Love in Disguise (8 page)

She settled into the chair nearest the front door and shut her eyes as the creak of the rocker settled into a steady rhythm, letting the sun’s soothing heat seep into her bones. What a blessing after Chicago’s brutal winter. The thought made her eyelids spring open again. A blessing? Had the God she had ignored for so long been listening to her prayers after all?

The moment the question crossed her mind, a glow spread within her that rivaled the warmth of the Arizona sunshine. The rocker ceased its motion while she sat transfixed. Could it be true? After all the years since she’d turned her back on God, was it possible He still cared? Maybe she ought to dig her long-neglected Bible out of her trunk and start reading it again.

A rustle near the front window pulled her from her reverie, and she slanted a stern look at the lilac bush. “All right, young man, I’m onto you. You might as well quit your skulking and come out of there right now.”

Silence followed; then a moment later the branches parted, and her towheaded neighbor emerged.

“What were you doing in there?”

“Nothin’.” The boy twisted his lips into a sullen pout and drew a line in the dirt with the toe of his scruffy shoe.

“Oh, I think you can do better than that.” Ellie reached out and patted the seat on the chair next to hers. “Why don’t you come up here and sit with me for a spell?”

The boy shot her a startled glance. “Why?”

Why indeed?
She was in Pickford to solve a crime, not reform young hoodlums. On the other hand, if she befriended the lad, he might be less likely to lurk under her front window.

“I like to get acquainted with my neighbors,” she answered in a noncommittal tone. She waited until he scooted back on the seat of the rocker, his feet barely making contact with the porch floorboards. “What’s your name?”

“Billy Taylor.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Billy. I’m Mrs. Stewart.” She leaned forward. “Now, tell me, what is it you find so fascinating about me? Surely you have more constructive things to do than sneak around my house.”

“Nah.” Billy’s shoes made trails in the dust on the porch as he rocked back and forth. “No one wants me hangin’ around much.”

Considering the behavior she had witnessed so far, she could understand why. “Then perhaps you need a hobby, something you can pursue on your own. What do you like to do?”

A wide grin lit Billy’s face. “I like finding out things about people. I’m really good at that. I might even be a spy when I grow up. I’d make a fine one, don’t you think?”

“Hmm.” Ellie chose not to comment on that. “How about this, then? Do you think you could do your spying somewhere besides my front yard?”

The light in Billy’s eyes dimmed. “Yeah, I guess.” He slipped out of the rocker without further comment and shuffled across the street to his house.

Ellie watched him go, feeling an unaccountable tightness in her throat. A ray from the afternoon sun caught her squarely in the eye, reminding her that the day was marching on. Time to get to work.

Back inside her bedroom, she surveyed her appearance in the oval mirror over her dressing table, finding it surprisingly presentable after the rigors of traveling. Smoothing the wrinkles out of her dress as best she could, she checked to make sure the gray wig was fastened securely and straightened her wide-brimmed hat. She was ready to begin.

But how? Ellie stared at Lavinia’s reflection. The idea of investigating sounded simple enough, but she had no clue what steps were actually involved in accomplishing the task. If only Fleming and Gates had given her more details than the bare information she needed in order to serve as “window dressing.”

Question the suspects. Wasn’t that what the fictional detectives she’d read about would do? Surely that would be a promising place to start. But she had to locate the suspects first. How was she supposed to do that? On her journey west, she’d envisioned herself asking clever questions of the people in town. Now that she had arrived, she could see she would have to revise her thinking. The people of Pickford seemed to know everyone else’s business. If she wandered around asking questions of every individual she encountered, the whole town would know about it by nightfall. Hardly a good way to keep from drawing attention to herself.

Instead of Chicago, where neighbors could be virtual strangers, Pickford reminded her of the tight-knit theatrical community, where gossip whispered in one ear would find its way to everyone else in the company in short order.

Ellie sighed. She’d told the Pinkertons she was resourceful; now she had to prove it.

She pulled her notes from her reticule and spread them on the dining table, then sat down to study them. Miners, business owners, ranchers. She tucked her lower lip between her teeth. That information was a start, but she had no idea how to go about contacting them.

With a low moan, she rested her forehead on the heel of her hand. Her situation was becoming more complicated every moment. Would it be appropriate for an older lady to go around asking questions of rough miners and saloonkeepers? How could she possibly learn anything if she had to observe from a distance? Ellie gritted her teeth and slapped her hand on the table. How could Norma abandon her?

She needed to calm down. There had to be a way. . . . She had no training in being a detective, but she’d spent her life around the theater. The situation in Pickford, filled with nefarious thieves, eccentric characters, and an exotic setting, was a drama of its own, one in which she now found herself enmeshed. Could she somehow use the things she did know to her advantage? After all, she had seen plenty of performances on stage. She knew how a play should be structured.

“If this were a play,” she murmured, “what would happen next?” She pushed her chair away from the table and paced the length of the parlor.

“Act one, scene one: the crime is committed. Act one, scene two: the detective arrives and . . . and . . .” Her steps lagged, and she stopped dead in the middle of the braided rug. Try as she might, not a single idea came to mind.

Her brief surge of hope sputtered and died like a moth flying into a footlight. She resumed her seat at the table and went back to her list of possible suspects. She didn’t know where to find these people, but surely someone in Pickford did. Hadn’t she already seen evidence that the townsfolk seemed to know the details of each other’s lives?

Hope began to flicker again, and Ellie grinned. Here was one instance when being Lavinia would pay off. Elderly ladies were expected to take an interest in other people’s business. She gathered up her reticule and headed for the front door.

