Love in Disguise (10 page)

After a light dinner of cheese, crackers, and canned peaches found in her partially stocked kitchen cupboard—the Pinkertons had overlooked no detail in smoothing the transition into her new dwelling—Ellie craved nothing more than to crawl into her cozy bed and surrender her head to the inviting pillow. But she had one more duty to fulfill before she succumbed to her need for sleep.

As part of her brief training, both Pinkerton men had stressed the necessity of making thorough notes on a daily basis.

“During an investigation,” Fleming had intoned, “it’s easy to forget details. Even though you won’t be leading this operation, you need to keep track of everything you see and hear. It could be that some snippet of conversation, some small particle of information will be just the thing that’s needed to tie all the pieces together.”

Ellie eyed the bed with longing. Assuring herself that a few hours’ sleep wouldn’t erase important details from her mind, she undressed and shed herself of the tiresome cheek plumpers and leg wrappings, then pulled her flannel nightgown over her head. Getting some much-needed rest might be just the thing to help focus her memory so she could remember even more. Pulling off Lavinia’s gray wig, she settled the hairpiece on its stand, then reached for her hairbrush and ran it through her drab brown tresses in long, even strokes, freeing the strands that had been held captive under the wig all day.

Ellie closed her eyes and counted the strokes up to a hundred, longing for the moment she could sink into the mattress. Surely her memory was good enough to remember a few details overnight. . . . Just as it was good enough to remind her she’d never gone to bed without fulfilling all her duties for Magdalena. And wasn’t her job in Pickford of even greater importance?

She set the brush back on the dressing table with a weary sigh and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. Much as she longed to climb into bed and let the cares of the day roll away, she couldn’t afford the luxury of resting—not while she still had work to do.

Time was against her. She had to figure out the particulars of the investigation before the Pinkertons sent somebody else along who would boot her off the case and likewise off their payroll. The realization stiffened her spine. This was no time to give in to the weakness of the flesh. She had to press on.

Not bothering to stifle an enormous yawn, she shuffled out into the parlor and checked to be sure the drapes were drawn tight. It wouldn’t do to have some nosy passerby notice a strange young woman wandering around in Lavinia Stewart’s house.

Ellie lit the stove under the kettle and heated water for a pot of tea. No telling how long she might be up, and she would need every bit of help she could get to keep going. While waiting for the tea to steep, she gathered pen, ink, and paper from the drop-front desk tucked into the corner between the coatrack and the door to the second bedroom.

The fragrant aroma swirled under her nose as she took a sip of tea and prepared to write down the names of the people she’d met that day, along with her impressions of them. That much would be easy, although she wasn’t sure how it would help her solve the crime. Growing up in the theater, observing people had become a lifelong habit. To become skilled at acting—as her parents had been—one had to watch people and try to understand what made them act the way they did.

Dipping her pen in the inkwell, she started her list, making notes of everyone she had come in contact with—from the stage driver to the station agent to Amos Crawford, the telegraph operator, to Althea Baldwin, the garrulous widow who seemed to know everything about everybody in town.

Then there was Steven Pierce. A slow smile curved Ellie’s lips as she remembered his warm brown eyes, the strength of his arm under her fingers, and the attentive way he had treated her.

Because he’d seen her as Lavinia, and not Ellie. Maybe it was just as well he’d met her as an older woman with money to invest, or he never would have noticed her.

The reminder brought her back to the task at hand, and she tried to picture Steven in a villain’s role. He, along with the other miners, knew when and how the silver shipments would be made. His spark of interest when she talked of investing made it obvious he would welcome an infusion of cash. Did he need the money enough to acquire it by underhanded means?

Ellie tossed the pen down, sending ink splatters over several sheets of paper. Try as she might, she couldn’t picture him in the villain role. She remembered the play of emotions on his face when she asked him about the silver shipments. The obvious struggle when he’d decided to go ahead and tell her the truth about the losses had been real; she felt sure of it. Growing up in the theater, she knew what it was like to exist in a world of constant playacting and make-believe, where people portrayed feigned reactions as a matter of course. But Steven Pierce wasn’t a skilled actor . . . was he?

