Petticoat Detective (27 page)

She sat up and ever so quietly pulled off her boots. Stocking feet absorbed sounds better than leather soles. She felt on the ground until she found a rock to throw should she need to divert attention from herself.

Using the bushes against the house for cover, she moved slowly. The man wasn’t alone. Someone was with him: a woman.

The muted baritone voice most likely belonged to Mr. Monahan, but the woman’s voice was too soft to identify. She stood inside the cellar, which not only hid her identity but kept her voice muffled.

“I can’t help that.” The masculine voice crackled through the air like gunfire. “It’s over.”

Amy moved a tad closer. What’s over? A twig snapped beneath her foot and she froze.

The woman said something, but the words weren’t clear, only the force behind them. She and Monahan were arguing.

“I said it’s over!” he snapped. As if conscious of his surroundings, he lowered his voice and Amy missed the rest.

She pushed the branches aside. With a curse, the man moved away from the trapdoor. He advanced toward her, and she ducked. He stopped in front of the bush where she hid, but it was too dark to make out more than his hatless, dark form.

She froze in place and tightened her grip on the rock, ready to throw.

The pungent, sweet smell of tobacco smoke wafted through the air and relief flooded through her. He’d stopped to light a stogie.

He moved away, and her breath escaped with a whoosh. The cool night air soothed her burning lungs. Without bothering to retrieve her shoes, she ran to the cellar trapdoor. If she hurried she might still be able to catch the woman.

At the creak of a rusty hinge, she halted her steps. Straining her ears, she waited, but when no sound came from within she started down the stairs. It was pitch black in the cellar, but operatives had been trained not to depend on sight alone.

She sniffed the air. Each resident had her own brand of perfume. Coral’s had a touch of bergamot and lemon. Buttercup wore rose water, and Polly’s perfume smelled of lilacs. Tonight, none of these fragrances were evident, and only the musty smell of the cellar tickled her nose.

Moving cautiously, she felt her way through the underground room with outstretched hands. She hit her shin on a piece of furniture and paused for a moment to gain her bearings.

A soft thud made her reach for her gun. “Who’s there?”

Something slammed against the side of her head and she sank to her knees.

How long she lay unconscious on the cellar dirt floor she had no idea. It could have been minutes, maybe even hours.

Once she came out of her stupor, she remained perfectly still. Hearing no sounds, she sat up slowly. She fingered the bump above her ear and winced. She was lucky to be alive.

Something brushed against her leg and she jumped.

“Mee-ow.”

Hand on her chest, she gasped with relief. “Mr. Beavers! What are you doing here?”

The cat rubbed his furry body against hers. She stroked his head before crawling around on hands and knees in an effort to locate her gun. She found it beneath the rocking chair.

Gripping the weapon, she stood. She felt lightheaded and waited for the feeling to pass before starting up the stairs.

The door to the kitchen opened to her touch. Mr. Beavers slipped past her and ran to his dish.

Holstering her gun, she felt on the counter for matches. She lit the match and held it to the kitchen clock. It was a little after 1:30 a.m. That meant that she’d been unconscious for about ten minutes—fifteen at the most. The only sound now was Mr. Beavers lapping up the last bit of cream in his dish.

Shaking away another wave of dizziness, she blew out the match and crept through the house to the stairs. All was quiet on the second floor as she tiptoed down the hall. Gaslight flickered and hissed from the wall sconces, providing more shadows than light.

Not a sound came from any of the bedrooms. She walked past each door, careful to avoid any floorboards she knew squeaked. Light fanned out from beneath the doors of two rooms. Both Coral and Buttercup were still awake.

So which one clobbered her on the head? Of equal importance, which one was in cahoots with Monahan?

Coral had been surly toward her in recent days and leery of her from the start. If she was working with Monahan, she’d have good reason to be suspicious of anyone—and on guard.

And what about Buttercup? She and Monahan had been together a few days earlier. Maybe they were plotting another heist—or worse, planning another murder.

“Thared, Tenfer. Monster tay me.”

It was the same old dream, but lately, it had been waking Amy up almost nightly.

It was as if someone was trying to tell her something. God? But that made no sense. Her sister’s disappearance had nothing to do with the current case.

She stretched and yawned. She’d hardly slept all night, and when she wasn’t dreaming about Cissy, she relived the dark, scary moments in the cellar. Just as alarming was the way the memory of Tom’s kisses kept popping up.

Turning over on her side, she grimaced. She had a king-sized headache and a bump the size of a goose egg just above her right ear. Just what she needed. It was all she could do to concentrate, let alone think about the case. Still, she had to try.

Collecting clues was the easiest part of a detective’s job, analyzing them correctly the hardest.

Was Tom’s brother really the Gunnysack Bandit? He apparently fit the description, and it would certainly explain the items found on his body. And what part, if any, did Monahan play in the scheme of things? Had he killed Rose, and if so, why? Or was the person who hit her over the head in the cellar the real killer?

