Katie Rose (5 page)

Blushing, Emily turned away from the mirror quickly. Clearly the erotic intoxication of this house
continued to affect her. She thought of the unwelcome fantasy she had had last night about Thomas Hall, and was newly ashamed. Yes, she’d have to take hold of herself, especially since the reverend was a suspect himself. Making her way down the stairs, she tried to ignore the luxurious swish of fabric around her legs.

The parlor was exactly as she’d left it. Emily expelled her breath in relief. She hadn’t realized she was holding it. She really was getting ridiculous, she mused. Scooping the cat into her arms, she walked toward the rear of the house.

The kitchen, though dimly lit, looked practical and lived in. There was a cookstove, a gaslight overhead, a walnut table with high-backed chairs, and a cupboard. A larder stood nearby, with drawers for potatoes and onions, and tins for tea and biscuits. There was even a stack of wood as if someone had been waiting for company.

“See, it’s not so bad,” Emily said. “With a little lemon wax for the table, some blacklead for the stove, and the lamps trimmed and filled, it will be quite comfortable.”

Dr. Watson seemed far more interested in the mouseholes than her conversation, but Emily was greatly encouraged. The servants had apparently taken good care of the kitchen, for all of the utensils were stacked neatly in place, and in good working order. Whoever had vandalized the house had only rifled through the flour sifters and mixing bowls, so there was much less work to be done here than in the other rooms.

Upon surveying the larder, Emily felt no surprise to see that little food remained. The house had been vacant for some time, and the vandals had surely taken anything of value. She was pleased to see that some tea remained, and she lit the stove, intending to fortify herself with a cup. Turning up the lamp, she rummaged around in the cupboard, looking for the teapot. The light suddenly extinguished.

That’s odd, she thought, glancing upward. The fixture appeared to be in good condition. There was even a black soot stain on the ceiling, testifying that the light had been used frequently. After adjusting the gas, she lit it again, making sure this time that the blue-white flame was well established before turning around. Having spotted the copper tea kettle at the rear of the cupboard, she was reaching for the vessel when the light blew out once more.

Dr. Watson hissed, his back arched, and every one of his hairs stood on end. Emily fought the feeling of dread that swept over her. “Nonsense,” she said out loud. “I won’t let you make me afraid. It’s only a weak gas jet.”

The cat snarled, his green eyes wide. Frightened, Emily glanced toward the door, almost expecting to see an intruder. The doorway was empty, but someone could be in the other room. Emily forced herself to walk across the floor. A strange, eerie sensation raced through her, and she felt a raw dampness as she approached the door. It was like walking into a cellar, yet what could have caused the feeling?…

A mouse scampered by and Dr. Watson pounced.
Emily nearly swooned with relief. She leaned against the doorway, smiling at her own foolishness.

“See? It was just a rodent. Watson, you frightened me to death!”

The tea kettle whistled. Emily turned back to the stove and poured out a cup, grateful for the familiar smell and hot comfort of the tea. She had to stop fantasizing about every little noise, or living alone here would become intolerable.

“I’ll get someone in to look at that light,” she said out loud, more to herself than the cat. “And I’ll go see the sheriff today, to continue the investigation. I also want to look into Reverend Thomas’s whereabouts. I’ll have to keep a close eye on him, as a possible suspect. On the way back, I’ll stop by the store. Once I get some food and clean the house, it won’t seem so lonely.”

Watson played contentedly with his prey, ignoring her. For all her brave words, Emily didn’t attempt to light the gas lamp again.

About an hour later, her valise—complete with her casebook, her glass, and her extensive notes—in hand, Emily marched into town. She’d left Watson at home hunting, mice, having no desire to witness his inevitable success. The sheriff’s office, she recalled from her walk the previous evening, was sandwiched between the post office and the saloon. She didn’t feel the curious stares of the town’s ladies as she walked briskly toward her goal, her hair pulled back in a dour knot, her glasses perched precariously on the bridge of her nose. Concern for her personal
appearance was never a hallmark of hers, for Emily was always far more interested in what was going on around her than in herself.

