Undercover Bride (9781634094573)

by Brownley, Margaret

  Had Garrett removed reminders of his first marriage knowing she planned to enter the room? It was a possibility. It would also explain why the room had been locked. Maybe he didn’t want her seeing signs of his first wife.

  She stepped over the bedroll on the floor that made up Toby’s bed and opened both wardrobe doors. The scent of bay rum hair tonic, moth balls, and old oak greeted her. On one side Garrett’s clothes hung from wooden pegs. The second half contained four drawers, and these she opened one by one. The drawers stored socks, handkerchiefs, and neatly folded shirts but, again, nothing of interest.

  She closed the wardrobe doors. Hands at her waist, she glanced around the room and then moved toward the desk. A chessboard dominated the desktop, and the arrangement of the pieces suggested a game in progress.

  Careful not to disturb the board, she sat at the desk. The top drawers held stationery and writing supplies. Much to her surprise, she found her letters to him tied with a piece of rawhide and stacked in the back of a drawer. Fiction, all of them, the contents spun as cleverly as a spiderweb.

  After putting a shadow on Garrett Thomas, Allan Pinkerton learned the suspect had placed an ad for a mail-order bride and approached Maggie with a daring plan.

  At first Maggie thought the idea foolhardy. The chances of Garrett choosing her out of dozens and perhaps even hundreds of women looking for a husband seemed remote. But Allan was convinced that he knew enough about Garrett Thomas to make the plan work, and he was right.

  Under Allan’s tutorage, she answered the ad, and much to their delight, Garrett wrote back. So began a six-month correspondence. He wrote about the children, the weather, and the town, but little about himself. Her letters to him were equally impersonal. She didn’t want to chance forgetting what she’d written and later say something that would contradict the letters.

  Garrett finally asked her to come to the Arizona Territory so they could meet in person and allow his children to get to know her. He even sent her money for travel expenses. All expenses incurred from the investigation were paid by the railroad and bank, but Allan thought it might look odd if she didn’t accept his monetary offer, and so she did.

  Seeing how her letters had been so carefully saved filled her with guilt. Lying was a necessary part of her disguise, and she was only doing her job. Surely God made allowances for those working undercover for law and order.

  The second drawer revealed something of much more interest: a leather notebook.

  She pulled the notebook out. Turning to the first page, she quickly scanned the bold masculine handwriting that was all too familiar. Was this what he did at night after locking himself in his room? Write?

  She sat back and began reading. At first she thought it was a novel, but it soon became clear that this was no made-up story. Garrett had written about the year spent at the Andersonville Rebel Prison. It was a story of survival, courage, and quiet desperation. He wrote about the lack of sanitary conditions and food. About disease and death. Escape and capture. Not only was Garrett a gifted tinker but also a gifted writer.

  He wrote about successfully nursing a soldier—a boy, really—through an illness. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she read the rest:

  The boy was shot by a guard for simply reaching beyond the swamp that ran through camp for fresh water. As long as I live I shall never forget this day or that boy who died too young.

  Her breath caught in her chest upon reading the next sentence.

  I knew only the boy’s first name—Toby.

  So Garrett had named his son after a boy soldier who died in that awful prison.

  It was well after noon by the time she finished reading the manuscript, and his harrowing tale left her emotionally drained.

  Garrett Thomas had no record of criminal activity prior to the war, and that was unusual. Almost every serious criminal she’d known had a history of unlawful activities, many starting in early childhood.

  But after reading Thomas’s diary, she could well understand how even the most virtuous of men could change. That’s what war did to people. It changed habits and beliefs and turned good and evil upside down. The warrior mind-set could remain long after the battle cries faded away. After killing on the battlefield, robbing a train or even a bank might seem mild in comparison. Perhaps that explained why every war was followed by a crime wave. This was as true for the Napoleonic Wars as it was for the War between the States.

