Petticoat Detective

by Margaret Brownley

  It was Buttercup. “I’m out of hair pomade. May I use yours?”

  Amy nodded and pointed to the dresser.

  Buttercup glided into the room, dressed only in bloomers and laced corset. Her orange-red hair, normally twisted into an elaborate coronet with a fluff of bangs, hung down her back in tangled wet strands.

  She stopped in front of Amy’s chair, hands at her waist. “What are you hiding?”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  Buttercup reached for Amy’s lap and the Bible flew to the floor. “Now look what you’ve done,” Amy snapped.

  Buttercup stared at her like one might stare at a coiled rattler. “Do you still believe in that?” After a moment, she added, “Believe in God?”

  Amy picked the Bible off the floor and set it on the bedside table. She could deny who she was and from where she’d come. She could deny that the sun was yellow and the grass green. But when asked outright she suddenly realized she couldn’t deny belief in her heavenly Father.

  “Yes, I do.” If admitting belief jeopardized the case, William Pinkerton would kill her. That is, if his brother Robert didn’t do it first.

  With an intake of breath, Buttercup lowered herself onto the edge of the bed. “I used to believe in God.” She shrugged as if it no longer mattered what she believed. The wretched look on her face said otherwise. “That was a long time ago.”

  Amy leaned forward. “What happened to you?” And when she got no response she prodded. “What brought you to this place?”

  Buttercup’s lids fluttered shut, covering her eyes with painted blue half circles.

  “You can trust me,” Amy urged. “I won’t say a word to the others. I promise.”

  For the longest while Buttercup didn’t speak. At last she opened her eyes. “When I was twelve, a gang of boys …” Overcome with emotion, she could no longer get the words out. Tears mixed with black charcoal from her lashes trickled down her rounded cheeks.

  Amy handed her a clean handkerchief and sat on the bed next to her. “You don’t have to say any more.” It seemed that all of life could be narrowed down to a single incident or memory. It was as if everyone had an inner compass, all pointing to one unforgettable moment in time and everything started and ended there—a personal north.

  Amy’s inner needle pointed to the disappearance of her sister. No matter how much time passed, the needle never moved away from that one traumatic loss, at least not permanently.

  Buttercup dabbed her eyes. “After what happened I was shunned, and no decent man would have me. No one wanted me.” She paused for a moment before adding in a hushed voice, “Not even my family.”

  “You’re wrong about that. God still wants you.” She pointed to the Bible. “I was just reading about Rahab. Even though she was a prostitute, God used her to save two of His servants. So you see? Everyone has value in the Lord’s eyes. That includes you, me, and everyone in this house.”

  Buttercup made a face. “You think He’s so great? Where was He when they … Where has He been since?”

  “He’s been here,” Amy whispered with meaning. Though God hadn’t seen fit to answer her prayers about Cissy, she never doubted His existence. He was, in truth, the only constant in her life. She picked up the Bible and held it out to her. “He’s here. We just have to reach out to Him.”

  Buttercup pushed the Bible away, and her eyes flared with angry sparks. “It hasn’t done you any good. You’re here, just like me. Just like the others. Where’s your God now?” Seeming to forget her reason for coming, she stormed out of the room.

  First thing Monday morning, Tom stormed into the marshal’s office. He didn’t think much of Marshal Flood. Judging by the lawman’s dark frown when Tom entered, the feeling was mutual. Even Flood’s black mustache seemed to droop when Tom entered, but his garish cowhide boots with the tooled red roses remained planted firmly on top of the desk.

  “I stopped by to see how the investigation is going,” Tom said, keeping his tone civil.

  The marshal indicated the stack of papers on his desk with a wave of his hand. “Which one?”

  Tom took a seething breath. “Have you even tried finding my brother’s killer? Or Rose’s?”

  He didn’t like what went on at Miss Lillian’s parlor, but those women deserved justice, and he hoped to God they got it.

