Petticoat Detective

by Margaret Brownley

  A smile plastered on her face, Amy held her fan judiciously and willed herself not to keep looking at the long clock when Mr. Miller cornered her. The man had nothing of interest to say but insisted upon saying it, anyway.

  His broad face and walrus-like mustache bore a striking resemblance to President Arthur, a man Mr. Miller soundly abhorred.

  She glanced at Coral, who was engaged in what looked like an intimate conversation with Mr. Monahan. Amy would give anything to hear what the two discussed.

  Polly, as usual, didn’t say much for fear of stuttering, but with her pretty blond hair and deep blue eyes, she didn’t need to talk. Buttercup was bookended by two men vying for her attention. She looked bored but kept glancing in the nearby mirror and fiddling with her hair. None of her admirers seemed to notice her dull eyes or disinterested expression.

  Having played the second of her two-song repertoire, Miss Lillian scooted around the piano stool and gave her jeweled hands several dainty claps.

  “Amy has graciously agreed to read everyone’s fortune tonight. On the house,” she said, careful to use the words she and Amy had rehearsed earlier. “Mr. Tully, you’re first.”

  Mr. Tully stood and straightened his cravat. Built like a cracker barrel with skinny legs, he stabbed the floor with his cane. “There’s nothing like a good fortune.”

  Miller gave a low-pitched snort. “Yes, but with President Arthur in charge, good fortune will be hard to come by.”

  Amy didn’t want to have to go through the entire charade, but it would surely raise suspicion had she zeroed in on Monahan alone. Playing her part to a T, she slipped her arm through Mr. Tully’s crooked elbow and led him out of the room and across the entryway to Miss Lillian’s office. Having no need of his cane for mobility, he tucked it beneath his other arm.

  “I’ll pay you handsomely for a good fortune,” he said.

  She smiled. “Why, Mr. Tully, you wouldn’t be trying to bribe me now, would you?”

  The office had been prepared in advance. Candles were already lit and draperies drawn so as not to let in any moon or starlight. The desk was covered with a black velvet cloth and the crystal ball looked like a bubble ready to pop.

  “Have a seat,” she said in a quiet voice. She took her place behind the desk and peered into the shiny globe. Miss Lillian explained that the purpose of staring into a crystal ball was to reach a person’s subconscious. Most people thought a fortune-teller’s glass sphere foretold the future; such ignorance made some charlatans rich.

  Though her insides were tied in a knot, she forced herself to take her time. “I see a woman crying. An older woman … with frilly curls and a mole.”

  Mr. Tully’s gaze involuntarily landed on her chin, and she placed her finger on the exact spot.

  He looked startled. “That … that’s my wife. Why is she crying?”

  “Shh.” She stared into the ball and pretended to concentrate. “Oh dear.”

  “Go on,” he said, his voice anxious.

  “She’s holding a gun.”

  He drew back. “Good heavens!”

  “Someone has … betrayed her.”

  “No!”

  “She doesn’t think she has any reason to live. She raises the gun….”

  Jumping to his feet, he held out an arm like an overwrought actor in a bad play. “Tell her no!”

  Amy sat back. “I’m sorry. I can’t tell her anything. The vision is gone.”

  Face pale as a winter moon, he stammered, “D–do you suppose that she …?”

  “The future is in your hands, Mr. Tully. Perhaps if you talked to her … Let her know you would never … betray her.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” He backed toward the door. “I’ll go home and tell her that right away.” He swung around and exited the office, leaving his fashionable cane behind in his haste. Amy laughed. “You do that, Mr. Tully. And if you’re smart, you’ll stay home.”

  A moment later, Miss Lillian poked her head in the office. “Mr. Tully left in a hurry. Is everything all right?”

  “Everything is perfect,” Amy said. “Send in the next guest.”

  One by one, Amy read each man’s fortune, careful not to rush the ritual. She told Mr. Webber what would happen if he continued ignoring his wife. No sooner had she finished the session than he hurried away to buy his wife her favorite sweets.