  Many veterans returning from that awful war were said to have a Soldier’s Heart—a poetic name that failed to describe the sometimes horrific changes that made these men strangers even to their own families.

  Did Garrett have a Soldier’s Heart? His war journal suggested he might. If that was true, had the emotional scars cut so deep as to blacken his soul?

  Allan Pinkerton was so convinced of it he had even written as much in Garrett’s file. Not only was the Scotsman a good detective, he was also an expert on the criminal mind. He blamed the war for producing criminals such as the James, Reno, and Farrington brothers.

  He’d traced the prevalence of “holdup” thieves all the way back to the gold mining camps. Prospectors too lazy to work robbed the more successful miners. When the mines closed, these same thieves graduated to stages and eventually trains. He’d also traced cattle rustling back to early cowboys who grew tired of riding the range for low wages.

  Garrett’s journal and Allan’s teachings were very much on her mind as she wrote a detailed report back to headquarters.

  Chapter 12

  After picking the children up from school, she drove to Mrs. Button’s dressmaking shop on the corner of Main and Jefferson.

  Mrs. Button was a pleasant, middle-aged woman with a body as round and plump as a pincushion. Dressed in a floral dress with a frilly white cap atop her white head, she greeted each child with a buttery smile and a handful of penny candy.

  The small, cramped shop was as colorful as a patchwork quilt. Fabric and sewing notions were scattered across a table next to a treadle sewing machine. Gowns, skirts, and petticoats hung from wall pegs or were fitted on wooden forms in various stages of completion.

  Mrs. Button released the children and peered at Maggie over her wire-framed spectacles. “You must be the lucky bride-to-be. Maggie, right?”

  “Yes, that’s right. I hope this is a good time.”

  “Couldn’t be better.” The dressmaker rubbed her hands together. “Hetty also ordered outfits for the children to wear at the wedding, so I’ll need to measure them, too.” She regarded each child in turn. “Who wants to go first?”

  Elise raised her hand. “I do.”

  “Come on along then. Step on my magic stool.”

  Elise’s face lit up at the word magic, and she giggled. Mrs. Button helped her onto the stool and circled her small waist with a cloth measuring tape. Elise watched with wide-eyed curiosity as the dressmaker wrote the measurements in a notebook.

  Toby had no interest in new clothes and practically had to be pulled away physically from the marmalade cat perched in front of the sunny window. While standing on the stool, he squirmed and wiggled so much he fell off twice.

  After duly recording all necessary measurements, including Maggie’s, the seamstress showed them a wedding dress she had just completed for the butcher’s daughter. The white silk gown had an intricately embroidered bodice, and the sleeves and neckline were edged with lace. A soft paneled train fell from a large satin bow set below the bustle in back.

  Elise stared at the gown with shiny bright eyes. “Are you going to wear a dress like this, Miss Taylor?”

  “Not quite as fancy,” Maggie said. Even under different circumstances she couldn’t imagine wearing anything so elaborate or confining. “And I don’t wish to have a train.”

  Mrs. Button nodded. “This would be too much for your dainty figure, but I think we can find something that will wipe the worried look off your face.”

  “I’m not worried,” Maggie said, irritated at herself for not staying in
character and playing the part of a happy bride. In the past, she’d had no trouble playing the roles required by her job. “I’m just not used to making such a fuss over clothes.” At least that part was true.

  Once she had even managed to manufacture real tears while pretending to be a grieving widow. But a mail-order bride was the hardest role yet, especially now, after reading Garrett’s story. How could she not feel sorry for what he’d experienced?

  Still, an innocent man had died during the Whistle-Stop holdup, and his family deserved to see justice. Nothing Garret Thomas had gone through justified the taking of a life.

  Elise’s giggles snapped her out of her reverie. “Can I have a caboose on my dress?”

  Mrs. Button laughed. “We’re not talking about that kind of train. It’s what we call a long piece of fabric attached to the back, like this.” She held out the fabric panel. “You’re too young for a train, but you can have all the ruffles you want.”

