Katie Rose (4 page)

So, she surmised, he’d been standing by the fireplace, enjoying a smoke, when someone walked in and shot him. It must have been someone familiar,
for there were no indications that either her father or Rosie had struggled, and no signs of a break-in. Yet the trampled flower beds and scuffed floor hid anything else she could have seen with her glass. If only she had been here earlier! Emily sighed in frustration.

Rosie’s part was a little more difficult to envision since her trail was not so obvious. She’d fallen near the steps; Emily remembered the newspaper accounts she had read, and the positions of the bodies. Yet there were signs of a smaller pair of boots, much more feminine and pointed, which had left a trail in the cigar ash, and threads from a blue dress. Had Rosie come down earlier, then returned? Emily’s brow furrowed. The marks could have come from anyone, even one of the bordello girls. If so, perhaps there was a material witness to the crime. From Rosie’s position, it was probably safe to deduce that when she’d come down the stairs, she’d surprised the gunman. Having no choice, the man had shot her, too, then fled. But why? What had her father done to deserve such an end?

Her eyes gazed once more at the ceiling, and she found herself blushing again. What kind of man had her father been? Emily’s logical mind couldn’t deny the fact that he must have been virile, and an opportunist. Did her mother suspect him at all? Was this how he’d gotten his wealth, the cash he had sent to them that was so welcomely received, the money to build this house? Did it come from—

She couldn’t think about that. Emily squeezed her eyes shut, yet the paintings overhead seemed to
laugh at her. Heat stung her cheeks and she was very glad no one else was present. It was foolishness, she knew that. Highly embarrassing. And, although she’d never admit it to anyone else, the place was strangely erotic. She’d even felt a tingle when the preacher, Thomas Hall, had put his hands on her—to shake some sense into her, it was true—but the sensation had been there.

It was this house. Emily nodded, satisfied with that explanation. Dr. Watson climbed out of the bag and surveyed the new residence, mewing his confusion. Emily smiled and picked up the cat, softly stroking his fur. At least the little black-and-white animal was familiar and comforting.

Fatigue overcame her suddenly and she decided she’d done enough for one day. Emily started upstairs, taking the cat and a taper with her. To her dismay, she discovered that the bedrooms had been ransacked as well. Finding the most livable, she started to enter the room, but to her surprise, Dr. Watson hissed and spat. He sprang out of her arms, then hunched his feline back and bared his teeth, refusing to cross the threshold.

“You silly cat,” Emily scolded the little animal, but Watson remained unconvinced. “Fine, stay there then.” Her voice sounding much braver than she felt, Emily put the candle on the dressing table and waded through the piles of clothing that had been scattered across the floor. Finding an oil lamp on the table, she lit the wick and carefully replaced the globe.

The bedroom sprang to life. Rosie’s room. Emily
felt it with a certainty that passed through her like a cold chill. Picking up a silver-backed hairbrush in wonder, she gazed at the huge gilt mirror that seemed to dominate the room. Her own reflection stared back at her, as if questioning her presence. Her gaze fell to the dressing table. Row after row of perfume bottles, powders, and brushes marched across the marred surface. It was strange touching another woman’s toiletries, Emily mused, especially one who had been murdered. It was almost like seeing a ghost.… She chuckled at the notion.

Finding fresh linens in the drawer, Emily made the bed, trying hard not to think of the activity that had taken place there. Strangely enough, the unusual preacher once more haunted her thoughts, especially when she slipped between the cool, fresh sheets. For an incredible moment, she could feel the hard length of his body pressed against her as if he shared the bed with her, his hands moving down from her shoulders, touching her, like the men and women in those paintings.…

Stop it!
Forcing the forbidden thoughts from her mind, she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to sleep. But even then she could sense the hot, languid breath of her phantom lover against her cheek, feel the soft, feathered kisses he placed on her neck and throat. Emily squirmed, trying desperately to clear her mind, but it was useless, the images were too strong. She had never thought about such things before. Restless urgings warmed her blood, and a dreamlike passion swept over her. She wanted him, needed him to ease the nameless ache inside of her,
to warm those hands stained with gunpowder against her heated flesh.…

