Petticoat Detective (25 page)

He left the church with a heavy heart. Had Dave fooled the reverend as he’d fooled others in the past? It was a question very much on his mind for the remainder of the day.

The following morning, Amy woke to loud voices. She turned over, punched her pillow, and tried to go back to sleep, but the voices persisted. Having grown up with brothers, she wasn’t used to the feminine squabbles and petty jealousies that were now part of her daily life.

She lifted her head from the pillow and glanced at the clock. It wasn’t even seven. The high-pitched chatter grew louder and sounded more serious than a simple spat over someone hogging the bath.

No longer able to hold back her curiosity, she slid out of bed and padded to the door barefoot.

Miss Lillian and the others were gathered in the hallway in front of Georgia’s room.

Amy covered her mouth. Oh no, not Georgia!
Please, God, no!
She flew down the hall expecting to see Georgia’s body on the floor, but instead the room—the bed—was empty.

And just that quickly a voice echoed from the past:
“Thared, Tenfer. Monster tay me.”

The vision of Cissy’s empty bed on that long-ago day seemed so real, Amy slumped against the door frame. It was all she could do to catch her breath.

Polly touched her shoulder. “Are you all r–right?”

Shaking away the fog of the past, Amy nodded. “Yes … I …” Everyone stared at her, and she gave herself a mental shake. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “What’s all the fuss?”

Polly looked close to tears. “Georgia’s g–g–g—”

Buttercup clutched the neckline of her blue satin dressing gown. “What Polly’s trying to say is that Georgia’s gone and didn’t come home last night.”

Coral made a face. “And she didn’t tell anyone where she was going.”

A dozen questions raced through Amy’s thoughts. Had Georgia decided not to return? Had she decided to stay with her children instead? Oh, please, God, let that be true!

“What do you think happened to her?” Buttercup asked in the kind of hushed voice people saved for sickrooms and funerals.

“You don’t s–s–suppose—” Polly fell silent, but she glanced down the hall to Rose’s old room.

“I’m sure she’s all right,” Amy assured her. She didn’t want to break Georgia’s confidence, but neither did she want the others to worry.

Miss Lillian looked especially distraught. Was she concerned about Georgia’s well-being? Or simply annoyed that she’d lost yet another girl in such a short time?

“Now there’s just the four of us,” Buttercup said. “That means we’ll be … busy.”

Coral glared at Amy. “Some of us.”

Amy pretended not to notice, but it worried her. Coral suspected something, and she wasn’t the kind of person to keep it to herself.

Miss Lillian wrung her hands. “Perhaps we should notify ole Tin Star.”

“What’s the marshal gonna do?” Coral snapped. “He hasn’t done anything to find Rose’s killer. We could all be murdered in our beds and no one would care.”

“God cares.” Amy hadn’t meant to say the words aloud, but they just bubbled out of her. The silence that followed couldn’t have been more brittle had she announced she had a contagious disease.

“The stories we tell ourselves,” Coral muttered as she walked away.

Miss Lillian and the others left, too, scurrying away like frightened little mice.

Amy watched them flee. It was hard to know what worried them more: Georgia’s absence or God’s presence.

A
t midnight, the street directly in front of the Monahan Express Company was relatively quiet. From a nearby saloon came the high tinny tune of a tightly wound banjo. Clapping hands and stomping feet were punctuated with bouts of raucous laughter.

Amy took careful note of her surroundings. The marshal was convinced the Gunnysack Bandit was Tom’s brother, and tonight she hoped to prove him wrong. Earlier that day, she had gone to Dave’s boardinghouse and pretended to be his long-lost cousin. But the proprietor, a widow in her sixties, had little to offer. She had no idea what hours Dave had kept while living there. Though the man had been dead for a little less than three months, she hardly remembered him. Amy hoped her efforts tonight would prove more successful.

