Petticoat Detective (13 page)

“If th–that’s true, then why do men have all the p–power?”

“Because we gave it to them,” Amy said.

After leaving Polly’s room, Amy walked to town, careful to steer clear of the hotel. She didn’t want to bump into Colton and have to make excuses for not having the list he requested. Several times she thought she saw him and once even dashed into Adam’s Barbershop and Tailor to avoid him. Peering out the window, she soon realized her error. Not only was the man in question
not
Mr. Colton, he didn’t even look like him.

The barbershop owner lifted his gaze from his lathered client and waved his straight-edged razor at her. “Get out,” he bellowed. “I’ll not have you plying your trade in here.”

He said a lot more, but Amy didn’t stay around long enough to listen.

So far that morning she’d crossed eight names off the list, including Mr. Baxter’s, who ran the livery and blacksmith shop. An older man, probably in his sixties, he walked with a limp. Witnesses had consistently described the Gunnysack Bandit as moving like a younger man with no obvious physical defects.

The outlaw performed his dastardly deeds with a sack over his head and only two small holes for eyes. No one could describe his face, but neither could anyone agree on his voice, except that it was male and sounded muffled.

According to Miss Lillian, only fifteen of the forty-two men who had done business at the parlor house the week Rose deposited stolen money were similar in height to the Gunnysack Bandit. Still, Amy had to check each suspect herself. It never paid to leave anything to chance.

So far the only one matching the bandit’s physical description was the rich man, Monahan, who lived outside of town in a sprawling two-story house with an iron deer in front.

The banker, Mr. Bennington, was short with a rounded belly that practically popped the buttons on his vest. But it wasn’t just appearances that made a man suspect; witnesses were notoriously bad at descriptions. Other things had to be taken into consideration, other questions answered. Did the man live beyond his means? Travel abroad? Did he drink only the finest whiskey or smoke only the best Cuban cigars? How often did he gamble, and how high were the stakes? What about his livestock? Were his horses thoroughbred or mixed?

Then there was his wife or mistress to consider. Did she sew her own clothes or favor French fashions? Did she do her own cooking and cleaning or depend on hired help? Even church tithing could provide clues. Some outlaws had been known to pay penance by giving vast sums to churches or charities.

Amy stared at the list of names still to investigate and sighed. It didn’t look like her work would be done anytime soon. That meant she was stuck at the parlor house for only God knew how long.

Later that afternoon, Amy scurried downstairs anxious to speak to Miss Lillian. Having whittled the original forty-two suspects down to twenty-five, she still had questions she hoped the madam could answer.

The house was oddly quiet, but that was only because Georgia and the others had decided to visit Rose’s grave. However, voices greeted her as she crossed from the stairs to the parlor.

Seeing that Miss Lillian had a guest, she paused beneath the archway. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had a visitor.”

“It’s all right.” Holding a teapot in one hand, Miss Lillian waved her into the room with the other. “You remember Reverend Matthews, don’t you? From the funeral?”

The reverend stood. Today, he wore his spectacles, but his fob chain dangled, so either he’d misplaced or forgotten his watch. “Ah, yes, you’re the new girl.”

Amy didn’t know what to say. A man of God having tea with a madam?

He chuckled as if enjoying a private joke. “I know what you’re thinking. But I can assure you, I’m here on the Lord’s business.”

“He’s here to pick up his new boots,” Miss Lillian said.

The reverend held out his foot to show off his new brown leather footwear.

“Very nice,” Amy said.

He grinned like a schoolboy with a new slingshot. “Did you know that God used shoes and feet in the Bible to show acceptance, humility, and deliverance?” His eyes twinkled. “So Miss Lillian is doing the Lord’s work, too. Only she doesn’t know it.”

Miss Lillian set the teapot down. “Don’t make me out to be a saint, Reverend. The last time I looked, the saints were all dead.”

“You’ll be happy to know you have little danger of receiving sainthood. I am, however, obliged to point out the dangers that lurk in the garden of evil. So many people fail to see the connection between pleasure and sin.”

“Sit and finish your tea, Reverend,” Miss Lillian said. “Sermons and tea should never mix.”

He bowed. “Very well.” He glanced at Amy. “Would you care to join us?”

Amy’s mind scrambled for an excuse. “No, thank you. I—”

A loud crash came from another part of the house, and Amy jumped. Mr. Beavers hopped off a hammock and vanished beneath a settee.

“What on earth …?” Miss Lillian shot to her feet, and the three of them rushed from the room to investigate.

A gaping hole was centered in the middle of the dining room window. Someone had thrown a brick. Amy flew to the window to peer outside, glass crunching beneath the soles of her shoes.

Seeing no one, she pulled away. “Quick, the key!”

Miss Lillian wasted precious moments unfastening the key from her waist. By the time Amy worked the complicated lock and dashed out the front door, the street was empty and the perpetuator nowhere in sight.

Just to make certain, she raced to the gate and glanced as far as she could see in all directions. Whoever had thrown the brick was probably young. Certainly young enough to run fast.

Pocketing her gun, she returned to the house. The housekeeper, Beatrice, was already sweeping up the glass in the dining room, her thin mouth as tight as her bun.

“Did you see anyone?” Miss Lillian asked.

Amy shook her head and handed over the key. “Have you any idea who would do such a thing?”

