Petticoat Detective

by Margaret Brownley

  She gave a slow nod as if she couldn’t make up her mind whether she was or wasn’t. “It’s just that I’m not working tonight, Mr. Colton.” She looked like she was trying to put up a brave front. “If … if you would kindly leave …?”

  Not working? His gaze traveled down her shiny taffeta gown before he zeroed in on her red-rouged lips. She could have fooled him. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, ma’am.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and he detected a spark of combat in their sea-green depths. “And why is that?”

  “I paid Miss Lillian ten dollars, and I mean to get my money’s worth.”

  Her eyes widened. “There are other women—”

  “But you’re the one I came to see.” The madam had assured him that Rose agreed to talk, if that’s what he wanted, so why was she making it so difficult? What kind of game was she playing?

  She glanced past him to the closed door as if measuring its distance. “I want you to leave.” She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “Now!”

  “Not till you tell me what you know about the Gunnysack Bandit.” Surprise crossed her face at mention of the outlaw, followed by a look of curiosity. Ah, now they were getting somewhere.

  “I’m waiting,” he said.

  “I have no knowledge of the man.”

  An out-and-out lie if he’d ever heard one. Frustration built up inside, and he punched a fist into his palm to relieve it.

  She shrank clear back to the mirrored wall. Much to his dismay, he realized how his thoughtless action could be misinterpreted. He began again, this time in a gentler tone.

  “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

  She studied him much as a cat studied a mouse. “You didn’t alarm me, Mr. Colton. Now if you would be so kind as to let yourself out—”

  He pulled off his Stetson and raked his fingers through his hair. Things weren’t going as he hoped, but he’d come too far to give up. “I’m sorry. I can’t do that.” He replaced his hat and hung his thumbs from his holster. “Not till you tell me what you know.”

  The stubbornness on her face matched the hands placed firmly on the deep valley of her neckline. “I know nothing.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You do know that my brother is dead.”

  She looked genuinely confused, or maybe that was an act, too. “I’m sorry about your brother, but—”

  “Sorry? That’s all you can say?” Anger erupted in him like a blown cork. His brother loved this woman, and she was as cold and heartless as a fish. “I’m not leaving, lady. Not till I get what I paid for.”

  Fury darkened her face. “I’m warning you, Mr. Colton. If you don’t leave, you’ll be sorry!”

  Was that a threat? He stared at her, but she turned slightly sideways, and, keeping one hand firmly on her chest, she dropped the other hand to her side. Had it not been for the mirror on the wall behind her, he wouldn’t have given her strange behavior another thought. But the reflection showed her bunching up the fabric of her skirt. A nervous habit?

  He pretended not to notice—until the hem of her skirt raised high enough to reveal his second glimpse of her leg. Suddenly he had trouble recalling his purpose for being there.

  He drew his gaze away from the mirror and cleared his throat. One moment she wanted him to leave. Now she was apparently trying to seduce him.

  In no mood for such tactics, he decided to show her he meant business. “I’m not leaving until I get what I came for and paid for,” he said, his voice gruff. “Now, either we do this civilly or not. Your choice.” When she failed to respond he added, “Let me know when you’re ready.”

  For a moment neither spoke, but the lady’s skirt kept inching upward. “I’m ready,” she replied.

  He nodded. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  The hem of her skirt fell to the floor, and suddenly he was on the serious side of a double-barrel derringer. Blast it all!

  Berating himself for not suspecting she was armed, he drew in his breath. “You better put that toy away before someone gets hurt.”

  The corners of her mouth tipped upward in a half smile. “Make no mistake, Mr. Colton. I know how to use this gun, and I seldom miss.”

  It was amazing what a little iron in hand could do to one’s self-confidence. All that remained of the reserved, modest woman he found when he walked in the room was the hand still strategically placed on her bodice.

  There were perhaps a dozen ways to disarm someone with a gun. If Rose were a man, he wouldn’t hesitate to use full force. Disarming a woman was a bit trickier because he didn’t want to cause unnecessary harm or discomfort.

