Petticoat Detective

by Margaret Brownley

  “New—” Amy inhaled sharply, and a pain shot through her shoulder.

  Miss Lillian picked a dime novel off her desk. “I’ve been doing some research on the subject. Did you know that tightrope walkers have wide feet?”

  Amy shook her head. “I can’t say that I did.”

  “Said so in this book I’m reading. It’s a detective story, and I’ve learned all kinds of interesting things about detecting. The killer left a footprint at the scene of the crime and the detective was able to determine it belonged to the tightrope walker because of the width of the foot.”

  Amy didn’t know what to say. The last thing she needed was for Miss Lillian to go around playing detective. She had enough trouble contending with that snoop hound Checkers. On the other hand, she needed Miss Lillian on her side.

  “I’m hoping to get some ideas on how to investigate Rose’s murder,” Miss Lillian continued.

  “I’m not sure that a dime novel offers the best advice.”

  “Maybe not.” Miss Lillian set the book down. “But we all have to start somewhere, now don’t we?”

  Chapter 25

  Any hope Amy had that Miss Lillian’s ledger or Rose’s journal would clear Colton’s name soon proved futile. She had no idea where Tom’s brother was during the crimes in question, but he sure wasn’t at the parlor house.

  Maybe his landlady at the boardinghouse could shed some light as to his activities. Surely she would know if he’d left town for any extended length of time and what dates.

  Amy closed the ledger and decided to return it to the office. On the way back to her room she practically bumped into Buttercup and her “guest.”

  The man needed no introduction. Even if his fine three-piece suit, black patent shoes, silk cravat, and top hat didn’t give him away, Amy would have known this was Mr. Monahan, the town’s richest man.

  An extravagant lifestyle had done him no favors appearance-wise. His red, fleshy face revealed a fondness for alcohol, and his wide nose was seamed with purple vein threads.

  Mr. Monahan tipped his hat and raked her over visually. Amy felt naked beneath his lusty gaze, and all she could think about was his young wife, no doubt sitting home alone waiting for him.

  “You must be the new girl,” he said with a surface charm that could probably wash off in the rain.

  Keeping her emotions in check, Amy dug her fingers into the ledger’s leather cover.

  “Yes, I am. My name’s Amy.”

  “I look forward to getting to know you better, Amy.” Neither his voice nor expression left a question as to his meaning.

  It would be a cold day in Hades before that ever happened, but she managed a casual nod. “I’d like that.” About as much as she’d like keeping company with a rattlesnake. “I also like your gold watch chain. Is it new?”

  His hand went to his fob. “This? No, it was originally my grandfather’s.” He turned to his escort. “Come along, my dear.”

  Buttercup led him down the hall with a forced smile. She glanced back at Amy with a look of woeful resignation before leading her “guest” into the room at the end of the hall.

  So that was the infamous rich man of Goodman. He was the right height as the Gunnysack Bandit and probably the right age.

  As a businessman, he likely also owned a typewriter or two, probably one of the few in town who did. She guessed the bank owned at least one and maybe the assay office. The mayor’s office was also likely to have a typewriter, as were the three lawyers in town.

  Of all the possibilities, Mr. Monahan topped the list of suspects. Not only did he fit the bandit’s description, but he lived high on the hog, too.

  Just where did the man get all his money?

  On second thought, perhaps she would have to get to know the man better—if not him, then his typewriter.

  Later that afternoon, Amy sat staring out her bedroom window waiting for Colton. Grimacing, she rubbed her sore shoulder. Actually, her injuries were a blessing in disguise as they gave her a good excuse to wear the matching green silk shoulder cape over her gown. Polly had helped her cover her black eye with paint, and it hardly showed.

  Spotting Tom riding up to the parlor house, she dropped the curtain in place. She didn’t want to look anxious.

  Forcing herself to breathe, she grabbed Rose’s journal. Moving as fast as her sore body allowed, she left her room. She walked gingerly down the stairs, reaching the door before Tom rang the bell.