She shoved her chair back and walked to the window. Pushing the drapes aside, she wrapped her arms around herself and peered out into the night. She couldn’t allow her emotions to overshadow clear thinking. She was in Pickford to do a job, and part of that job was to suspect everyone, not to play the role of the wide-eyed ingenue. Hadn’t that been the reason Fleming and Gates specifically told her not to reveal her identity to any of the miners who had contacted them?

Yanking the drapes shut again, she marched to the table and added Steven’s name to her list.

9

A
mockingbird’s cheery trill warbled through the air as Ellie strolled along Grant Street the next morning, doing her best to look like a woman exploring a new community, her mind on making new acquaintances and shopping and not the least bit interested in any criminal activities that might be going on.

She passed McQueen’s Cigar Emporium and slowed in front of the Pickford Bakery as if eyeing the confections displayed in the window. Instead of looking at trays of donuts and éclairs, she focused on the reflection in the glass and studied the comings and goings on the street behind her—several matrons with shopping baskets on their arms, a buckboard bound for the livery on Second Street, but nothing that struck her as sinister in any way. On the other hand, how likely was it that dark deeds would be carried out openly on the street in broad daylight?

She blew out an exasperated puff of air and resisted the urge to stomp her foot. Whatever had possessed her to think she was capable of carrying out a criminal investigation on her own?

“Miz Stewart!”

Wrenched from her musing, Ellie turned to see Amos Crawford waving at her from the doorway of the telegraph office.

“A telegram came in for you a few minutes ago. I was just about to send my boy over to your house with it.” The telegrapher brandished the half-sheet of paper over his head like someone holding up a trophy.

It had to be from the home office. Bracing herself for whatever grim message it might hold, Ellie angled across the intersection of Fourth and Grant. As she crossed, she saw Althea Baldwin farther along the street, heading her way. Ellie raised her hand and smiled a greeting, whereupon Althea pivoted, marching off in the opposite direction without missing a beat. With no time to ponder the woman’s odd behavior, Ellie bore down on Amos Crawford, arm outstretched to receive the missive from Chicago.

Instead of handing it to her, Amos backed into the building, forcing Ellie to follow him inside. Shaping her features into a placid expression, she went in after him, trying not to roll her eyes at his obvious attempt to get her alone. There would be no opportunity to read the communication in private. It was evident the telegrapher wanted the chance to talk it over with her. Either that or he was anxious for more of Lavinia’s charming company. Ellie sighed and scanned the paper when he finally handed it over.

DISTRESSED TO LEARN JESSIE DELAYED STOP IS ALL WELL STOP REPLY POSTHASTE STOP

COUSIN HENRY

Ellie read the message a second time, then a third. To an outsider, the words would sound neutral enough, but she could practically hear the note of panic rising in Gates’s voice.

Amos Crawford cut into her thoughts. “Sounds like your cousin’s a mite concerned about you bein’ out here on your own.”

Ellie nodded absently, her mind still on the flurry of concern her telegram must have stirred up.

“I guess you’ll be wantin’ to send a reply?”

A noncommittal murmur passed Ellie’s lips while her mind churned, trying to muster up a suitable response.

“You can set his mind at ease right now.” Amos circled behind the counter and pulled out a form and a pencil. “Let him know there are plenty of people here who’ll be happy to watch out for you. We aren’t about to let anything happen to a charming lady like yourself.”

Something in his tone pulled Ellie’s attention away from the telegram. Had she detected a flirtatious note in his voice?

As if reading her thoughts, Amos’s face reddened. “Just write out what you want to say.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice to a husky whisper. “I’ll throw in a few words for free if you need them.”

Dear heaven, all she needed was a suitor on top of her other concerns. Seizing the pencil, Ellie began to write:

Jessie visiting friends.

That was close to the truth, and surely it would make sense to Gates and Fleming once Norma informed them of her honeymoon.

Don’t worry about me. Doing well, meeting lots of new people.

