are,” Mrs. Higginbottom exclaimed. “I mean… it makes perfect sense.”

  “Such a dear, dear man,” one of the other women said, filling in the awkward silence. “What happened to his wife was dreadful.”

  “Just dreadful,” the other four murmured.

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” Mrs. Higginbottom began. “Why would such an attractive woman as yourself agree to marry a man sight unseen? Not that there’s anything wrong with Mr. Thomas, mind you.”

  One of the other women—Mrs. Trotter—looked appalled.

  “Miriam.” Miriam Higginbottom didn’t look the least bit apologetic. “I have the right to know,” she said, and her friends accepted her contention without further discussion.

  “Some men fare better sight unseen,” Maggie said lightly.

  This brought appreciative laughter from the others. Mrs. Higginbottom, in her usual take-charge way, continued. “I just hope that the boy doesn’t give you a bad time. Such a handful. Hetty’s lucky he didn’t burn down the barn.”

  “He set her barn on fire?”

  “No. Just the chicken coop. But that was bad enough. He made a hot-air balloon and was trying to send it to the moon or some such thing.”

  “Instead it landed on Hetty’s chickens,” Mrs. Trotter added. “Never saw so many feathers fly in my life.”

  “Yes, and he confiscated the clothesline from Louise Martin’s backyard,” Mrs. Higginbottom continued.

  “On wash day.” Mrs. Trotter rolled her eyes. “Said he was just borrowing it.”

  “Well, if he was my son, he would have gotten a good licking.” Mrs. Higginbottom sniffed. “If you ask me, Garrett is too lenient with the boy.”

  She said more, a lot more, but very little of it was of any use, and some of it bordered on just plain gossip about people Maggie had no interest in. By the time she managed to purchase a cookbook and leave the shop, her ears were ringing.

  Chapter 9

  Maggie returned from town determined to do a methodical search. The house had no cellar, but it did have an attic. Doubting she’d find the key to Garrett’s bedroom on the uppermost floor, she decided to tackle the attic last.

  Other than to learn about Garrett’s brother-in-law and locate Rikker, her expedition to town had revealed little, except to answer her questions about Toby. Next to the mischief her brothers used to get into, Toby’s escapades sounded mild in comparison.

  If she was lucky, the house search would reveal something more useful. But where to start?

  Recalling how a map found in a dictionary helped solve the case of a museum’s stolen artwork, she settled on the crammed bookshelf in the parlor, next to the ivory chess set.

  Garrett had a wide taste in reading. Moby Dick was shelved in between Uncle Tom’s Cabin and Journey to the Center of the Earth. Medical books shared space with philosophy, science, and history.

  Stooping in front of the bookshelves, she flipped through each tome looking for letters, bank receipts, or hidden compartments. A book of poetry was inscribed to G love from K.

  She had just started on the last shelf when a knock on the door startled her.

  Quickly replacing a book, she stood and opened the door.

  “Aunt… I mean…”

  “That’s all right. Call me Aunt Hetty. I insist.” The older woman ambled into the house with her walking cane, stabbing the floor with its tip as if checking the foundation’s integrity. “Land sakes, it’s hot out there.”

  “Yes, I can’t get over the weather. Is it always this hot?”

  “You’ve not seen anything yet. Wait till July and August.”

  Fortunately, Maggie had no intention of sticking around that long. “Would you care for some lemonade?” she asked.

  “That would be nice. Long as it’s not too sweet or too sour.” Aunt Hetty followed Maggie into the kitchen and collapsed onto a chair. Her face flushed from the heat, she pulled off her bonnet and used it to fan herself. Wisps of white hair had escaped her topknot.

  “Misery loves company, but trust me, it’s better to have a pain in one hip than two,” she said, rubbing her sides.

  Maggie reached in the icebox for the pitcher of lemonade. “You shouldn’t be out on such a hot day,” Maggie said.

  “No, I shouldn’t. Especially in my condition. But you know what they say? What can’t be cured must be endured.” She laid her cane on the chair next to her. “What a pity that the wedding was postponed. I just hope I last that long.” Obviously she intended to hold Maggie responsible should she not.

  Maggie placed the pitcher on a tray and reached into the overhead cupboard for two glasses. “Is there any reason to think that you won’t?”

  Aunt Hetty looked startled. “Of course there is.” She then recited everything wrong with her and, Maggie suspected, a great deal more. She brushed her forehead with the back of her hand. “Of course, no one will believe how ill I am until I’m dead and buried.”

  “What does the doctor say?” Maggie asked, setting the tray on the table.