  Still, he was in no mood to let the woman get the best of him—not when he’d traveled this far and had so much at stake. His mind made up, he stepped forward and grabbed her wrist. Her hand left her chest and caught him on the jaw so hard that his head snapped back.

  For such a small package, she packed a good wallop. Still, she was no match for him. Okay, maybe a little.

  Clenching her arm tight, he grabbed the barrel of the gun with his other hand. With a flick of his wrist, her derringer fell to the carpet. That alone might take the wind out of most people’s sails, but not hers.

  She dived for the gun, but he grabbed her around the waist and spun her in his arms. Fighting like a wildcat, she pounded on his chest with her fists.

  “Hey! Stop that,” he commanded. Never did he see a woman so fired up. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  A high-pitched scream filled the room. Rose stilled in his arms, and that was when he realized the scream hadn’t come from her.

  He released her, and in a flash, she scooped up her derringer and darted to the door. Together they ran into the hall where a couple of scantily clad women peered into a room. Nearby, a thin bald man hopped around, trying to put on his trousers. One woman slumped against a wall, sobbing.

  Next to her, a comatose Miss Lillian sprawled on the floor like a marlin on a ship’s deck. Two women were trying to revive her with smelling salts.

  “What’s wrong?” a redheaded woman clad in only a petticoat asked.

  “It’s … it’s … Rose,” a dark-skinned woman squeaked out.

  Tom stared at her. Rose? Did he hear right? He pushed past the female residents and into the room on the other side of the hall. A woman in a blue gown lay on the floor. He didn’t have to look twice to know she was past saving.

  If this was Rose, then who in the name of Sam Hill was the green-eyed beauty with the iron-like fist?

  Ignoring the chaos around her, Amy dropped to her knees in full detective mode and studied Rose’s body. One thing she’d learned from experience was to pay close attention at crime scenes. Even the most minor details could turn out to be significant in solving a case.

  It was clear by the blood in her hair that Rose had been hit over the head. The bloodied candlestick holder on the floor next to the body was apparently the murder weapon.

  Earlier, Amy had guessed Rose’s age at thirty. Now she realized the woman was much younger, perhaps in her early twenties. How did such a pretty young woman end up in a place like this? How, for that matter, did any of them end up here?

  She pushed the thought away and scanned the room from one end to the other. It was a mess. Clothes were strewn all over the floor, and a lamp lay on its side, kerosene dripping onto the carpet. Rose must have put up quite a fight during the last moments of her life.

  Amy gave Rose’s hands a cursory glance. Other than the wound on her head, no other marks were evident.

  Mr. Colton hunkered down on the opposite side of the corpse, his face grim. “Now look what you’ve done.” His low voice was meant for her ears only, along with the accusation in his eyes.

  She lifted her chin. What an annoying man. “What I’ve done?”

  “Had you told me from the start you weren’t Rose—”

  “You never asked me,” she shot back.

  He frowned in cold fury. “You must have known I mistook you for someone else.
Now, thanks to you, she’s dead.”

  Holding her gun by her side, she glared at him. “You have your nerve blaming me!”

  He leaned over Rose’s body, his nose practically in Amy’s face. “What do you know about the Gunnysack Bandit?”

  She seethed inwardly. The man was probably a bounty hunter or private detective interested in the reward. Amateur sleuths were the bane of professional detectives and always got in the way of an investigation.

  “I told you I know nothing,” she retorted. “What did you want to talk to Rose about?”

  “It’s none of your business,” he said, his voice curt.

  “Any time I’m accused of someone’s death, it’s my business,” she sputtered.

  “Excuse me?”

  Both their heads swiveled toward the throaty voice.

  Miss Lillian was on her feet, but just barely. It took three women to keep her from falling. Even with their help, she leaned back at a ninety degree angle with only the heels of her shoes on the floor. “Would someone please fetch ole Tin Star?” she said in a weak voice.