  She “read” a bleak future for Mr. Cobble’s mining company if he didn’t stop overworking his employees. She “foresaw” a terrible illness if Mr. Sweeney refused to mend his ways and kept avoiding church.

  For Scott’s father, Mr. Cunningham, she poured it on especially thick. “I see a boy. About twelve or thirteen …”

  “That must be my son.”

  Pretending not to hear him, she swayed slightly as if in a trance. “His name begins with an S. Samuel, Steve. Scott.”

  “Yes, yes,” he thundered, “Scott. That’s him. That’s my son.”

  She kept her gaze focused on the crystal ball. “Oh dear. Oh my.”

  He gave an anxious gasp. “What do you see? Tell me!”

  “I see … the sign of death.”

  His eyes widened in horror. “Whose death? Not Scott’s!”

  Encouraged by the man’s obvious concern for his son, she continued in a low monotone. “Your family will be safe, providing you—”

  “Go on, providing what?”

  “Ask God’s forgiveness and change your ways.”

  “Change my ways?” He looked mortified. “You mean stop coming here?”

  “And similar places.” She raised her head and looked him in the eyes. “If you don’t, sir, your family’s safety will be in serious jeopardy.”

  He stood so quickly his chair slammed against the door. “I’m much obliged to you for letting me know. I must go. My family needs me.”

  He quickly left the room.

  “Yes!” Amy banged on the desk. Praise the Lord!

  So far, the evening had been an unexpected success. For that she was grateful, but she also felt deeply humbled. Words had popped out of her mouth from seemingly nowhere. Somehow she knew exactly what to say to each man, and she could think of only one explanation; while she was hoping to trap a killer, God had worked through her to change lives.

  He really did work in mysterious ways—and in a bordello, of all places. The thought filled her with unspeakable emotion.

  A knock sounded, and she immediately checked her neckline to make certain the lace tucked there for modesty’s sake was in place.

  “Come in.”

  Mr. Monahan entered the room and sat, placing his palms on the desk. “So what does the future hold for me?” His oily smile and mocking tone made it clear he didn’t believe in such nonsense and was just playing along for the fun of it.

  She lowered her gaze to the crystal ball, surprised to find her knees shaking. God, please help me make this work. For Tom’s sake. For Davey’s.

  “I see … gold.” She raised her gaze to his. “Do you own a gold mine, Mr. Monahan?”

  “Unfortunately, no.” His eyes glittered as if she had just proven how ridiculous this whole business was. “At the price of gold, I wish I did.”

  Amy lowered her gaze to the crystal ball. “I see …” She held her hands to the ball without touching it. “I see a ship. No, not just one. I see three ships on a stormy sea.”

  She sensed Monahan stiffening but she kept her gaze focused on the ball. “I see a steel box.” Not wanting to be too obvious, she avoided using the word safe. “It holds great riches and it will make you very happy.” She let him digest that for a moment before gasping in alarm. “Oh dear. Should a ship arrive before midnight, peril awaits. After midnight, your treasure will be safe.”

  She relaxed as if letting the vision drain away. “It looks like your ship is about to come in, Mr. Monahan.”

  He stood and tossed a gold coin on the desk. “Since we live in Kansas, that would be an interesting trick.”

  He left the room, and she
knotted her hands. Had she been too obvious? Too subtle? Most importantly, did he fall for it?

  The last fortune she read was Mr. Studebaker’s. “Do I have a future as a singer?” he asked, his voice still hoarse.

  She kept her gaze fixated on the crystal ball. The man couldn’t carry a tune in a basket, but since she wouldn’t be around much longer to hear him, she saw no harm in offering encouragement. “I see many notes in your future, Mr. Studebaker.” Flat notes.

  The news seemed to please him to no end. “I knew it,” he rasped. Despite his sore throat, he left the room humming.

  No sooner had Studebaker left than Miss Lillian entered her office, wringing her hands. “The guests are gone!”

  “Everyone?”

  “Everyone!”

  Amy felt a rush of cautious optimism. The news was encouraging, but it didn’t necessarily mean Monahan had taken the bait.

