Petticoat Detective (9 page)

Another twenty minutes passed before he spotted her. Pausing at the entryway, she glanced around, her trim figure outlined by the bright afternoon sun. She was tall for a woman—about five foot eight—yet she carried her height with easy grace. Despite the unseasonal warmth of the day, she wore a prim and proper shoulder cape that would have done justice to a schoolmarm.

Had the very idea of a woman selling her body not been so distasteful, he might have laughed. Some lady of the night. Obviously the woman was in the wrong profession.

Despite her show of modesty, men gazed at her with covetous eyes. One man approached her, but she gave him the cold shoulder. She turned toward a young blond woman with a small child. For a moment it looked like she knew the young mother, but then she turned away.

He stood to make his presence known. Acknowledging him with a nod, she walked toward him with stiff dignity. No exaggerated hip swing, no fluttering eyelashes. No flirtatious moves. Just a walk, plain and simple, yet no less fetching.

“I didn’t think you were coming,” he said. Half expecting Miss Lillian to pounce on him and demand payment, he glanced toward the hotel door. No sign of the madam. His pocketbook was safe—for now.

“Do you mind being seen in public with me?” she asked, apparently misreading his intent.

He never much worried about what people thought. Being seen with her wasn’t the problem; working with her was. He’d arrested his share of shady ladies in the past, but never before had he done business with one. Could he trust her?

“I reckon we could go to my room. That is, if you’d feel more comfortable.”

She shook her head. “If we go to your room, I’ll have to charge you.”

“I just want to talk,” he said.

She shrugged. “Miss Lillian’s rules.”

“Then I’m all for sitting down here. If it’s all the same to you, ma’am.”

For answer, she lowered herself upon the upholstered chair across from him and occupied herself with what seemed like an excessive arranging of skirt and cape.

The memory of her tumbling out of a tree and into his arms flashed through his head. It was hard to reconcile this stiff, painted woman with the freewheeling, disheveled spirit seen that moonlit night.

He sat and waited until he had her full attention. “Now that we’re working together—”

“Working?” She sat back. “I haven’t given you my answer. It could be no.”

“No is not an answer. It’s a retreat.” He rubbed his jaw. “I had you pegged as a fighter.”

“I
am
a fighter, Mr. Colton. But I don’t like fighting other people’s battles.”

He leaned forward. “The man who killed Rose … He’s still out there. I need your help before he kills again.”

She studied him with wary regard. “You said Rose was your brother’s fiancée. Miss Lillian was unable to confirm that.”

“Perhaps Rose didn’t want anyone to know.”

“Or maybe you made it up.”

“I’ve never been one for making up things.” He arched his brows. “Don’t know why I’d start now.” He reached inside his vest and drew out the letter addressed to his brother and signed by Rose. “This was found on my brother’s body.”

Pulling off her gloves, she laid them across her lap all serious-like. Most painted ladies had little or no education, but Amy wasn’t like most. Question was, could she read? He debated whether to read the letter aloud to prevent embarrassment, but she showed no hesitation in taking it from him. The thin paper crackled as she unfolded it.

While she read, he studied her face, feature by feature. The other women working for Miss Lillian had hard faces and cynical eyes, but Amy’s features still held the softness of youth. Had it not been for the face paint, he would never have guessed her profession.

Pursing scarlet lips, she refolded the letter and handed it back. “The letter makes no mention of the Gunnysack Bandit.”

He hadn’t wanted to go into details, but obviously she wasn’t going to work with him unless he came up with appropriate answers.

“My brother and I weren’t close. In fact, I hadn’t seen or heard from him in more than two years. Not since the day he left prison.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Your brother was in prison?”

He gave a curt nod. “He led a gang of stagecoach robbers.” Cooperating with authorities had earned him an early release, and he only served half his time. “He was lucky he didn’t hang.”

The searing pain in his chest took him by surprise. It still hurt, even now. “Then out of the blue he contacted me and asked for my help. Said that his fiancée, Rose, had accidentally discovered the identity of the Gunnysack Bandit and he lives here in Goodman. According to my brother, Rose feared for her life, and he wanted to bring her to the ranch. Guess he figured she’d be safe in Texas.”

