by Mae Berry
With a swish of skirts, Hattie paused at the settee and lowered herself to the worn velvet with perfected fluid motion. She arranged her skirt, adjusting the drape and folds. At last her hands stilled on her lap. Sam schooled her features. To Hattie, any emotion real or perceived was like blood to a wolf.
“Where have you been?”
“Busy.” Sam kept her eyes on Hattie’s and her face expressionless. Her early training had emphasized the importance of not giving away her thoughts. Hattie, though, was skilled at detecting the minutest of change.
“I see,” Hattie tilted her head. “Did you contact Mr. Walters?”
“Mr. Walters?” Sam’s gaze slipped to the faded Oriental rug as her eyes flitted around the design. Mr. Walters? Who was Mr. Walters?
“The bank officer at Walnut bank?” Hattie’s jaw firmed, her eyes closing a fraction.
Oh, that Mr. Walters. Sam had failed to secure a job Hattie had lined up for her. Hattie would be livid. Sam almost winced at the unfairness. It wasn’t her fault. Hattie had assumed the bank officer she’d worked her feminine wiles on had decision making power. Not true. After waiting two hours on a backless bench, the red-faced weasel of a glorified clerk had explained in a hurried whisper that there was no need for her services. However, if she wished to open an account… Hattie wouldn’t care. She would accuse Sam of not using all her skills. As if Sam could charm a man. Not like Hattie who oozed feminine helplessness. Men fell all over themselves to assist her. Hattie was many things but helpless was not-
“Samantha?” Hattie’s eyes narrowed, deepening her wrinkles. She would hate that. “Did you speak with him?”
“Yes. Yes I did. He was regretful, but said he doesn’t need my…a… our services at this time.” Sam swallowed and returned her eyes to Hattie’s even as she felt her own jaw tense.
Hattie took in the slight motion. Disappointment flickered in her eyes so briefly that Sam wasn’t sure if she’d seen it. “I see,” Hattie dipped her chin, “that accounts for part of your day. What else have you been doing?”
Sam returned her attention to the rug. “Working.” This was a perverse game they played and though she never won, Sam knew the rules. Hattie would pick and prod until she dissected Sam’s every word or action. Sam’s role was to hold out as long as possible.
“If not with Mr. Walters, then working on what, precisely?” Hattie tipped her head to the other side exposing her graceful neck above a too low neckline. She continued without waiting for Sam’s response. Just as well. Nothing Sam said would stop the accumulating tirade. “Last I was aware, we had no other current assignment.” Hattie placed her hands on the sofa cushions and curled her fingers. “Last I was aware, we diligently sought employment.” Hattie’s fingers tapped a muffled staccato cadence as her voice rose an octave. “Last I was aware, we have had no such gainful pursuit for three months.” Sam almost winced at the exaggerated emphasis, but knew better than to show a weakness.
“You are not always aware of all my endeavors.” Sam could not keep the defiant tone from her voice.
Hattie’s eyes flashed at Sam’s rare attempt at self-defense. “You mean to say, Samantha, you are working on something that will prove… lucrative?”
Samantha. She was always Samantha to Hattie never anything that might imply a closer relationship. Sam shifted, “Well, I-.”
“You mean to say, you are working on something that will lead to a paid service? Such as, oh let us say, a case with A&D Enterprises?” Hattie leaned forward and brushed an imaginary spot off her always immaculate skirts.
“A&D Enterprises?” Sam’s eyebrows rose, her mind searching for the reference.
“Yes. Arnold and Denning Enterprises.” Oh. Mr. Arnold.
“You mean to say,” Hattie continued her eyes accessing, “you are spending time on gratis work that will generate goodwill toward our business and put us in front of potential clients?” Hattie was just getting started. She again smoothed her skirts then cocked her head to the other side, as she tapped her finger against her chin. Her amber eyes deepened to a molten gold. “Or, perhaps you mean to say you were wasting our time pursuing more of your ‘lost cause’ charity cases or following up on ‘leads’ from cases you should have left behind years ago?” Sam blanched. Hattie knew how to inflict damage. “You are not working that old case, are you? What was it?” Hattie tapped her perfect chin under her perfect bow shaped mouth. Her perfect heart-shaped face wore a perplexed frown. “You know,” Hattie flicked her fingers in the air, “the one the Pinkerton Agency declared closed? The one you alone, as a first time field agent, insisted remain active despite a seasoned veteran stating otherwise?” Here Hattie turned her full glare on Sam, fire brimming in her eyes. “The case you were so adamant about they fired you from Pinkerton’s?”