  Satisfied with the answer, Elise skipped across the room to join her brother at the window.

  Mrs. Button pulled a bolt of white satin from a shelf. “So when is the big day?”

  “June fifteenth,” Maggie replied.

  “Oh my. That doesn’t give me much time, does it?”

  “We could change the wedding to a later date, if you like,” Maggie said. Like maybe a year from next Tuesday. But even a week or two would give her more time to conduct her investigation. She was beginning to think it might take longer than planned.

  Mrs. Button immediately discounted the idea with a wave of her hand. “I wouldn’t think of asking you to postpone your wedding.” She lowered her voice. “Having a case of cold feet, are we?”

  Maggie shook her head. “No, it’s just… there’s so much to do.”

  The dressmaker patted her on the arm much like a mother might comfort a child. “God always provides enough time to get the important things done. And Hetty will help all she can, even with her health problems. I know her nephew’s wedding will make her very happy.”

  It was just the opening Maggie had hoped for. “Did you know his first wife?”

  “Everyone knew Katherine.” The seamstress shook her head until her neatly stacked chins wobbled. “It was a terrible thing. A woman that young and beautiful…”

  “Aunt Hetty said it happened while the family was asleep.”

  Mrs. Button pushed her glasses up her nose. “That’s the oddest thing. No one could figure out what she was doing outside on such a stormy night.” She lowered her voice. “Don’t pay any attention to what some are saying, because none of it is true.”

  Maggie ran her hand casually across a bolt of blue velvet. “What exactly is everyone saying?”

  Mrs. Button glanced at the children still playing with the cat before answering. “Just before her death, Garrett and Katherine were heard arguing. Right there in his shop.”

  “Do you know what they argued about?” Maggie asked.

  “No, but I’ve known him since he was a wee lad, and he wasn’t the same after the war. He was much more serious, if you know what I mean. Hardly ever smiled.”

  No surprises there. After reading the horrors in Garrett’s notebook, Maggie could well understand why. “He smiles now,” she said. Time healed some wounds, but not all.

  “Not like he used to as a young lad. As for Katherine, she never really fit in, if you know what I mean. She never liked it here. Said it was too hot and uncivilized.”

  “Is that what they argued about?”

  “I’m not really sure what their last argument was about, but some think she was seeing someone else.”

  Maggie frowned. “You mean like another man?”

  Mrs. Button nodded. “I never believed it, of course. On the other hand, it would explain what she was doing out in the middle of the night, wouldn’t it?”

  Maggie had considered every possible explanation she could think of for Katherine going out during a storm—but a romantic rendezvous? That one never entered her head. If the rumors were true, the question was, did Garrett know?

  He did seem rather protective of her the day she visited his shop. Did that mean he had a jealous streak? Jealousy as a motive for murder dated back to Cain and Abel and caused half of all domestic crimes on Pinkerton files, so the idea wasn’t all that far-fetched.

  The bells on the door announced the arrival of another client; a young mother with an infant in her arms needed a dress tailored to fit her new shape.

  “I won’t take up any more of your time.” Maggie thanked Mrs. Button and motioned to the children. “Come along.”

  No sooner had Maggie and the children left the shop when they encountered a barefooted man in ragged trousers and dirty shirt sitting on the boardwalk. He sat with his back against the building, his face half hidden by a salt-and-pepper beard. Long, unkempt hair fell from beneath a brown slouch cap.

  “Can you afford a pittance, miss?”

  She recognized the voice at once. Rikker!

  The man never failed to amaze her. Successful disguises involved far more than just appearances. They required the right attitude and demeanor, and Rikker had perfected both to a fine art. She reached into her purse for a coin and leaned over to hand it to him.

  “What happened to the quack doctor ruse?” she whispered.