That thought made her gasp. Sitting upright, Emily shook her head and mentally gave herself a scolding. Good God, what was she doing! Mortification stung her and she pressed her cool hands to her inflamed cheeks. Fantasizing about a man of the cloth! She couldn’t continue to let this house or the preacher influence her, for her judgment would surely be clouded. Holmes would never have allowed passion to obtrude on a case, and Emily would have to be more vigilant. Obviously. Especially with a man as attractive and virile as the good reverend.

Lying back on the pillows, she mentally recited nursery rhymes over and over. She would force Thomas Hall from her mind if it was the last thing she did.

“Evening, Mrs. Haines. Might I inquire about a room?” Thomas put on what he hoped was his most trustworthy look as the door creaked open. An elderly woman with a shawl tucked neatly around her eyed him suspiciously.

“Not a cowboy, are you? Don’t want any hooligans roughing up my parlor.”

“No, ma’am. I’m the new preacher,” Thomas said smoothly.

The woman’s gaze fell to his collar, then her watery blue eyes squinted. “Come in and close that door behind you.”

Thomas entered the house, exhaling in relief as he obediently shut the door. If there was one thing his
collar was good for, it was entry just about everywhere. Even the local townsmen, after seeing that he was a man of the cloth, showed none of the suspicion normally granted a stranger, and told him everything he needed, from where to get a room to which barber had the best lime water. His smug certainty was short-lived, however, for the woman scarcely turned up the lamp before barraging him with questions.

Her face wrinkled up like an old apple as she digested his answers. She must have accepted his story, for her face cleared and she was suddenly all business. “All right, then. I don’t suppose you’ll be wanting the room for long, though. You’ll be setting up your own mission and sleeping there like the good Reverend Flatter did. Slept under the stars until he built his church, that’s how dedicated he was.”

“Well, I suppose I prefer a bed,” Thomas said, attempting to charm her.

But the woman harrumped disapprovingly. Nevertheless, she turned toward an oak hutch swathed in doilies and reached for a key. “I keep a clean house, and don’t tolerate tobacco of any kind, nor whiskey. I also don’t allow women, although that shouldn’t bother you much, being a preacher and all. Room and board is ten dollars a week, paid in advance, cash only.”

Thomas dug into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. The woman watched him carefully, then snatched the greenback out of his hand. He had already turned toward the stairs when she cleared her throat meaningfully.

“Ma’am?”

“Aren’t you forgetting something, Parson?”

He stared at her, then glanced around the room. Nothing came to him. What in God’s name was she expecting? Suddenly he recalled that he still wore his hat. He removed it, and grinned sheepishly.

“Sorry, ma’am.” Once more he started for the stairs, but before he could place a boot on the first step, she cleared her throat again. He looked back over his shoulder in bewilderment.

“The blessing. Surely you don’t enter a new dwelling without a blessing. Reverend Flatter wouldn’t have dreamed of such a thing.” She scowled in disapproval.

“No, of course not,” he said quickly. Thomas closed his eyes and awkwardly made the sign of the cross. “Bless this house and all who dwell within. Amen.” He opened his eyes and nodded, satisfied with the effort.

“Is that it?” The woman asked.

Thomas nodded. “Uh—in my congregation, an economy of words is appreciated. Good night, ma’am.”

Before she could say another word, he took the steps two at a time.

Closing the door with relief, he turned up the lamp. The room was surprisingly spacious and comfortable. Thankfully, the bed had been made, and a pitcher full of water already awaited him. After tossing his garb over a chair, he splashed the grime from his face, grimacing at his reflection in the mirror. Without the black coat and white collar, he looked like himself again, and almost felt that way. An unwelcome thought entered his mind, one that lodged there like a splinter. Had Emily seen past his collar
to the man beneath? Or like Mrs. Haines, did she believe him to be a simple man of God?