Her plan was simple: break into the express office, check the keys on the typewriter or typewriters, and leave. She was by no means an expert in machines, but it shouldn’t be hard to check the type bars. The most used letter in the English language,
e
, would no doubt show wear. She would be far more interested in comparing the letter
m
to the list found on Dave Colton’s person.
M
for Monahan.

Directly across from the express office stood the Grande Hotel and Bath House. In front of the hotel’s two-story building, a tethered horse nickered and pawed the ground. From the distance came the bark of a dog.

She pulled her gaze away from the hotel but not soon enough to stop unbidden memories from coming to the fore.

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t know.”

She gave herself a mental shake. What Tom thought or didn’t think was no concern of hers. None!

Focusing her attention on the locked door, she pulled a hairpin from her hair. After straightening the metal wire, she jabbed one end into the keyhole. She wiggled it back and forth. Nothing. She pulled the hairpin out of the lock and reinserted it.

She had no business breaking into anyone’s office. The marshal considered the case closed, and it was only a matter of time before she received orders to leave Kansas. Still, something didn’t sit right. Too many unanswered questions remained for her peace of mind.

She didn’t know where Monahan fit in, if indeed he did, but the more she heard about his wild spending sprees and high-stakes gambling, the more her suspicions grew. He was rich, and he was powerful, and he matched the height and agility of the Gunnysack Bandit. If that wasn’t enough of a red flag, the watch chain found in Rose’s room had to belong to him. It was too similar in design to the one he now wore.

True, he could have lost it at any time, perhaps even days or week before Rose’s death. But then why didn’t the so-called thief find it upon searching her room? What self-respecting robber would leave a valuable gold chain behind?

Blowing a strand of hair away from her face, Amy jammed the hairpin back into the keyhole for the third time.

A gas lamppost cast a yellow glow across the door, so light wasn’t a problem; her aching back was. Mr. Pinkerton would have a fit if he knew one of his operatives couldn’t pick a simple door lock to save her soul.

Not willing to admit defeat, she stuck her tongue between her teeth and wiggled the hairpin back and forth. There had to be a tumbler in the hole somewhere. Her instructor, Mr. Welby, at the Pinkerton detective school had made picking locks seem like child’s play.

A drunk staggered down the middle of the dirt road singing a ditty at the top of his lungs but paid her no heed.

Having no luck, Amy pulled the hairpin from the keyhole. Straightening, she rubbed her lower spine. Who knew that picking locks could be so physically demanding?

The pin was hopelessly bent out of shape. Dropping it into her drawstring purse, she tried to think. Why hadn’t she thought to bring a piece of wire with her? Irritated at her own ineptness, she gave the door a good kick.

“Can I be of help, ma’am?”

Startled by the male voice, Amy spun around and gasped. She couldn’t see his face, but there was no mistaking Tom Colton’s tall, dark form.

He drew back in surprise. “Amy? Is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me.” Since she was bathed in gaslight, she could hardly deny it. She couldn’t see his eyes but she felt his gaze.

“And the other day … that was you, too, wasn’t it?”

She clenched her hands by her side. “It was me. These are my nonworking clothes. What are you doing here?”
Doesn’t anyone in this town sleep?

“Well I’ll be a possum’s uncle.” Hooking his thumbs over his belt, he shook his head. “You should dress like that more often. It suits you.”

His compliment made her blush. Confound it! No matter how much she fought her attraction to him, he always managed to blast through her defenses. “How did you—?”

“I saw you from my hotel window. So what’s the story?”

“There is no story. You’re paying me to spy, and that’s what I’m doing.”

He reared back. “You’re doing this for me?”

“I’m certainly not doing it for my health.”

“But I thought … You said that the marshal suspected my brother was the Gunnysack Bandit. I just assumed you did, too.” He angled his head. “I never asked you to break into anyone’s office.”

She gave herself a mental kick.
Think. Think!
“I just have a feeling that we’re on the wrong track. Call it woman’s intuition.”

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.”