Petticoat Detective

by Margaret Brownley

  She then quickly changed into a dark blue skirt and eyelet shirtwaist. Free of constraining underwear, she took several deep breaths before scrubbing her face clean and brushing her hair into a sedate bun at the nape of her neck.

  Feeling more like herself, she gathered the discarded garments and put them into a carpetbag. Now all she had to do was return the clothes and tell Miss Lillian she would no longer be staying at the parlor house. Her job was done.

  The hall was empty when she let herself out of her room. No sooner had she turned her back to lock the door than a voice sounded behind her.

  “Amy?”

  Glancing over her shoulder, her gaze clashed with Tom’s. She fumbled with the key and her door flew open again. She was quick, but he was quicker.

  He pushed his way into the room after her and slammed the door shut. “Whose lock did you pick this time?” he demanded.

  She lifted her chin. “For your information, I paid for this room.”

  Seeming to fill the space with his presence, he gazed at her intently. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing’s going on. Now if you would kindly leave.” She started for the door, but he stopped her with his hand on her arm.

  “Why are you staying here?”

  She pulled her arm away. “I’m leaving town.”

  He tilted his head. “Why?”

  “I decided I don’t want to work for Miss Lillian any longer.”

  Something flickered in the depth of his eyes. “I never did think you belonged there. So what do you plan to do?”

  “I—I don’t know yet.”

  He tossed his hat on the desk and the file fell to the floor along with her Pinkerton badge. Before she could react, he bent to pick up the metal shield. Holding it in the palm of his hand, he stared at it for several seconds before lifting his head.

  “What are you doing with this?”

  “I—”

  His gaze sharpened, and his square jaw tensed visibly. “Go on.”

  She hesitated. If she hadn’t made a big enough mess of this whole investigation, she was about to put her career in even greater jeopardy than it already was. She just didn’t have it in her to tell him yet another lie.

  “I’m not who you think I am.”

  His eyebrows slanted in a frown. “What does that mean?”

  “What it means is …” She moistened her lips. “My real name is Jennifer Layne, and I work for the Pinkerton National Detective Agency.” Or at least she did. There was no way of telling what awaited her back at the home office now.

  He reared back, a dumbfounded look on his face. “That means that you’re—”

  She nodded. “A Pinkerton operative. And if you say, ‘But you’re a woman,’ I’ll slug you.”

  To his credit, he didn’t say that. He didn’t say anything. He just stared at her in total disbelief.

  She frowned. “Say something.”

  He set the badge on the desk. “I don’t know what to say. So … all that business at Miss Lillian’s was just an act?”

  “Not a very good one, I’m afraid.”

  “I always thought that something wasn’t right, but I never suspected this.” He shook his head as if he still couldn’t believe it.

  “I was dispatched here to work on the Gunnysack Bandit case. Rose deposited stolen banknotes tied to one of his robberies into her personal account.”

  “That’s a mighty big case for a … uh …” She challenged him to continue with an arched brow, but he wisely changed course. “How long have you worked for Pinkerton?”

  “Five years. And for your information, I’ve been instrumental in catching some well-known criminals.” She named the most infamous outlaws she’d helped put behind bars, not to impress him—okay, maybe a little—but mostly to postpone having to tell him about the Pinkerton report.

  His eyebrows inched upward as she spoke, and when she finished, he let out a low whistle. “That’s some record. Those outlaws would have given the Rangers a run for their money.”

  “Tell that to the Pinkerton brothers.”

  He studied her as if trying to reach into her thoughts. “I’ve worked with a lot of private detectives, and I can usually spot them. But you …” He shook his head. “Does the marshal know?” He frowned. “You haven’t told him, have you?”

  “I told him.”

  He hung his thumbs from his holster. “What did he say?”

  “Pretty much what everyone says, and it all comes down to anatomy.”

  His eyes blazed with sudden anger. “All that business about wanting to help me … That was a lie.”

  “It wasn’t a lie. I really did want to help you.”