Today was no different, and she approached the sheriff’s office confident in her quarry. This was surely the best place to start her investigation. Jed Hawkins, the local lawman she recalled from the papers, should be able to shed some additional light on what was so dark. She hoped he’d made a detailed examination of the site, and maybe even had his own opinion of the perpetrator.

Knocking briskly on the sheriff’s door, Emily let herself in without waiting for a reply.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for … Jed Hawkins.” Emily’s voice trailed off as the youthful deputy looked up from his coffee and morning paper, annoyed at the disturbance. But it wasn’t his appearance that caused Emily to lose her train of thought. As she looked past him into the sheriff’s office, she saw that the lawman was already occupied … with the good Reverend Hall.

“Miss Potter.” Thomas rose and came to stand before her. “A pleasure to see you again so soon.”

Emily gaped at him in surprise, refusing the hand he extended toward her. For an embarrassed moment, the memory of her fantasy swept over her. She had a hard time looking at him until she firmly reminded herself that she had imagined everything. Only then could she raise her chin and confront him, even though she was desperately trying to ignore the heat that stung her face.

“Reverend. This is an unusual place to find a holy man, isn’t it?”

Her voice rang with suspicion, but Thomas only laughed. The sheriff rose and stood in the doorway, bristling at her intrusion.

“I’m sorry, miss, but I am occupied.” He turned away from her to glare at the deputy. “Fred, what the hell are you doing, letting every Tom, Dick, and Harry come in here? Can’t you do anything besides drink that coffee?”

The deputy scrambled to his feet, reddening at the public scolding. “Excuse me, Miss Potter, but you’ll have to wait outside. The sheriff is busy.”

Emily ignored him and spoke directly to the sheriff. “But it’s important. It’s about my father’s death.”

Jed Hawkins paused for a moment and looked curiously at Emily, but his attitude didn’t change. “I don’t need any one else nosing around here about John Potter. I’ve been putting up with this for months, people traipsing in here, wanting to know all about the sensational murders. If you want to know what happened, read the papers. That’s all I have to say.”

Stunned, Emily was grateful that her anger made her forget all about the sexy preacher. “Other people were asking about my father? Who? Why?”

“Miss Potter, I asked you to leave. Now, if you insist on interrupting me—”

“But I have a right to know what your investigation showed!” she stated firmly. “I’ve come all the way from Boston, and I’m determined to find out
what really happened. I’ve done my own preliminary work, but it is incomplete. The house is a shambles, and yielded little data. I would like to know what you saw when you came there that night of the killings, whether you examined the room thoroughly, what clues you found, and what your opinion of the case is.”

Emily watched the lawman puff up like a tree frog, his face turning bright red, his eyes bulging with indignation.

“Miss Potter, I would suggest you get out of here right now before I lose my patience. I understand that you may be upset about your father, but that is not my problem. Maybe it is common back East for ‘ladies’ to barge uninvited into a man’s office, but it doesn’t happen here. Fred, show Miss Potter out!” And he slammed the door of his office behind him.

“But—”

The deputy rose and reluctantly took Emily’s arm. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to leave.”

“This is ridiculous!” Emily protested, staring at the slammed door in astonishment. “How can he refuse to see me? I am a citizen, just like the good reverend there!”

“You heard what he said.” The deputy smiled shamefacedly, and held open the outer door. “Please, Miss Potter. You seem like a nice lady and all. You sort of remind me of … my mother.”

Emily glared at the man through her spectacles, trying to ignore the indignation his words generated. The man was a few years her junior, she surmised, but hardly young enough to be called her son, or to think
of her in such a way! She glanced down at her dowdy dress and her carpetbag, suddenly aware of how she must appear to Reverend Hall, as well.

“Please tell the sheriff I’ll wait,” she insisted. The deputy opened his mouth to argue, but Emily smiled sweetly and sat down on the bench outside the office. “I’m not going anywhere. One way or another, that man will talk to me.”

The deputy watched helplessly while Emily brought out her notebook and began to write: “Thomas Hall visiting the sheriff at the first possible opportunity.” Yes, she thought, coincidences were beginning to pile up.

The sheriff peered through the window. “Damn that woman! She’s still there.”