Sam’s breath hissed between her teeth as heat flared in her chest. “That’s a lie! As you well know!” She narrowed her eyes and clenched her fists, all thoughts of placating gone. “Pinkerton’s closed the female division as soon as Allan Pinkerton died. All the female investigators were let go. You know that! They demoted you to a simple clerk!” Sam felt a surge of satisfaction as a flicker of hurt crossed Hattie’s face.
“At least I kept a position,” Hattie sniffed, “a gainful position that kept us off the street.”
Sam snorted. There was no way Hattie’s meager salary paid for this. Besides, she didn’t work anymore. A year ago she’d declared she was more useful securing clients for their business. Their business. Sam investigated and Hattie helped find clients. More or less.
Hattie folded her hands and rubbed her forehead. “Regardless, Samantha, you were let go from the agency. Your investigative skills are better put to use behind a desk, not traipsing around town courting danger pretending to track criminals.” Hattie sat back nodding, satisfied order was restored, but Sam had passed the point of no return.
“For your information, I am not working on the Gittin case.”
Hattie pursed her lips and cocked her head. “Oh? If not the Gittin case then what has you so distracted that you neglected a client meeting I spent weeks arranging?”
“If you must know,” Sam’s voice sounded petulant to her own ears, “earlier today I was working on Kansas liquor smuggling and a possible mole in the police department. The Whitaker Detective Agency investigated and found nothing. The leaks haven’t stopped, though. Which means, someone is still feeding information to the smugglers. Someone with an intimate knowledge of planned sting operations. Whenever the police try to catch the criminals in the act, someone notifies them and they change their plans. We have reason to suspect the smugglers work for someone with influence, maybe even Mr. Pendergast.”
“We?” Hattie’s voice was deadly quiet as color rose to her cheeks.
Sam squared her shoulders. “Mr. Spotwood and I are investigating, yes.”
“So, you mean to say,” Sam decided right then she loathed those five words, “you are working with Spotwood the assistant clerk at the precinct?” Hattie raised one delicate eyebrow.
Sam blushed from neckline to hairline. “Yes.” She struggled to show no emotion as Hattie’s lovely laugh tinkled through the room. It was a laugh cultivated to draw attention.
“Spotwood is a worthless worm of a man. A weak specimen among never-to-be-trusted Neanderthals. What possibly possessed you to work for him?” The sarcasm in Hattie’s voice caused Sam’s stomach to clench. “Spotwood isn’t even a real police officer.” Hattie shook her head. “You realize, Samantha, that he is using you. He has been after me for months to help him apply to become a detective.” She gave an unladylike snort. “A detective, I mean really, that man?”
“But—” Sam tried but Hattie’s dismissive wave stopped her.
“He is hoping I will use my experience and influence as a Pinkerton agent to help—"
“Former, Pinkerton agent,” Sam said through clenched teeth.
Hattie narrowed her eyes and changed tactics. “You said earlier tod
ay you were helping Spotwood. That doesn’t explain why you were late this evening.” Sam stuttered. Hattie excelled at keeping her off balance. Had she admitted that? She was normally careful about what she revealed. You never knew what Hattie would use for ammunition. Like now.
“Yes, well… I-I was following a suspect and—“
Hattie’s scowl deepened as she leaned forward. “And what would you have done with a suspect if you had detained him?” She swept Sam’s small frame with a dismissive shake of her head. “No, my girl, you must stick to my business plan.”
“Spying on shop girls and bank tellers?” Sam’s control snapped. “Waiting for someone to miscount change or make an ill advised remark about the management?” Her voice rose. “It is not what I spent years training to do!”