  Amy shot her accuser a fiery glance. “I’m sure Mr. Colton would be happy to fetch the marshal for us.” The sooner she got rid of him, the sooner she could concentrate on the crime scene. She also wanted to query the others while their memories were still fresh. Given the appearance of the room, someone must have heard something.

  A muscle tightened at Colton’s jaw, but he rose. “I’ll be back.” He made it sound like a threat, but before she could respond, he stomped from the room.

  Chapter 3

  The following morning, Amy slipped quietly down the hall and stopped in front of Rose’s room. She tried the brass knob but the door held firm. Having gotten little sleep, she stifled a yawn and tried to decide her next move.

  Stolen money from Gunnysack’s last holdup had been deposited into Rose’s account. Was Rose in cahoots with the bandit or merely an innocent bystander? How Rose fit into the grand scheme of things might never be known, and that sure did put a damper on Amy’s investigation. The worst thing that could happen to a detective was for a suspect or witness to turn up dead.

  Despite Amy’s attempts to examine the crime scene the night before without arousing suspicion, she’d made little headway. The woman named Coral grew suspicious and, after chasing everyone out of Rose’s room, stood guard waiting for the marshal.

  The name of the guest seen in the hallway was Mr. Pepper, and his only interest had been making his escape. He was more interested in preserving his reputation than in helping solve a crime.

  By the time Colton returned to the parlor house with the marshal and doctor in tow, Amy had still not uncovered any useful information. Marshal Flood immediately took over, forcing her to play the part of one of Miss Lillian’s good-time girls. She answered the marshal’s questions and looked appropriately saddened by Rose’s demise. Ignoring Mr. Colton’s icy glares was the hard part. The man had his nerve, blaming her for Rose’s death.

  In due order, the body was removed from the premises, and the marshal, doctor, and Colton departed. Since no one could sleep, Miss Lillian ordered one of her girls to make pots of hot tea.

  While the women sat forlornly in the parlor, Amy managed to sneak in a few questions, but the answers were worthless at best. No one heard anything, saw anything, suspected anything.

  The person who interested her most was Colton. Was he a bounty hunter? The Gunnysack Bandit was wanted dead or alive. With a ten-thousand-dollar bounty, every criminal chaser in the country was on his trail.

  Still, Colton didn’t seem to fit the part. The bounty hunters she’d had occasion to meet were rough and tough and often uncouth. Always in transit, they seldom worried about hygiene or appearances, and most sported long, shaggy beards and mustaches—none of which applied to Mr. Colton. Not only was he clean shaven, he looked and smelled like he’d just made friendly with a bathhouse.

  So what is your business, Mr. Colton? What did you want with Rose? And what do you know about the Gunnysack Bandit? Somehow she had to find out. Recalling their angry exchange, it wasn’t something she relished, but so far Colton was her best bet for information.

  Pushing her thoughts aside, she stooped to examine the doorknob. She had never had any luck picking locks, but she could try. Just as she pulled a hairpin from the back of her head, an ear-piercing scream sent chills down her spine.

  Reaching in the false pocket of her skirt, she pulled out her gun and darted down the hall. In her haste, she practically stumbled down the stairs. Oh, God, please, not another body.

  The scream grew louder as her slippers hit the ground floor. Mr. Beavers, the cat, streaked past her as she dashed into the parlor.

  She practically fell over the back of an upholstered settee in her haste. Miss Lillian looked up from the piano, curved fingers poised above the ivory keys. Next to her a tall man with a pencil-thin mustache sent a gargling shrill note into the stratosphere before falling silent.

  Miss Lillian was the first to speak. “Good heavens, child. What are you doing with that gun?” She looked tired today, and even the thick coat of paint failed to hide her pallor. Amy wasn’t the only one who got little or no sleep last night.

  Amy hid the weapon behind the folds of her skirt. “I thought I heard a scream.”

  “A scream?” Miss Lillian’s eyes widened. “I didn’t hear a scream. Did you, Mr. Studebaker?”

  “No ma’am,” he said. Considering the high-pitched volume he’d managed moments earlier, his speaking voice sounded surprisingly normal.