“From what I’ve seen of Miss Potter, she isn’t liable to disappear,” Thomas said smoothly, although he had to hide a chuckle. Emily had managed, in all of fifteen minutes, to thoroughly antagonize the only law in town. As it happened, her outburst had only benefited him. Whereas the man hadn’t been very willing to speak to him before her interruption, Sheriff Hawkins seemed more friendly now, particularly when his presence was the only thing preventing Emily from barging in again.

Just then a head popped up near the window, and the sheriff gaped at her audacity. “She’s trying to see what’s going on in here!”

“Miss Potter, from what I’ve seen, is relentless,” Thomas said dryly. He rose. “Perhaps we should continue our discussion at a later date.”

“No, sit there. That danged spinster isn’t making anyone leave. I don’t care how long she stays.” Sighing, the sheriff poured himself a cup of coffee, then sank down behind his desk in resignation. “So what do you want to know, and why is everyone so goddamned interested in Potter all of a sudden?”

“As part of my mission, I’d like to help Miss Potter come to peace with her father’s passing,” Thomas said, amazed at how sincere he sounded. “I have a particular interest in her, especially after meeting her on the stagecoach. The woman is, if I might say, a menace.”

“She is that,” the lawman agreed. He glanced up at Thomas, his gaze shrewd. “You aren’t a Pinkerton, by any chance, are you? The place was crawling with them after the killings.”

“No.” Thomas laughed. “My interest is purely personal.”

The sheriff seemed to be considering that when he caught sight of Emily’s face at the window on the opposite side of the room, her forehead pressed to the glass. He flushed angrily, then continued speaking as if she weren’t there. “Well, it was rumored that Potter had money. Two million dollars was stolen from a payroll, and everyone thought Potter did it.”

Thomas shrugged, “I heard the rumors. From what I understand, nothing was ever found. Do you believe he had it?”

“I don’t know,” Hawkins said. “Someone tore the house and grounds apart looking for that gold. They never found so much as an ingot. The federal agents
came nosing around here, too, and even the Pinkertons, but no one could prove a thing. That money’s stayed hidden.”

Thomas nodded. “I escorted Miss Potter home last night and saw the inside of the house. Nearly every article in the place has been wrecked.”

“Everyone, from the lowliest vandal to the passing cowhands, has tried to find that money.” Hawkins shrugged, absently caressing his white mustache. “But it ain’t a coincidence that Potter and the girl were killed. Someone else knew about that gold. Someone desperate enough to murder.”

“Tell me about that night,” Thomas asked casually. “I am so concerned for poor Miss Potter. I don’t think she’s taking the danger seriously enough. Perhaps if I could explain to her …”

The sheriff nodded. Turning his back to the door and to Emily Potter waiting outside, he settled more comfortably into his chair. “I suppose, with you being a preacher and all, the details will remain confidential. You’re right about the girl. She is in more trouble than she knows. John Potter wasn’t exactly loved around here, but he wasn’t hated, either. He slipped into town about a year ago, calling himself Mullen. He had that house built behind the saloon in no time flat, and seldom left it. It was a whorehouse, right from the beginning, but it wasn’t exactly a typical fancy place. He brought in several girls, real lookers, too, especially Rosie. She was his favorite. He set her up nice, and made it so that she didn’t have to see many other men. He put in the fixtures, had the
ceiling painted, and brought in furnishings from the East. Potter had been to Europe, or so he said, and he wanted his house to be what the French had, a real gentleman’s retreat.”

“I saw it,” Thomas acknowledged.

“Well, then you know he accomplished that all right, and soon had lots of out-of-towners coming here for a poker game and a night at Shangri-La. The locals weren’t too keen on this, as you can imagine, though some of them benefited business-wise. Those visiting cowhands had money to spend. But they raised hell, drank too much, and carried on. Tension started building and the folks around here complained.

“Just when it was all about to boil over, Potter started acting loco. He bolted up the house, was real careful about who came to visit, and took to carrying his revolver with him. Something or someone was hot on his trail, I could tell that much. Yet he never applied for protection.”

Thomas nodded thoughtfully. “So you think Potter had an accomplice in the robbery?”

“Potter couldn’t have pulled off that job by himself, least not in my book. He was clever, but he didn’t have the mind of a criminal. Also, someone had helped him escape when the Pinkertons were first after him, someone who at one time must have been on his side.”