Petticoat Detective

by Margaret Brownley

  His description of the man matched the one in the Pinkerton file almost word for word. Nevertheless, she stayed in character and opened her eyes wide to feign shock. “And you want me to spy on him? A thief and a killer?”

  “Even if we knew his identity, which we don’t, I’d prefer that you didn’t go anywhere near him. He’s dangerous, but I doubt that after what he did to Rose he’ll show his face at Miss Lillian’s again. At least not for a while.”

  This time she didn’t have to fake surprise. “You think he killed Rose?”

  “I’ll bet my boots on it.”

  His well-worn boots looked like they’d been trampled by a herd of cattle. Someone would have to be pretty desperate to take him up on his offer.

  “As certain as that, Mr. Colton?” she asked, her tone wry.

  “Yes ma’am.” Apparently, he didn’t see the humor in his comment, and the hoped-for smile failed to materialize.

  “How do you know this man … is responsible?” There were only two guests at the house the night Rose died, and one of them was Mr. Colton. The other man was Mr. Pepper. Standing little more than five feet tall, he hardly fit the description of the Gunnysack Bandit.

  “I have my ways.” He glanced around and lowered his voice. “I want you to talk to the others and find out if Rose mentioned him to anyone at the house. Perhaps even revealed his name … I’ll pay for any information you can give me.”

  She weighed the pros and cons of his proposal. If either of the two Pinkerton brothers got wind that she was working for another, she would be fired on the spot. William and Robert demanded complete loyalty from employees, just as their founding father had done when he was still in full charge of the company. On the other hand, if Mr. Colton thought she was working for him, he would be more likely to share whatever knowledge he had with her.

  “So what do you say?” he prodded.

  “If I decide to do this, how will I reach you?” she asked, stalling for time. She’d received a telegram from headquarters with orders to continue investigating. That meant she had to find a way to remain at Miss Lillian’s without compromising her morals—a goal she hadn’t the foggiest idea how to accomplish.

  “I’m staying at the hotel.” His brow furrowed. “So is that a yes?”

  His staying at the hotel posed a complication. They could easily bump into each other whenever she went to her rented room. She moistened her rouged lips and immediately regretted drawing his attention to her mouth.

  “I’ll let you kn–know,” she stammered.

  His gaze met hers. “Fair enough.” He seemed oblivious to the three matronly women standing a short distance away, watching them from the other side of the fence. “But I’ll expect an answer by four tomorrow afternoon. Agreed?”

  That didn’t give her much time to figure out how to proceed with the investigation, but she nodded. “Is that the only reason you came to today? To talk me into spying?” she asked.

  “That and”—he tossed a nod toward the fresh mound of dirt marking Rose’s grave—“to pay my respects to my brother’s fiancée.”

  He doffed his Stetson and walked away. She hardly had time to recover from the surprising new information when the three women stepped through the gate separating the two cemeteries and advanced toward her.

  Their gray skirts and long dark capes were more suited for a funeral than the bright colors worn by Miss Lillian’s girls, but none of the women so much as glanced at the new grave.

  A barrel-shaped woman, whose size alone gave her the right to be the leader, moved closer. Her hips were so wide she looked like a carriage with the doors flung open, the bustle in back ready to receive passengers. Three neatly stacked chins competed with the ribbon holding her straw hat in place. Peering through spectacles that rested on the bridge of her pointed nose, she studied Amy like a surgeon about to cut open a patient.

  “I’m Mrs. Givings, and we’re from the church.” She pointed toward the First Community Church that stood at the entrance of the cemetery. The other two women confirmed her statement with nods and stiff smiles.

  “This is Mrs. Compton,” she said, pointing to a tall, thin woman with jet-black hair and a pale white face. “And this is Mrs. Albright.”

  The third church member, with her drab dress and sallow complexion, hardly suited her name, nor did the swift bucktoothed smile that failed to reach her eyes.

  “I’m Amy, and I’m pleased to meet you,” she said as politely as she could without encouraging further conversation.

