Katie Rose (16 page)

Emily flushed hotly. “Thomas Hall is a factor in this case, nothing else.” She couldn’t tell Rosie how she felt about the man. Then the ghost would really laugh.

“I see.” Rosie’s eyes twinkled, as if seeing a lot more. “Then is that why you’re sad?”

“No. I suddenly realized that I have to start making some income. I’m going to have to set up my milliner’s shop. The materials I ordered should be arriving
any day. The only problem is, I don’t think I have enough money to pay for a space in town.”

“Mmm.” Rosie was thoughtful a moment, then her face lit up. “I know! You could use my parlor! It could be a sitting room where ladies could try on hats!”

“I don’t know if women would come here.” Emily remembered her own reaction when she’d first entered the house. She pictured her mother walking into the parlor. It would never work the way things were now … but still, it was a possible solution. “Maybe I could redo it. You know, paint the ceiling, subdue the furnishings a little.…”

“Sure! I think having the shop here will draw lots of customers.” Rosie perked up, her face alight. “Most women are curious about what goes on in houses like ours. Maybe it would draw customers out of curiosity, if nothing else!”

Emily tried to envision that. “Maybe, if someone in town made it fashionable. We could make a kind of ladies’ club, almost like a gentleman’s gambling club. They could come here, try on hats, discuss books, maybe play cards. Who knows? We might even learn something about the murders.”

“What fun!” Rosie agreed eagerly. She clapped her hands like a child. “I don’t see what could go wrong!”

“All right, I’ll give it a try.” Emily straightened, putting her notebook aside and starting for the stairs. She had to admit, she was touched by Rosie’s enthusiasm and obvious desire to see her succeed. This was a side to the bordello girl that she had never
thought to witness, and it made it difficult to continue disliking her. Strange as it was to have a ghost on her side, it made her feel as if she weren’t entirely alone.

Emily proceeded into the parlor to assess the room. She had a lot of work ahead of her to make it even slightly presentable. Detecting would have to wait a spell, she decided with regret. Her only consolation was that even Holmes occasionally ran into monetary difficulties.

And he didn’t have a ghost to bail him out.

The following day, Thomas headed back toward town, grateful to have his horse and his thoughts to himself once more.

What was it about Emily that completely shattered his control? He’d certainly been with more beautiful women, women with a lot fewer complications, but he’d never had a woman turn him inside out from wanting as she did.

Maybe it was simply because she was trouble, and someone he should stay a million miles away from. Thomas knew that the best thing for everyone would be to put as much distance between himself and Emily as possible, but that never appeared to work. She was always under foot, always in danger, and he seemed to be her unappreciated rescuer. And someone was getting nervous about Emily’s prying. If whoever it was felt threatened enough to shoot, they
were threatened enough to kill. It was time he had a real heart-to-heart talk with Lizzie Wakefield, and without Miss Sherlock’s help.

Thomas stopped at the post office, nodding his head to the clerk who acknowledged his collar respectfully. There was one letter for him. Taking the missive outside, he tore open the envelope. It was from Wells Fargo. Skimming past the niceties, Thomas stopped when he came to the paragraph he’d been searching for:

“… In answer to your inquiry, Miss Potter is exactly what she appears to be. Her former neighbors describe her as quiet but eccentric, and the Boston police speak in admiring terms of her detective abilities, and wish her well. It appears highly unlikely that she knew about the gold, or her father’s nefarious activities.…”

Thomas quickly read the rest, then stuffed the envelope in his pocket. All his suspicions of her had proved unfounded. Emily had never been involved in the payroll theft, hadn’t come here to pick up the missing gold. Emily was completely innocent of any deception. If only he could say the same for himself.

Mounting his horse, he retraced the path he had taken the day before. Knowing that Emily Potter really was an amateur detective made his reasons for avoiding her invalid. He was no longer concerned about her role in the crime. And now more than ever she needed protecting. The seductive memory of the kiss they shared came back to haunt him, and Thomas knew one thing for certain: It would be harder than ever to resist Emily Potter now.