  “What about the story that you’re leaving town?” His face grew hard, as did his voice. “Is that a lie, too?”

  “No, that’s true. The agency is no longer working the case.”

  His gaze sharpened. “Why not?”

  She hesitated.

  “Why not?” he repeated, louder this time.

  She flinched at the tone of his voice. “Your brother was in Hampton when the bank was robbed and the guard shot.” Biting her lip, she looked away. “The case is officially closed.”

  “Is that it?” he asked, his voice cold and exact. “Is that all they have?”

  She shook her head. “The banknotes found on his body”—her voice wavered—“they matched the ones stolen from the Hampton bank.”

  “That proves nothing. They could have been planted.”

  She drew in her breath. “Also, the handwriting on the note to the teller was similar to your brother’s signature on the hotel register.”

  “Similar? Not a match?”

  “A person’s handwriting changes under duress. Signing a guest register is less stressful than writing a holdup note. That could account for any inconsistencies.”

  A muscle quivered at his jaw. “Or someone could have forged Dave’s handwriting.”

  She’d considered that possibility, but there was no way of proving it. Allan Pinkerton believed that handwriting and even the skin furrows of the fingers would eventually identify criminals, but right now graphology was still an imperfect art.

  “It’s not just the handwriting.” She weighed his reaction before continuing. “The agency believes Rose may have gotten the stolen notes from your brother.”

  “What about the rest?” he demanded, his face dark.

  “The rest?”

  “Somebody killed Dave. I’ll bet my boots it’s the same person who killed Rose.”

  “I’ve seen the report on your brother’s death. There’re no similarities. There’s no proof that the two deaths are even related. Rose’s death could have been a robbery.”

  “And Dave’s? Was that a robbery, too? Is that why they found banknotes on his body?”

  “I wish I had more answers for you, but it was never my job to investigate his death or Rose’s. I was assigned to track down the Gunnysack Bandit and turn him over to the marshal. That’s all.”

  He breathed through gritted teeth. “And all this time you let me think you were helping me.”

  “I didn’t have a choice.”

  “You could have refused my offer to spy. Instead, you led me on.”

  If his anger wasn’t hard enough to bear, the hurt in his eyes was like a knife to her heart. “I really did want to help you.”

  “By using me?”

  “It wasn’t like that.” She reached for his arm, but he pulled away. “Please, you must believe me.”

  “Believe you? After all the lies?” He grabbed his hat and turned to the door.

  “Wait,” she pleaded. “Don’t go.” She hated to leave things so strained between them.

  He stilled, his back toward her. Did he hate her so much that he couldn’t even look at her? “There’s nothing more to be said.”

  She clasped her hands together to steady herself. “I’m not the enemy here, Tom. I was only doing my job.”

  He stared at her over his shoulder,
his expression remote. “You should be happy, then.” He reached into his pocket for Rose’s journal and tossed it onto the bed. “Your job is done.”

  Tom stood in the hotel corridor outside her door. He tightened his hands into fists in an attempt to check his raw emotions. He always knew that Amy or Jennifer or whatever she called herself didn’t belong at the parlor house. But never in a million years would he have guessed she was a Pinkerton detective.

  He’d met Allan Pinkerton only once, but he would never forget it. He was a tough old bird with a thick Scottish brogue. His hard-nosed tactics had gotten him and his agency in a lot of trouble through the years. So it wasn’t surprising that Amy would use any means available, including trickery, to reach her goals.

  Still, it pained him to discover he’d been duped by her. To find out she’d used him to prove his brother guilty.

  As for Dave …

  It wasn’t the first time he’d been wrong about him, but this was the worst. If Dave really had been the Gunnysack Bandit, he wasn’t just a thief, he was a killer.

  Thank God his parents hadn’t lived to see this day. He didn’t even know how to tell his nephew. As for Grandpappy, he blamed Dave for making a mess of his life, and this latest was the final nail in that coffin.

