Petticoat Detective (14 page)

So there
was
a way in and out of the old house without going through Miss Lillian. This could explain how Rose’s killer managed to enter and leave without being seen. Georgia obviously was familiar with the hidden door, but how many of the other women knew about it? How many in town?

The next morning after breakfast a horse-drawn wagon with C
UBBY’S
W
INDOWS AND
F
INE
L
AMPS
painted on the sides pulled in front of the house.

While the man known only as Cubby replaced the broken dining room window, Amy walked out to the backyard to check the trapdoor from the outside.

It really did feel like spring. The temperature was somewhere in the low seventies, and fluffy clouds floated across an azure sky. Rays of golden sunlight filtered through the trees, and the warmth was a welcome change from the cool interior of the house.

Overgrown bushes against the back of the house hid the cellar trapdoor. Unless someone was specifically looking for the entrance, it was almost impossible to find.

She walked the width and breadth of the yard. Old wizened trees prevented all but the most stubborn flowers from surviving. A rambling rosebush climbed up a leaning fence in an effort to reach the sun.

The house lacked neighbors but not wildlife. A jaybird squawked loudly as it chased a squirrel down a tree. A rabbit ran across her path and dived into a hole. From somewhere up above came the tap-tap-tapping of a woodpecker, but she couldn’t locate it.

Buttercup walked into the yard, and her presence caused a sudden twitter of birds. It soon became apparent why when she dumped a pan of table scraps into a bird feeder.

Amy joined her. Already, yellow-winged birds fluttered down to peck at pieces of suet. “I’ve never seen so many different types of birds.”

“That’s because Rose put food out for them every day,” Buttercup said. “Now I do it in her memory.”

“I noticed several bird books in Rose’s room.” Amy knew very little about birds and could only identify a few.

“She loved birds and sat for hours watching them. She even left little pieces of yarn outside for their nests.”

Buttercup nudged Amy with an elbow and pointed upward. A large black-and-white bird sat on a window ledge, preening in front of a second-story window.

“He comes every morning to primp in front of the glass. Rose said he was a magpie.”

The way the bird turned first one way and then the other made Amy laugh. “He’s a regular Beau Brummell.”

Buttercup pulled her gaze away from the windowsill. “A bow what?”

“Brummell. He was a very fashionable man.” Buttercup couldn’t read and had little education. Regretting having mentioned someone known mostly through literature, Amy quickly changed the subject.

“It sounds like you really miss Rose.”

Buttercup heaved a sigh and looked about to burst into tears. “The others … they make fun of my weight. Rose never did. She was kind to me.”

Amy had so many questions she wanted to ask, but Buttercup suddenly pointed to the fence. “Oh, look at the hummingbird,” she said, smiling.

Amy’s gaze followed her pointed finger. Like a jeweled ball being tossed in a game of catch, the tiny bird flitted from blossom to blossom. It hovered in the air for a moment, its green wings but a blur, then darted away.

The smile vanished from Buttercup’s face. Amy hated to return to such a depressing subject, but she so seldom had a chance to speak to any of the women alone.

“I need to ask you something. Did you know that Rose was with child?”

Buttercup’s eyes widened. “No, but she wouldn’t be the first who got herself in a family way.”

“I suppose not. I heard she was seeing someone and it was serious. Dave or Dan somebody.”

“Dave. I met him a couple of times. He wasn’t like the others.”

“How do you mean?”

“I think he really cared for Rose. Brought her flowers and books and stuff.” Buttercup sighed. “It’s too bad what happened.”

“You mean when he was shot?”

“That, too. But I’m talking about the argument they had just before he died. Right here in this yard.”

“Do you know what they argued about?” Amy asked.

“Something about him wanting her to go to Texas, but she said she wouldn’t go without him. That’s all I heard.”

So the part about Dave asking for his brother’s help was true. “Rose must have been heartbroken when he died.”

“She was heartbroken all right.” Buttercup tossed a small piece of suet to a noisy blue jay perched on the woodpile. “She didn’t get out of bed for a week. Miss Lillian called the doctor, but it didn’t help much. After a while, she did try to eat, but she wasn’t the same.”

“Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to hurt her?”

Buttercup glanced at the house as if to make certain they were still alone. “I think she was scared of someone. One of the guests.”

“What makes you say that?” Amy asked. Everyone else she’d questioned insisted that Rose had no enemies.

“The week before she died, she wouldn’t sleep alone. She slept on the floor in my room.”

“Did she tell you who she was afraid of?”

“No, but …” Buttercup gave the house another quick glance. “I got the feeling it was Mr. Monahan.”

Since Monahan was at the top of her list of suspects, Amy wasn’t surprised to hear his name. Coral said he was the richest man in town, and from what little Amy had been able to turn up on him, it appeared to be true. His house alone had cost more money than what most people in town saw in a lifetime.

“Why would she be afraid of him?”

“I don’t know, but one night I heard them arguing. The next day she stayed in her room.”

“Did you hear what they were arguing about?”

Buttercup shook her head. As if suddenly remembering the rule forbidding gossip, she backed away, pail in hand. “I better go.”

Amy made no move to stop her. She needed time to think. She could understand why Rose might argue with her fiancé. But Mr. Monahan? Why would she argue with a guest?

Unless … She considered a new theory: What if Monahan was the father of Rose’s baby? Maybe Rose threatened to go public and Monahan refused to let that happen.

