Love in Disguise (31 page)

If she were Jessie Monroe.

A sob rose in her throat, choking her even more than the smoke. She turned to leave, needing more than anything to get back to the safety of her home, where she could sort out her maelstrom of emotions away from the tumult on the street. Away from Steven’s distracting presence.

Away from the mess she had created for herself.

It took far longer than Ellie could have imagined to rid herself of the acrid stench of smoke. Her first bath washed away enough soot to let her tend to Jessie’s accoutrements and clothing without leaving smudges on every surface she touched.

Now she soaked in her second bath of the evening, luxuriating in the pleasant fragrance of the lavender-scented bath salts she’d added to the blissfully hot water. The carefully washed red wig, its curls wrapped in soft rag strips, sat on its stand. The dark green grosgrain walking dress and her undergarments had been consigned to a reeking pile outside the back door. Much as she liked the gown, she didn’t have the time or inclination to launder it until a whiff of it wouldn’t remind her of her foray into the burning hotel.

She stepped from the tub and toweled herself dry. With her hair still damp and loose about her shoulders, she donned a warm wrapper and pulled out her notes about the case. After everything that had happened—the “accidents,” the fire, and those intoxicating moments with Steven—she felt an urgency to refocus her thinking and get back on a firm footing in regard to the investigation.

How would the loss of the hotel impact her ability to watch the comings and goings around town, since its demise meant the end of her favorite observation post? As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she felt ashamed of herself. Donald and Myra had lost far more than she. She no longer had a surveillance point, but the ruin of the hotel had taken away their home, their livelihood, and very nearly their lives.

Thoughts of the Tidwells brought back the memory of being in the lobby of the Grand Hotel—had it been only that morning?—and her unpleasant encounter with Marvin Long. Ellie leaned back in her chair and stared at the opposite wall, wondering for the dozenth time what Long had meant by his brusque demand to Donald regarding the full moon.

When was the next full moon, anyway? She jotted a note to find out. It was imperative to know how long she had before the unknown event occurred.

The more she puzzled over Marvin Long’s comment, the more confused she felt. Ellie leaned her elbows on the table and ran her fingers through her damp hair. Try as she might, she couldn’t begin to guess what the date might signify. Was something scheduled to happen then? Surely not another silver shipment—Lavinia would have heard of it. Or was there something Donald was supposed to do?

With all her heart, she hoped it would turn out to be something innocuous. But Long’s voice had been so threatening, so full of menace. Remembering his hostile tone, Ellie couldn’t believe for one minute that it—whatever “it” happened to be—could be connected with any innocent activity.

But casting Donald in the role of a villain? That was equally hard to imagine, although who knew better than she how easily one could live out a charade that masked reality? It seemed unfair to suspect Donald of wrongdoing after he had just endured a tragedy.

Ellie pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. Just because the man had suffered a disaster didn’t mean he wasn’t guilty of treachery. As the Pinkertons had emphasized, no one was above suspicion.

A thought sprang into her mind, and she sat bolt upright. Had the fire been set deliberately? Could it have been a warning of some kind to bring Donald into line and make sure he went along with Marvin Long’s plans, whatever they were?

Much as she wanted to reject the notion out of hand, she couldn’t. There had been too many suspicious happenings of late—the supposed accident in the mine, the runaway horses. If these miscreants would stoop to violent methods to keep an elderly lady from learning the truth, maybe this fire signaled another of their actions, this one meant to coerce Donald into doing as he was told.

Remembering Marvin Long’s appearance, Ellie shuddered. As hard as she found it to accept that Donald was connected with the villains, she didn’t have the slightest difficulty believing Long capable of any sort of wrongdoing.

A new thought chilled her. She had spent a significant amount of time in the hotel lobby as Lavinia. Had the fire been another “accident” meant to stop Lavinia’s prying? And worse . . . if that was the case, was she to blame for Donald and Myra’s trouble?

The mere possibility was enough to make her want to run home as fast as she could . . . if she had a home of her own to run to. Ellie shoved the papers away with a low cry and buried her face in her arms. She couldn’t bear to spend another moment on this bewildering mystery.

Besides, she had another mystery to solve, one just as puzzling as this one, but much more personal: Who was she?

Since the day she presented herself at the Pinkerton office as Lavinia, she had become a chameleon of sorts, switching from Lavinia’s character to Jessie’s and back again with ease . . . most of the time.

But in the process, she had lost her own identity. In the time she had been in Pickford, Cousin Ted was the only person she’d talked to as herself. And even then, he had seen her only as Lavinia or Jessie . . . never as Ellie.

Which led back to the question that plagued her: Who was she? Not the successful stage actress she’d dreamed of becoming—although at the moment she was playing roles in a way that would put any theater performer to shame.

She certainly wasn’t Jessie Monroe, vibrant, vivacious, and desirable. Ellie’s hands knotted into fists, thinking of the way Steven’s eyes lit up when he looked at Jessie. Could he ever look at her . . . at Ellie . . . with that same kind of hunger in his eyes? She might be plain as a post on the outside, but inside, she carried the same fire that made Jessie the woman he wanted to claim as his own. Would he ever see that, see her and love her for who she really was?

But who was she?

Ellie slipped to the floor, kneeling beside the chair with her face pressed against the wooden seat. Truths she’d learned in the time spent reading her grandmother’s Bible since arriving in Pickford came back to her. “God, your Word says you know me, inside and out. And even if I’m confused, you can make sense of this.”

