Petticoat Detective (11 page)

“I waited for you at the hotel.” He tilted his head. “Thought you might have information for me by now. Perhaps the names of Rose’s clients.”

“Guests.”

“What?”

“They’re called guests.”

He pushed his hat back with a finger to his brim. “If we’re gonna work together, there’s something you should know about me. I’m not much for beating around the bush. I’m what you might call a simple man. I like keeping things plain and uncomplicated, and that includes language.”

“Does that go for women, too?” she asked. “The plain and uncomplicated part?”

“It’s been my experience that them’s the best kind.” He hung his thumbs from his gun belt. Not that Amy was in any way plain. Complicated, yes. Plain, no. “So if it’s all the same to you, ma’am, I’d appreciate it if you’d be straightforward with me. It’ll make things a whole lot simpler.”

“I’ll get you the list you want. Is that straightforward enough?”

“It’ll do. For now.”

Her eyes met his. Today they were the color of freshly mowed grass. “I really am sorry for what happened,” she said. “The guns—that wasn’t my idea.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Thank God for bad aims.”

She smiled. “And quick cowboys.”

Every time she smiled it was as if some unseen signal passed between them, and today was no different. “Why do I get the feeling that you don’t belong here?”

The smile vanished, and the light in her eyes seemed to dim. He wished he hadn’t said anything, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. She was throwing her life away. There had to be something he could say or do to make her see that.

“I’ll be in touch.” She started for the house, but he stopped her with a hand to her wrist.

“I’ll be mighty obliged for any help you give me.” The encounter with the man named Buckeye had shaken him more than he wanted to admit. If what he said about Dave was true, he didn’t know how he would live with that. How he would break the news to Dave’s son waiting back at the ranch.

Aware, suddenly, that the madam was still watching and looked like she was about to charge him good money, he released Amy’s arm.

“I’ll help you the best I can,” she said in a hushed voice. “Just as long as we keep it simple between us.”

“In other words, keep my nose out of your business.”

She gave him a half smile, but even that was a treat. “We understand each other.”

“I doubt it’ll ever come to that, ma’am. The understanding part, I mean.” Never in a million years would he understand a woman in her profession.

“Probably not. But it’ll be fun trying.”

“Now there’s a thought,” he said.

She walked away and, with a quick glance in his direction, vanished into the house.

A noticeable chill filled the air and the trees began to sway. It was as if the sun had vanished with her. Sudden wind kicked up the musty smell of rain.

Annoyed with himself for letting the lady get to him, he made a dash for his horse tethered in front of the house. With a little luck, he’d make it back to his hotel before the storm.

Peering down at the street from her bedroom window, Amy had mixed emotions as Tom Colton rode away on his shiny black horse. No sooner had he vanished from sight than a flash of lightning zigzagged across the sky followed by a sudden downpour.

Streams of water raced down the windowpane as if to chase away her unbridled thoughts….

Was Tom Colton the Gunnysack Bandit? The question had been very much on her mind these last couple of days. If the answer was yes, then perhaps the real reason he wanted her to spy was to find out what, if anything, the other women knew about him.

That business about his brother sounded true, but that could have been a ruse and the letter a forgery. The outlaw had terrorized Kansas for the past four years and had outwitted the country’s smartest detectives and lawmen. Obviously he was no fool, and neither was Mr. Colton. The man could charm the gold out of a rock.

So was he or was he not the Gunnysack Bandit?

She didn’t have the answer yet, but one thing was clear: she hoped to God he wasn’t.

T
he next day Amy sat in her room at the Grande Hotel and Bath House. Maintaining a hotel room was a luxury, but it afforded her much-needed privacy.

The Pinkerton brothers would complain about the added expense, of course, but it couldn’t be helped. Her chameleon-like ability to adapt to her surroundings generally served her well. But this … this was altogether something different. No other assignment had required her to stay in character around the clock, seven days a week. No other case had challenged her on so many levels. Perhaps the hardest part of all was the necessity of keeping her faith in God under wraps and not let it slip out in general conversation as it tended to do.

She also had a practical reason for maintaining a hotel room. As the new girl, she was given the least desirable room at the parlor house. That didn’t bother her; the broken lock on her door did.

Coral and the others thought nothing of walking in without knocking. She was in constant danger of being caught going over Miss Lillian’s ledgers or writing her reports.

Hand on the back of her neck, she rolled her head to work out the kinks. Her report to headquarters was still missing the names of Miss Lillian’s guests, so she opened the ledger.

The madam kept perfect records, and every transaction, whether for entertainment, singing lessons, boots, haircuts, or fortune-telling, was recorded in clear, precise handwriting.

A total of forty-two transactions were recorded the week prior to Rose depositing stolen money into her bank deposit. Amy felt a surge of excitement as she studied the names of the men who had done business at Miss Lillian’s, including the marshal who, according to the ledger, purchased a pair of leather boots.

Miss Lillian paid her girls by check, but Polly explained that sometimes the men gave them a little something extra on the side. That meant Rose could have gotten the stolen banknotes directly from one of the guests. But which one? Not Tom Colton. He wasn’t even at the bordello on the week in question. In fact, his name showed up only once, on the day of Rose’s death.

The marshal’s name posed a problem. Pinkerton operatives were required to introduce themselves to local lawmen, and she had planned to do so that very day. Not only was it a matter of courtesy but also of necessity. Obtaining the marshal’s cooperation was part of the job.