  “Amy,” he said, tugging the brim of his hat. His eyes seemed to soften at the sight of her. Or was that wishful thinking on her part?

  “What happened out there?” he said, with a nod toward the debris left by the mob.

  “Just some disgruntled ladies,” she said.

  His forehead creased. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, everything’s fine.” Not wanting to discuss the matter further, she reached into her pocket. Before she could hand him Rose’s journal, Coral entered the entry hall, voice first.

  “Who’s at the door?”

  Amy shoved the journal back into her pocket. She’d hoped to send him on his way before anyone even knew he had been here, but already Coral was peering over her shoulder.

  “Why, Mr. Colton,” Coral cooed, all sweetness and light. “What is your pleasure?”

  Cheeks flaring, Amy met his gaze. “Mr. Colton came to …” What? Her mind scrambled. Have his hair cut? A singing lesson? “Have his fortune told.”

  “Oh.” Coral sounded surprised. “Well, what are you waiting for? Do let the gentleman in.”

  Amy stepped away from the door. Tom pulled off his hat as he entered. There was something solid and upright about him, and she needed that, needed to believe that good, honorable men really did exist, especially after her disturbing conversation with Miss Lillian.

  Showering him with flirtatious smiles and batting eyelashes, Coral pushed her bare shoulder forward in a provocative pose, hand at her waist. “You don’t strike me as a man who has to worry about his fortune,” she said in a syrupy sweet voice.

  Tom grinned. Much to Amy’s disappointment, he appeared to be enjoying himself. “A man has to look ahead.”

  “Of course he does,” Amy said, trying not to let her irritation show. “There’s not much future in the past.”

  Coral flicked imaginary lint off his vest and gave him her most seductive smile. “I’ll fetch Miss Lillian.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Amy said. “I have the … gift.” She slipped her uninjured arm through the crook of Colton’s elbow, and together they walked into the parlor.

  He played his part without question, and Amy could have kissed him on the spot—figuratively speaking, of course. She would never actually initiate … Flustered by the thought, she released his arm.

  Much to Amy’s annoyance, Coral followed them. “What makes you think you have the gift?” she demanded.

  “I’m the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter,” Amy said smoothly.

  Coral didn’t respond, but the suspicious gleam remained in her eyes. She crossed her arms and plunked herself down on a settee.

  Having no choice but to go through with the charade, Amy pointed to a chair in front of the crystal ball. “Please be seated,” she instructed Tom.

  “Seventh daughter?” he mouthed, his back toward Coral. He raised his eyebrows like a cat arching its back but did as directed.

  She turned to draw the draperies against the afternoon sun. A pain shot down her arm as she raised it and she grimaced. Striking a safety match, she had to hold her hand to keep it from shaking as she lit the candles.

  After touching the flame to both candles, she blew out the match and ever so carefully took her seat at the table opposite him. Their knees touched, and she quickly pulled her legs in.

  He watched her, head slanted and alert. “Are you all right?”

  She rubbed her shoulder. “Yes. I just pulled a muscle.”

  His eyes brimmed with concern. “Perhaps you should see a
doctor.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Hoping to divert his attention, she smoothed the black velvet cloth that covered the table. She’d watched Miss Lillian on numerous occasions and knew the ritual by heart. Maybe if she drew out the procedure long enough, Coral would grow bored and leave.

  The crystal ball was five inches in diameter and stood on a wooden base. She struck a match to light the sage smudge stick.

  “This is to cleanse the ball of any negative energy,” she explained in a low voice.

  His mouth twitched. “Sure can’t have that.”

  She was tempted to laugh. Never could she have imagined playing fortune-teller, but since Coral was watching, she maintained a serious demeanor.

  As she smudged the ball, she stared deep into the crystal depths and tried to recall Miss Lillian’s precise words as she went through the ritual.

  “Relax, Mr. Colton, and focus.” Miss Lillian had explained that the crystal ball picked up a client’s subconscious thoughts, but all the crystal depths reflected at the moment was the soft glow of candlelight.

