Petticoat Detective (6 page)

No one knew Rose’s last name or even if she had a family, but the other women appeared eager to talk about her.

The blond woman named Polly went first. She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief and stuttered, “R–Rose was the k–kindest person I ever met. She was p–p–popular with everyone.”

The preacher cleared his throat and kept his gaze focused downward, his blunt-fingered hands held in prayer.

Polly’s eyes widened and she glanced around in a panic. “I—I meant she was p–p–popular with us girls.”

Next to her, Coral shook the water off her closed umbrella. Today she wore a bright gold frock that complemented her dark complexion if not her critical expression. “You don’t have to apologize for Rose.”

“I w–wasn’t apologizing, Coral.”

“Sounded like it to me.”

A moment of strained silence followed the exchange, and finally the preacher asked, “Anyone else wish to say something?”

“She had dreams. Big dreams.” The words were spoken by the woman who called herself Buttercup, a name that said more about her generous girth than her orange-red hair.

After a short pause Coral added, “And she didn’t want to be here.”

“None of us want to be here.” This came from a stick-thin woman with raven hair named Georgia. “And I’m not talking about a cemetery.” Her gaze flicked around the circle of mourners. “Though certainly no one wants to be here, either.”

All eyes turned to Miss Lillian, but she was too busy staring at the minister’s shabby boots to pay heed to the women’s laments.

Silence followed as they watched two grave diggers lower the coffin and spade wet soil into the hole.

The service ended with a prayer and collective sigh. The minister asked if anyone needed his counsel, and when no one did, he bolted like a jackrabbit in tall grass. Folded umbrella raised over her head, Miss Lillian chased after him, presumably to try and sell him a pair of new boots.

Instead of following Coral and the others out of the cemetery, Amy lingered in front of the newly dug grave, giving Mr. Colton ample time to catch up to her. She didn’t want to appear obvious, but neither did she want to miss an opportunity to find out how he fit into the picture.

He tipped his hat in greeting. “We meet again.”

Recalling their last encounter, warmth crept up her neck. “Yes, what a surprise.”

He gave her a crooked smile, and once again she was reminded what a handsome man he was. “About the other night … I hope Miss Lillian didn’t give you a bad time.” He raised an eyebrow in query.

No, the bordello owner just watched her like a hawk, making it impossible to do much in the way of sleuthing. But she said none of this. Instead, she returned his smile with one in kind.

“I told her it was all
your
fault,” she said.

He laughed. “And no doubt she believed you.”

His laughter made her smile, and for some reason she felt a surge of guilt. “I’m sorry Miss Lillian made you pay.”

“It was worth it just to see you fall out of that tree. I trust the man you planned on meeting wasn’t too disappointed when you failed to show up.”

She forced herself not to look away from his probing gaze. “I made it up to him,” she said, and immediately the light went out of his eyes.

Disarmed by the disapproval on his face, she forced a deep breath. She didn’t realize she’d allowed her hand to grow slack at her neckline until his gaze dropped to her open shoulder cape. She squeezed the closure so tight her fingers ached.

He pushed his hat back and studied her with quizzical eyes. “Excuse me for asking Miss … Amy, but have you worked for Miss Lillian long?”

Her professional training kicked in, and she considered her answer carefully before responding. “The night Rose died … that was my first time at Miss Lillian’s,” she said in a conspiratorial tone. Mr. Pinkerton insisted that the art of gaining information required skill and fortitude, but she often got better results by playing on a man’s sympathy.

Her ploy worked, or at least softened his expression. “That explains it, then.” He frowned. “You looked scared enough to make the hair of a buffalo robe stand up.”

She couldn’t help but smile at the image he invoked. “That bad, eh?” Her smile failed to coax one in return.

“Have you been in the … business long?” he asked.

“Awhile,” she said, and the censure on his face couldn’t be more pronounced. “Obviously you don’t approve.”

He narrowed his gaze. “There are other ways to make a living.”

“Only if a woman wishes to live in poverty.” She hated defending a profession she loathed, but she couldn’t afford to blow her cover.

He cleared his throat and changed the subject. “Do all the ladies carry firearms?”