  Aunt Hetty made a rude sound. “It seems that everyone has a cure for what ails me but my doctor.” She lowered her voice. “Would you believe he had the nerve to accuse me of being perfectly healthy?”

  “No!”

  “I jest you not.” She lifted her shoulders and sighed. “I suppose I should be happy that you postponed the wedding. Now we can prepare for more than just a simple ceremony. It will be my parting gift to you both.”

  Maggie had no time to plan a wedding, but she had to play along. “I certainly hope you stick around awhile. The children will miss you, I’m sure.”

  “That’s why I’m delighted that Garrett is marrying again. Seeing him settled will help me die a happy woman.” She rubbed the small of her back and groaned. “They say the Arizona heat is good for what ails you, but you wouldn’t prove it by me.”

  Sensing that another list of physical complaints was imminent, Maggie quickly changed the subject. “I’m sorry I don’t have any baked goods to offer you.”

  “That’s quite all right. You’re just settling in. I should have thought to bring something.” She pulled a small writing tablet and pencil out of her purse.

  Maggie took a seat opposite her and filled both glasses with lemonade. Today, Aunt Hetty wore a dark skirt and matching shirtwaist. She looked determined and efficient as she opened her notebook and, except for her flushed face, robust. Maggie hoped she looked as well when she was Aunty Hetty’s age.

  “I went ahead and booked the church.” Aunt Hetty made a little check on the page to indicate the task was complete and moved to the second written line. “I also spoke with the dressmaker. She’ll need to take your measurements.”

  Aunt Hetty had no way of knowing it, of course, but she had done Maggie a favor. Male operatives spent much of their time in saloons and barbershops where men gathered and talked. Female detectives had to find other ways to glean information. Since few secrets could be kept from one’s dressmaker, Maggie found that the town seamstresses generally knew everyone’s business, and most were happy to share it.

  Aunt Hetty continued down her list—and what a list it was. Invitations, food, guests, music, decorations… Even in her sickly condition, she’d thought of everything.

  Maggie hated to put so many people to work for a wedding that would never take place, but she couldn’t help but marvel at the woman’s efficiency.

  “Garrett and I agreed to keep things… simple,” she said carefully. His aunt meant well, and it made no sense to alienate her.

  Aunt Hetty sat back. “But why? It is your first marriage, is it not? So why would you not want to do something special?”

  Maggie slid a glass of lemonade across the table. “Under the circumstances, we thought it best. For the children’s sake.”

  “What circumstances?” Aunt Hetty asked, looking baffled.

  “Garrett is a widower and—”

>   Aunt Hetty discounted this with a wave of her hand. “His wife died two years ago, and it does him no good to wallow in the past. Time marches on and so should he.”

  Maggie took a sip of lemonade. Fortunately, Garrett’s aunt talked without prompting, stopping now and again to complain about her back, hip, or knee. She glanced down at her list. “Where was I?”

  “You said that his wife didn’t like it here.”

  Aunt Hetty rolled her eyes. “Katherine hated it here, and that’s the God-honest truth. She wanted to take the children back East to get a better education, but of course Garrett opposed.”

  Maggie thought of the paperboy, Linc, and could understand a mother worrying about her children’s future.

  “How did she and Garrett meet?”

  “Actually, they knew each other before the war. Garrett met her while attending school in Philadelphia. My sister—his mother—died when he was six, and he was convinced that had she had proper medical care, she would have lived. So he decided to become a doctor. A real doctor, not just a shingle-on-the-door one like Doc Coldwell.” She rolled her eyes. “The man doesn’t know a disease from a mule’s backside.”

  Fearing another anatomy lesson, Maggie quickly brought the conversation back to Garrett. “What happened?”

  “The war happened, and of course young men his age were conscripted. I offered to give him money to avoid the draft, but Garrett wouldn’t hear of it. I was ready to take out a bank loan if necessary or even sell my property.” Avoiding the draft involved either paying three hundred dollars or hiring a substitute. “He refused my offer. Said it wasn’t fair to the men who couldn’t afford the commutation money.” She paused before adding, “Then came the Battle of Gettysburg.”

  “Garrett said he spent time in a rebel prison. Was that when he was captured?”

  “Yes, along with Katherine’s brother.” Aunt Hetty sipped her lemonade. “After the war, Garrett came home to recuperate. He was in pretty bad shape, and I nursed him back to health. Katherine knew him before the war and apparently thought him dead. But when she heard from her brother that he was still alive, she traveled out here to see him. What she found was not the man she knew before the war, but a man with a broken spirit. He’d even given up his dream of becoming a doctor.”