  “You must be hearing things,” Miss Lillian said, turning back to the piano.

  Studebaker stared down his long, thin nose at Amy, as if resenting the intrusion and straightened his bow tie. With his patent leather hair and carefully waxed mustache, he bore a striking resemblance to an embezzler she had recently helped put behind bars.

  “My mistake,” she said, backing up. No sooner had she left the room than a piano chord sounded, followed by what could only be described as a blaring foghorn.

  The music abruptly stopped. “Stand up straight and breathe!” Miss Lillian ordered. “Okay, again, one, two, three …”

  SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH!

  Amy slipped her weapon through her false pocket and into the holster at her thigh. After the unfortunate incident with Mr. Colton the night before, she’d ripped open a seam in her skirt so she could more easily retrieve her weapon. She was still miffed for allowing the man to wrestle the gun from her hand. Something like that would never happen again. Not if she had anything to do about it.

  But Mr. Colton wasn’t the only reason she was riled. A murder had been committed beneath this very roof, and no one saw anything suspicious. The room was in terrible disarray, yet no one heard a thing. Either someone was lying or …

  Somehow she had to get into Rose’s room. Where did Miss Lillian keep the keys?

  The volume of Mr. Studebaker’s voice increased, and Amy clapped her hands over her ears and looked up. Prisms of the crystal chandelier rattled like a bunch of old bones. A man caught in a bear trap couldn’t sound worse.

  That morning over breakfast, Miss Lillian had announced that no “guests” would be allowed for three days out of respect for Rose. Too bad the woman’s regard for the deceased didn’t extend to singing lessons.

  “Breathe, breathe!” Miss Lillian thundered.

  SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH!

  Fortunately, the man either ran out of breath or passed out, and blessed silence followed. With a sigh, Amy studied the door leading to Miss Lillian’s office. Maybe the key to Rose’s room was in there.

  “Psst.”

  Amy whirled about. One of the girls—Coral—stood next to the staircase, motioning to her.

  “I want to show you something,” she said, her voice hushed. She was a tall, slender woman with a broad nose and full lips. As was the fashion for dark-skinned women, her black hair had been straightened with a hot metal
comb and piled on top of her head.

  Motioning with her hand, Coral led the way through the dining room and into the kitchen. A cookstove filled one wall and a tall icebox and baker’s cabinet another.

  Coral reached under the counter and pulled out a Peacemaker.

  Amy slapped the barrel of the gun away. “You mustn’t point a gun like that!”

  Coral pushed her lips out like a petulant child. “You can’t kill anyone with an unloaded weapon.”

  “Tell that to the man who was shot by one.” The nonmusical assault began again in the next room, and Amy had to raise her voice to be heard. “Where did you get that?” It was obvious the woman didn’t know beans about handling a firearm.

  Coral laid the gun on the counter. “From Harry’s Gun and Bakery Shoppe.”

  Amy’s eyebrows shot up. Guns and baked goods? And she thought a parlor house selling boots was odd. “What do you plan to do with it?”

  Coral looked about to burst into tears. “After what happened to Rose …” She pulled a white linen handkerchief out of a leg-of-mutton sleeve and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “A girl’s got to protect herself.” She tossed her head. “I noticed you had a gun.”

  Amy couldn’t blame Coral for being scared, and she softened her voice. “You’d do better with one like mine.” She pulled out her derringer.

  Coral made a face. “But that’s so small.”

  “Trust me, it gets the job done, and it’s easy to hide.” She slipped the weapon back in place. “I suggest you go back to Harry’s baked gun store and exchange it for one you can handle.”

  Coral frowned. “If … if you think that’s best.”

  “I do, but if you insist upon carrying a gun, you must learn to use it properly.”

  “Will you teach me?” Coral asked.

  Amy hesitated. She had been sent to Kansas to do a job and didn’t have time to give shooting lessons. Already she was behind in writing her report to headquarters. The principal wouldn’t be happy that the Gunnysack Bandit investigation had come to a halt because of a funeral, but it wasn’t her fault, and all might not be lost.