  “I’m a busy man.” Flood dropped his feet to the floor and tossed a thumb toward the jail cells. “Last night I made four arrests. This morning I got two reports of missing horses, plus a family altercation and a knife fight to deal with. I still haven’t had a chance to check Reverend Matthews’s report of vandalism at Miss Lillian’s bed house and—”

  Tom stiffened. “They were vandalized?” Amy hadn’t mentioned trouble at the parlor house.

  Flood shrugged. “No big deal. Someone threw a brick through the window is all. Not for the first time, I might add. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that Miss Lillian owned stock in Cubby’s Windows and Fine Lamps.” He spread his hands. “Like I said, I’m a busy man.”

  It was all Tom could do to hold his temper. “And a prostitute’s death is of small importance.”

  “Don’t go putting words in my mouth. I’m doing all I can.”

  “Just as you’re doing everything you can to find my brother’s killer? You find his killer, you find Rose’s. You’ll also find the Gunnysack Bandit.”

  The mustache twitched, but the beady eyes didn’t move. “There’s no proof of that.”

  Tom patted the pocket where he kept Rose’s letter. The letter had been found on Dave’s body, so Flood knew about it. Evidently it hadn’t carried much weight. “I have all the proof I need.”

  The marshal’s eyes glittered. “Yeah, well, you have your theory, boy. And I got mine.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “A list of robberies credited to the Gunnysack Bandit was found clutched in your brother’s hand.”

  Tom stilled. This was news to him. He had been led to believe that everything found on Dave’s body had been sent to the family. “Go on.”

  “Makes me wonder what it was doing there.”

  Tom didn’t like the implication. Didn’t like it one bit. “If you were doing your job, you wouldn’t have to wonder.”

  “If you think you can do better …”

  Tom planted his hands on the desk and leaned forward. “A grasshopper could do better!” He turned and left the office, but once outside, his bravado deserted him.

  What was that list of robberies credited to the Gunnysack Bandit doing in Dave’s hand? A knot tightened in Tom’s chest. At first, he had discounted Buckeye’s contention that Dave was the bandit, but things were starting to add up. Fortunately, his Ranger days had taught him to keep a clear and open mind and not go jumping to conclusions.

  Things looked bad, but his brother’s name would be cleared once all the facts were known—of that he had no doubt. Okay, maybe a little …

  Chapter 18

  It was almost midnight by the time Amy ducked behind Miss Lillian’s carriage house. Every night after the last “guest” had been sent home Georgia left the parlor house like clockwork. Maybe it had something to do with Rose or even the Gunnysack Bandit, maybe not. Either way, Amy intended to find out where the woman went and for what reason.

  The glow of a thin crescent moon bleached the redbrick house white and turned the trees and bushes into soft sculptures. It’s what Cissy used to call a fingernail moon. A rabbit sat perfectly still, its long ears pointed up like two arrows.

  The air was cool, and Amy shivered beneath the knitted shawl. One by one, the upstairs lights turned off. Miss Lillian’s room was the last to grow dark.

  A squeak of the cellar door signaled Georgia’s presence, and the rabbit hopped away. Hidden behind tall bushes, the door would be easy to miss if a person didn’t know where to look.

  Amy waited for Georgia to circle the house to the front before leaving her hiding place. She didn’t want
to lose her, but neither did she want to chance being caught following her.

  Though there were private residences farther down the block, some offering room and board, Miss Lillian’s Parlor House stood alone, surrounded by empty fields and groves of trees, like a shunned child.

  At first it looked like Georgia was heading for town, but then she made a sharp right onto Madison, a narrow dirt road lined with modest one-story brick residences. By the time Amy reached the corner, Georgia had already let herself into a fenced yard. Amy waited until Georgia reached the front porch and vanished inside before drawing near.

  It was too dark to see much, but the broken gate and untrimmed bushes suggested the house was in ill repair.

  Georgia was never gone for more than fifteen or twenty minutes. That was hardly time enough for a romantic rendezvous. So what was she doing here? Amy could think of only one way to find out.

