Petticoat Detective

by Margaret Brownley

  Spotting the top of Mr. Colton’s wide-brim hat as he ascended the stairs, she panicked and ran through the first open door. An older man with a white mustache and beard was emptying his suitcase.

  He took one look at her and licked his chops. “Now that’s what I call room service.”

  Chapter 13

  The next day, Amy sat in her room and stared at the calendar. She couldn’t believe she’d been at Miss Lillian’s Parlor House for a week. The worst part was that she had precious little to show for it. She’d questioned the others at length, but no one had anything useful to say. Never had she met more closemouthed women. Her frustration grew with each passing hour.

  Living at Miss Lillian’s was an odd experience that clawed at Amy’s conscience. It sickened her to see women spend so much time primping, flirting, and kowtowing to men. Most everything of an immoral nature was kept behind closed doors, of course, but that didn’t make it any easier to bear. For her own peace of mind, she constantly reminded herself that she was there for the greater good. Her job was to catch a criminal, not to judge the way others lived their lives.

  Isn’t that what the Bible said? “Judge not.” Easier said than done. Never before had she struggled so hard to be charitable. Harder still was holding her tongue.

  It was all she could do not to shake Polly and the other women and make them see what they were doing was wrong and destructive. God had a better plan, if only they would put their trust in Him. She couldn’t say that, of course, couldn’t take a chance on blowing her cover. But it nearly killed her to keep quiet. It surely did feel like God was testing her.

  She also felt guilty for enjoying the luxurious living conditions at Miss Lillian’s. That she couldn’t deny.

  The madam had spared no expense in creating a pleasant environment for her “girls.” The flocked red wallpaper was from France, the ornate carpets from the Orient, and the crystal chandeliers had been shipped directly from Italy.

  Indoor plumbing was an extravagance that Amy had only heard about but had never personally experienced except in hotels. It was something she imagined that only kings and the very rich could afford. The highlight of her day was sinking into the footed porcelain tub with its gold-plated faucets and letting her cares float away. The hot, soapy water provided a soothing salve for the soul and cleared her mind.

  During nonworking hours, the atmosphere at the house became notably more relaxed. At times it seemed more like a women’s school dormitory than a bordello. The low, smoky voices trained to capture a man’s ear grew more natural and therefore more high pitched. Without layers of face paint, expressions appeared softer, but no less sad.

  Each woman was expected to keep her own room tidy and to attend to any necessary mending, but the wash was sent out to Soo’s Chinese Laundry and Fine Tea on Third Street.

  When they weren’t working, the women enjoyed parlor games. Only Polly and Georgia could read. Polly devoured dime novels like candy, but Georgia’s reading tastes were more refined. Once, Amy caught her reading a book of love poems, which she hid behind her back. Sometimes Miss Lillian played the piano and Buttercup and Georgia joined her in song.

  One afternoon Amy offered to play the piano for them, and though she was sorely out of practice, her command of the yellowed ivory keys brought oohs and aahs from the women.

  “I had no idea you were so talented,” Miss Lillian said. “You must play for our guests.”

  Amy shook her head. “I haven’t played in years.” She was amazed that she still had the music memorized. Her old music teacher, Mrs. Jeremy, had been tough on her, and it had paid off.

  “What’s the name of the piece you played?” Buttercup asked, pulling her gaze away from the wall mirror.

  “ ‘Für Elise.’ It’s by Beethoven. I’m afraid I hardly did it justice.” Between the tuneless piano and wrong notes, the poor composer was probably turning over in his grave. She could almost hear Mrs. Jeremy’s voice now. “A cow could play with more grace!”

  “Some people think the real title is ‘Für Theresa,’ but Beethoven had such poor handwriting no one can be certain.”

  “M–maybe he c–couldn’t s–say T–T–T–,” Polly stammered.

  “Beethoven was deaf, not dumb,” Coral said. To her credit, a look of horror crossed her face the moment the words left her mouth. “I didn’t mean that how it sounded.”

  Georgia broke the stiff silence that followed with a wistful sigh. “He must have loved her very much to name a song after her.”