Hattie paused, eyes locked on Sam’s. “The opportunity to do what you trained for died with Allan Pinkerton.” Her control snapped and she clenched her jaw. “Remember who taught you? I, too, am working beneath my skill set.” Bitterness laced her tone and her features as she gazed over Sam’s head. “I was Allan Pinkerton’s darling. Kate Warne and I created the role of women detectives.” Her breath hitched.
Sam stiffened. She recognized the signs. Hattie was spiraling. She needed to get her off this track and soon. Before derailment. Before Hattie worked her way up to a frenzied state. If that happened, it would take all night. Sam hated letting go, but with Hattie you never won. The only thing that counted was how long you stayed in the game and for tonight it was finished.
Hattie’s voice rose. “We made sure President Lincoln survived to become president.”
“Yes, yes, I know. You saved his life.” Sam lowered her voice and shifted forward in her seat.
“We spied for the Union army.” Hattie’s eyes lost focus.
“You were a good spy. The best.” Sam made a soothing noise in her throat.
“And Timothy…” Hattie’s voice cracked.
Sam swallowed. This was the most painful, when Hattie spoke about Timothy. “I know. I know. You loved him.”
“I try my best.” Hattie swiped at angry tears on her lashes. “He would have wanted more for us.” She clenched her fists.
Sam closed her eyes and slumped in her seat. “I’m so sorry, Hattie. You are right.” She sucked in a breath. “I was remiss to forget the meeting today after you worked so hard to arrange it.”
Hattie rubbed her hands over her lap, rustling the crinoline of her skirt. She took a deep breath and looked at Sam from the corner of her eye.
“I will go to Mr. Arnold’s office and beg his forgiveness.” Sam moved closer to Hattie, her palms out as if approaching a wild animal. “I’m sure if I offer him a discount we can work something out.” She reached out to touch Hattie’s arm.
Hattie drew in a sharp breath and rose, knocking Sam’s hand aside. “Why? Why, Samantha, do you insist on putting me through that? What perverseness drives you?”
Sam stood, face immobile and fists clenched while Hattie’s watery eyes searched her face.
“I have trained you. Provided for you.” Hattie’s jaw clamped as her lips pursed. “I have tried to teach you to rely on yourself but you just…” Her voice cracked as she looked away.
Sam ground her teeth but kept her face expressionless. She noted Hattie didn’t mention feelings for her.
Hattie lowered her head and laid a hand on her brow.
Sam’s shoulders slumped as her entire body folded in on itself. “Yes, Hattie,” she murmured, “You are right. I am sorry.”
Hattie’s face smoothed as she returned her focus to Sam, a look of disappointment in her eyes. “You will stop this investigation nonsense with Spotwood.” Hattie reached out and grabbed Sam’s chin.
Sam made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat, eyes riveted to the floor.
Hattie forced Sam’s chin up and tightened her grip. Once Sam made eye contact, Hattie’s glare bore into her, a silent battle raged until Sam nodded her head.
“I will focus on business Hattie, I promise.”
Hattie dropped her hand and glided out the door. She paused at the foot of the staircase and gazed back at Sam. “See Samantha, you can be a dutiful daughter when you put your mind to it.”
“Yes, Hattie,” Sam rose and followed her mother up the stairs.
Chapter 3
A garden of vivid colors eddied together. Iris purple, rose red, daffodil yellow. The intensity building as if the sun were blazing supernaturally brighter. Then the stench. Putrid meat, tang of blood, churned stomach contents. It all mixed, roiling together, overpowering. The scene shifts. Arcs of bright red blood splatters delicately traced patterns across the blinding white walls - the shape of a room with a bed centered - mattress bare; two garish, black-red stains side by side glowing in the unnatural light. The stains rotate, moving faster and faster growing until they blot out the room. The temperature plunges. Again a shift. Bodies appear frozen in icy blueness. Stiff. Waxen. Heads bludgeoned, blood and brain matter crusting wounds. Clutched in the hands of the middle one lays a doll, head bashed, papier-mache flakes powdering nightgown and cap.
Swirling again. Colors resolve themselves into the muted greens, yellows and browns of a summer-dry stretch of weeds. The stench alters into the muddy, fishy, dampness of a sluggish river. On the ground lies a bloated corpse - fish nibbled, animal mauled, putrid. It distends. Grows larger and larger. Blotting out sight, sound, and smell. The carcass near bursting. A scream builds. The world explodes into a riot of color and stench. Then collapses into a putrid mass, sucking everything in. There is no escape.