The question irritated the hell out of him. And the last thing he needed was to dwell on the attractive Miss Potter. If there was one thing he had made up his mind about, it was that she couldn’t be as innocent as she appeared. What part Emily played in all this was a mystery, one he intended to get to the bottom of, regardless of how delectable a figure she had.

Fortified with that thought, Thomas fell into bed, barely taking the time to blow out the candle. He was exhausted, but sleep was a long time in coming. All he could picture was Emily Potter’s silver eyes, her soft, sweet body pressed up against his, and her kissable mouth. Even when he did doze, he dreamed of a beautiful detective, staring at him through her magnifying glass.

Emily woke slowly, looking around in confusion. Gradually she recognized the furnishings and everything came back to her. She’d been dreaming again, one of those crazy visions she’d been having all night: The women in the parlor had been laughing and singing around the piano while others sipped drinks and flirted at the bar. She could still see their gorgeous dresses, their sparkling plumes, their paste jewels and rouged faces as they took a man upstairs. She could almost smell their perfume, the heady intoxication of brandy and mint, talcum powder and sweat, and hear their naughty giggles, whispered murmurings, sighs of pleasure.

Emily shuddered, forcing the visions away. No real lady ever thought such things, let alone dreamed them! Sinking back onto the pillows, she frowned,
unable to banish the last dream, the one that woke her. The earlier dreams were fragmented, like pieces of a puzzle, yet the last one was as startlingly clear as if it were something she’d just witnessed in real life.

The woman was laughing, a bright, sweet laugh that sounded like the creek outside. She extended an arm that was draped in a supple blue silk and dangling with bracelets. Her fingers sparkled with rings, lighting up incredibly beautiful hands and adding drama to even a simple motion as she indicated her glass
.

“
Johnny, it’s empty. Pour me some whiskey. The good stuff.”

A man lifted a crystal decanter and poured a small quantity of amber-colored liquid into a glass. He turned toward the woman. John Potter appeared much older than the photograph on her mothers dressing table, but it was undoubtedly Emily’s father. He extended the drink to the woman, still smiling, when gunshots rang out. The tumbler shattered, whiskey spilling everywhere, splashing the walls and puddling on the floor. Then everything was silent.…

Emily’s heart was pounding. It was just a dream, she scolded herself. Only a dream. But the cold chill wouldn’t leave her. Had she really seen her father? And the woman, was that Rosie?

It was the influence of this house again—and an overactive imagination, Emily rationalized. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d frightened herself by envisioning the worst. After reading Doyle’s, “The Speckled Band,” she’d dreamed about snakes for a week. She
smiled, reassured by the logical explanation, and gazed at her surroundings, fully appreciating them now in the daylight.

The room was just beautiful. Sunlight poured in through the drapes, making the shimmers of cranberry light dance across the rug. The rich furnishings and delicate curtains were even lovelier than she remembered, and the sumptuous bedclothes made her feel like a princess. In the hall, Dr. Watson chased the light beams as if they were prey, making Emily laugh at his antics.

“I suppose you haven’t forgotten your fear of this room,” she said.

Dr. Watson had no comment, but continued to scamper across the rug while Emily slid out of bed. “We’ll have to find you some milk and something for breakfast before we renew our investigation. I brought a few apples and some rolls from the train, but that won’t hold us long. I think the kitchen is the next room to explore.”

Emily reached for her robe, puzzled when she couldn’t find the plain cotton wrapper. Instead, one of the robes from the closet lay as if it had been tossed upon the bed.
I must have forgotten to put it away
, she mused. Feeling fanciful, she slipped into the gorgeous blue silk and caught sight of herself in the mirror. Emily started in surprise. Clad in the ice blue robe, she looked almost pretty, exotic and desirable, her hair tumbling about her shoulders in disarray as if she’d just left her lover’s bed.