She frowned. “Why do you ask?”

He shrugged. “Just curious.”

“Had Rose been armed, she might still be alive,” she said.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” He stared at the new grave in silence. Studying his profile, she tried thinking of a way to bring up the Gunnysack Bandit without rousing suspicion.

“I would like to make you a proposition,” he said.

“A … proposition?” His disapproval of her profession apparently went only so far. This time she pulled her cape so tight she practically cut off her own breathing.

“I want to hire you to do a little spying for me.”

She stared at him. Did he say what she thought he’d said? “You want me to … spy?”

“I have it on good authority that the man known as the Gunnysack Bandit is no stranger to the parlor house.”

He had done her a favor in mentioning the outlaw’s name, but she was careful not to react. “You mentioned him previously.” She gave herself a mental pat for showing only the slightest interest. Too bad she got so little credit for her acting abilities.

Colton’s face darkened. “Yes, and I’m anxious to find him. He’s a conniving thief and a cold-blooded killer.”

His description of the man matched the one in the Pinkerton file almost word for word. Nevertheless, she stayed in character and opened her eyes wide to feign shock. “And you want me to spy on him? A thief and a killer?”

“Even if we knew his identity, which we don’t, I’d prefer that you didn’t go anywhere near him. He’s dangerous, but I doubt that after what he did to Rose he’ll show his face at Miss Lillian’s again. At least not for a while.”

This time she didn’t have to fake surprise. “You think
he
killed Rose?”

“I’ll bet my boots on it.”

His well-worn boots looked like they’d been trampled by a herd of cattle. Someone would have to be pretty desperate to take him up on his offer.

“As certain as that, Mr. Colton?” she asked, her tone wry.

“Yes ma’am.” Apparently, he didn’t see the humor in his comment, and the hoped-for smile failed to materialize.

“How do you know this man … is responsible?” There were only two guests at the house the night Rose died, and one of them was Mr. Colton. The other man was Mr. Pepper. Standing little more than five feet tall, he hardly fit the description of the Gunnysack Bandit.

“I have my ways.” He glanced around and lowered his voice. “I want you to talk to the others and find out if Rose mentioned him to anyone at the house. Perhaps even revealed his name … I’ll pay for any information you can give me.”

She weighed the pros and cons of his proposal. If either of the two Pinkerton brothers got wind that she was working for another, she would be fired on the spot. William and Robert demanded complete loyalty from employees, just as their founding father had done when he was still in full charge of the company. On the other hand, if Mr. Colton
thought
she was working for him, he would be more likely to share whatever knowledge he had with her.

“So what do you say?” he prodded.

“If I decide to do this, how will I reach you?” she asked, stalling for time. She’d received a telegram from headquarters with orders to continue investigating. That meant she had to find a way to remain at Miss Lillian’s without compromising her morals—a goal she hadn’t the foggiest idea how to accomplish.

“I’m staying at the hotel.” His brow furrowed. “So is that a yes?”

His staying at the hotel posed a complication. They could easily bump into each other whenever she went to her rented room. She moistened her rouged lips and immediately regretted drawing his attention to her mouth.

“I’ll let you kn–know,” she stammered.

His gaze met hers. “Fair enough.” He seemed oblivious to the three matronly women standing a short distance away, watching them from the other side of the fence. “But I’ll expect an answer by four tomorrow afternoon. Agreed?”

That didn’t give her much time to figure out how to proceed with the investigation, but she nodded. “Is that the only reason you came to today? To talk me into spying?” she asked.

“That and”—he tossed a nod toward the fresh mound of dirt marking Rose’s grave—“to pay my respects to my brother’s fiancée.”

He doffed his Stetson and walked away. She hardly had time to recover from the surprising new information when the three women stepped through the gate separating the two cemeteries and advanced toward her.

Their gray skirts and long dark capes were more suited for a funeral than the bright colors worn by Miss Lillian’s girls, but none of the women so much as glanced at the new grave.

