Petticoat Detective

by Margaret Brownley

  He glanced up at the sign over the door. “So how does Monahan fit into the scheme of things?”

  “That’s what I hope to find out. You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

  “It looks like I’m about to become a party”—he glanced at the door—“to a break-in.”

  He held out his hand. “Do you have a hairpin?”

  Since the one she’d been using was hopelessly bent out of shape she drew a fresh one from her bun. Her hair unraveled, and his gaze seemed to follow as it tumbled to her shoulders.

  Blushing, she stammered, “I–It’s no good. It won’t work.”

  He took the clasp and motioned her away from the door. “Stand back.” He pretended to roll up his shirtsleeves before dropping down on his haunches.

  “I told you it won’t—”

  “Shh. I’m working.”

  She glanced around. Depending on another was humiliating enough, but somehow being caught by Colton, of all people, was worse. It seemed like every time they met she was in some sort of awkward predicament that forced her to lie. And the more she lied, the worse she felt.

  “There you go!” He straightened. With a flick of the wrist, he swung the door open.

  She gritted her teeth. It took him less than twenty seconds. She started forward, but he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her close.

  “Not till you tell me what we’re doing here. What do you hope to find?” The spicy fragrance of bay rum hair tonic tickled her nose.

  She pulled away but only because she needed to keep her wits intact. “I’ll explain inside. I don’t want to chance being seen by anyone else.”

  “Fair enough.” With a wave of his hand he bowed. “After you.”

  Throwing her shoulders back, she marched past him and into the sparsely furnished office.

  On the wall over the safe was a large painting of three ships on a stormy sea. Boxes and crates were piled against one wall, presumably waiting to be delivered.

  He shut the door, creating an intimacy between them that made her feel all tingly inside.

  The yellow gaslight slanting through the transom window illuminated his stern expression. They squared off like two opponents waiting for the other to make the first move.

  “All right. Let’s hear it,” he said. “What are we doing here? What’s this feeling you have?” Tonight he was hatless, and a lock of hair fell across his forehead, giving him a boyish look that seemed at odds with his tall, commanding form.

  She tossed her head. “I am here because Mr. Moneybags—I mean, Mr. Monahan—was one of Rose’s guests.”

  “And?”

  “I found a watch fob under her bed, which I believe was his.”

  He considered this for a moment. “Even if it’s his, it proves nothing. He could have lost it at any time.”

  “That’s true, but he does fit the general description of the Gunnysack Bandit, including his height.”

  “The same could be said for half the people in this town. My brother was six foot tall. So, for that matter, am I.”

  “Yes, but as far as I know”—she glanced down at his well-worn, dusty boots—“Mr. Monahan is the only one who owns several pairs of expensive patent leather shoes and silk suits. He also owns the best horses and carriages in the county. Have you ever wondered how he affords all that?”

  Elbow resting on his arm, he tapped his chin with his finger. “So you don’t think he comes by his wealth by honest means?”

  “Perhaps he did at one time. The train has made such express companies almost obsolete. Why would anyone pay to have a wagon deliver goods when the train is so much quicker, cheaper, and dependable?”

  “Good question.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Now I’ve got one for you. How did you know Monahan fits the Gunnysack Bandit’s description?”

  She groaned inwardly at her slip of the tongue. What was it about him that made her lower her guard and make careless mistakes?

  She tried to think if his height was on the wanted posters and was certain it wasn’t. “Must have been something the marshal said. Or maybe Miss Lillian’s crystal ball.”

  He surprised her by laughing. “It seems I’ve been going about this all wrong. What else did her crystal ball tell you?”

  “You mean other than the fact that you’ll make one poor woman perfectly miserable?”

  His white teeth flashed. “Yes, other than that.”

  “It told me to watch out for a tall, dark—” She almost said handsome. “Texan.”

  He grinned, and her heart did a flip-flop. “Good advice. Anything else?”