  “What did you say to make everyone leave?” Miss Lillian asked with a frown.

  Amy rose. “I guess they were overwhelmed by my predictions.”

  Miss Lillian’s lips puckered with annoyance. “Remind me not to let you play fortune-teller again. It’s bad for business.” She lit the lamp and covered the ball with a black cloth. “Do you think the suspect fell for it?”

  Amy wished she could answer that. It was hard to tell what went on behind Monahan’s polished veneer. “We’ll know soon enough.”

  “You better get ready.” Miss Lillian picked up the crystal ball. “You don’t want to keep Mr. Monahan waiting.”

  Amy’s jaw dropped. “I never said it was him.” She’d told Miss Lillian her plan but not the name of the suspect.

  A smiled inched across Miss Lillian’s face, the first real smile Amy had seen all night. “I’ve been practicing my detective skills. I figured there was a reason why you wanted to read the men’s fortune in a particular order.”

  “I didn’t want anyone to be suspicious.” Amy glanced at the open door to make sure no eavesdroppers lurked in the entry hall.

  “Don’t look so worried. Discretion is my middle name. I know how to put two and two together and keep my mouth shut.” She waved her hands. “Now go and get ready. Detective Lillian will hold down the fort.”

  Grateful that Miss Lillian had not let Coral’s earlier outburst ruin the plan, Amy paused at the doorway. “Coral was wrong. You are a good businesswoman. You’re just in the wrong business.”

  Without waiting for a response she left, but not without peering into the parlor. Coral, Polly, and Buttercup sat in waiting silence, no doubt wondering where all the guests had gone. Detective Lillian better have a good explanation.

  Yanking the taffeta skirt up to her knees, she rushed up the stairs two at a time.

  Chapter 37

  Amy changed into a plain blue skirt and tailored shirtwaist. She stared at herself in the mirror. It was unusual to feel this nervous or anxious before an undercover operation, but then never had there been more at stake.

  If she was wrong about Monahan or if she botched this up in some way, she could pretty much count on her career as a Pinkerton operative coming to an end.

  Oddly enough, the thought wasn’t quite as devastating as she expected. Finding her sister had changed her in surprising ways. She no longer felt quite as restless or driven. She wanted to catch Monahan, no question. But not because of career advancement; this time her goal was far more personal.

  Nothing could bring Dave Colton back or change the past, but at least she could restore Tom’s faith in him. Perhaps even more importantly, she could give a young boy a legacy of pride instead of shame.

  She checked her derringer and slid it back into her leg holster. It was time and she was ready. At exactly ten minutes past ten o’clock, she opened the door and peered cautiously into the hall. Normally at this time on a Saturday night, the house bustled with activity. The silence felt odd, eerie, as if even the walls were afraid to breathe.

  Here we go, God. Here we go.

  The downstairs appeared deserted. So far so good. Now if Miss Lillian just remembered to leave the front door unlocked. She didn’t want to waste time using the trapdoor.

  She descended the stairs quietly and glanced into the parlor. Much to her relief, the room was empty. The lamps were still lit and the sickly smell of perfume hung in the air, but all that remained of the fire was red embers.

  She started for the door.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Halted by Coral’s voice, Amy turned. “Out for fresh air.”

  “Liar!” Coral descended the stairs, and even the paint piled on her dark-skinned face couldn’t hide her hateful expression. “What did you say to drive all the guests away?”

  “All I did was read their fortunes.”

  “Don’t lie to me. I knew there was something not right about you from the start.”

  Amy’s hands balled at her sides, but she maintained a calm demeanor. She didn’t have time for an argument. “I have nothing more to say, Coral.”

  “Well, I have plenty to say to you.”

  “What’s going on?” Buttercup appeared at the top of the stairs. Wearing a corset and bloomers, she stood braiding her hair into a single plait. Polly peered over her shoulder.

  “Nothing’s going on,” Amy said.

  Coral advanced toward her. She was still dressed in her working clothes, and the taffeta rustled like dry leaves. “It’s not the first time you left the house at night.”