Pleasantly immersed in memories of hot skin and quicksilver eyes, it took him several hours to return to Lizzie’s house, and seconds to sense that something was wrong.

The shades were drawn, and the house looked deserted. Tying his horse behind a tree, Thomas drew his gun and crept closer. He half expected one of yesterday’s gunmen to come charging out, but everything was quiet. Too quiet …

Thomas stepped carefully through the open door, and his breath caught in his throat as he saw the body. It was the housekeeper. She had been shot. Twice, by the looks of it. Frantically he scanned the room for other signs of bloodshed, but there was nothing else. His fingers clutched his weapon as he searched the back room and the kitchen.

No one was there.

Back in the parlor, he saw the boxes filled with linens and china. What had happened? Did the housekeeper’s murderer kill Lizzie also, or take her captive? Or had she somehow managed to escape?

Thomas stood in the center of the room, and surprisingly, Emily came to mind. He recalled the way she’d investigated the crime scene upon arrival at Shangri-La, an inspection that he had to admit (although he would only do so privately) made sense. Borrowing a page from her book, he searched the carpet, looking for additional bloodstains, but found none. There were no signs of a struggle. Stepping outside, he saw two furrows from a pair of small, delicate boots, where they had been dragged through the mud. Hoofprints told the final story.

Lizzie had been getting ready to bolt. Someone had stopped her, taken her captive, then killed the housekeeper. Why? What did Lizzie know that had everyone so damned scared? And what was Lizzie running from?

They were questions without answers. Thomas mounted his horse, then headed back to Denver to report the housekeeper’s death to the authorities. No one in Boulder would talk now.

Miss Lizzie was gone.

“Okay, honey. No, it wasn’t quite like that … yes, that’s better. And that one picture should go over the bar.”

Emily stepped back in satisfaction, surveying the parlor. With Rosie’s coaching and Darrel’s help, she’d managed to whip the room into shape. The piano gleamed from the corner, polished down to the bare wood, and the gaslights glowed softly overhead. A needle and thread repaired the sofa cushions, which had been carelessly slashed when the vandals had searched for the gold. It took considerable balance to stand on the upholstered chairs and rehang the pictures that had fallen from the walls. Emily tried not to look too closely at some of them, for they were amazingly detailed portraits of female nudes. Warmth still rose within her whenever she looked up at the painted ceiling, however, and she doubted she’d ever get used to that.

My God, men were different creatures, Emily mused, fanning herself from the heat of both her
erotic thoughts and the exertion. The slightest thing seemed to arouse them, and the blatancy of this room must have strongly appealed to their baser instincts. Try as she might, she couldn’t look at those pictures without thinking of Thomas, and how easily she could have been drawn into the same sultry act. She had to admit she was curious, and more than a little aroused. Goodness, if this place had this effect on her, what would it do to the women in town?

An unbidden image sprang to her mind, of Shangri-La in its prime. She could see the girls fanning themselves with their black plumes while men surveyed them, fantasizing, plunking down their wages for a night of ecstasy. They would follow their chosen girl up the staircase, into one of the bedrooms above.…

“I can’t leave the pictures up,” Emily decided firmly, squeezing her eyes shut. Somehow, she couldn’t see the good women of Denver looking at one of those portraits and not falling into a dead faint. She didn’t want to hurt Rosie’s feelings, though. “I think the rest is all right, but the pictures have to go.” She resolutely began to remove one of the portraits.

“Why? I think they’re lovely, especially that blond,” Rosie cooed in protest. “Looks a little like me, don’t you think?”

Emily’s embarrassment deepened as she realized the implication of that. Thank goodness, Darrel had gone to the barn. She could just see Rosie, sprawled on the couch, wearing nothing but a carefully draped shawl and a smile. Closing her eyes firmly, she hefted
the portrait down and placed it discreetly behind the sofa. The others followed suit until the walls were bare.

