Petticoat Detective (7 page)

“Did you know she was betrothed?”

Beatrice hesitated—a sure sign she would either not answer the question or lie.

Not wanting to give her a chance to do either, Amy quickly asked, “Who told you?”

“I don’t know. One of the girls. I must have heard them talking or something.”

If that was true, then the four women had lied when they claimed they didn’t know Rose’s plans. The question was, why? “Had you met her fiancé?”

Beatrice lowered her gaze. “I’m generally gone by the time most guests arrive.”

Amy tried to think how best to phrase her next question and decided to come right out with it. “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to cause Rose harm?”

Beatrice’s brown eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking all these questions?”

“I don’t mean to pry.” That’s exactly what she meant to do. “I only met Rose the one time, and I just got back from her funeral. Naturally, I’m curious.”

The answer seemed to satisfy Beatrice; at least she looked less suspicious. “I don’t know anyone who wanted to hurt her. Like I said, she was friendly. Now if you’ll excuse me …”

The woman seemed anxious to get on with her work. Amy let her go without further comment and watched her scamper away like a little mouse. The woman had secrets no doubt, but so, it seemed, did everyone else in that house.

The following morning after breakfast Amy dressed in the blue calico skirt and white shirtwaist collected from her hotel room on the way home from yesterday’s funeral. Without the face paint and fancy clothes, she felt more like herself. Maybe now she could get some real work done.

She hurried downstairs, determined to gain Miss Lillian’s attention, but never got a chance for the house was a beehive of activity.

A man by the name of Mr. Deering had delivered a wagonload of groceries. Three times a week he brought fresh fruits and vegetables to the house, along with steak, chicken, and cheese, but according to Polly, never without a battle. Today was no different, and a loud argument rose from the kitchen.

“I’m not paying that much for chicken!” the cook yelled. Her outburst was followed by the clang of pots and pans.

Mr. Deering sounded more indignant than angry. “Do you think I like charging this much?”

No sooner had Miss Lillian rescued the hapless grocer and restored order than Miss Paisley, the local dressmaker, arrived loaded down with a trunk full of colorful silks, satins, and lace. Sporting women were expected to keep up appearances, and that meant maintaining five or more fancy gowns at all times.

Miss Paisley’s drab gray skirt and mousy-brown hair seemed at odds with the bold, outrageous gowns she designed. It was almost as if she purposely downplayed her own appearance so as not to compete with her colorful creations.

Holding up various pieces of fabric and lace, she kept up a running commentary about the pros and cons of each. With her thick French accent, Amy had a difficult time understanding her.

While the women all sat around the parlor, poring over fabric samples, Miss Paisley’s hawkeyed gaze zeroed in on Amy.

She said something in French before switching to thick-accented English. “What have ve here? Stand up, stand up.”

Amy waved her hand from side to side. “No, that’s all right. I’m just here to watch.” She didn’t know how long she would remain at the parlor house, and she doubted the Pinkerton brothers would relish paying for a ball gown.

“You’re here to work,” Miss Lillian said. “Don’t worry about the cost. I’ll take it out of your salary.”

“Oh, but—”

Miss Lillian would hear none of what she tried to say, so Amy decided it was easier to play along than argue. At least until she had a chance to talk to the madam in private.

Miss Paisley gazed at Amy’s attire and muttered something that sounded alarmingly like “Murder, murder.”

“Amy is our newest resident,” Miss Lillian explained with an apologetic air. Not only did the madam run a tight ship, she ran the language of iniquity through a moral sieve. Thus clients were called “guests,” working girls “residents,” and anything that happened behind closed doors, just plain old “hospitality.”

“Not to worry,” Miss Paisley said, hands all aflutter. “I have just the thing.” She pulled a rose-colored swag of fabric from her trunk and draped it across Amy’s chest.
“Parfait!
The color—how do you say—completes your skin.”

She said something else, but Amy couldn’t make out what it was. She also chose not to correct the dressmaker’s use of the word
complete
. “She’s asking what fabric you prefer,” Georgia explained.

“She means other than calico,” Coral added, staring at Amy’s skirt with a roll of her eyes.

Buttercup laughed and Polly glared at her. “Th–there’s nothing wrong with c–calico … in the r–right setting.”

Sensing an argument about to follow, Amy hastily murmured, “Taffeta.” She was anxious for Miss Paisley to leave so she could get back to work. One of the residents had to know something about Rose’s death, the Gunnysack Bandit, or both.

Her choice earned Amy the first look of approval from the seamstress. “Ah,
oui
. I do believe you’re more the taffeta type. Do you want it in wild rose or strawberry? Or would you prefer another color?”

“Uh … green.”

Miss Paisley couldn’t have looked more appalled had Amy asked for zebra stripes. “Plain green is for pheasants!” she snapped.

“I think she means peasants,” Georgia whispered.

“For Miss Lillian’s ladies, only the most artful shades will do. With your coloring, I suggest jade or maybe even moss green.”

Amy had no intention of staying at the bordello long enough to warrant a gown, but the woman obviously wasn’t going to leave her alone until she had made a selection. She picked out meadow green, which everyone in the room agreed went with her eyes.

“Good choice.” Miss Paisley then directed her attention to the others.

The array of colors and fabrics from which to choose didn’t seem to faze anyone else. After staring at herself in the mirror, Buttercup settled on a cornflower-blue silk, and Coral went with a burnt-almond taffeta. Polly couldn’t make up her mind between shell pink or crushed roses, and Miss Lillian insisted she take both.