  Amy expected Coral to make some disparaging comment about love or men or both, but she said nothing. Apparently she really did feel bad about her careless remark to Polly.

  Georgia’s sentiment did, however, have a sobering effect on the little group, and no one said much after that. It was times like this when the masks slipped off, giving a hint of the women behind them, a hint of the broken dreams and disillusionments that brought them here.

  Amy turned back to the piano and started playing again. From the deep recesses of her mind came a memory, came a voice. “Pay Do-dah, Tenfer.”

  Her little sister, Cissy, couldn’t pronounce “Jennifer,” so she called her “Tenfer” instead. Do-dah was her name for the “Camptown Races.” Cissy had never learned to say Jennifer correctly because she disappeared at the age of three and was never heard from again.

  The memory stabbed through Amy like a knife, and grief the size of a whale rose up and threatened to swallow her. Her hands crashed to the keys and the discordant tone resonated through the room.

  Shaken by the feeling of loss and despair that suddenly overwhelmed her, she spun around on the piano stool to apologize. But the ringing dinner bell had everyone on their feet and heading for the dining room.

  The noon meal was a grand occasion at Miss Lillian’s. The table was set with fine damask linen, sterling silver cutlery, and bone china plates. Fresh flowers decorated the center of the table, their dainty, sweet fragrance a pleasant change from the heavy perfume that usually tainted the air.

  The laughter and easy chatter that greeted Amy on her first day had, since Rose’s death, been replaced with mostly sullen looks and reserved exchanges.

  Now that the women had firearms, they toted their reticules with them everywhere. Even Miss Lillian had grown attached to her drawstring bag and was never seen without it.

  The madam sat at her usual place at the head of the table, but it was the empty chair that continued to draw sideways glances.

  This didn’t escape Miss Lillian’s notice. “I need to find someone to replace Rose,” she announced while daintily cutting her meat.

  This brought an outcry from Polly. “H–how could you even think of rep–placing her. After she w–w–was—”

  “The world doesn’t stop because someone died,” Coral said.

  Buttercup gazed at her reflection in the silver serving spoon before helping herself to mashed potatoes. “And it’s been what? A little over a week,” she said, her voice thick with sarcasm.

  Coral glared at her. “Life goes on.”

  Polly jumped to her feet and tossed her napkin at Coral. “I don’t know how you can b–b–be so h–heartless.” She grabbed her reticule and ran from the room.

  Silence thick as fog followed her departure. One by one, the women left the table. Amy purposely lingered over her meal until even Miss Lillian gave up and left the room.

  Amy then picked up her empty plate and carried it into the kitchen.

  The cook’s name was Coffey. She was a large woman with doe-like eyes and black frizzy hair. A former slave, she took great pride in her cooking skills and had no patience for picky eaters like Georgia. Seemingly unaware of Amy’s presence, she muttered to herself.

  “I’m a’tellin’ you, that girl is gonna waste away to nothing. Mark my words. She’ll be so skinny we won’t even be able to find her body to bury her.”

  Amy set her plate on the counter next to the sink. Coffey glanced at her, but her complaints contin
ued uninterrupted: Buttercup took more than her fair share of helpings, Coral put salt on her food….

  “Lawdy, you’d think the girl would taste the food first.”

  Amy waited for Coffey to finish her diatribe. “I need to ask you something, Coffey.”

  Coffey shook her head. “I’m not giving away my recipes, if that’s what you have in mind.”

  “Actually, it has to do with Rose. Did you know that she was engaged to be married?”

  Coffey’s eyes narrowed. “Who told you that?”

  “Her fiancé’s brother. Does the name Dave Colton ring a bell?”

  Coffey made a face. “I remember him. He always stuffed his pockets with my macaroons. Had himself a healthy appetite but never looked you square in the eye. Know what I mean?”

  “I think so,” Amy said. Tom Colton certainly didn’t have any trouble looking people in the eye—looking her in the eye.

  Coffey scoffed. “A man who can’t look you in the eyes ain’t to be trusted, and I told Rose as much. Now you’re telling me she was gonna marry him!”

  “Did you notice anything different about her before she died?”