“I just don’t think the women of Denver are ready for all this,” Emily said, brushing her hands on her skirts.

“Well, if you’re certain, there are some landscapes in one of the bedrooms that you can hang.” Rosie said happily.

“The bordello girl’s voice surrounded her, and Emily smiled as she thought of the ghost surveying her parlor with pleasure. Although her image couldn’t leave the mirror, Rosie was able to see anything in the house, and could speak anywhere. Yet Emily was the only one who could hear her. She tried to explain it all to Emily, that her spirit was not earth bound, but it made no sense to her. Once she accepted Rosie as a phantom, Emily didn’t even try to apply logic to the rest.

“Now you’ll need some fresh flowers, and music. The piano is a player, so all you have to do is wind it up. I really like the way you fixed my curtains, sweetie. That was horrible when those vandals tore them right off the wall! It makes the windows seem so naked, doesn’t it?”

Emily had to hold back a bubble of laughter. Apparently naked windows offended Rosie’s sensibilities, but naked men and women didn’t faze her in the least.

She took one more look around, wishing she felt as certain of success as Rosie did. Some of Emily’s hats lay neatly on a polished rosewood table, displayed
to show off their best features, while books of designs were opened invitingly nearby. The shelves were also filled with books, for in spite of Rosie’s protests, she’d added her collection of mysteries, her books on poisons, her encyclopedia of important persons, and her files. Other women besides herself must be interested in intellectual pursuits as well as enticing a man, she explained, and she insisted that the books be given shelf space. Rosie was forced to agree, even though she declared that no man ever wanted to read in her house.

“We should hold a reception!” Rosie said enthusiastically. “Invite the women to the grand opening. We’ll have a real party in the house again!”

“Excellent idea!” Emily agreed. “Now I think we need to get started on some new designs for the hats. I’ll go to the post office and see if the supplies have arrived yet.”

Emily had taken only enough time to draw up some posters advertising her grand opening before setting off toward town. Walking through the dusty street, she passed a few of the town’s ladies and smiled in a friendly manner. But she was mystified when they pulled their skirts aside and crossed to the other side of the road.

Puzzled, Emily stared after them. Maybe they just didn’t appreciate her hat, which was the newest Paris fashion. As she ventured into the post office and tacked one of her posters to the wall, she felt several pairs of eyes on her. Attempting to act as if nothing were out of the ordinary, she walked up to the clerk.

“Hello. I’m Emily Potter. I’ve been expecting a shipment from Boston, some fabric and trim. Has it arrived?”

The clerk looked at her, then glanced at the women who stood in the far corner. He cleared his throat, his face reddening in embarrassment.

“Yes, I believe it has arrived. But don’t you think it would be better if you came around back?”

Emily looked at him in confusion, then her face cleared. “Oh, I see. It is rather bulky, and it probably would be easier to fetch it that way. Thank you.”

The man met Emily on the other side of the building. “The package is large. I have a wagon here you can borrow.” He gestured to a rickety old cart. “Just bring it back when you’re finished. I’m sorry I couldn’t receive you around front. Nancy and the other girls all know that.”

“Oh, I’m no longer at the saloon, so I can come around front next time,” Emily informed him, though she didn’t care for his tone. This was a complication she hadn’t thought of. Apparently her reputation had suffered some damage from her stint at the saloon, if not from her possession of the notorious house.

“Ah … of course,” the clerk said awkwardly. His tight-lipped mouth curved upward. “Why don’t you bring that wagon back tonight? We could get better acquainted.”

Emily instantly stiffened. Forcing a smile, she watched as the clerk tossed a thick bundle onto the cart, then left as quickly as she could, pulling the wagon while Watson followed. Her face heated as she thought of the clerk’s meaning, and a sudden
idea crossed her mind. Could Thomas have the same impression of her? Is that why he thought he could proposition her? It didn’t seem as likely, since he knew her intention was to investigate. Still, Emily was learning just how little she knew of men.