  “That’s all,” she said. “Did you get anywhere with Rose’s journal?”

  “I was reading it just now and got distracted.”

  “Sorry. So what do you think?”

  “I think it’s for the birds. My brother might have fared better had he had a beak and two wings. What kind of woman was this Rose, anyway?”

  “Watching birds might have given her hope. She believed birds flew because of perfect faith.” She tilted her glance. “Just like the faith you have in your brother.”

  He shook his head and grimaced. “I’m a realist,” he said bitterly. “And facts are facts, so you won’t be seeing me grow wings anytime soon.”

  “Maybe not, but he was lucky to have you,” she said. “Even if he didn’t know it.”

  He hesitated. “I apologize for the way I acted. I had no right to take it out on you. None of this is your fault.”

  “Apology accepted.” Oddly enough, without face paint and fancy clothes, she felt naked in front of him. She had nothing to hide behind. No act to fall back upon. No face-saving way to make an escape.

  He stepped closer and gently nudged a strand of hair away from her face. “It means a lot to have you helping me, especially after what the marshal said.”

  She felt a surge of guilt. Her job—her only job—was tracking down the Gunnysack Bandit. Maybe the marshal was right, maybe not. Either way, she couldn’t let emotions get in the way.

  She stepped away from him. “We better get to work.”

  “Not till you tell me what we’re looking for,” he said.

  She moved to one of the desks. “This.” Pointing to the typewriter, she told him about the list the marshal found on his brother’s body. “I want to see if this is the machine it was typed on.”

  He tilted his brow in a quizzical frown. “And you thought of this all by yourself?”

  “Is that so hard to believe?” she asked, her voice edged with annoyance.

  He grimaced. “I didn’t mean that how it sounded. I don’t know that many people would have thought of that—me included.”

  Regretting her thoughtless retort, she worked a sheet of paper between the paper guides and rolled it into place. As a detective, she had to work harder than any man to prove herself, and sometimes she was oversensitive.

  “Sorry I snapped at you. I’m not used to breaking into buildings,” she said.

  He lit a match and held her gaze for a moment before moving the flickering flame next to the typewriter, his arm brushing against her shoulder. “That makes two of us.”

  Inhaling sharply, she fought to concentrate on the machine in front of her. It was a Sholes and Glidden typewriter with the popular QWERTY keyboard. She stroked several random keys before hitting the e and the m.

  “It looks like you’ve done this before,” he said.

  “A couple of times,” she said, without elaborating. She feared that after tonight she would have a hard time convincing him she was simply one of Miss Lillian’s working girls.

  “I never understood why the keys are all mixed up the way they are,” he said, leaning his head closer to hers.

  “I’ll show you why.” She typed a single word. “See? The word typewriter can be typed by using the QWERTY line alone. It was designed that way for the convenience of typewriter salesmen. They can impress customers by how quickly they type the word.”

 
His questioning gaze came to rest on hers. “You’re just full of information, aren’t you?”

  “My uncle works at Remington,” she said. The lie fell quickly from her lips, but the guilt that followed was like a slow burn on her conscience. Pinkerton detectives tended to have a lot of phantom aunts and uncles. It was part of the job, but that didn’t make her feel any better.

  He blew out the match and lit another, but his gaze never left her face.

  Ignoring him, she ripped the paper out of the roller and studied the type. The e was a bit furry, but the letter m was perfectly formed. “The list wasn’t typed on this machine,” she said, her voice thin with disappointment. She folded the paper and put it in her pocket. “Sorry.”

  “Not your fault.” He shook the match and the flame went out. “Like I said before, you should have been a detective.”

  Her cheeks flared and she turned away. He halted her escape with a hand to her wrist.

  “I really wanted the typewriter to match,” he said, his voice husky. “I didn’t want to believe—”

  “Oh, Tom, I’m so sorry.” She lifted her hand to his cheek and heard his intake of breath. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Nothing,” he said. “There’s nothing to say. I just wish I knew how to tell his son.”