  “I see two women in your future,” she said at last, giving her voice a dreamlike quality.

  “Two, uh? Well now. Which is the lucky one?”

  Keeping her head lowered, she lifted her gaze to his. His mouth quirked with humor. Obviously, he was enjoying himself at her expense, and she couldn’t help but tease him back.

  “The one you don’t marry.”

  His warm chuckle made her smile. Much to Amy’s relief, Coral had finally given up the watch and left the room. Now, it was only the two of them.

  “Is that it?” he asked. “Is that the extent of my fortune? I’ll make some woman happy by not marrying her?”

  She smiled. “If you want more, you’re going to have to pay.” With a glance toward the archway to make certain no eavesdroppers lurked, she reached into her pocket for Rose’s journal.

  “Here it is,” she said, and his fingers brushed hers as he took it from her. The jolt of his touch made her heart skip a beat. “I hope you like reading about birds.”

  “Birds?”

  “Rose was a bird-watcher, and she kept track of the birds she spotted, along with their habits. I don’t know that there’s anything useful.” Certainly there was nothing to clear his brother’s name.

  He gave the leather book a cursory glance before slipping it into his pocket.

  The marshal’s accusations rang in her head: “Dave Colton was the Gunnysack Bandit.” No matter how many times she tried putting that disturbing thought out of her mind, it kept coming back.

  Rubbing her hand against the smooth fabric of her dress, she moistened her lips. “Please return it when you’re finished.” She had no further use for Rose’s journal and wasn’t even sure why she wanted it back.

  “Will do.” He hesitated. “Is that all?”

  No, it wasn’t all. My real name is Jennifer Layne, she wanted to say. And I’m not who you think I am.

  “Not entirely.” She hesitated. “About your brother …”

  He stilled. “Go on.”

  “As you know, I saw the marshal earlier.” She forced herself to breathe, but it did little to calm her anxiety. “Marshal Flood thinks your brother might have been … the Gunnysack Bandit.”

  A muscle quivered at his jaw and a storm cloud of emotions darkened his face. “Flood doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” he said, his voice as taut as his expression.

  She wanted to believe that was true, but the evidence was beginning to suggest otherwise. “You said he’d been in trouble in the past, and no one’s heard of the Gunnysack Bandit since your brother—”

  “It makes no sense.” He shook his head. “Why would he ask for my help protecting Rose if he was the bandit?”

  She glanced down at the unblinking eye of the crystal ball and felt as if it mocked her. “I don’t have an answer for that.”

  “And that doesn’t explain who killed him. And we know he didn’t kill Rose.”

  She lifted her gaze to his. “The marshal doesn’t think the deaths are related.”

  He stood abruptly and his chair fell back. “My brother was many things,”—his words were clipped and devoid of his earlier humor—“not all of them good, but he was not the Gunnysack Bandit.” He tossed a gold coin on the table and stalked across the room.

  “Wait!”

  He turned, his eyes ablaze. She couldn’t be sure if he was angry at her or his brother. Probably both. People often hired the Pinkerton agency to investigate a family member, then threatened to sue the company when the information was not to their liking.

  “I don’t want your money.”

  “I hired you to spy for me, and that’s what you did. Keep it.” He spun around without a word and left the room.

  The parlor suddenly felt empty. Cold. “Which is the lucky one?”

  She’d teased him, of course, but that was only to keep from saying that she wanted the lucky one that he wed to be her.

  Chapter 26

  Georgia didn’t come down to breakfast that Thursday morning, and the rest of them ate in silence.

  Amy was grateful for the quiet as it gave her time to plan her next move. She had spent the previous day checking every possible place in town that might have a typewriter. Dressed in a plain skirt and blouse, she pretended to look for a secretarial job and came up empty. Nobody was in the market to hire, and only two businesses had a typewriter—a lawyer who had yet to take the machine out of the box, and the Monahan Express Company.