A resounding crash. Sam woke with a wrench and a sob as thunder diminished to a grumble. The file on her lap slid to the floor and spilled its contents. She blinked her eyes and tried to focus, her dream reluctant to fade. She was in her safe place. She leaned her head on the worn brocade chair in the cramped sitting room off her bedroom. Use had molded the reassuring lumps and divots to her body. The patterned burgundy upholstery, fashionable in its day, was once embroidered with violets. A casualty of time, now only the blossoms tucked into crevices remained. A matching footstool nestled under her feet. Standing sentry was a fringed floor lamp draped with a gauzy lavender scarf. Sam winced as she straightened, trying to work a crick out of her neck. She looked around the room, taking in its beloved shabbiness.
This was Sam’s refuge; Hattie never ventured here. Unlike the front parlor, the only bric-à-brac were mementoes of moments Sam felt compelled to save - important events, memorable people, milestones to remember. Some were comforting memories. Some were on display with the perversity of picking at a scab, refusing to allow it to heal. Her eyes flitted remembering the stories and the people. Her gaze stopped on the button hook propped against a copy of Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens. She quirked her lip on one side. She had taken on that case to champion a cause - orphan girls sold into slavery to unscrupulous owners of businesses and factories. Her eyes slid to an empty brown laudanum bottle from the Beckman’s. A reminder that even a loving child could commit murder. Some of her treasures were items of intrigue, puzzles she pondered like the letter from a victim of the Palmyra massacre. In the margin was written “keep this safe, until… S Lou.” She’d found it in the foyer years ago and still didn’t know who had slipped it under her door. These cases and puzzles intrigued her. Some she had worked on others she wished she had the nerve to pursue. Her “lost cause cases” as Hattie dubbed them. They drove her. Demons that haunted her dreams. Sam rolled her eyes. Maybe she’d inherited more drama from Hattie than she thought.
Sam plucked up a doll-head from a table. No wonder she had nightmares. Her forehead wrinkled as she ran her finger along the doll’s marred surface. Intimately familiar with every crack and spot, she turned it over in her hands. One side of the face showed a faded blue eye that still twinkled. Its kind expression invited whispered secrets. It was a stark contrast to the violence on the other side - a bashed forehead and cheek with a rust brown stain that had
seeped into the interior around the edges and marred both the inside and the surface. She rubbed the gash.
The Gittin case. Her first field case. After years of extensive training with Hattie and other female agents at Pinkerton’s; she had finally earned the right to accompany an experienced investigator. She shook her head. Lester Sloan, her field supervisor — loud, opinionated, and swaggering. He left no doubt what he considered the proper “pursuit” for any female. Even now at twenty-seven the memory of his comments made her blush. The case never added up. The fact that the murders happened in the small farming community of Stanley hadn’t helped. With no police force or sheriff to pursue justice, only a kindly elected magistrate investigated. Sloan, hadn’t tried to disguise his disgust at being saddled with her. A hulk of a man whose work philosophy was comprised of get in, settle it, and move on, didn’t want to continue in the backwater town any longer than necessary. He didn’t listen to any of her observations and as the one in charge, he’d run right over her. He was evaluating her so she hesitated to argue.
There was no picture of Gittin which compounded the problem. And Sloan didn’t feel the need to waste valuable resources having a sketch compiled, leaving no way to find potential witnesses. The description she’d put together from the man’s friends was vague. Really, what kind of man didn’t even take a wedding photograph with his bride? Apparently, the kind that murdered his family in their sleep. Sloan only focused on a letter left by Gittin. It declared his intention to kill the person he blamed for all his troubles before killing himself. After a body was pulled from the Blue River, Sloan declared the corpse was Gittin and the case closed. He didn’t care about extraneous facts that didn’t support his findings - a railroad conductor who’d seen a man matching Gittin’s description the morning of the murders on a train to Kansas City, the too advanced decay of the corpse, or even, despite the letter stating his intention to kill again, no other bodies were found.