Petticoat Detective (30 page)

“Play your game, Adam,” his mother said in a weary tone.

“No pay dame.”

“All right, then look out the window. Look at all the cows.”

The cows kept the boy entertained for all of thirty seconds. “Are ve there yet?”

“No, we have a long way to go.”

The questions continued, and finally Jennifer gave up trying to concentrate on her new assignment and let herself become lulled by the rhythmic movement of the train. Her eyes drifted downward.

A male voice floated into her consciousness. “Would your little boy like a sweet?”

The boy’s mother said, “How kind of you to offer. Thank you. What do you say to the nice man?”

“Tank you, monster.”

Jennifer’s eyes flew open.
“Monster tay me.”

The man opposite her lowered his book and said something. She stared at him, not comprehending.

He spoke again. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

This time she nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

He went back to his book. Still shaken, she stared out the window. What if her sister hadn’t said
monster
? What if she’d said something else?

She reached into her satchel for notebook and pencil. Hand shaking, she wrote down every word she could think of that remotely sounded like monster and circled two of them: minister and mister.

“Minister tay me.”

“Mister tay me.”

Next she tackled the words
tay me
. What if Cissy hadn’t been trying to say “
take me
”? What if
tay me
was actually something else? After several futile attempts to find similar-sounding words, she gave up and gazed out the window with unseeing eyes. Maybe she was going about this all wrong.

She wrote down the names of people who regularly visited the family farm—at least the ones she could remember. Fifteen years had passed, so she had to think hard.

She could remember most but not all of the locals who purchased eggs, cream, or butter from her mother. She had a crush on the boy who delivered groceries, so his name quickly came to mind, but not so the names of the men who helped her father during harvest. The doctor’s name was Davis, and the minister was Reverend Stafford. She listed the people known through church. Most had lived in the area all their lives.

This was crazy. Cissy had simply awakened from a bad dream. Children her age often had nightmares. The fact that she was missing the morning after was purely a coincidence.

The problem was, Allan Pinkerton didn’t believe in coincidences and neither did she.

She stared at the names she’d written down. A three-year-old child wouldn’t know that many people by name, only the ones she saw on a regular basis like their piano teacher, Mrs. Jeremy.

She froze. “
Monster tay me
.” Cissy pronounced the letter
j
like a
t
, and she often dropped the middle consonants.

Mister Jeremy
.

She stared at the name written on her paper. No, no, it couldn’t be true. Mrs. Jeremy had been her piano teacher and she would never …
Mr
. Jeremy would never …

But once the thought had worked its way into her consciousness, it refused to go away. Mrs. Jeremy’s husband worked at the bank. He was a friend of the family and had been instrumental in helping her father save the farm during that terrible drought. He would often drive his wife to the farm for the weekly music lessons and stay to chat and sample her mother’s cooking.

He and his wife never had children of their own, and Mrs. Jeremy doted on the Layne children. It soon became clear that she favored Cissy and always brought her sweets from Mr. Dorsey’s Confectioners. Even at three, Cissy could pick out simple tunes on the piano by ear. Jennifer was an adequate player, but Mrs. Jeremy insisted that Cissy had “the gift.”

Jennifer never forgot the day Mrs. Jeremy announced they were moving away. Mr. Jeremy had been transferred out of state with his job.

She had been too young at the time to pay much attention to the reasons they were leaving, but the loss had seemed enormous, especially coming so soon after Cissy’s disappearance. Jennifer had practically bawled her eyes out. Secretly, she always believed that the real reason they left was because Mrs. Jeremy missed Cissy.

Never once had it occurred to Jennifer that there could be another reason.

Even now, she didn’t want to believe these sudden suspicions true. It was crazy.

She gazed at the passing scenery. The little boy behind her had finally fallen asleep. Without his high-pitched voice, there was nothing to divert her attention from the
clickety-clack
of the track that now sounded alarmingly like
Jer-Jer-Jeremy
.