  Mrs. Givings folded her gloved hands, and her drawstring bag dangled from her thick wrist. “I think you’ll be happy to know that we’ve come to save you.”

  Amy didn’t want to be rude, but she couldn’t keep her gaze away from Mr. Colton striding across the cemetery. He let himself out of the church gate and grabbed his horse’s reins. Before mounting, he spoke to the horse as if asking permission to ride.

  Even in the saddle, he held his back straight and head high. Like a military man. Trained to be suspicious of everyone and everything, she couldn’t help but wonder if his character matched his good looks.

  A clearing of a throat reminded her that she wasn’t alone, and she turned her gaze back to the churchwomen. “Excuse me, but did you say save?”

  Three heads bobbed up and down like the springs of a wagon.

  As if there could be any doubt as to her meaning, Mrs. Givings wagged a finger skyward. “Save!”

  Amy felt a sinking feeling. The last thing she needed was another sermon, no matter how well meaning. Reverend Matthews’s discourse had been enough for one day, thank you very much, and she had work to do.

  Anxious to return to Miss Lillian’s, she tried to think how to get rid of the pious-looking three without sounding rude or unkind. She needed to find out who knew of Rose’s engagement and what, if anything, it had to do with the Gunnysack Bandit.

  “Why, that’s very thoughtful of you,” she said, purposely pretending to misunderstand their meaning. “I’ve never had bodyguards before. Do you all carry weapons?”

  Chapter 7

  Amy was anxious to talk to Miss Lillian in private, but the madam retired to her room upon returning home from the funeral and stayed there for the remainder of the day. No one else felt much like talking, which meant more wasted time. The only person downstairs was Beatrice, the housekeeper.

  Amy followed the housekeeper into the parlor. A thin woman somewhere in her late twenties, Beatrice flicked her feather duster from table to lamp to piano to floorboard.

  Amy cast a covetous glance at the maid’s apparel. Had Miss Lillian mistaken her for a maid instead of a harlot she would now be wearing a plain gray dress with a starched white apron—a much more practical uniform for her purposes.

  “How long have you worked here, Beatrice?”

  The question seemed to surprise the woman, and her gaze darted around the room as if to check for eavesdroppers before answering. “Three years.”

  “That’s a long time.”

  The woman merely shrugged.

  Closemouthed people were a detective’s bane, and this house was full of them. “Then you must have known Rose quite well.”

  Beatrice swiped the hand-painted glass lamp shade with her duster. “I keep pretty much to myself.”

  Encouraged that the woman could string more than two or three words together, Amy persisted. “I noticed that you and the cook don’t live here.”

  “I stay overnight only when I’m asked to work late.” She glanced at the doorway. “I have a room at Miss Trumble’s Boarding House.”

  “But you must know the residents quite well.” How could she not?

  “Like I said, I keep to myself. What they do …” Beatrice made the sign of the cross and shuddered. “I clean the house. That’s all.”

  Amy sympathized with the woman’s obvious discomfort. Staying at Miss Lillian’s for these past three days had taken an emotional toll. For the first time since working as a Pinkerton operative she�
�d been tempted to quit before completing an assignment. She couldn’t imagine working at such a place for three years.

  “Could you at least tell me what Rose was like?” Amy probed. It struck her as odd that neither the cook nor the housekeeper attended her funeral.

  Beatrice flicked her feather duster over the piano keys a second time. “She was quiet but friendly.”

  “Did you know she was betrothed?”

  Beatrice hesitated—a sure sign she would either not answer the question or lie.

  Not wanting to give her a chance to do either, Amy quickly asked, “Who told you?”

  “I don’t know. One of the girls. I must have heard them talking or something.”

  If that was true, then the four women had lied when they claimed they didn’t know Rose’s plans. The question was, why? “Had you met her fiancé?”

  Beatrice lowered her gaze. “I’m generally gone by the time most guests arrive.”

  Amy tried to think how best to phrase her next question and decided to come right out with it. “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to cause Rose harm?”

  Beatrice’s brown eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking all these questions?”