“Why didn’t she go to the marshal?”

He scratched his head. The woman was ignorant of her profession in more ways than one. “Do you really think that the marshal would take a sporting lady seriously? Or even afford her protection?”

She fixed him with a stony gaze, allowing him to peer unfettered into the mesmerizing sea-green depths of her eyes. It wasn’t polite to stare, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.

“He should. Part of his salary depends on the licensing fees and taxes Miss Lillian pays.”

“The money assures that the marshal will leave the house alone and look the other way,” he said evenly. “Nothing more.”

She cleared her throat. “Is there any chance your brother misunderstood? About the Gunnysack Bandit living here in Goodman, I mean.”

“Like Rose, he was murdered. No fuss, no bother, just a simple shot to the head. Been my experience that people shot that way either cheated at cards or knew too much. Where money was concerned, my brother liked a sure thing. That leaves cards out.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something, Mr. Colton?” She moistened her lips. “Rose was hit on the head.” She didn’t elaborate, but her meaning was clear; criminals seldom strayed from their method of operation. That wasn’t exactly common knowledge. He stroked his chin. There was more to this woman than first met the eye, that was for sure and certain. Perhaps someone in her family was a lawman.

“A gunshot would have been heard by the other residents. Sometimes even creatures of habit have to improvise.” When she didn’t reply, he inclined his head. “So what do you say? Will you help me?”

“Help you how, exactly?”

“Talk to the other women. Find out what they know. If Rose was suspicious of one of the men, maybe the others are, too. A list of regulars would help.”

She rearranged her gloves on her lap. “What’s in it for me?”

He afforded a quick smile. Well, look a there. Not only could the lady read, she had a head for business. So what in blazes was she doing at Miss Lillian’s?

“Like I said, I’ll pay you. I’ll even help you find another line of work, if that’s what you want.” Here he went again, out to save the world. When was he going to learn?

Her eyes flashed. “And what line of work would that be, Mr. Colton? Scullery work?”

“Honest work.”

Her green-eyed gaze wasn’t any more revealing than her expression. All that paint made it hard to know what went on in that pretty head of hers. Most women were a mystery to him, but never more so than this one.

She put on her gloves, working each finger into the right spot with utmost care before standing. “How do I reach you?”

“I take that to mean you’re not retreating.” It was a statement rather than a question.

The corners of her mouth curved upward in a half smile. “I discovered long ago that it never pays to turn one’s back on either friend
or
foe.”

“So what am I?” he asked.

“That’s to be determined. Meanwhile, I’m sure you’ll understand my need to be cautious.”

He studied her. Cautious? That wasn’t how he would describe someone in her profession.

“I’m in room fourteen,” he said. “If I’m out, you can leave a message at the desk.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

He watched her walk away with mixed feelings. The woman intrigued him and, yes, even puzzled him. Not in any sort of personal way, of course. Okay, maybe a little …

F
ollowing the meeting with Colton, Amy returned to the parlor house, anxious to continue her investigation. She knew even before entering her room that someone had been there in her absence.

The intruder had no way of knowing about the lengths of thread she placed in the cracks of doors and drawers—a Pinkerton trick that had served her well in the past. Once it had even saved her life by alerting her to the presence of someone wishing to do her harm.

Weapon in hand, she cautiously entered her room. Coral and the others thought nothing of walking in unannounced to borrow facial creams or hair pomades, but the missing threads told a different story; every last one was missing, and that meant someone had done a methodical search but was careful to leave things intact.

Did someone suspect she wasn’t who she said she was? Fortunately, she kept nothing there that would reveal her identity. Still, she felt a sense of unease as she pulled off hat and gloves and reached in her pocket for the key to Rose’s room.

Moments later she let herself into the room across the hall.

A stagnant smell greeted her, and a veil of death hung in the air like fine dust. It was a smell she’d become all too familiar with during her years as an operative.

