Petticoat Detective (24 page)

“I don’t want your money.”

“I hired you to spy for me, and that’s what you did. Keep it.” He spun around without a word and left the room.

The parlor suddenly felt empty. Cold.
“Which is the lucky one?”

She’d teased him, of course, but that was only to keep from saying that she wanted the lucky one that he wed to be her.

G
eorgia didn’t come down to breakfast that Thursday morning, and the rest of them ate in silence.

Amy was grateful for the quiet as it gave her time to plan her next move. She had spent the previous day checking every possible place in town that might have a typewriter. Dressed in a plain skirt and blouse, she pretended to look for a secretarial job and came up empty. Nobody was in the market to hire, and only two businesses had a typewriter—a lawyer who had yet to take the machine out of the box, and the Monahan Express Company.

It was possible that someone in town owned a typewriter at home, but unlikely. Not only were the machines expensive, but a private individual would probably have no need for one.

Miss Lillian folded her newspaper and tossed it aside in disgust. “The theft of a saddlebag gets a full column and Rose’s death merited no more than two sentences.”

“Doesn’t surprise me none,” Coral said. “Dirt is given more regard than the likes of us.”

Her words were punctuated by the angry clang of silverware.

After several strained moments, Polly asked, “W–where’s Georgia?”

“She’s not feeling well,” Buttercup said as she poured syrup over the stack of hotcakes on her plate.

Coral glared at Amy. “There’s been a lot of that going around lately.”

Miss Lillian set her coffee cup down. “Perhaps we should fetch Doc Graham.”

Amy rose from her chair. “I’ll check on her.” Grateful for an excuse to escape Coral’s daggered looks, she threw her napkin on the table and hurried from the room before anyone could object.

Upstairs, she tapped on Georgia’s door. Receiving no answer, she turned the knob and pushed the door open. The shades were drawn against the bright morning sun and a dim gray light bathed the room.

“Georgia?”

The mound beneath the covers was as still as a log. Amy closed the door behind her and crossed the room. “Miss Lillian and the others are worried. Are you okay?”

Georgia rolled over. Amy moved closer, and even in the dimly lit room she could see the tears. She dropped to her knees by the side of the bed and stroked Georgia’s cheek.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Are you ill?”

Georgia wiped her wet cheeks with the palms of her hands. “Today’s my little boy’s birthday,” she whimpered. “He’s six years old.” Fresh sobs wracked her body. “Such a big boy. I just want to … hold him and wish him happy birthday. Is that so wrong?”

Amy shook her head. “No, it’s not wrong. It’s what any mother would want.”

“But not this mother.” She smothered a sob. “My son doesn’t deserve a mother like me.”

“Don’t say that, Georgia. You love your children very much, and I’m sure they love you, too.”

“They love the person I used to be.” Georgia let out a long, harrowing sigh. “That person no longer exists.”

“I don’t believe that, and you mustn’t believe it either.”

Georgia pulled a pillow in front of her and held it as one would hold a child. “I used to be a good girl.” Her voice trembled. “Went to church every week and—” She gulped hard, but the tears continued to roll down her cheeks. “Now I don’t think God even knows I exist.”

“Not only does God know, but He cares.” Amy laid her hand on top of Georgia’s. “Talk to Him. Tell Him how you feel. He’ll help you.” She squeezed the small, pale hand tight. “Do it for your sake as well as your children’s.”

Georgia pulled her hand away. “You’re a fine one to talk. You’re no better off than I am.”

Georgia’s words stung, and Amy wanted to scream with frustration. There was so much she wanted to tell her about God’s love, so much that needed to be said about God’s grace, about His forgiveness and compassion. But saying it would only make her sound like a hypocrite.

“If I had children, I wouldn’t be here,” she said instead. If she had a family of her own, she wouldn’t be here either. It was a startling thought and one she immediately banished. She loved her job; nothing else mattered to her. As long as she kept reminding herself of that, perhaps all these worrisome doubts and feelings of late would go away.

Georgia’s forehead creased. “What if they were hungry? What if you had no way of feeding them? What would you do then? Let them starve?”

“No, I wouldn’t do that but … There are people out there who can help you.” Back home she would know where to send Georgia for help, but here she was a relative stranger and knew so few people. She thought for a moment, and something suddenly occurred to her.