  “I don’t mean to pry.” That’s exactly what she meant to do. “I only met Rose the one time, and I just got back from her funeral. Naturally, I’m curious.”

  The answer seemed to satisfy Beatrice; at least she looked less suspicious. “I don’t know anyone who wanted to hurt her. Like I said, she was friendly. Now if you’ll excuse me …”

  The woman seemed anxious to get on with her work. Amy let her go without further comment and watched her scamper away like a little mouse. The woman had secrets no doubt, but so, it seemed, did everyone else in that house.

  The following morning after breakfast Amy dressed in the blue calico skirt and white shirtwaist collected from her hotel room on the way home from yesterday’s funeral. Without the face paint and fancy clothes, she felt more like herself. Maybe now she could get some real work done.

  She hurried downstairs, determined to gain Miss Lillian’s attention, but never got a chance for the house was a beehive of activity.

  A man by the name of Mr. Deering had delivered a wagonload of groceries. Three times a week he brought fresh fruits and vegetables to the house, along with steak, chicken, and cheese, but according to Polly, never without a battle. Today was no different, and a loud argument rose from the kitchen.

  “I’m not paying that much for chicken!” the cook yelled. Her outburst was followed by the clang of pots and pans.

  Mr. Deering sounded more indignant than angry. “Do you think I like charging this much?”

  No sooner had Miss Lillian rescued the hapless grocer and restored order than Miss Paisley, the local dressmaker, arrived loaded down with a trunk full of colorful silks, satins, and lace. Sporting women were expected to keep up appearances, and that meant maintaining five or more fancy gowns at all times.

  Miss Paisley’s drab gray skirt and mousy-brown hair seemed at odds with the bold, outrageous gowns she designed. It was almost as if she purposely downplayed her own appearance so as not to compete with her colorful creations.

  Holding up various pieces of fabric and lace, she kept up a running commentary about the pros and cons of each. With her thick French accent, Amy had a difficult time understanding her.

  While the women all sat around the parlor, poring over fabric samples, Miss Paisley’s hawkeyed gaze zeroed in on Amy.

  She said something in French before switching to thick-accented English. “What have ve here? Stand up, stand up.”

  Amy waved her hand from side to side. “No, that’s all right. I’m just here to watch.” She didn’t know how long she would remain at the parlor house, and she doubted the Pinkerton brothers would relish paying for a ball gown.

  “You’re here to work,” Miss Lillian said. “Don’t worry about the cost. I’ll take it out of your salary.”

  “Oh, but—”

  Miss Lillian would hear none of what she tried to say, so Amy decided it was easier to play along than argue. At least until she had a chance to talk to the madam in private.

  Miss Paisley gazed at Amy’s attire and muttered something that sounded alarmingly like “Murder, murder.”

  “Amy is our newest resident,” Miss Lillian explained with an apologetic air. Not only did the madam run a tight ship, she ran the language of iniquity through a moral sieve. Thus clients were called “guests,” working girls “residents,” and anything that happened behind closed doors, just plain old “hospitality.”

  “Not to worry,” Miss Paisley said, hands all aflutter. “I have just the thing.” She pulled a rose-colored swag of fabric from her trunk and draped it across Amy’s chest. “Parfait! The color—how do you say—completes your skin.”

  She said something else, but Amy couldn’t make out what it was. She also chose not to correct the dressmaker’s use of the word complete. “She’s asking what fabric you prefer,” Georgia explained.

  “She means other than calico,” Coral added, staring at Amy’s skirt with a roll of her eyes.

  Buttercup laughed and Polly glared at her. “Th–there’s nothing wrong with c–calico … in the r–right setting.”

  Sensing an argument about to follow, Amy hastily murmured, “Taffeta.” She was anxious for Miss Paisley to leave so she could get back to work. One of the residents had to know something about Rose’s death, the Gunnysack Bandit, or both.

  Her choice earned Amy the first look of approval from the seamstress. “Ah, oui. I do believe you’re more the taffeta type. Do you want it in wild rose or strawberry? Or would you prefer another color?”