The room hadn’t been touched since the night Rose’s body had been found. A dark stain marked the place where her corpse had lain. The kerosene had dried, but a faint odor lingered.

Stepping over the clothing strewn about the floor, she reached for the bureau and opened the drawers one by one. The top one was empty except for a scarf and a tintype of a man and woman—an older couple. Rose’s parents? The back of the picture held no markings or even a studio name, so there was no way of checking.

She replaced the tintype and searched the other drawers but found nothing of interest. She studied the mirrored tray. Only God knew what poisons lurked in the jars of facial creams and powder boxes scattered across the top of the bureau. Or in the iron rust washes that darkened the hair. More than one prostitute had died from lead or mercury poisoning. Not only were the cosmetics dangerous, they dried the skin and made it feel itchy.

She examined a vial of glycerin and picked up a bottle of perfume and sniffed. It had a citrusy smell that was more delicate in fragrance than the norm at Miss Lillian’s. She poked at the burnt cork used to darken eyebrows.

The bureau held all the necessary tools of the trade but nothing personal except for the tintype. No letters or diaries. Mr. Colton had shown her a letter Rose had written to his brother, but where were his letters to her?

Several books were scattered on the floor, all about birds. She stooped to pick one up and flipped through the dog-eared pages of illustrations and descriptions of every feathered species from the stately blue heron to the smallest hummingbird.

She set the book on the dresser and stared at the room with a sigh. No matter how much she tried to trust God, little doubts crept in on occasion, just as they were creeping now. What if she couldn’t track down the Gunnysack Bandit? What if Pinkerton fired her? What would happen to her then?

Shaking her worrisome thoughts away, she turned slowly, surveying every nook and cranny. A detective was only as good as his or her observation skills. The firm’s founder, Allan Pinkerton, believed this so strongly he chose for his logo an eye. The Pinkerton eye never slept, but neither did it merely “see”: it observed and analyzed.

An open trunk caught her attention, and a closer look revealed that the lock was unbroken. It was almost identical to the one in Amy’s room. Miss Lillian insisted that her girls keep personal belongings under lock and key at all times. Loose morals and sticky fingers went hand in hand.

The money box in the depths of the trunk was empty, as was the hand-carved jewelry case. Nothing of a personal nature was contained inside the trunk. Had Rose walked in on a robbery in progress? Was that why she was killed?

Amy lifted the window shade, and golden sunlight fell onto the sill and spilled across the plush red carpet.

Flocked scarlet wallpaper adorned the walls. The paper lay flat with no compromised seams to suggest hidden wall safes. A still painting of a green vase filled with pink roses hung slightly off center but revealed nothing behind.

After examining the walls, she lowered her gaze to the bed. The mattress was crooked with the pillow at the foot instead of the head.

Dropping down on hands and knees, she peered beneath the bed. A man’s gold fob chain was coiled next to a single satin slipper, but there was no way of telling how long it had been there. She reached for it and examined it carefully. A 14-karat yellow-gold chain was not something the average man could afford. Standing, she slipped it into her dressing gown pocket.

At first it bothered her that no one heard Rose struggling with her assailant. Now she knew why. No struggle had occurred, which explained the lack of defense marks on Rose’s hands. The room was in disarray because someone had done a hasty but thorough search. The same person who had searched her room earlier that day?

With that question came another: Had the killer sneaked up on Rose, catching her unawares? But that made no sense. The room offered no place in which to hide. That suggested that Rose knew her killer. Perhaps had even let her assailant in.

She turned a circle once again, her gaze sweeping the room from top to bottom. One would expect a person to stop searching upon finding a lost or hidden object. Yet every portion of the room had been ransacked. Even the clothes in the tall wardrobe closet had been pulled from their hooks. Hats spilled from overturned band boxes; gloves, handkerchiefs, and stockings were scattered on the floor.

To catch a thief you had to think like one. What could the killer have been looking for? Anyone familiar with the bordello knew that anything personal or valuable was kept in the trunk. So the fact that the entire room had been ransacked was odd, unless the killer was a stranger. But that made no sense, either.