  Tom only wished he hadn’t found out this way.

  Logically, he understood why Amy had to keep her identity secret. That didn’t make him feel any less manipulated.

  The truth was it hurt to high heaven, and that made no sense. He’d trusted her, told her things about his childhood he’d never told anyone else. And all that time she was working undercover to find evidence against his brother.

  What a fool he was. Not only did he fall for Dave’s lies but her lies, as well. Nothing about her was real, not even the kisses she seemed so willing to return.

  That last thought brought an instant, squeezing pain that shook him to the core. This thing with his brother had done a number on him, made him think things he had no business thinking. Made him wish he’d put his brother away for good when he had a chance. Had he done so, his brother might still be alive and Tom wouldn’t be standing outside a hotel door like a crazy man.

  Chapter 32

  Amy stayed at the hotel that night but hardly slept. She kept hearing Tom’s last harsh words in her head. And every time she closed her eyes she saw the expression on his face—not the anger, the hurt.

  By morning, not only was she a bundle of nervous energy, but she was also madder than blazes. None of this was her fault. She was only doing her job. How dare he blame her for his brother’s actions!

  After waiting for the sun to fully rise, she stormed down the hotel hallway to room fourteen. Much to her surprise, the door was open and a Mexican maid was making the bed.

  “Where is Mr. Colton?” she asked.

  The maid shrugged her shoulders and said something in Spanish.

  Amy left the room and scurried down the stairs to the reception desk. “Room fourteen. When did Mr. Colton check out?”

  The desk clerk was an older man with stooped shoulders. “About a half hour ago.”

  She glanced at the clock behind the desk. The morning train was scheduled to leave in less than ten minutes. If she hurried …

  The train was just pulling out of the station when she arrived. She ran along the wooden platform and jumped off the edge. She raced along the graveled buffer next to the tracks. Spotting him through a smoky window, she frantically waved both arms to gain his attention.

  Just like that, she forgot her original intent for coming to the station. Forgot even her anger. Instead, a horrible realization took hold: she would never see him again. Never see his crooked smile. Never again hear his baritone voice or feel his amazing lips on hers.

  He opened the window and stuck his head outside. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, his face dark as night. He was obviously still angry. Still hurt.

  She shouted back, “I want you to know that—” The train whistle blew, drowning out her voice.

  He cupped his ear. “What? What did you say?”

  “I said—” The train picked up speed, leaving her behind and out of breath. By the time she stopped running, her lungs felt ready to explode.

  Gasping for air, she bent over, hands on her thighs, and watched until the train was but a dot on the horizon, leaving behind only a thread of blue smoke. “I said I love you,” she whispered, and with those few words came the tears.

  The following day, Amy found her next assignment waiting at the post office in a thick envelope. Normally such a dispatch would fill her with excitement and anticipation. Today she felt only depression. She read the detailed instructions through a cloud of gloom.

  She was instructed to travel to Denver as a widow and strike up an acquaintance with a suspected counterfeiter who managed to foil even the Secret Service. A banknote was enclosed to cover hotel, traveling, and living expenses, plus money enough to purchase widow’s weeds.

  At least now she had something to do. Maybe once she settled into her new role she would forget Tom Colton. She counted on it.

  Later that afternoon, she stopped at the parlor house to say good-bye to Miss Lillian and thank her for her help.

  Sitting behind her desk, Miss Lillian tried to act nonchalant, but the suspicious sheen in her eyes gave her away. “Does this mean my sleuthing days are over?”

  Amy smiled. Strange as it seemed, she’d grown fond of the madam. “I’m afraid so.”

  “Too bad. I believe I have a real knack for it.” Miss Lillian heaved a sigh, and her face seemed to sag. “What about Rose? Do you think they’ll ever find her killer?”

  “Unfortunately, the longer a crime goes unsolved, the less chance the perpetrator will be caught.” Trails grew cold, memories faded, clues missed initially were forever lost.