While Polly, Georgia, and Buttercup had no objection to the type of necklines Miss Paisley suggested, Coral wanted hers lower.

“Give her an inch and she’ll wear it,” Georgia whispered.

Amy covered her mouth to hide a giggle. Oddly enough, she and Georgia had developed an easy rapport. Under different circumstances they might have even become friends. But Amy couldn’t afford the luxury of letting down her guard and getting close to anyone. Not while she was working.

Thinking Miss Paisley was done with her, Amy rose. This practically sent Miss Paisley into a tizzy. Rushing to her side, the dressmaker circled her waist with a measuring tape like a dog sniffing out a place to bury a bone. She examined Amy’s plain shirtwaist and shook her head. The look on her face was one of pure horror.

“I think a cuirass bodice would suit you quite well. What do you think?”

“I—” Amy didn’t know a cuirass from a catfish. Never one to kowtow to fashion, she’d paid little attention to the latest styles, except for when undercover work required it. No-nonsense skirts and tailored shirtwaists were more her style and more practical for chasing suspects.

Speaking in her native tongue, Miss Paisley fiddled with the back. “Do you want a butterfly or waterfall?”

“Uh …”

At last the ordeal was over, though Amy hadn’t the slightest idea if she’d purchased a gown or a national park.

Miss Paisley wrote Amy’s measurements in her notebook. “Your total is three hundred dollars.”

Amy’s mouth dropped open. “For … for one gown?”

The dressmaker stiffened. “You wanted a waterfall.”

“Yes, but I didn’t want to purchase Niagara.” She could well imagine what William Pinkerton would say if she turned in a three-hundred-dollar bill for a dress. William already considered female operatives too expensive to maintain. This was part of the reason he wanted to do away with the women’s detective division begun by his father. Father and son were still at loggerheads over the subject. Amy feared that if anything happened to the old man, her career would come to an end.

Miss Lillian made an impatient gesture with her hand. “I won’t have us making all this fuss over money. People will think we’re running a poorhouse.”

It was two hours later before Miss Paisley finally packed up her samples and left. Amy tried to gain Miss Lillian’s attention, but the madam waved her away.

“Georgia, take her upstairs and get her dressed properly. We can’t have her insulting our guests with her plain clothes and dull appearance.”

Amy gazed down at her modest attire. Insulting? “But I need to talk to you,” she protested.

“First things first,” Miss Lillian sniffed. “And for goodness’ sakes, do something about your walk. You’ll catch more fish by wiggling the bait.”

To demonstrate, she walked away swaying her hips from side to side like a pendulum.

Amy dreaded the beauty sessions almost as much as she dreaded being called on the Pinkerton carpet. Every pimple, every patch of red skin, every imperfection no matter how small was attacked with liberal doses of castor oil, glycerin, or vinegar.

Raw potatoes were applied to eye bags and dark shadows. And though no one but Buttercup had even a hint of a double chin, all were required to sleep with chin straps.

Buttercup had been given the task of teaching Amy how to look and act like a proper lady of the night, while Coral, Georgia, and Polly watched from the sidelines.

“I’ve never known anyone with such green eyes,” Buttercup said. She applied green paint to Amy’s eyelids and stepped back. “See how that brings out the color?”

Amy stared at herself in the mirror, and the first thing that popped into her mind was Jezebel from the Bible. “It’s rather … loud,” she said. “Perhaps a little less.” A
gallon
less.

“Nonsense,” Buttercup said. “You look beautiful.”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” Georgia said, grinning. She had blackened her teeth with charcoal. “In the Labrador Islands, only women with black teeth are considered beautiful.”

“Why not just paint her face blue like they do in Greenland?” Coral asked.

“Or b–bind her feet like those p–poor women in China do?” Polly hobbled around on tiptoes.

The women continued to make teasing comments. Ignoring them, Buttercup held up a porcelain container. “You’re all wrong. Beauty comes from within … a jar.”

Laughter followed her comment, but Amy was in no mood to join in. This was all a waste of time, and she needed to get to work.

“I don’t know why we have to go through all this torture just for men,” she muttered.

All four women stared at her. “Is that w–what you th–think?” Polly stammered.

Amy was confused. “What else would I think?”

Coral leaned so close Amy could smell the tobacco on her breath. “Paint is a mask. It’s how we keep men from getting too close. He’s not looking at you. He’s looking at a woman who doesn’t exist.”

Georgia concurred with a nod of her head. “We don’t paint for men. We paint to survive.”

B
y the time Amy left Buttercup’s room, her face felt ten times heavier. She didn’t think she could survive another day in this horrid place. Never had she prayed so hard or so much as she had these last five days.
God, please, let’s get this job done fast, so I can leave
.

A steady stream of men followed Miss Paisley’s departure, some to get haircuts and shaves, others to buy boots or to have fortunes read.

Mr. Studebaker was the only singing student, and for that Amy was grateful. Though the man’s futile attempts to hit a high C made her head ache, she kept her expression immobile for fear the heavy coat of powder would crack if she so much as grimaced.

Dressed in a vibrant red gown and her hair caught up in a cluster of ringlets, she waited at the top of the stairs for the last man to leave. Mr. Studebaker stopped to inspect a black leather boot. Catching sight of her on the second-floor landing, he doffed his hat and left.