Johnson’s Mercantile smelled of leather, tobacco, and a pungent odor Ellie couldn’t identify. She moved past baskets of vegetables and headed toward the fancy-goods section near the rear of the store. Passing a rack holding reins and bridles, she spotted a scruffy-looking man who looked like he’d just crawled out of a hole in the ground. Ellie wrinkled her nose. Apparently the disheveled customer was the source of the unidentifiable smell. She edged around him and made her way to the back.

Ellie eyed the assortment of shoppers and gave a satisfied nod. Two young ladies fingered a variety of notions at a table in the dry-goods area. At the long counter, a sharp-faced woman in an outlandishly feathered hat ticked off the items on her list, insisting to the harried storekeeper that her baking powder had to be the Czar brand, and none other.

A tall, muscular, sandy-haired man dressed in a dark wool jacket and canvas-duck pants carried a keg of nails to the counter and set it down with a thud beside a stack of items Ellie couldn’t name. Another man—a cowboy, judging from his large spurs and heeled boots—stood in the ready-made-clothing section looking through a stack of shirts.

Ellie smiled. She had chosen the location for her first foray well. The variety of people she saw represented a fair cross-section of the local citizenry.

Where to begin? The mercantile owner would be a likely source of information, but the frazzled-looking man was still taking orders from the woman with the feathered hat. One of the men might be able to tell her where to find the miners, but how could Lavinia approach him right out of the blue?

The women, then. Ellie made her way to a section of the store devoted to fancy goods and approached a plump woman of about Lavinia’s age. “Good afternoon. The storekeeper appears to be occupied. Could you tell me where I might find some picture hooks?”

“I’d guess they would be over there with the curtain rods and such.” The woman pointed toward an area on the other side of the store without taking her eyes off Ellie.

“Thank you.” Ellie sighed and shook her head. “Setting up housekeeping is always such a trial, don’t you think?”

“Oh?” The other woman’s eyes gleamed.

Ellie smothered a grin, recognizing a kindred inquisitive spirit.

“I’m Althea Baldwin. You’ve just arrived in town?”

Ellie nodded. “My name is Lavinia Stewart. I’m staying over on Second Street. In the Cooper place.”

“Well, what do you know? Welcome to Pickford.” Her new acquaintance set down the set of stamped-muslin pillow shams she’d been looking at and peered past Ellie. “That’s a rather small house. How large is your family?”

“It’s just me, I’m afraid—at least for the moment. I’ve been widowed for several years, but I expect my niece to join me later.”

“You too?” Althea clucked in sympathy. “It’s been nearly five years for me. It’s bitterly hard, especially at first, but we must press on, mustn’t we?”

Ellie nodded, not knowing what to say. She was merely playing a role, but this woman had to live out that sad truth. She looked around the store, wondering what stories the lives of the others there would tell. “Pickford seems to have quite a variety of people.”

“That we do.” Althea nodded, seeming fully as eager to impart information as Ellie was to collect it. She tilted her head toward the woman at the counter and lowered her voice. “That’s Irene Peabody. She’s the banker’s wife and the most important woman in town. She’ll tell you so herself.”

She gestured over Ellie’s shoulder. “The cowboy over there looking at shirts is Shiloh Hooper. He rides for the Circle J ranch.”

So she’d been right. Feeling a bit smug at her accurate assessment, Ellie looked him over carefully, taking in the wiry frame, the high-crowned hat, and the heavy gun belt.

“And over there . . .” Althea turned back toward the counter and pointed at the man waiting alongside his keg of nails. “That’s Steven Pierce. He owns the Redemption Mine.” She drew close and nudged Ellie in the ribs with her elbow. “He’s a handsome thing, isn’t he? Makes me wish I was thirty years younger.”

Ellie pressed her gloved fingertips against her lips. She gave what she hoped looked like an empathetic smile while her mind whirled with the information she’d just gleaned. Steven Pierce was one of the names on the letter the Pinkertons had received. One of the miners whose request for help had summoned her to Arizona.

Her gaze sharpened as she studied the easy way he leaned against the counter. It was almost like a sign from above. Surely he was meant to be her first official contact. She watched as the banker’s wife sniped at the young boy who helped her carry her purchases outside and Steven Pierce conferred with the shopkeeper and handed over payment for his supplies. Hoisting the keg of nails onto his shoulder, he nodded to the store owner and headed toward the door.

She couldn’t let him get away. Ellie took a step forward, then drew up short. She couldn’t just walk up and start a conversation with a total stranger. She cast about for inspiration and noticed a loose floorboard halfway along the aisle between them.

Ellie caught her breath and pointed toward a table holding crockery and glassware. “Look at that display of dishes,” she said to Althea. “I never expected to see something as fine as that way out here.”

Stepping as lively as Lavinia was able, she hurried over toward the display on a course that would intersect with the uneven floorboard. Just before she reached the miner, she pretended to stumble, staggering right into his path. In one lithe movement, he swung the keg down to the floor and reached out to catch her before she fell.

“Oh my goodness!” As her rescuer set her upright, Ellie adjusted her hat and peered up at him. “Thank you, young man. I would have taken a terrible tumble if you hadn’t come to my aid.”

Deep grooves bracketed Mr. Pierce’s mouth when he smiled in a way that made her wish she was back in his arms again. She stared up into eyes the deep brown of Arbuckle’s coffee and felt her heart take off like a racehorse.

His smile turned to a look of concern. “Ma’am, are you all right?”

Ellie collected herself and pulled back into character. Seeing her chance to keep him talking, she reached out and laid her hand on his sleeve. “I do feel a little unstable,” she said, realizing her statement was the absolute truth. The room seemed to swirl about them in a way that threatened to make her queasy.

Mr. Pierce looked around. “Do you want me to get you a chair?”

“No, no. Just let me lean on you for a moment. . . . That is, if you don’t mind.”