  Miss Lillian grimaced. “What does ole Tin Star say?”

  “The marshal’s convinced Rose’s killer left town.” He was wrong, of course. She had checked, and no local citizens had left in recent weeks, and a stranger wouldn’t know about the trapdoor. That meant the killer was still in Goodman.

  Miss Lillian’s scarlet mouth thinned. “Who do you think killed her?”

  “Most victims know their killers,” Amy said. And it was probably the same person who knocked her out in the cellar. “I think Rose knew hers.”

  Miss Lillian nodded. “I agree.”

  “I wish I could stay and work on Rose’s case, but it’s out of my hands.” She was still haunted by Rose’s death, perhaps because it happened under her very nose. She hated nothing more than loose ends, and the whole affair with the Gunnysack Bandit was rife with them.

  The madam let out a sigh. “What should I tell the others? They’ll want to know why you left.”

  “Tell them I didn’t work out.” Coral certainly wouldn’t be sorry to see her go.

  “When are you leaving?”

  “On the morning train.”

  Miss Lillian tucked a red strand of hair behind her ear. “Would you like me to read your fortune so you know what lies ahead?”

  Amy grinned. “Thank you, but I think I’ll leave the future in God’s hands.”

  “Very well. I just hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  Amy wasn’t sure she’d heard right. “What I’m looking for? Oh, you mean my next assignment.”

  “I’m not talking about your work.” Miss Lillian gave her a long, level look. “Every night in your sleep you cry out for someone named Cissy. I hope you find her, whoever she is.”

  Amy didn’t know what to say. She knew the nightmares had returned but had no idea she cried out in her sleep. What is happening to me, God? Would You answer me that? And why do I feel like You’re trying to tell me something?

  She boarded the train dressed in a black skirt and tailored shirtwaist with a black band around her arm. Beneath the sedate black hat, her hair was pulled back into a shiny, smooth bun. On the ring finger of her left hand, she wore a simp
le gold band.

  The woman named Amy no longer existed. By the time she reached her destination, Jennifer Layne would be transformed into the widow Mrs. Stephen Hoyt.

  According to the dossier Pinkerton sent on Ralph Cooper, not only was he a counterfeiter of the highest order, but he also had a soft spot for widows—particularly those needing assistance with investing a late husband’s estate.

  As if sensing her need to escape, the train picked up speed, leaving the town behind in a cloud of dark smoke. Unfortunately, the memories traveled along with her, which made the current task that much harder. Prior to reaching Denver, she had to create a new history for herself and her dead “husband.” Not only did her fictional past have to sound believable, but it must also play on Mr. Cooper’s sympathies.

  Creating an image in mind was easy. Her late make-believe husband was six feet tall, had dark hair, blue eyes, a square face, and crooked smile. The vision conjured just happened to be the spitting image of Tom Colton.

  Sighing, she stared out the smoky window where the wide-open prairie sped by in a blur. She wiped the tears from her eyes with a gloved hand and blew her nose in her handkerchief.

  Fortunately, the gray-haired man in the seat opposite didn’t seem to notice her misery. He was too involved in his book.

  The clickety-clack of the rails on the track made her head spin. Clickety-clack… lickety-lack … flickety … flack. She tried clearing her head but then thought of Tom, and just like that, the train changed its tune until it sounded like the very rails called his name. Tomety-Tom. Tomety-Tom.

  The sound was broken only by the strident voice of the child sitting directly behind her. Not only did he talk excessively, but he kept kicking the back of her seat, too. Leaning into the aisle, she turned her head to ask him to please stop. Recognizing the young boy, she pulled back and faced the front of the train. Behind her sat the mother and child she encountered at Max’s General Mercantile and Flower Shoppe.

  She forced herself to calm down. No one would recognize her dressed in widow’s weeds, her paint-free face pale from lack of sleep.

  Still, she couldn’t afford to take a chance. Children tended to be perceptive, and the little boy might very well see through her guise. The last thing she needed was to create a scene.