A barrel-shaped woman, whose size alone gave her the right to be the leader, moved closer. Her hips were so wide she looked like a carriage with the doors flung open, the bustle in back ready to receive passengers. Three neatly stacked chins competed with the ribbon holding her straw hat in place. Peering through spectacles that rested on the bridge of her pointed nose, she studied Amy like a surgeon about to cut open a patient.

“I’m Mrs. Givings, and we’re from the church.” She pointed toward the First Community Church that stood at the entrance of the cemetery. The other two women confirmed her statement with nods and stiff smiles.

“This is Mrs. Compton,” she said, pointing to a tall, thin woman with jet-black hair and a pale white face. “And this is Mrs. Albright.”

The third church member, with her drab dress and sallow complexion, hardly suited her name, nor did the swift bucktoothed smile that failed to reach her eyes.

“I’m Amy, and I’m pleased to meet you,” she said as politely as she could without encouraging further conversation.

Mrs. Givings folded her gloved hands, and her drawstring bag dangled from her thick wrist. “I think you’ll be happy to know that we’ve come to save you.”

Amy didn’t want to be rude, but she couldn’t keep her gaze away from Mr. Colton striding across the cemetery. He let himself out of the church gate and grabbed his horse’s reins. Before mounting, he spoke to the horse as if asking permission to ride.

Even in the saddle, he held his back straight and head high. Like a military man. Trained to be suspicious of everyone and everything, she couldn’t help but wonder if his character matched his good looks.

A clearing of a throat reminded her that she wasn’t alone, and she turned her gaze back to the churchwomen. “Excuse me, but did you say
save
?”

Three heads bobbed up and down like the springs of a wagon.

As if there could be any doubt as to her meaning, Mrs. Givings wagged a finger skyward. “Save!”

Amy felt a sinking feeling. The last thing she needed was another sermon, no matter how well meaning. Reverend Matthews’s discourse had been enough for one day, thank you very much, and she had work to do.

Anxious to return to Miss Lillian’s, she tried to think how to get rid of the pious-looking three without sounding rude or unkind. She needed to find out who knew of Rose’s engagement and what, if anything, it had to do with the Gunnysack Bandit.

“Why, that’s very thoughtful of you,” she said, purposely pretending to misunderstand their meaning. “I’ve never had bodyguards before. Do you all carry weapons?”

A
my was anxious to talk to Miss Lillian in private, but the madam retired to her room upon returning home from the funeral and stayed there for the remainder of the day. No one else felt much like talking, which meant more wasted time. The only person downstairs was Beatrice, the housekeeper.

Amy followed the housekeeper into the parlor. A thin woman somewhere in her late twenties, Beatrice flicked her feather duster from table to lamp to piano to floorboard.

Amy cast a covetous glance at the maid’s apparel. Had Miss Lillian mistaken her for a maid instead of a harlot she would now be wearing a plain gray dress with a starched white apron—a much more practical uniform for her purposes.

“How long have you worked here, Beatrice?”

The question seemed to surprise the woman, and her gaze darted around the room as if to check for eavesdroppers before answering. “Three years.”

“That’s a long time.”

The woman merely shrugged.

Closemouthed people were a detective’s bane, and this house was full of them. “Then you must have known Rose quite well.”

Beatrice swiped the hand-painted glass lamp shade with her duster. “I keep pretty much to myself.”

Encouraged that the woman could string more than two or three words together, Amy persisted. “I noticed that you and the cook don’t live here.”

“I stay overnight only when I’m asked to work late.” She glanced at the doorway. “I have a room at Miss Trumble’s Boarding House.”

“But you must know the residents quite well.” How could she not?

“Like I said, I keep to myself. What they do …” Beatrice made the sign of the cross and shuddered. “I clean the house. That’s all.”

Amy sympathized with the woman’s obvious discomfort. Staying at Miss Lillian’s for these past three days had taken an emotional toll. For the first time since working as a Pinkerton operative she’d been tempted to quit before completing an assignment. She couldn’t imagine working at such a place for three years.

“Could you at least tell me what Rose was like?” Amy probed. It struck her as odd that neither the cook nor the housekeeper attended her funeral.

Beatrice flicked her feather duster over the piano keys a second time. “She was quiet but friendly.”