It made sense but was still only speculation. Even if she was right, solving Rose’s murder wouldn’t necessarily bring her any closer to tracking down the Gunnysack Bandit, and that’s what she was paid to do.

One by one, the birds took flight until at last the bird feeder was deserted. She started toward the house, but something stopped her. A strange sensation came over her, and she shivered.

She glanced about the yard, but all was quiet. Even the magpie had taken flight. She scanned the widows. The draperies and shades were drawn shut.

Still, unable to shake the feeling that someone was watching, she hurried to the house and banged on the back door until the cook let her in.

H
er conversation with Buttercup still very much on her mind, Amy hurried into town later that morning to mail her report to Pinkerton headquarters.

She walked quickly along the boardwalk, looking neither left nor right. She didn’t want to see the disapproving stares or judgmental looks. It was bad enough having to feel their gazes.

Though the sun was warm, her shoulder cape was securely fastened. Her bright purple gown set her apart from the “respectable” women whose modesty and morality were properly stated with drab gray or stoic black dresses. Amy would have had a better chance of blending in had she worn a pickle barrel.

It was now the middle of April. It didn’t seem possible that she’d been living at Miss Lillian’s Parlor House and Fine Boots for more than a week. She had precious little to show for her efforts. But then again, Rose’s death caused the loss of valuable time. She had to move slowly so as not to rouse suspicion.

A telegram waited for her. As always, it was coded and signed “Octavo at Napthia,” cipher for the Pinkerton principal. It was too soon to expect a report back on the list of suspects she’d sent. Nevertheless, the tersely worded dispatch telling her to keep investigating was disappointing. How was she supposed to do that without information?

She folded the telegram and slipped it into her cloth pocketbook. She then headed for Harry’s Gun and Bakery Shoppe. The owner, Harry Piker, was a regular at Miss Lillian’s. He was also one of the men on Amy’s list of suspects.

An odd, though no less pleasant, smell greeted her as she entered the tiny shop. It was a combination of baked bread and pastry with just a hint of molten steel. An impressive assortment of rifles and shotguns was displayed on polished wood wall racks.

At the sound of jingling door bells, a stout man hobbled from the back room. Wiping his hands on a grimy apron, he grimaced with each step he took.

A fringe of gray hair circled a glaring bald spot. Somewhere in his early fifties, his excessive weight and flaring gout suggested an insatiable sweet tooth. His age, shape, and thin hair reminded her of Sallie Wiseman, the notorious female bank robber. Amy had shadowed her for a month before they had enough evidence to put her behind bars.

Standing behind the counter, Piker tossed an anxious glance at the door before shifting his gaze in her direction. “What can I do for you?”

Guns were scattered on top of the glass counter in no particular order. She moved a Colt aside to get a better view of the pastries displayed on the shelves below.

“Are you the baker?” she asked, perusing the variety of cakes, pies, and cookies.

“No, I’m the gunsmith. The wife handles the bakery. She stepped out for a moment.”

“I’ll take one of those,” she said, pointing to a cherry-filled tart.

He slid the glass door open on his side of the counter and reached between the glass shelves. “You new around here?” he asked.

“Yes. I work for Miss Lillian.” When he failed to meet her gaze she added, “I understand you’re a regular client.” She found him disgusting. He availed himself of Miss Lillian’s “hospitality” and sold her five weapons but couldn’t look Amy in the eye.

His jaw hardened and a vein stood out in his neck. “Don’t know whatcha talking about.”

“My mistake.” The man was a liar, but his appearance and poor health exonerated him; clearly he wasn’t the Gunnysack Bandit.

He placed the pastry in a small box. “That will be fifteen cents.”

Anxious to take her leave, she counted out the correct change, thanked him, and turned, package in hand. She reached the door just as it flew open, revealing a matronly woman wearing a shapeless floral dress.

She took one look at Amy and her face contorted into a hateful expression. She had a long, thin face with thick black eyebrows—just like the outlaw known as Horse Face Freddie.

“What are you doing here?” She addressed Amy but glared at Harry. “I warned you to stay away from those horrible women!” She made no effort to lower her voice, and passersby stopped to stare through the open doorway.

His face drained of color, Harry’s mouth flapped open and shut like a dying fish before he was able to get his words out. “She … she was only buying pastries, my love.”

Amy glared at him. He deserved his wife’s wrath but, not wanting to make matters worse, she held up her purchase. “That’s all I was doing.”

Harry’s wife snatched the box out of her hand and tossed it to the floor. “Get out!”

The woman shoved her on the shoulder and pushed her out the door. “I won’t have the likes of you eating my pastries!” The small crowd gathered in front stepped back to let Amy pass.

Face flaring, Amy hurried away, but this only seemed to incite the woman more. A string of obscenities followed her up the street. Amy had done nothing wrong, but her face burned in embarrassment.

A beggar pawed her arm as she raced past him. Ignoring him, she hurried along the boardwalk, weaving around a baby carriage and barely avoiding the crates stacked in front of Max’s General Mercantile and Flower Shoppe.

Spotting the three church ladies passing out handbills ahead, she ducked into the hotel lobby and ran straight into a wall. It was only when the wall moved that she realized her mistake.

“Whoa!” Colton steadied her with hands to her shoulders. “Where you goin’ in such a hurry? You came barreling in here like a cat with his tail afire.”