  If Coral had been the one with Monahan at the cellar door, she was a fine one to talk.

  The quick pitter-patter of footsteps preceded Miss Lillian’s arrival. Her gaze bounced between Amy and Coral. “What’s all the fuss?”

  “Coral objects to my going outside for air,” Amy said.

  Coral’s brown eyes flashed with dangerous lights. “What I object to is your sneaking around and pretending to be something you’re not. You might fool Miss Lillian, but you can’t fool me.” She turned to the others. “Not only was Rose murdered the day Amy arrived, but somehow she got Georgia to leave. Then after disappearing for weeks without a word, she comes back and chases away all our guests.”

  The chimes of the tall clock rang out the quarter hour. Amy was anxious to get to town. She didn’t want to miss seeing Monahan arrested. “I don’t have time for this.” She reached for the doorknob, but Coral grabbed her by the wrist.

  “You’re not going anywhere until I get some answers.”

  Amy tried pulling away, but Coral’s grip tightened. “Let go of me.”

  Coral’s nose was practically in Amy’s face. “Over my dead body.”

  Amy glared at her. “Be careful what you wish for.”

  “I declare to goodness!” Miss Lillian clapped her hands. “I won’t have my girls acting like a bunch of alley cats,” she said, but no amount of pleading would loosen Coral’s grasp.

  Amy couldn’t afford to wait another minute. She slipped her one free hand into her false pocket and pulled out her derringer.

  Coral fell back, her face a mask of astonishment. Amy muttered an apology, though she didn’t feel particularly sorry. If Coral had hit her over the head in the cellar as suspected, a gun to the face was the least the woman deserved.

  Without another word, Amy left the house and ran.

  Amy was out of breath by the time she reached Main Street. A painful stitch shot from under her rib cage. Rubbing her side, she glanced around. Tethered horses lined the street. Lamps blazed from hotel windows, casting a patchwork of light onto the dirt road. Male voices and laughter wafted from the saloons. A banjo played a Stephen Foster tune to the sound of stomping feet.

  “Psst.”

  Amy swung around. Tom beckoned her from the alley next to the hotel almost directly across from the Monahan Express Company. Only his dark form was visible, but it was enough to quicken her pulse.

  She ducked between the buildings where both Marshal Flood and Tom stood waiting for her. Light from the hotel windows turne
d the alley into a checkerboard of bright squares.

  Tom pulled her to his side, and his nearness was both comforting and disturbing. “I thought you’d never get here,” he said, his voice hushed.

  “I had a problem getting away,” she said, trying to maintain a businesslike demeanor. “Everything all set?”

  Flood nodded. “We got lucky. Crenshaw worked on the safe and had the combination in his files.” Crenshaw was the town blacksmith.

  That was lucky, but not too surprising. Blacksmiths were the first people operatives turned to when needing access to a safe or vault. That’s because hinges and locks often required repairs, and blacksmiths were the only ones in town who could fix them. Oddly enough, few safe owners remembered to change combinations after repairs.

  “Any sign of Monahan?”

  “None,” the marshal replied, sounding peeved. “And the longer I stand here, the more this whole things sounds like a wild goose chase.”

  “Did Monahan fall for it?” Tom asked.

  “I think so.” She couldn’t be sure. “He gave no indication, but he did leave Miss Lillian’s the moment I finished reading his fortune. I thought he might make a beeline to his office.”

  Tom shook his head. “That would have been foolhardy. Too many people in town. Unless I miss my guess, he’ll wait till after midnight, just like you told him.”

  She closed her eyes to block Tom from view, but that didn’t make it any easier to concentrate. She could still feel the warmth of his body and hear his every breath. Then there was the intriguing combination of leather and bay rum that played havoc with her senses.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  She opened her eyes and forced a smile. “I think so.”

  Flood made a grunting sound. “This whole thing about Monahan … I’m still having a hard time believing it.”

  The marshal’s doubts added to Amy’s anxiety. What if she was wrong about Monahan? About Coral? Had her feelings for Tom compromised her judgment?

  She felt Tom bristle by her side. “I see something.”