From her open window came the sharp report of a gun, followed by another and another.

She reached beneath her pillow for her derringer. Alert now, she jumped out of bed and ran into the hall.

Coral moved cautiously toward the stairwell, holding her gun out in front. One by one, the doors of Polly’s and Buttercup’s rooms opened, and both women popped their heads out.

“I heard g–g–gunfire,” Polly stammered.

“Me, too,” Amy said. “Stay here.”

Coral stared at her all funny-like. Was that surprise on Coral’s face? Whoever assaulted her last night might have thought her dead. All three women were giving her odd looks. Or rather, they were staring at her plain flour-sack nightgown.

“What makes you the boss?” Coral asked.

“I know how to use a gun and you don’t.” Ignoring her still pounding head, Amy descended the stairs holding on to the banister. Much to her annoyance, the other three women followed on her heels.

Coffey stood behind the kitchen counter holding a rolling pin over her head. The housekeeper, Beatrice, stood behind the cook, her face drained of color.

“They come in here and that’ll be the last thing they do,” Coffey said, wielding the rolling pin.

“Who are ‘they’?” Amy asked.

“How am I supposed to know?”

Holding the others back with her free hand, Amy approached the mudroom. More gunfire. Cautiously, she cracked open the door and peered outside. “For the love of—” She closed the door and pocketed her weapon.

“W–what is it?” Polly stammered.

Amy turned to find three guns, a rolling pin, and a broom all aimed at her.

“Put your weapons away. It’s just Miss Lillian practicing her shooting.”

Coffey frowned. “What she want to do that for?”

“M–m–maybe she just w–wants to feel s–safe,” Polly stammered.

Buttercup giggled, and the housekeeper stood her broom in a corner.

Coffey lowered her rolling pin. “Lawdy, if we ain’t got enough trouble as it iz.”

Later that same morning, Amy let herself out the front door and stopped on the porch to put on her gloves.

A movement made her look up. A youth, probably in his midteens, stood on the other side of the fence. After a surreptitious glance up and down the street, he tossed a brick at the house and just missed a window.

He obviously hadn’t noticed her, and his eyes widened in alarm when she leaped off the porch after him.

“Hey!” she yelled, giving chase. He was young and he was fast. He also had the advantage of running in sensible trousers rather than a long skirt and three-story hat that made the lump on her head throb.

She had just about decided to give up when a white knight came to the rescue. Actually, it was a small white terrier wanting to play.

The little dog caught the brick thrower by a trouser leg. The boy hopped around on one foot trying to shake off the dog. By the time Amy reached them, the youth was on his back yelling for help.

The dog’s owner whistled, and the white ball of fluff bounced away with joyful yips.

The boy tried to get up, but Amy stopped him with a foot to his chest. “Oh, no you don’t.”

He lay flat on his back gazing up at her through strands of shaggy hair. Neither his bad skin nor peach fuzz took away from his boyish looks. He was probably no older than thirteen. Dressed in neatly patched overalls and a torn plaid shirt, his feet were bare, but whether by choice or necessity was hard to tell. She guessed the latter.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Scott.”

“Scott what?”

He glared up at her. “Cunningham.”

She recognized the name at once. Mr. Cunningham was a frequent guest at the parlor house. Now that she knew he had a son, her temper flared. She had no patience for any of the men who frequented the parlor house, but this man did it at the expense of his family.

She removed her foot, and the boy sat up. “Why did you throw that brick?”

“ ’Cuz.”

“ ’Cuz isn’t an answer.”

“I hate you.” The veins stood out on his neck. “I hate all of you.”

The anger in his voice made her catch her breath. “Because … of your father?” she asked gently.

A suspicious sheen filled his eyes, but he was either too angry or too stubborn to let the tears fall. “ ’Cuz of what he’s doing to Ma.”

Feeling sorry for the boy, she knelt at his side. “Breaking windows won’t change anything.”

“What else can I do?” He sat up and swiped the hair away from his eyes. “Huh?”

She laid a hand on the youth’s bony shoulder. “Have you talked to your father?”

“He said it was none of my business what he did.”

Her own father had said something similar the day she’d begged him to stop drinking. If only parents knew how such actions hurt their offspring.

She pulled her hand away. “This isn’t the first time you’ve thrown a brick at the house, is it?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to; his guilty expression said it all.

“Scott, I wish I could change the way things are, but some things are bigger than you and me. Some things have to be left up to God.”

His eyes flashed. “Whatcha know about God?”

“You’d be surprised,” she said. “I also know that breaking windows can get you in a lot of trouble. I’m sure that would cause your mother even more grief.”

A shadow of worry flickered across his face. “Are you gonna report me to the marshal?”

“Not this time.” She pushed herself to her feet. “But I will next time. Now go home.”

The boy didn’t wait for a second invitation. He jumped up and raced away as fast as his skinny legs allowed.