“There’s this churchwoman. Her name is Mrs. Givings, and she knows what it’s like to be a mother. Go to her. She’ll help you. I know she will.”

“But that’s the same as asking for charity.” Georgia tossed the pillow away. “That’s only one step away from what I’m doing now.”

Amy drew Georgia’s hands in her own and looked her straight in the eye. “In the Bible, charity is just another word for love.”

“I don’t know—”

“Think about it, Georgia. You’ll be with your children. Any charity you receive will only be temporary, until you get on your feet and find employment.” A glimmer of hope flared in Georgia’s eyes, but for only a second. “Who would hire me? I don’t have any skills.”

“You can sing.” Georgia’s soprano voice had the same pitch and range as Allan Pinkerton’s daughter, Joan—a beautiful singer. “If Miss Lillian can give singing lessons, I dare say so can you.”

Georgia’s eyes widened. “That’s the craziest thing I ever heard. I mean … I used to sing in the church choir but—”

Amy pushed a strand of hair away from Georgia’s forehead. “Go and see your little boy. Make this a happy birthday for him.”

Georgia shook her head. “I can’t. Those are the only clothes I own.” With a quick movement of her head, she indicated the open wardrobe stuffed with gowns that no respectable woman would be caught dead wearing.

“I don’t want my children knowing that their mother—” She stopped amid a fresh flood of tears.

“Stay here.” Amy jumped to her feet. “I’ll be back.”

Moments later, she ran into her room and reached into her private trunk where she kept her own clothes hidden. She pulled out a yellow gingham dress. She shook it out and held it out in front to examine. It was a little wrinkled, but the color would complement Georgia’s raven hair and olive skin.

Returning to Georgia’s room, Amy pulled off Georgia’s covers. “Come on, get up.”

“What are you doing—?”

“Put this on.” She tossed the dress at Georgia. “Hurry, before someone comes.”

Georgia pulled the dress away from her face and gazed up at Amy with questioning eyes.

“It’s time to get ready for your little boy’s birthday.”

“You mean now?”

Amy smiled. “Yes, now.”

Georgia let out a soft gasp as she slid out of bed, clutching the dress. Fresh tears filled her eyes, and she tried to speak but the words remained on her trembling lips.

Amy helped her out of her silk nightgown. Without all the bother of a corset, stockings, bustle, and paint, it took only seconds to get Georgia dressed, instead of the usual two hours or more.

Georgia was thinner than Amy and stood an inch or two taller. The waist was a bit loose and the hem fell to just below her ankles, but otherwise the dress fit fine.

“Hold still,” Amy said. After fastening the last of the hooks and eyes, she spun Georgia around to face the beveled glass mirror.

Georgia stared at her own reflection as if staring at a stranger. Without her customary paint, she looked younger, prettier. Her lips appeared softer, her eyes less haunted.

Amy tied the ribbon at Georgia’s waist and studied her from every angle. “A dress fit for a little boy’s birthday.” She tapped her chin. “Let’s see, what’s a proper hairstyle for a proper lady?”

Georgia smiled through her tears. “Nothing too fancy.”

Amy reached for the silver-handled hairbrush on the dressing table and set to work. She brushed Georgia’s long, thick mane till it shone and then twisted the glossy lengths into a ladylike bun.

She finished pinning the hair in place and met Georgia’s gaze in the mirror. “You look beautiful,” she said, and she meant it. “Your little boy will be so proud.”

Georgia’s cheeks reddened as she turned one way and then the other. “I almost forgot what I looked like. Who I was …” She met Amy’s gaze in the mirror. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

Amy smiled and squeezed Georgia’s hand. “No need. Just give your son a big hug for me.” She tossed a nod toward the door. Mr. Studebaker had started his singing lesson, and the thick walls offered little protection against the onslaught of high-pitched screeches.

“I’ll see if the coast is clear.”

She cracked the door open. A man she didn’t recognize ran down the hall shirtless and coatless with trousers to match. She shut the door and turned.

“What is it?” Georgia asked.

“Just one of the guests.”

Georgia wrung her hands. “Are … are you sure this will work? What if I run into someone? What if a guest sees me like this? Miss Lillian will have a fit.”