  Not wanting to confront Georgia on the deserted street in the middle of the night—especially since she now carried a gun—Amy hurried back to Miss Lillian’s. After letting herself into the house through the cellar door, she sat on the old rocking chair and waited. Since the cellar was her least favorite place in the house, she also prayed there were no spiders or mice or other creepy things waiting to attack.

  Fortunately, she didn’t have to wait long. The squeak of door hinges was followed by a muffled thud. Soft footsteps echoed from the wooden stairs.

  Amy waited for her to round the screen. “Georgia?” she whispered. “It’s me, Amy.”

  Georgia’s dark form froze, and for a moment, she didn’t speak. “What … what are you doing here?”

  Amy stood so as to be seen in the soft glow of the crescent moon shining through the narrow cellar windows. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

  “You can’t say anything about this.” Panic edged Georgia’s voice. “Please promise you won’t tell Miss Lillian.”

  “I won’t say a word.” After a pause, Amy asked, “Are you seeing someone? A man?”

  “It’s not a man.” Georgia’s voice sound resigned.

  “Then who?”

  A whoosh of breath preceded Georgia’s answer. “My children.”

  “You have children?” Amy had conjured up all kinds of possible explanations for Georgia’s midnight wanderings, but never that.

  “Two. A boy, nearly six, and a girl, four.” Georgia paused for a moment before adding, “My mother lives a couple of blocks away, and every night I stand by my children’s beds and watch them sleep. I can’t fall asleep myself until I’ve seen and touched them. They think an angel comes to visit each night.” She gave a throaty laugh that held no mirth. “Can you imagine? Me, an angel?”

  Amy’s heart went out to her. “I had no idea, Georgia.”

  “I was once a respectable, married woman. Hard to imagine, isn’t it? My husband was a gambler. He was caught cheating, and someone shot him.”

  “I’m so sorry, Georgia. It must have been awful for you.”

  “I can’t begin to tell you.” She took a ragged breath. “He left me heavily in debt. I lost the house—everything. My children, mother, and I were destitute. I took in wash, but no matter how hard I worked I could barely pay the rent, let alone put food on the table. One day I found my son eating the paper off the wall. He said he was hungry.” She paused as if reliving the moment before adding, “That was the day I knocked on Miss Lillian’s door.”

  Amy felt a surge of guilt for judging these women. For judging Georgia. Her own family hadn’t been rich, but living on a farm they had never wanted for food. “It must be hard to be away from your children.”

  “You have no idea. I can’t bear for them to see me during daylight hours. To see the paint on my face and the horrid clothes I wear. That’s why I only visit late at night when they’re in bed and it’s dark.”

  “Does anyone else know?” Amy asked.

  “No, only you.”

  Amy didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t blame Georgia for wanting to care for her children. Her mistake had been that she knocked on the wrong door.

  The last thought made Amy think of something. “What about the cellar entrance? Does anyone else know about it? The guests?”

  “I don’t know.” Georgia fell silent for a moment. “You’re thinking that’s how Rose’s killer got in, aren’t you?”

  That was exactly what she was thinking. Because either the killer came in through the cellar door or was already in the house. That would make the female residents suspects, or even Mr. Pepper.

  “Come on, we better get some sleep,” Amy said.

  Georgia hesitated. “You won’t tell anyone….”

  “Not a soul. Your secret’s safe.”

  The next morning, Amy took a chance on traveling to town dressed in a ladylike blue skirt and white shirtwaist, her face scrubbed clean and hair tucked beneath a plain bonnet. After what happened at the Gun and Bakery Shoppe, she realized her disguise worked both for and against her. Today she sought to be anonymous.

  Ducking out of the parlor house unseen had been a challenge, but the effort was well worth it. She could now conduct her business without the usual stares. She prayed her luck would continue and she wouldn’t meet up with anyone who knew her.

  That turned out to be a futile hope. Much to her dismay, she bumped into Mr. Crocker, a regular parlor house guest, at the post office. He’d seen her at Miss Lillian’s on numerous occasions, but today he appeared not to recognize her.

  He tipped his hat politely and held the door open for her. “Ma’am.”

  “Thank you.”