  “Whatcha talkin’ about, girl?” Coffey scrunched up her face. “How, different?”

  “Did she seem nervous or worried or act strange in some way?”

  “Only in the morning.” Coffey smacked her lips together. “She was always the first one downstairs. Looked bright and shiny as a new penny, she did. Then one day she walked into the kitchen, took one smell of the coffee, and turned three shades of green.”

  Amy stared at her. “Rose was with child?”

  Coffey frowned. “Well, it sure wasn’t my coffee making her sick.”

  Rose’s pregnancy was a twist Amy hadn’t counted on. “Did you tell anyone about her condition?”

  “Now why would I go and do that? It was nobody’s business but hers.”

  That was true only if it was Dave Colton’s child. But what if it had been someone else’s? Would that have provided a motivation for murder? “Do you think the man she planned to wed was the father?”

  “Now how am I supposed to know that? Don’t even know how she knew who the father was herself.” Her features darkened beneath a veil of suspicion. “Why you asking all these questions?”

  “No reason. I was just curious.”

  “Seems to me that nobody’s business is everyone’s curiosity. Now, scat. I’ve got work to do.” Waving a flour-sack towel, she chased Amy out of the kitchen.

  Chapter 14

  Amy was still mulling over her conversation with Coffey moments later when she climbed the stairs to the second floor. Muffled sobs made her stop in front of Polly’s room. The poor girl sounded like she was crying her heart out.

  Amy knocked twice before entering the room.

  Polly lay facedown on the bed, nose buried in the pillow. Sobs shuddered through her body, and it sure did look like her heart was broken.

  Amy sat on the edge of the mattress, knocking a dime novel to the floor. “Talk to me.” When Polly made no response, Amy’s mind suddenly flicked back in time, and she was sitting on her sister’s bed. She blinked, but the vision of a young child refused to budge. She never knew what would transport her back to that terrible time when it seemed as if her private world had come to an end.

  Sometimes it took no more than a certain word or sound for the memories to return. The other day it was walking into the hotel to meet Colton and seeing a woman with a young child. Now, it was the simple act of comforting a distraught woman—a blond like her sister, Cissy.

  Tracking down outlaws was now her job, but secretly it was Cissy for whom her heart searched. If her sister was still alive, she would now be eighteen, only a few years younger than Polly. But God, please, don’t let her end up in a place like this.

  A movement on the bed chased her thoughts away, but she knew the reprieve was only temporary. The memories of Cissy and the night she disappeared were never gone for long.

  Amy pulled her hand away. Polly turned over and stared at her with watery red eyes.

  “Where can I find a handkerchief?” Amy asked.

  “In the drawer.”

  Amy crossed to the bureau and chose one from the neatly stacked pile in the top drawer and returned to the bed. Polly took it from her and dabbed at her paint-smeared cheeks.

  “Anything I can do?” Amy asked.

  Polly blew her nose. “Not unless you can bring Rose b–b–back.”

  Amy heaved a sigh. “That would take a miracle.” She’d stopped believing in miracles the night Cissy disappeared.

  “I’m not expecting a miracle. I just w–want to know wh–who did it.”

  “I do, too.” Amy knew from painful experience that nothing was worse than lingering questions. Why did this happen? What could I have done different? What happened to Cissy? Not knowing was sometimes worse than the actual loss.

  “Everyone seems to agree that Rose had no enemies,” Amy said gently. She didn’t want to upset Polly any further, but in her current vulnerable state, she might be less reticent and more willing to answer questions.

  Polly started to say something but couldn’t get past the first consonant b. She paused for a moment and tried again, this time choosing her words carefully. “I c–can’t imagine anyone w–wanting to harm her.”

  “You said you didn’t know that she was engaged to be married.”

  Polly sniffled. “I didn’t.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I kn–know th–there was a man she liked. Whenever he left t–town, she was m–miserable until she received a l–letter from him. His name was D–Dan or Dave—s–something like th–that. I met him a c–couple of times.”

  So Colton did write to her. So what happened to the letters? Why were they not in her room? Had her killer taken them?