Miss Lillian shrugged. “Roughly half the population of this town. There’s not a woman out there who wouldn’t like to see this place burn down.”

Amy doubted the brick thrower was a woman. No one wearing a skirt could run that fast.

Reverend Matthews held the brick up to the light as if it contained some secret message from God. “Let’s finish our tea,” he said amicably. “And I’ll tell you what the Bible says about fallen bricks.”

T
hared, Tenfer. Monster tay me.”

Amy twisted and turned until her bedding tied up in knots. She flopped over on her back and stared at the ceiling. The house seemed especially restless tonight. Its studs groaned and joints creaked. Was it possible for a house to absorb the fears and worries of inhabitants? Or was it simply the ghosts of the past having a bad night?

The half moon peered through the open window, and lace curtains fluttered in the gentle breeze. Shadows danced across the room much like Cissy’s last words danced in her head.

The sheriff believed that Cissy had wandered from the house in the middle of the night. “Children do that all the time,” he’d said.

Now as then, she questioned his theory. Cissy woke up crying on that long-ago night and claimed a monster had tried to take her. Amy calmed her down and told her that it was just a bad dream. “There’s no such thing as a monster.” But what if it hadn’t been a nightmare? What if someone really had tried to snatch her sister out of her bed? The questions persisted now as they had done for years with no answers in sight.

Though Amy was only twelve at the time, she blamed herself for not taking her sister seriously and investigating. Why hadn’t she? And why, after all this time, did the memories still haunt her?

Turning her back on the past, she glanced at the mechanical clock. Unable to read the face, she slid out of bed and carried the clock to the window. The silvery light of the half moon bathed the street, and the trees swayed gently. It was only after midnight, but she felt as if she’d been twisting and turning all night. A movement caught her eye. Another brick thrower?

She pressed her head against the glass pane and squinted. A stick-thin figure hurried through the gate. Unless her eyes were playing tricks on her, it sure did look like Georgia.

The woman vanished into the folds of the night. Where was she going at such a late hour? Did she have a lover?

Amy grabbed a dressing gown and shoved her arms into the sleeves. It was filmy and, like all the parlor house garments, offered little in the way of modesty. It would have to do. She shoved her handgun into the pocket.

Opening her door quietly, she stuck her head through the crack and peered into the hall. A gaslight on the wall hissed and sputtered, but otherwise all was quiet. Pulling the door shut behind her, she tiptoed past the other rooms to the stairs. Padding barefoot down the edge closest to the railing where the stairs were less likely to creak, she crossed the entry hall to the door. It was still bolted and locked on the inside.

Feeling her way through the dark hall, she reached the kitchen. She ran her hand along the kitchen counter until she found the lantern. After lighting the wick, she searched the pantry and pushed against the well-stocked shelves in search of a hidden door. Nothing. She checked the windows in the mudroom, but all were locked and looked as if they hadn’t been opened in years. The back door, too, was locked from the inside.

So how did Georgia escape?

She returned to the kitchen and decided to wait. Sooner or later Georgia would return.
Please, God, let it be sooner
. She was cold and in desperate need of sleep.

It wasn’t more than twenty minutes later that footsteps alerted her. She turned off the light and ducked behind the counter in front of the icebox.

A sudden movement by her side startled her. Mr. Beavers!

The cat rubbed against her with loud, rumbling purrs—a fine time to be friendly. “Go away,” she whispered. She pushed against him, but that only made him purr louder.

The cellar door creaked open, and Amy held her breath. Mr. Beavers made enough noise for a choir.

Amy peered around the counter. Georgia’s dark form emerged, and the cellar door closed behind her with a muffled thud. She stood perfectly still, her raven hair gleaming in the light of the half moon.

Amy debated whether to confront Georgia now or later and decided to wait. She was more likely to get the truth out of Georgia if she had more information.

Mr. Beavers’s purrs now sounded like a chugging train. Georgia moved toward the counter. Amy gave the cat a good shove with both hands. Mr. Beavers protested with a loud meow before streaking away.

Georgia gasped as the cat ran past her. “Dumb cat,” she muttered. She pulled off her slippers and ever so quietly tiptoed away on stocking feet.

Amy sat on the cold kitchen floor and leaned her back against a cupboard until the squeaking floorboards overhead told her Georgia was now upstairs.

She stood and walked to the cellar door. She had checked the cellar earlier in the week and found nothing of interest. Obviously, she’d missed something.

The dark hole of the underground room gaped before her, and her mouth went dry. She liked cellars almost as much as she liked rattlers—especially in the still of night.

Turning back to the kitchen, she relit the kerosene lantern and, holding it over her head, started down the stairs.

The cellar smelled musty, and dust tickled her nose. Cobwebs hung from raftered ceilings. Along the length of one wall stood a row of narrow windows. They were too high to reach and probably hadn’t been opened since the house was built.

She moved the light across the rough brick walls. Old furniture was piled in one corner. A couple of trunks and a rocking chair clamored for space with a glass-paneled secretary and, inexplicably, a child’s rocking horse. A folding screen stood in one corner, each panel painted with scenes of nature.

She stepped over a wicker basket and moved a panel. This time she saw something she had previously missed. The screen hid an alcove and stairs. At the top of the stairs a trapdoor opened to the back of the house.