  It was possible that someone in town owned a typewriter at home, but unlikely. Not only were the machines expensive, but a private individual would probably have no need for one.

  Miss Lillian folded her newspaper and tossed it aside in disgust. “The theft of a saddlebag gets a full column and Rose’s death merited no more than two sentences.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me none,” Coral said. “Dirt is given more regard than the likes of us.”

  Her words were punctuated by the angry clang of silverware.

  After several strained moments, Polly asked, “W–where’s Georgia?”

  “She’s not feeling well,” Buttercup said as she poured syrup over the stack of hotcakes on her plate.

  Coral glared at Amy. “There’s been a lot of that going around lately.”

  Miss Lillian set her coffee cup down. “Perhaps we should fetch Doc Graham.”

  Amy rose from her chair. “I’ll check on her.” Grateful for an excuse to escape Coral’s daggered looks, she threw her napkin on the table and hurried from the room before anyone could object.

  Upstairs, she tapped on Georgia’s door. Receiving no answer, she turned the knob and pushed the door open. The shades were drawn against the bright morning sun and a dim gray light bathed the room.

  “Georgia?”

  The mound beneath the covers was as still as a log. Amy closed the door behind her and crossed the room. “Miss Lillian and the others are worried. Are you okay?”

  Georgia rolled over. Amy moved closer, and even in the dimly lit room she could see the tears. She dropped to her knees by the side of the bed and stroked Georgia’s cheek.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Are you ill?”

  Georgia wiped her wet cheeks with the palms of her hands. “Today’s my little boy’s birthday,” she whimpered. “He’s six years old.” Fresh sobs wracked her body. “Such a big boy. I just want to … hold him and wish him happy birthday. Is that so wrong?”

  Amy shook her head. “No, it’s not wrong. It’s what any mother would want.”

  “But not this mother.” She smothered a sob. “My son doesn’t deserve a mother like me.”

  “Don’t say that, Georgia. You love your children very much, and I’m sure they love you, too.”

  “They love the person I used to be.” Georgia let out a long, harrowing sigh. “That person no longer exists.”

  “I don’t believe that, and you mustn’t believe it either.”
<
br />   Georgia pulled a pillow in front of her and held it as one would hold a child. “I used to be a good girl.” Her voice trembled. “Went to church every week and—” She gulped hard, but the tears continued to roll down her cheeks. “Now I don’t think God even knows I exist.”

  “Not only does God know, but He cares.” Amy laid her hand on top of Georgia’s. “Talk to Him. Tell Him how you feel. He’ll help you.” She squeezed the small, pale hand tight. “Do it for your sake as well as your children’s.”

  Georgia pulled her hand away. “You’re a fine one to talk. You’re no better off than I am.”

  Georgia’s words stung, and Amy wanted to scream with frustration. There was so much she wanted to tell her about God’s love, so much that needed to be said about God’s grace, about His forgiveness and compassion. But saying it would only make her sound like a hypocrite.

  “If I had children, I wouldn’t be here,” she said instead. If she had a family of her own, she wouldn’t be here either. It was a startling thought and one she immediately banished. She loved her job; nothing else mattered to her. As long as she kept reminding herself of that, perhaps all these worrisome doubts and feelings of late would go away.

  Georgia’s forehead creased. “What if they were hungry? What if you had no way of feeding them? What would you do then? Let them starve?”

  “No, I wouldn’t do that but … There are people out there who can help you.” Back home she would know where to send Georgia for help, but here she was a relative stranger and knew so few people. She thought for a moment, and something suddenly occurred to her.

  “There’s this churchwoman. Her name is Mrs. Givings, and she knows what it’s like to be a mother. Go to her. She’ll help you. I know she will.”

  “But that’s the same as asking for charity.” Georgia tossed the pillow away. “That’s only one step away from what I’m doing now.”

  Amy drew Georgia’s hands in her own and looked her straight in the eye. “In the Bible, charity is just another word for love.”