St. Louis, Missouri

J
ennifer pulled the rented horse and buggy in front of the modest one-story clapboard house and set the brake. She pulled a piece of paper from her purse and checked the address.

It had taken only three weeks to track down her old music teacher. Fortunately, Allan Pinkerton was sympathetic to her plight and offered to help. The Pinkerton agency had operatives in practically every major city in the country and put them all on alert.

They soon received word from Detective Joseph White working on an embezzlement case in St. Louis. He checked the bank personnel files in town and discovered Mr. Jeremy had worked for the St. Louis Bank until his death nearly five years ago. His widow lived on the outskirts of St. Louis.

Jennifer studied the house. It sorely needed paint, but the garden was perfectly maintained and filled with birdhouses and feeders. Another bird lover like Rose.

To think her beloved music teacher capable of doing anything so awful as abducting her sister was crazy. Or was it?

As a detective she knew that people were inclined to see only what they wanted to see. A wife was often the last to know that her husband was cheating. Family members often expressed shock when a loved one was arrested for robbing a bank or stage, though the signs had all been there. But if Mr. and Mrs. Jeremy really had abducted her sister, she wasn’t the only one who had turned a blind eye. So had her family, so had the town.

Why now, God
? Why after all this time was she led to this place, this house? Why did it feel like a gale-force wind pushing her to face the past in a way she never could or would before? Coming here on what could very well be a wild goose chase meant she had to turn down a plum assignment, but it couldn’t be helped. Once the theory of Cissy’s abduction took root, she could hardly think of anything else.

She tucked the address back into her purse, surprised to find her hand shaking.

It had rained for three days solid, but now the clouds parted, revealing patches of clear blue sky. She lifted her gaze toward heaven and a stabbing pain shot through her chest. The clear azure sky was almost the same color as Tom’s eyes. How she wished he were here with her now. Holding her hand. Telling her it was all right. She needed that. Needed to hear his reassuring voice.

Climbing down from the buggy, she forced herself to count to ten. Thus braced, she walked through the sagging gate and followed the crooked brick path to the house. No outlaw had ever made her feel as nervous as she felt at that moment. Doubt gnawed at her, turning her insides into a knot. She could be wrong. Then what?

She felt woefully unprepared and was acting on pure emotion. That went against everything she’d been taught: a detective never acts without information, without facts.

White’s embezzling case had heated up, so he had provided only an address. She didn’t even know if the Jeremys had a daughter. No detective worth his or her salt would act with so little information. Maybe someone in town or one of the neighbors could answer her questions.

Losing her nerve, she turned to leave, but the sound of a piano stopped her. Could that be Mrs. Jeremy playing? Or was it one of her students?

The quick, lilting tune of “Für Elise” brought back so many memories her knees threatened to buckle. Even now, after all these years, she could hear Mrs. Jeremy’s voice.
“Sit up straight. Don’t look at your hands. Count!”

And then, “
Cissy has the gift.”

The music pulled her toward the porch as if by some strange magnetic force. Trembling, she stood in front of the weathered door, rooted in place. She had to force herself to breathe.

She should go. This was crazy! Mrs. Jeremy would no doubt want to know why she was there.

I think you stole my sister
, she’d say, and Mrs. Jeremy would … what?

Laugh in her face. Ask her to leave. Stare at her as if she’d lost her mind.

She thought about praying but wasn’t even sure what she hoped to find behind that closed door. Would finding Cissy be worse than not finding her?

It took every bit of courage she could muster to raise her hand and knock. The music stopped. Footsteps. The door flew open, revealing a pretty young woman dressed in a floral-printed frock.

“May I help you?”

Jennifer felt as if her breath had been cut off. Was this Cissy? She couldn’t be sure, and that alone horrified her. How could she not know her own sister?

Trained to work under pressure, she fought to get her emotions under control. She pretended that this was a job, that she was working undercover. She mentally went down the same checklist used when sizing up a suspect.

The girl was probably in her late teens, so the age was right. Her eyes were greenish, almost turquoise, but her hair was darker than Cissy’s had been and was now light brown with golden highlights. But hair tended to darken with age. Hers certainly had.