  “You’ll find a way,” she whispered. He had been such a comfort to her the night she told him about Cissy; she had no doubt he would be just as comforting to a child.

  He circled her waist with both hands, and her knees weakened. Crushing her to him, he gazed at her intently before angling his mouth against hers.

  Her senses spun and waves of warm sensations rushed through her. Tossing caution to the wind, she flung her arms around his neck and, rising on tiptoes, kissed him back.

  All too soon he pulled away. Confused and maybe even a little hurt, it took a moment to gain her bearings and realize he was trying to tell her something.

  With a wave of his hand, he motioned toward the rattling doorknob, and she caught her breath. Finger pressed to his lips, he quietly moved to the window.

  “It’s a man wearing a checkered suit,” he said in a hushed voice.

  She groaned. The man she thought of as Mr. Checkers … “He’s a private detective,” she said quietly. “And he thinks you’re a Pink.”

  He reared back. “Why would he think such a thing?”

  She shrugged. “Probably because you act like one.”

  “I do?”

  Not even a little bit. A detective had to blend in and not be noticed. Tom Colton’s commanding presence would make him stand out among giants.

  The doorknob clicked.

  “I’ll handle him.” Colton signaled with his arm for her to hide, and she ducked behind a desk.

  Chapter 29

  Colton could no longer see her, but he had trouble pulling his gaze away from the spot where moments earlier he’d held her in his arms. If only she knew how beautiful she looked tonight without her usual face paint, and golden curls falling down her back. Still, he was shocked by what had transpired between them—yet again.

  Her determination to help prove his brother’s innocence, even in light of such overwhelming odds, moved him deeply, and he would always be grateful to her.

  If only she wasn’t … If only she didn’t …

  Clamping down on his thoughts, he turned his attention to the door. A squeak of a rusty hinge preceded a gush of cold air. The detective entered the office and shut the door quietly. He then struck a safety match and held it upright.

  Colton stepped out of the shadows, and the man jumped back with a yelp. The match flew out of his hands and landed on the floor.

  Colton casually stepped on it with his boot to make sure it was out. “Take it easy. I mean you no harm.”

  The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down like a rubber ball. “I say, old chap, you almost got yourself a knuckle sandwich.” He spoke in a nasally voice with a clipped British accent.

  Old chap? Colton rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry I scared you, but one of the hazards of breaking into buildings is that you never know what you’ll find. Do you do it often? Break in, I mean?”

  “Only when it’s necessary.” The detective ran a finger along his collar, and a sheen of perspiration peppered his forehead.

  “That’s good to hear. I’d hate to think it was a habit with you. So who are you, and what are you doing here?”

  The man looked like he resented the question but, nonetheless, politely doffed his bowler. “My name is Winston Walker III, and I’m a private investigator.” His British accent made him sound more pompous than he looked, and that was saying something.

  “Who you working for?”

  “I’m not working for anyone at the moment. I’m here on my own behalf. As you surely must know, there’s a handsome reward for the capture of the Gunnysack Bandit. I aim to claim it.”

  “That still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”

  “I told Miss Lillian I was looking for someone with the initials GB for the Gunnysack Bandit. She looked into her crystal ball and said the person in question could be found at X. So I put two and two together and came up with the Monahan Express Company. Get it? Express?”

  “Express starts with an E.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” Walker sniffed. “But I know what poor spellers you colonists are.”

  “So what did the crystal ball say you’d find here?”

  “Unfortunately, that would have cost me another five dollars. I decided to take a chance and look for myself.”

  Colton shook his head. Some private eye. He probably couldn’t find a cowbell in the toe of his sock. Certainly he didn’t know that the marshal considered the case closed.

  “I’m afraid you’re out of luck. There’s nothing here. I’ve searched the place.”

