Petticoat Detective (29 page)

Tom stood in the hotel corridor outside her door. He tightened his hands into fists in an attempt to check his raw emotions. He always knew that Amy or Jennifer or whatever she called herself didn’t belong at the parlor house. But never in a million years would he have guessed she was a Pinkerton detective.

He’d met Allan Pinkerton only once, but he would never forget it. He was a tough old bird with a thick Scottish brogue. His hard-nosed tactics had gotten him and his agency in a lot of trouble through the years. So it wasn’t surprising that Amy would use any means available, including trickery, to reach her goals.

Still, it pained him to discover he’d been duped by her. To find out she’d used him to prove his brother guilty.

As for Dave …

It wasn’t the first time he’d been wrong about him, but this was the worst. If Dave really had been the Gunnysack Bandit, he wasn’t just a thief, he was a killer.

Thank God his parents hadn’t lived to see this day. He didn’t even know how to tell his nephew. As for Grandpappy, he blamed Dave for making a mess of his life, and this latest was the final nail in that coffin.

Tom only wished he hadn’t found out this way.

Logically, he understood why Amy had to keep her identity secret. That didn’t make him feel any less manipulated.

The truth was it hurt to high heaven, and that made no sense. He’d trusted her, told her things about his childhood he’d never told anyone else. And all that time she was working undercover to find evidence against his brother.

What a fool he was. Not only did he fall for Dave’s lies but her lies, as well. Nothing about her was real, not even the kisses she seemed so willing to return.

That last thought brought an instant, squeezing pain that shook him to the core. This thing with his brother had done a number on him, made him think things he had no business thinking. Made him wish he’d put his brother away for good when he had a chance. Had he done so, his brother might still be alive and Tom wouldn’t be standing outside a hotel door like a crazy man.

A
my stayed at the hotel that night but hardly slept. She kept hearing Tom’s last harsh words in her head. And every time she closed her eyes she saw the expression on his face—not the anger, the hurt.

By morning, not only was she a bundle of nervous energy, but she was also madder than blazes. None of this was her fault. She was only doing her job. How dare he blame her for his brother’s actions!

After waiting for the sun to fully rise, she stormed down the hotel hallway to room fourteen. Much to her surprise, the door was open and a Mexican maid was making the bed.

“Where is Mr. Colton?” she asked.

The maid shrugged her shoulders and said something in Spanish.

Amy left the room and scurried down the stairs to the reception desk. “Room fourteen. When did Mr. Colton check out?”

The desk clerk was an older man with stooped shoulders. “About a half hour ago.”

She glanced at the clock behind the desk. The morning train was scheduled to leave in less than ten minutes. If she hurried …

The train was just pulling out of the station when she arrived. She ran along the wooden platform and jumped off the edge. She raced along the graveled buffer next to the tracks. Spotting him through a smoky window, she frantically waved both arms to gain his attention.

Just like that, she forgot her original intent for coming to the station. Forgot even her anger. Instead, a horrible realization took hold: she would never see him again. Never see his crooked smile. Never again hear his baritone voice or feel his amazing lips on hers.

He opened the window and stuck his head outside. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, his face dark as night. He was obviously still angry. Still hurt.

She shouted back, “I want you to know that—” The train whistle blew, drowning out her voice.

He cupped his ear. “What? What did you say?”

“I said—” The train picked up speed, leaving her behind and out of breath. By the time she stopped running, her lungs felt ready to explode.

Gasping for air, she bent over, hands on her thighs, and watched until the train was but a dot on the horizon, leaving behind only a thread of blue smoke. “I said I love you,” she whispered, and with those few words came the tears.

The following day, Amy found her next assignment waiting at the post office in a thick envelope. Normally such a dispatch would fill her with excitement and anticipation. Today she felt only depression. She read the detailed instructions through a cloud of gloom.

She was instructed to travel to Denver as a widow and strike up an acquaintance with a suspected counterfeiter who managed to foil even the Secret Service. A banknote was enclosed to cover hotel, traveling, and living expenses, plus money enough to purchase widow’s weeds.

At least now she had something to do. Maybe once she settled into her new role she would forget Tom Colton. She counted on it.

Later that afternoon, she stopped at the parlor house to say good-bye to Miss Lillian and thank her for her help.

Sitting behind her desk, Miss Lillian tried to act nonchalant, but the suspicious sheen in her eyes gave her away. “Does this mean my sleuthing days are over?”