“May I help you?” the girl repeated.

“I’m sorry to disturb you.” She cleared her throat and began again, this time in a stronger voice. “I’m looking for Mrs. Jeremy.”

“That’s my mother. I’m Charity Jeremy. Who shall I say is calling?”

Jennifer’s mind scrambled. Charity? “Uh … Jennifer Layne.” The girl showed no sign of recognition so she added, “I—I knew your mother in Illinois.”

The young woman shook her head. “You must be mistaken. My mother was never in Illinois.”

“Who is it, child?” a crinkly voice called from somewhere inside the house.

Charity glanced over her shoulder. “Someone to see you. She said she knew you.”

“Well, don’t be rude. Show her in.”

The girl stepped aside, and Jennifer forced her leaden feet into the house. After the bright outdoor light, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim parlor. Finally she spotted an older woman sitting in an upholstered chair. She looked nothing like the strong, robust music teacher she remembered. This woman appeared small and frail, a shadow of her former self.

Faded blue eyes peered from a well-lined face. She was dressed in a long housecoat and tendrils of white hair escaped from the confines of a frilly mobcap.

“Charity, get our guest some refreshment,” she croaked. The girl left the room, and the older woman gave Jennifer her full attention.

“Are you from the church?” she asked.

“The church?”

“Reverend Whitcomb is always sending someone to pray with me. I don’t know what sin he thinks I can commit confined to my chair.”

“I’m not from the church.” She glanced at the sheet of music on the piano: “Für Elise.”

The woman followed her gaze. “Do you play?”

“Not very well.”

“As you probably heard, my daughter plays beautifully. She’s giving a concert next week. You should come. The proceeds support the Orphan Children’s Fund.”

“I don’t expect to be in town that long.”

The widow frowned. “What did you say your name was?”

“Jennifer. Jennifer Layne.” When that got no reaction, she added, “I’m sure you remember my parents, Cynthia and Howard Layne.”

The woman stared at her for a moment, and then something strange happened. She began to shrivel up as if someone had taken the stuffing out of her. But it was the panic in her eyes that confirmed Jennifer’s suspicions.

“I—I don’t know anyone by those names.”

“You taught me to play piano.” Jennifer fell silent as the full impact hit her, and it was all she could do to keep her wits about her. “It’s true, isn’t it? That’s Cissy. That’s my sister.”

Mrs. Jeremy gripped the arms of her chair and the color drained from her face. “What … do you want?” she croaked.

Rage unlike anything Jennifer had known exploded within. “How …
could
you.” She was breathing so hard she could hardly get the words out. “How could you take her from us? You walked off with my sister as if she was of no more value than an umbrella!”

Mrs. Jeremy started to deny it, but Jennifer grabbed her bony wrist. Her skin felt like parchment. The woman shrank back and stared at Jennifer’s raised hand.

Horrified at how close she was to striking the woman, Jennifer lowered her arm and released her. Shaken, she stammered, “How … how could you?”

“I … I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t lie.”

The woman’s face crumbled and a ragged breath escaped. “Please. You must understand. I couldn’t have children of my own, and your mother … could barely care for the ones she had. So when my husband suggested that we … I agreed.”

Jennifer shook her head, but the nightmare persisted. “You had no right.”

“We … we gave her a good life. You have to believe that. Better than your parents could have done. We sent her to the best schools and—”

Jennifer stared at her, incredulous. No matter how great the sin or bad the crime, people always tried to justify it. Just like Miss Lillian and her guests. Just like Coral and all the rest.

“Do you know what you did to my family? Have you any idea how we suffered?” Nothing could justify that!”

“I thought that after all this time … H–how did you know?”

“That night … Cissy cried out. She told me someone was trying to take her, but I misunderstood.” The thought of Mr. Jeremy hiding in the dark while she comforted her sister filled her with horror. The worst part was her failure to figure out the clues she’d held all these years. For that she would always feel guilty.