  “That’s my morning job,” he whispered back. “Your fiancé mails a letter every other day or so on the way to work. Find out who he’s writing to.” Louder, he said, “Thank you, ma’am, and may God bless you and your young’uns.”

  A man with a cane tossed a coin in Rikker’s hat as he walked by. Rikker pocketed the money and winked. He was obviously enjoying himself. With a fond smile, she hustled the children away.

  “How come you gave that man money?” Elise asked after settling on the front seat of the buckboard.

  “’Cause he’s a beggar,” Toby said, climbing in back.

  Elise peered up at Maggie from beneath the brim of her sunbonnet. “What’s a beggar?”

  “A begger is a person who has fallen on hard times. And the reason I gave him money is because God wants us to help those in need.”

  Elise thought about this for a moment before asking, “Why doesn’t God help them Himself?”

  Maggie grabbed the reins and released the brake. “Because God doesn’t want to keep the fun of helping others all to Himself.”

  Chapter 13

  The following morning, Maggie stopped at Grover’s Mercantile and purchased several yards of pretty floral calico. Since she’d made an issue about measuring windows, Garrett might think it strange if he didn’t see new curtains in the works.

  She then hurried home, intent on tackling the attic. Garrett’s house was unusual for it was one of the few houses in the area with a second floor.

  The attic had a single window for ventilation. The thick cover of fine sand told her that no one had been in the attic for months, maybe even years. The chances of finding the missing money up there seemed remote.

  Still, she did a thorough search. All she found was a treadle sewing machine and a couple of old trunks filled with women’s clothing. Katherine’s, no doubt.

  Maggie had never paid much attention to fashion, but it was hard not to be impressed with the quality of the gowns and hats. Most of the outfits were dated, favoring the straight sheaths and draped skirts of the seventies, but all were well tailored.

  She was so intrigued with the colorful finery that she almost missed the envelope at the bottom of one of the trunks. It was addressed to Katherine’s brother but wasn’t stamped. It looked like the letter had never been mailed.

  She broke the seal, pulled the single sheet out of the envelope, and unfolded it. Written in an ornate script, it read:

  Dear Charlie,

  The matter we discussed has given me grave concerns. Mama and Papa would turn over in their graves if they knew. I will not be a party to this. You have a week to take care of it, or I will.

  The letter was signed simply
Katherine.

  Maggie folded the paper and slipped it back into the envelope. Take care of what? The letter was undated so there was no way of knowing when it was written.

  She put the envelope back into the trunk and slammed the lid shut. Careful to smooth out any traces of foot or handprints, she returned to the first floor.

  Two days later, Garrett joined her in the kitchen while she prepared the children’s breakfast. She hid her frustration at not finding any condemning evidence in the house beneath a bright smile.

  “Morning,” he said cheerfully. He ruffled his son’s hair and tweaked his daughter’s cheek before taking a seat at the table. Toby was laboring over a drawing and didn’t look up.

  “Morning,” she said. Now, as always, his presence struck a chord in her that was hard to ignore. Why he affected her so, she had no idea. She only knew he did.

  “I set the sewing machine up in the parlor for you,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she said, filling his cup with coffee. Confound it! Now she would have to make those blasted curtains.

  A stamped envelope stuck out of his vest pocket, but she couldn’t read the address. She spilled the coffee, and he jumped back.

  “I’m sorry.” She quickly set the pot back on the stove and reached for a towel.

  Their hands touched as he took the towel from her. The brief contact, along with his clean manly scent, sent warm shivers rippling through her, and her mind whirled in confusion.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  Chiding herself for being so careless, she blinked and forced a smile. Every movement, every word, every facial expression had to be carefully guarded so as not to give him cause for suspicion. Whatever hold he had over her must stop.

  “I’m fine. Just clumsy.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “You’re not working today?”

  He tossed the damp towel onto the counter and took his seat. “I open late on Saturdays.”

  “Oh.” She couldn’t believe it was already the weekend. Never had she known time to fly by so quickly.