  “Uh … green.”

  Miss Paisley couldn’t have looked more appalled had Amy asked for zebra stripes. “Plain green is for pheasants!” she snapped.

  “I think she means peasants,” Georgia whispered.

  “For Miss Lillian’s ladies, only the most artful shades will do. With your coloring, I suggest jade or maybe even moss green.”

  Amy had no intention of staying at the bordello long enough to warrant a gown, but the woman obviously wasn’t going to leave her alone until she had made a selection. She picked out meadow green, which everyone in the room agreed went with her eyes.

  “Good choice.” Miss Paisley then directed her attention to the others.

  The array of colors and fabrics from which to choose didn’t seem to faze anyone else. After staring at herself in the mirror, Buttercup settled on a cornflower-blue silk, and Coral went with a burnt-almond taffeta. Polly couldn’t make up her mind between shell pink or crushed roses, and Miss Lillian insisted she take both.

  While Polly, Georgia, and Buttercup had no objection to the type of necklines Miss Paisley suggested, Coral wanted hers lower.

  “Give her an inch and she’ll wear it,” Georgia whispered.

  Amy covered her mouth to hide a giggle. Oddly enough, she and Georgia had developed an easy rapport. Under different circumstances they might have even become friends. But Amy couldn’t afford the luxury of letting down her guard and getting close to anyone. Not while she was working.

  Thinking Miss Paisley was done with her, Amy rose. This practically sent Miss Paisley into a tizzy. Rushing to her side, the dressmaker circled her waist with a measuring tape like a dog sniffing out a place to bury a bone. She examined Amy’s plain shirtwaist and shook her head. The look on her face was one of pure horror.

  “I think a cuirass bodice would suit you quite well. What do you think?”

  “I—” Amy didn’t know a cuirass from a catfish. Never one to kowtow to fashion, she’d paid little attention to the latest styles, except for when undercover work required it. No-nonsense skirts and tailored shirtwaists were more her style and more practical for chasing suspects.

  Speaking in her native tongue, Miss Paisley fiddled with the back. “Do you want a butterfly or waterfall?”

  “Uh …”

  At la
st the ordeal was over, though Amy hadn’t the slightest idea if she’d purchased a gown or a national park.

  Miss Paisley wrote Amy’s measurements in her notebook. “Your total is three hundred dollars.”

  Amy’s mouth dropped open. “For … for one gown?”

  The dressmaker stiffened. “You wanted a waterfall.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t want to purchase Niagara.” She could well imagine what William Pinkerton would say if she turned in a three-hundred-dollar bill for a dress. William already considered female operatives too expensive to maintain. This was part of the reason he wanted to do away with the women’s detective division begun by his father. Father and son were still at loggerheads over the subject. Amy feared that if anything happened to the old man, her career would come to an end.

  Miss Lillian made an impatient gesture with her hand. “I won’t have us making all this fuss over money. People will think we’re running a poorhouse.”

  It was two hours later before Miss Paisley finally packed up her samples and left. Amy tried to gain Miss Lillian’s attention, but the madam waved her away.

  “Georgia, take her upstairs and get her dressed properly. We can’t have her insulting our guests with her plain clothes and dull appearance.”

  Amy gazed down at her modest attire. Insulting? “But I need to talk to you,” she protested.

  “First things first,” Miss Lillian sniffed. “And for goodness’ sakes, do something about your walk. You’ll catch more fish by wiggling the bait.”

  To demonstrate, she walked away swaying her hips from side to side like a pendulum.

  Amy dreaded the beauty sessions almost as much as she dreaded being called on the Pinkerton carpet. Every pimple, every patch of red skin, every imperfection no matter how small was attacked with liberal doses of castor oil, glycerin, or vinegar.

  Raw potatoes were applied to eye bags and dark shadows. And though no one but Buttercup had even a hint of a double chin, all were required to sleep with chin straps.

  Buttercup had been given the task of teaching Amy how to look and act like a proper lady of the night, while Coral, Georgia, and Polly watched from the sidelines.