Amy smiled. Strange as it seemed, she’d grown fond of the madam. “I’m afraid so.”

“Too bad. I believe I have a real knack for it.” Miss Lillian heaved a sigh, and her face seemed to sag. “What about Rose? Do you think they’ll ever find her killer?”

“Unfortunately, the longer a crime goes unsolved, the less chance the perpetrator will be caught.” Trails grew cold, memories faded, clues missed initially were forever lost.

Miss Lillian grimaced. “What does ole Tin Star say?”

“The marshal’s convinced Rose’s killer left town.” He was wrong, of course. She had checked, and no local citizens had left in recent weeks, and a stranger wouldn’t know about the trapdoor. That meant the killer was still in Goodman.

Miss Lillian’s scarlet mouth thinned. “Who do you think killed her?”

“Most victims know their killers,” Amy said. And it was probably the same person who knocked her out in the cellar. “I think Rose knew hers.”

Miss Lillian nodded. “I agree.”

“I wish I could stay and work on Rose’s case, but it’s out of my hands.” She was still haunted by Rose’s death, perhaps because it happened under her very nose. She hated nothing more than loose ends, and the whole affair with the Gunnysack Bandit was rife with them.

The madam let out a sigh. “What should I tell the others? They’ll want to know why you left.”

“Tell them I didn’t work out.” Coral certainly wouldn’t be sorry to see her go.

“When are you leaving?”

“On the morning train.”

Miss Lillian tucked a red strand of hair behind her ear. “Would you like me to read your fortune so you know what lies ahead?”

Amy grinned. “Thank you, but I think I’ll leave the future in God’s hands.”

“Very well. I just hope you find what you’re looking for.”

Amy wasn’t sure she’d heard right. “What I’m looking for? Oh, you mean my next assignment.”

“I’m not talking about your work.” Miss Lillian gave her a long, level look. “Every night in your sleep you cry out for someone named Cissy. I hope you find her, whoever she is.”

Amy didn’t know what to say. She knew the nightmares had returned but had no idea she cried out in her sleep.
What is happening to me, God? Would You answer me that? And why do I feel like You’re trying to tell me something?

She boarded the train dressed in a black skirt and tailored shirtwaist with a black band around her arm. Beneath the sedate black hat, her hair was pulled back into a shiny, smooth bun. On the ring finger of her left hand, she wore a simple gold band.

The woman named Amy no longer existed. By the time she reached her destination, Jennifer Layne would be transformed into the widow Mrs. Stephen Hoyt.

According to the dossier Pinkerton sent on Ralph Cooper, not only was he a counterfeiter of the highest order, but he also had a soft spot for widows—particularly those needing assistance with investing a late husband’s estate.

As if sensing her need to escape, the train picked up speed, leaving the town behind in a cloud of dark smoke. Unfortunately, the memories traveled along with her, which made the current task that much harder. Prior to reaching Denver, she had to create a new history for herself and her dead “husband.” Not only did her fictional past have to sound believable, but it must also play on Mr. Cooper’s sympathies.

Creating an image in mind was easy. Her late make-believe husband was six feet tall, had dark hair, blue eyes, a square face, and crooked smile. The vision conjured just happened to be the spitting image of Tom Colton.

Sighing, she stared out the smoky window where the wide-open prairie sped by in a blur. She wiped the tears from her eyes with a gloved hand and blew her nose in her handkerchief.

Fortunately, the gray-haired man in the seat opposite didn’t seem to notice her misery. He was too involved in his book.

The
clickety-clack
of the rails on the track made her head spin.
Clickety-clack
…
lickety-lack … flickety … flack
. She tried clearing her head but then thought of Tom, and just like that, the train changed its tune until it sounded like the very rails called his name.
Tomety-Tom. Tomety-Tom
.

The sound was broken only by the strident voice of the child sitting directly behind her. Not only did he talk excessively, but he kept kicking the back of her seat, too. Leaning into the aisle, she turned her head to ask him to please stop. Recognizing the young boy, she pulled back and faced the front of the train. Behind her sat the mother and child she encountered at Max’s General Mercantile and Flower Shoppe.

She forced herself to calm down. No one would recognize her dressed in widow’s weeds, her paint-free face pale from lack of sleep.

Still, she couldn’t afford to take a chance. Children tended to be perceptive, and the little boy might very well see through her guise. The last thing she needed was to create a scene.

The boy kept talking and kicking her seat, and Jennifer’s head began to pound. He asked a dozen questions in his high-pitched voice.