“Trust me, no one will recognize you. Anyone looking at you will see only the woman you really are. The woman God meant you to be.”

G
od, help me.

Tom’s anguished prayer seemed to bounce from wall to wall of the empty church like a mustang trying to escape a corral. Was God even listening?

Tom’s grandpappy often said that things never looked quite so hopeless when one was down on his prayer bones. Well, Tom had been on his prayer bones so long they were about to give out, and still he felt miserable. It didn’t help that the stained glass window overhead depicted a picture of Cain and Abel. He understood too well the rage one brother could feel for another.

He could still hear Amy’s voice as she broke the news about Dave. Could still see the sadness on her face as she repeated what the marshal had said. Faked—all of it. Nothing about her was real, no matter how much he wanted to believe otherwise. She and his brother were two of a kind. Both knew how to play upon other people’s emotions. The only difference was she did it for money.

Dave the Gunnysack Bandit? No, it can’t be.
God, tell me it’s not true
.

A footfall echoed from behind and he rose.

The reverend stopped in his tracks. “My apologies. I didn’t know anyone was here.” He started to leave.

“Wait. I came to see you,” Tom said.

The minister turned. “Well then …” He hurried down the middle aisle toward the altar. Tom couldn’t help but notice the shiny black boots with the garish rose. He’d seen a pair just like them at Miss Lillian’s. But surely a preacher wouldn’t—

“You like them?” the reverend asked, extending a foot.

“They’re something, all right,” Tom said.

“Bought and worn in the line of duty,” the minister said good-naturedly and offered his hand. “Name’s Reverend Matthews.”

“Tom Colton.”

“Colton? You’re not by any chance related to Dave Colton, are you?”

Surprised that the reverend knew Dave, Tom replied, “He was my brother.”

“Ah, I do see a bit of a family resemblance. Sorry to hear what happened. Such a waste. What can I do for you?”

“Did you know my brother well?”

The preacher nodded. “Well enough. Used to sit in the very back pew as if he wasn’t certain he belonged here. Know what I mean?”

Tom’s eyebrows rose. “Dave came to church?”

“Most every Sunday that he wasn’t in the hoosegow or out of town. Then one week just before he died, I took the pulpit and looked out over the congregation and what did I see? The Colton fellow had moved down several rows toward the altar. It was the middle, right there.” He pointed. “I took that as a good sign.”

Something tugged at Tom’s insides. If Dave came to church, that had to mean he was a changed man. He couldn’t have been guilty of the things the marshal said.

The minister continued. “I talked to him after the service. He told me he’d done some things in the past he regretted. Said he asked for God’s forgiveness and now wished to marry one of the parlor girls. Rose was her name, and he asked me to officiate.”

“That must have put you on the spot.”

“Not at all. It was my duty, of course, to ask if his future bride was a woman of faith. He said she was. So, my answer to him was then her faith will save her.”

“So you agreed to marry them?”

“I did. Dave was greatly relieved, but he was also in a hurry. He insisted that I marry them right away. I told him I needed to meet his young lady first. We agreed to meet at the church the following Friday, and he swore me to secrecy. The couple never arrived, and that’s when I learned of Dave’s death.”

“Did my brother say why he was in such a hurry to wed? Or why it was necessary to keep it secret?”

“No, but I assumed he was anxious to get Rose away from the parlor house. Couldn’t blame him there.” The minister shook his head. “I was shocked when I heard the news of his death. I made several attempts to contact Rose, but she never responded. I understood from Dave that she didn’t want anyone at the parlor house to know her plans, so I didn’t attempt to contact her in person. I wish now that I had.”

“I don’t think it would have changed anything,” Tom said.

“You never know.”

“Did Dave say what things he’d done?”

“No, and I couldn’t tell you if he had. But I can tell you this much—he deeply regretted hurting his family.”

Was that true? Or was the kind reverend only trying to make him feel better?

Matthews laid a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Would you like to join me in prayer?”

Not sure that God would be any more likely to answer two prayers than one, Tom nonetheless nodded and turned toward the altar.

Moments later, he walked up the aisle of the church and paused by the middle pew. The vision of Dave sitting, head bowed, was so vivid he had to blink to make sure it wasn’t real.