Lavinia

There. She hoped that would satisfy both her employers and the inquisitive Amos Crawford. Ellie paid the fee and left without further dialogue, to Amos’s obvious disappointment.

Back outside, she prepared to resume her stroll. The station agent stepped out of his office as she passed. He stopped short to avoid a collision. “Mornin’, ma’am. Is that niece of yours going to be showing up soon?”

Ellie raised her eyebrows. Was there anything people didn’t know about one another in this town? The gossip mill in Pickford rivaled anything she had seen in theater circles. Amos had evidently been spreading the news to his buddy. Yet another reason to keep her identity a secret. Once word of her true mission slipped out, everyone in the area would know about it.

She improvised, choosing her words carefully. “I’m not sure about her arrival date. I believe the friends she’s staying with plan to travel to San Diego soon and will drop her off here on their way to the railroad station in Benson.”

“Oh. Well, if she changes her mind and decides to come in on the stage, you let me know. I’ll be sure she’s treated right.”

Ellie gave him a gracious nod and went on her way, struggling to maintain an unruffled exterior while her emotions roiled inside. How was she going to get out of the hole she’d dug herself into by promising Jessie’s arrival?

She had assured Gates she would have no problem taking on the role of Lavinia and had convinced herself the job would be a great chance to prove her acting ability, but she wasn’t in the theater any longer. She had assumed a role, to be sure, and was performing quite well, but this was no play. The story didn’t end when the lights went down and the audience went home. The deception she was involved in had to be carried out continuously, and she must never let herself break character for a moment.

She stood on the corner, racking her brain for a way to explain Jessie’s continued absence. Maybe her imaginary niece could contract some illness during her visit with her friends. Yes, that might be the perfect solution. Which disease would suit her purpose best?

“Good morning, ma’am.”

Shaken from her woolgathering, Ellie looked up at a square-shouldered man in black broadcloth. His hat tipped down low over penetrating dark eyes that seemed to look right through her.

Ellie flinched in spite of herself. Lowering her gaze to avoid his scrutiny, she noticed the silver star pinned to his vest.

“Why, good morning, Sheriff . . . or is it Marshal?”

Thin lips parted, separating a neatly trimmed mustache and narrow goatee. “Marshal Everett Bascomb, at your service. May I help you across the street?”

Ellie nodded and took his arm, thrilled at the opportunity to make the acquaintance of Pickford’s law officer. Mindful of the Pinkertons’ admonition that they couldn’t vouch for the integrity of the local law, she knew she would have to be cautious about what she said to him. But at least this initial meeting would break the ice and allow them to carry on a conversation. She could decide later how best to fish for information from him.

“I only arrived in Pickford yesterday, but I believe I shall enjoy my stay here very much.” Ellie smiled up at him as she had with Steven Pierce the day before, only to find his attention wasn’t focused on her but on a buxom young woman coming out of the mercantile. Ellie cleared her throat and tried again. “It seems a very pleasant town. You evidently do a fine job of keeping the peace.”

“Hmm? Oh yes. We have a number of solid citizens . . . as well as enough of the rougher element to keep me busy.” He spoke to Ellie, but his gaze was still fastened across the street. As if sensing his interest, the attractive brunette looked his way and smiled.

When they reached the opposite side of Grant Street, the lawman helped Ellie step up onto the boardwalk and tipped his hat. “Pleasure meeting you, Mrs. . . . ?”

“Stewart. Lavinia Stewart. I look forward to—” Ellie’s words floated away like the dust motes that hung in the air. The marshal had already covered half the distance between her and his shapely quarry. She watched as he swept off his hat with a courtly bow. The young woman simpered at him, and Bascomb leaned against a lamppost as if settling in for a prolonged conversation.

A group of rough-looking men emerged from an alleyway on the far side of the street. On seeing the marshal, one of them called, “Hey, Bascomb. Over here.”

The marshal turned, a frown creasing his forehead. The other men gestured, waving him over, but Bascomb shook his head and turned back to his coquettish companion.