  He might have been less gallant had he known his mop of brown curls and oily smile reminded her of Deadeye Pete, a man now on trial for murder.

  She planned to drop her letter in the mailbox but at the last minute decided to hand it to the postmaster directly to see his reaction.

  He didn’t recognize her, either. Neither did Mr. Piker at the Gun and Bakery Shoppe. Nor did his wife. Not only did Mrs. Piker sell her a cherry tart, but she engaged her in a pleasant conversation about the weather.

  People apparently didn’t look at prostitutes that closely, or maybe they just didn’t see the person beneath the paint and fancy clothes. It was an extraordinary discovery, one she intended to use to full advantage.

  Confident now that she could conduct her business in town without the bother of having to dress in a way she abhorred, she hurried along the boardwalk toward the leather and candle shop, its owner on the suspect list.

  Suddenly, a body shot out of the Idle Hands Saloon and Dance Hall and sprawled facedown at her feet. Amy immediately recognized the checkered suit of the man in the hotel dining room.

  She bent to shake him on the shoulder, wrinkling her nose against the strong smell of alcohol. “Are you all right, sir?”

  For answer the man merely groaned. He then raised his torso off the wooden walk and squinted through unfocused red eyes. Climbing to his feet, he rubbed his jaw and spouted a slurred curse as he staggered away.

  She was so intent in watching him she failed to notice Mr. Colton until he was only a few feet in front of her. He stopped; their eyes met and she heard his intake of breath.

  “Amy?”

  Startled, she shook her head and stepped off the boardwalk onto the dirt-packed road. No one else had recognized her. Why had he?

  Dodging a horse and wagon, she hurried across the street, her heart beating as fast as her racing feet.

  Chapter 19

  Amy was still running by the time she reached Miss Lillian’s. Hoping no one would see her, she rushed around back and lifted the cellar trapdoor. Closing it after her, she walked down the steps and stopped to catch her breath before moving through the dim underground room to the stairs leading to the kitchen.

  She was in luck; Coffey hadn’t started the noon meal yet and was nowhere to be seen.

  Tiptoeing down the hall, she glanced in the parlor. The draperies were shut tight, and the candles were lit. A m
an Amy didn’t recognize sat at a small round table opposite Miss Lillian. Both were staring into the crystal ball.

  The man’s pointy chin whiskers and hooked nose reminded her of the notorious outlaw J. C. Bitterman, who robbed thirty-seven stages before she’d trailed him to his boardinghouse where he was arrested.

  “I see something,” Miss Lillian said in a hushed tone. “I see the letter M.”

  The man sat forward. “M for money?”

  Shaking her head, Amy hurried up the stairs. How could anyone believe in such nonsense? Only God knew what the future held.

  She didn’t see Coral until she reached the second-floor landing.

  Coral looked her up and down, her chocolate-brown eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Where have you been? And why are you dressed like a poor farmer’s wife?”

  “I wasn’t feeling well so I stepped outside for some air.” She moved away from the stairs, but Coral blocked her way.

  “Seems like you’ve been doing a lot of that lately.”

  “I don’t see that it’s any of your business what I do.” She tried to dodge around her, but Coral refused to let her pass.

  “I think it is.”

  A door opened and Buttercup stepped into the hall. “What’s going on?”

  Coral folded her arms. “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  Polly’s head popped out of her room. “L–leave her alone, C–C–Coral. She’s still new.”

  “Yes, she is new.” Coral’s eyes narrowed. “And, in fact, started work the very same day Rose was murdered.”

  “So what are you saying, Coral?” Amy kept her voice deceptively calm. It was the same voice used to pacify union rioters. She sensed Coral could be a formidable foe, and that was the last thing she needed.

  “I’m saying that it seems like a strange coincidence.”

  Buttercup’s gaze swung from Coral to Amy. “It does seem like that. And why are you dressed in those clothes?”

  All three women stared at her.

  “As I told Coral, I wasn’t feeling well and stepped outside to get some fresh air. And I did not kill Rose. I didn’t even know her.” Did they believe her? It was hard to tell. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”