But what if
he
was the Gunnysack Bandit? It wouldn’t be the first time a lawman had turned to a life of crime. Politicians, lawyers, and doctors were also known to participate in illegal activities. And only last fall, a minister had robbed a train to build a church. A detective couldn’t afford to discount anyone.

She copied the names onto her writing tablet to include with her report to headquarters. Reports were required to be accurate to the last detail and any dialogue recorded verbatim. Though she had to think hard to accurately record her conversations with Miss Lillian—and that of the four working women—Amy had no trouble recalling every word exchanged with Tom Colton.

“Does that go for women, too? The plain and uncomplicated part?”

“It’s been my experience that them’s the best kind.”

The memory of his voice was so clear it was almost as if he were in the room with her. She shook her head to clear her mind. Somehow she had to conquer whatever hold he had over her. She had a job to do. That meant she had no time for silly schoolgirl fantasies.

Forcing herself to concentrate on her report, she wrote until her fingers ached from gripping the pen.

The Pinkerton National Detective Agency had the world’s largest collection of mug shots in its criminal database. So the first order of business was to see if any of the forty-two men had a criminal record. This required detailed descriptions, and Miss Lillian had been a big help in this regard.

Amy reread what she had written and frowned. She may have gotten a bit carried away in describing Mr. Colton’s eyes as peacock blue with flecks of gold. The French dressmaker’s influence, no doubt.

Satisfied that at last she was making headway, she wrote a separate list of the men for herself and one for Colton, though she had yet to decide whether to give it to him. Completing her tasks, she drew the draperies shut. She then pulled a dress, two skirts, and matching shirtwaists from her valise and tucked them into the carpetbag borrowed from Miss Lillian. Last, she added the ledger.

She cracked open the door and peered cautiously down the hall before stepping outside and turning the key.
His
room, number fourteen, was several doors away, and the very thought quickened her pulse. Attributing the sudden warmth rushing to her cheeks to a sudden bout of anxiety, she headed for the stairs.

No one would be surprised to see a woman of easy virtue at the hotel, but the last thing she needed was to bump into Mr. Colton. If he really was the Gunnysack Bandit, he might have hired her just to keep her under surveillance. She’d best watch her step around him until he had been thoroughly checked against the agency’s vast file of known criminals.

The second-story landing was empty, but people milled around the lobby below.

She was halfway down the stairs before noticing Mr. Colton seated in the sitting area, reading a newspaper.

Ducking her head beneath the banister, she turned and raced up the stairs to the top landing. Was there another way out of the hotel? Perhaps a second set of stairs for domestic help?

“Bless my soul. Fancy meeting you here.”

She glanced over her shoulder and her heart nearly stopped. The three church ladies stood beaming at her. Pushing her spectacles up her nose, Mrs. Givings was the first to speak.

“We are putting a Good Book in each of the empty rooms,” she explained, pointing to a box filled to the brim with Bibles. “We thought weary travelers might appreciate a comforting word.”

“Yes, I’m sure they would,” Amy said. She peered over the railing just as Mr. Colton rose and headed for the staircase. “Let me help you.”

Holding her valise in one hand, she scooped several leather-bound Bibles from the cardboard box with the other. The three women’s mouths dropped open.

“Oh, but that won’t be necess—”

Not giving Mrs. Givings a chance to finish, Amy sprinted down the hall, dropping a Bible as she fled. “I’ll go this way,” she called.

Spotting the top of Mr. Colton’s wide-brim hat as he ascended the stairs, she panicked and ran through the first open door. An older man with a white mustache and beard was emptying his suitcase.

He took one look at her and licked his chops. “Now that’s what I call room service.”

T
he next day, Amy sat in her room and stared at the calendar. She couldn’t believe she’d been at Miss Lillian’s Parlor House for a week. The worst part was that she had precious little to show for it. She’d questioned the others at length, but no one had anything useful to say. Never had she met more closemouthed women. Her frustration grew with each passing hour.

Living at Miss Lillian’s was an odd experience that clawed at Amy’s conscience. It sickened her to see women spend so much time primping, flirting, and kowtowing to men. Most everything of an immoral nature was kept behind closed doors, of course, but that didn’t make it any easier to bear. For her own peace of mind, she constantly reminded herself that she was there for the greater good. Her job was to catch a criminal, not to judge the way others lived their lives.

Isn’t that what the Bible said? “
Judge not
.” Easier said than done. Never before had she struggled so hard to be charitable. Harder still was holding her tongue.

It was all she could do not to shake Polly and the other women and make them see what they were doing was wrong and destructive. God had a better plan, if only they would put their trust in Him. She couldn’t say that, of course, couldn’t take a chance on blowing her cover. But it nearly killed her to keep quiet. It surely did feel like God was testing her.

She also felt guilty for enjoying the luxurious living conditions at Miss Lillian’s. That she couldn’t deny.

The madam had spared no expense in creating a pleasant environment for her “girls.” The flocked red wallpaper was from France, the ornate carpets from the Orient, and the crystal chandeliers had been shipped directly from Italy.

Indoor plumbing was an extravagance that Amy had only heard about but had never personally experienced except in hotels. It was something she imagined that only kings and the very rich could afford. The highlight of her day was sinking into the footed porcelain tub with its gold-plated faucets and letting her cares float away. The hot, soapy water provided a soothing salve for the soul and cleared her mind.

During nonworking hours, the atmosphere at the house became notably more relaxed. At times it seemed more like a women’s school dormitory than a bordello. The low, smoky voices trained to capture a man’s ear grew more natural and therefore more high pitched. Without layers of face paint, expressions appeared softer, but no less sad.