  “Did he leave town often?” Amy asked.

  “T–twice that I know of.”

  “Do you know why?”

  Polly shook her head. “R–Rose never said.”

  “Did you know she was expecting a child?”

  Polly’s eyes widened. “Are … are you s–sure?”

  “Fairly sure.” Though there didn’t seem to be any doubt in Coffey’s mind. “Someone told me that one of Rose’s clients was the Gunnysack Bandit. Did she ever mention that to you?”

  Polly’s hand flew to her mouth. “Th–that awful outlaw?”

  “It’s what I heard. Did Rose ever say anything about being afraid of one of the johns?”

  Polly shook her head. “W–we’re not allowed to t–t–t–… gossip about guests.”

  It was hard to believe that a group of women who lived and worked under the same roof adhered to such strict rules, but something was keeping them from talking.

  “Can you think of anything that might help the marshal find Rose’s killer?”

  “N–no, nothing.”

  Amy tried not to show her frustration. Never had she met a more reticent group of women. Prying information out of them was like chiseling rock.

  “Did you notice a difference in Rose’s behavior in recent weeks?”

  “Only that she was s–sick.” She glanced past Amy’s shoulder at the closed door. “We thought she was f–f–faking.”

  Amy frowned. “Why would you think that?”

  “She d–didn’t want to work here anymore.”

  “Why didn’t she just leave?” She had two good reasons to do so: one, she was getting married, and two, she was with child.

  “I d–don’t know why.”

  Amy let the words hang in the air for a moment before asking, “Polly, what … brought you here?”

  Polly’s forehead creased like a folded fan. “To G–Goodman?”

  “To Miss Lillian’s?”

  “N–n–no one else w–would hire me.”

  Amy frowned. “Because you stutter?”

  Polly nodded. “Some p–people think I’m dumb b–because I can’t always g–get the words
out.”

  “You’re not dumb, Polly. My …” Amy almost said minister. “My friend told me that Moses had the same problem and yet he became a great leader.”

  “Women can’t be l–l–leaders,” Polly said. “We c–can’t be anything.”

  “You’re wrong,” Amy said. “God gave us the same abilities and talents as men.”

  “If th–that’s true, then why do men have all the p–power?”

  “Because we gave it to them,” Amy said.

  After leaving Polly’s room, Amy walked to town, careful to steer clear of the hotel. She didn’t want to bump into Colton and have to make excuses for not having the list he requested. Several times she thought she saw him and once even dashed into Adam’s Barbershop and Tailor to avoid him. Peering out the window, she soon realized her error. Not only was the man in question not Mr. Colton, he didn’t even look like him.

  The barbershop owner lifted his gaze from his lathered client and waved his straight-edged razor at her. “Get out,” he bellowed. “I’ll not have you plying your trade in here.”

  He said a lot more, but Amy didn’t stay around long enough to listen.

  So far that morning she’d crossed eight names off the list, including Mr. Baxter’s, who ran the livery and blacksmith shop. An older man, probably in his sixties, he walked with a limp. Witnesses had consistently described the Gunnysack Bandit as moving like a younger man with no obvious physical defects.

  The outlaw performed his dastardly deeds with a sack over his head and only two small holes for eyes. No one could describe his face, but neither could anyone agree on his voice, except that it was male and sounded muffled.

  According to Miss Lillian, only fifteen of the forty-two men who had done business at the parlor house the week Rose deposited stolen money were similar in height to the Gunnysack Bandit. Still, Amy had to check each suspect herself. It never paid to leave anything to chance.

  So far the only one matching the bandit’s physical description was the rich man, Monahan, who lived outside of town in a sprawling two-story house with an iron deer in front.

  The banker, Mr. Bennington, was short with a rounded belly that practically popped the buttons on his vest. But it wasn’t just appearances that made a man suspect; witnesses were notoriously bad at descriptions. Other things had to be taken into consideration, other questions answered. Did the man live beyond his means? Travel abroad? Did he drink only the finest whiskey or smoke only the best Cuban cigars? How often did he gamble, and how high were the stakes? What about his livestock? Were his horses thoroughbred or mixed?