  Walker frowned. “Why would I take the word of a Pinkerton operative?”

  It was all Tom could do to keep from laughing. He’d met some pretty dumb detectives, but this one took the cake. “If you don’t believe me, look for yourself.”

  Walker glanced around. “Miss Lillian assured me that the crystal ball is never wrong.”

  “Maybe you’re the one who got it wrong. X could mean a number of things. It could mean the Gunnysack Bandit has an X in his name. Like Dixon.”

  “Hmm, maybe you’re right.” Walker sounded doubtful.

  “Of course I’m right. Come on, I’ll see you out before we both get caught.” He took the man by the arm and firmly steered him outside, shutting the door behind them.

  Walker pulled his arm away and straightened his bow tie. “You never did say what you were doing here, Colton.”

  “Same crystal ball.”

  “Is that so? Well, may the best sleuthhound win.” He doffed his bowler and started across the street toward the hotel. “Pip-pip,” he called over his shoulder.

  Colton walked along the boardwalk. “Same to you,” he called back. Half walking and half running, he circled around the block. By the time he returned to the express office, there was no sign of Walker.

  He hastened to the door and gave it a soft rap. Nothing. He knocked again, this time harder. “Come on, come on. What’s taking you so long?”

  When Amy failed to answer, he felt in his vest pocket for the hairpin he’d used earlier and picked the lock. He walked inside calling her name. “Amy, it’s me. Your detective friend is gone, but he might come back.”

  He did a quick search, but there was no sign of her. The back window was open. He flew across the room and stuck his head outside. The alleyway was empty.

  He pulled in and slammed the window shut. The office still carried her faint lilac scent. It was as if she were still standing by the desk, waiting to be taken into his arms.

  Dave, oh, Dave. Now look what you’ve done. Brought me here and … He shook his head and blinked away the vision of her sweet, curving smile. He didn’t want to think about the rest. Couldn’t.

  Fi
nding his brother’s killer, that’s what he was here for. That and proving the marshal was wrong—dead wrong—about Dave.

  Chapter 30

  Amy ran all the way back to the parlor house. Pausing by the front gate to catch her breath, she glanced around anxiously and squinted at every shadow. Since being attacked by the group of angry women, she took extra precautions.

  The night air was cool, but her lips still burned with the memory of Tom’s kiss. Somehow he had awakened a need in her that she hadn’t known existed. A need to be held and kissed and …

  Oh, God, how could this happen? Why did it happen?

  If Tom knew how she’d lied to him, knew that the real reason for breaking into Monahan’s had little to do with saving his brother’s reputation, he’d never want to see her again. She did want to prove Dave’s innocence, but not for the reasons Tom supposed.

  Shamefully and maybe even selfishly, she wanted answers to all the questions that still remained. Who killed Rose? Who killed Tom’s brother? How did Monahan fit into the picture? What, if anything, did any of this have to do with the Gunnysack Bandit?

  Finding answers was her lifeline. It gave her life purpose and meaning and helped her cope with her sister’s mysterious disappearance. She might never know what happened to Cissy, but solving crimes offered a measure of closure—at least temporarily—until the next case and the one after that.

  Shaking away her thoughts, she let herself through the gate. No horses were tethered in front—not too surprising. Since Saturday was a workday, guests seldom stayed late on a Friday night.

  After Tom left the office with Mr. Checkers, she’d done a hasty search. The desk drawers revealed only the usual office supplies and a rotting apple. She found no receipts, no ledgers, nothing. Monahan either kept his records locked up in the safe or elsewhere. Finding only one typewriter was especially disappointing.

  The reason she ran had nothing to do with the nosy detective and everything to do with Tom. She wanted so much—was so terribly tempted—to let him finish the kiss begun before Checkers arrived, but that would have been a mistake.

  Stripped of her working-girl veneer, she was dangerously close to the real Jennifer Layne. It was getting harder to keep things from him and hold back the truth.