A wisp of peace, as indistinct as a tendril of smoke, wafted through her spirit.

Clinging to the sprig of hope it brought, she wrapped her arms around the chair as though it would somehow help her hold on to the presence of the Almighty.

“What is it you want from me?” she whispered. “I’m only Ellie. I have so little to offer you.”

Just like that boy in the Bible story with the loaves and the fishes. The peace increased, bringing along with it a tingle of excitement.

“He gave you all he had. Is that what I’m supposed to do? All I have is myself.”

The sprig of hope sprouted and blossomed, twining through her like a tendril of pure joy.

“Is that it? Is that all?” Ellie loosened her grip on the chair to wipe away the tears that streamed from her eyes.

“All right, Lord. If that’s what you want, I give you myself. I’m yours.”

24

W
ould you like a slice of pie, Miss Monroe?”

Ellie pulled her gaze away from the passersby on Grant Street and looked up at George Parker, proprietor of the Mother Lode Restaurant. “No, thank you. After that delicious pork roast, I don’t believe I could eat another bite.”

Parker beamed. “My wife fussed over that roast all afternoon. I kept telling her it smelled good enough to eat. And sure enough, it is.” He dropped a conspiratorial wink. “I sneaked a bite of it just after she pulled it from the oven, but don’t let her know. How about another cup of tea to finish out your meal?”

“That would be lovely.” While he headed to the kitchen, Ellie shifted her chair to stretch out her aching muscles—and change her viewing angle a bit. Her mood sobered when she spotted the charred ruins of the Grand Hotel directly across the street.

She thought again of what would have happened if she hadn’t gotten there in time to pull Myra from the building, and she shuddered. Losing the hotel had been bad enough, but the results could have been far, far worse.

Today she was testing out the Mother Lode as her new outpost. It didn’t have the range of view she’d gotten used to at the Grand, and she couldn’t sit there for hours on end as she’d done in the hotel lobby, but looking out on Pickford’s main street while lingering over a meal was much better than loitering on one of the benches scattered along the boardwalk in full view of everyone who passed by.

George Parker set the fresh cup of tea on the table before her. “I’m surprised to see you eating alone. Where is your aunt today?”

Ellie took a sip of tea and blotted her lips with her napkin. How long would she be able to carry out this subterfuge?

“She’s still rather sore after yesterday’s accident with Mr. Watson’s horses. She didn’t feel up to having anything more than a bowl of clear broth this evening. I was in the mood for something more substantial, but the thought of fixing a whole meal just for myself seemed a bit daunting, so I decided to have my dinner here instead.” She took another sip of the fragrant tea and smiled up at him. “It was a good choice.”

Parker beamed. “You’re welcome here anytime. My wife is the best cook this side of El Paso, if I do say so myself.” Instead of going back to the kitchen, he lingered beside Ellie’s table and shuffled his feet. “I just want you to know the wife and I think it was mighty brave, what you did yesterday when you pulled Myra Tidwell out of the hotel.”

She felt a warm flush stain her cheeks and tried to wave the compliment away. “Anyone would have done the same thing.”

“Maybe. But you’re the one who did.”

Ellie avoided his gaze and traced the rim of the teacup with her fingertip. She didn’t feel like a heroine, especially after spending the previous night tormented by the possibility that the blaze might have been set on her account.

Not knowing whether she really wanted an answer to her question, she asked, “Do they have any idea what caused the fire?”

Parker shook his head dolefully. “It turns out it was Donald who started it.”

Ellie set her cup down and blinked, certain she must have misheard him. “Mr. Tidwell?”

“Yep.” Parker wiped his hands on the towel draped over his shoulder. “Myra had been having one of her bad days, and Donald had about run himself off his feet taking care of her. He stoked up the fire in the stove in the lobby and went out to sweep the boardwalk.

“But they figure he must not have gotten the stove door closed properly. Once the fire got going and the wood started popping, it would have shot sparks out onto the rug. From there it caught some of the chairs and kept on going. Once it got hold of the drapes, it was all over.”

Ellie pressed her hand against her lips.

“Donald was out there sweeping at the west end of the building when someone yelled to him that there was smoke coming out the doors. He tried to get back inside to get Myra, but the flames were too much for him. If a couple of the men hadn’t dragged him out, he would’ve died trying to save her. As it was, with all the smoke he took in, it was a pretty near thing.”

Parker scrubbed his hand across his eyes as if to wipe away the memory. “Doc said he’s going to be okay, but he was in quite a state until he learned you’d gotten Myra out safe.”

“And they’re sure that’s how it started?” Ellie forced the words out past the tears that clogged her throat.

Parker grunted an affirmation. “That poor woman’s been through so much. God sure was watching out for you, gettin’ you both out safe like that. You ought to stop over at Doc’s and talk to them. I know they’d both like to thank you.”

Ellie nodded absently, relief at knowing the fire couldn’t be laid at her door mingling with grief for Donald and Myra. A new thought popped into her mind. “They’ve lost their home. Where will they go once they’re back on their feet?”

He shrugged. “That’s anybody’s guess.” When Ellie frowned, he added, “Donald didn’t own the hotel, he just managed it. The owner lives in Tucson. He’s coming over later in the week to check things out and see if he wants to rebuild. Even if he does, Donald isn’t sure he’ll have a job, once his boss finds out Donald’s negligence was responsible for losing the—”

His voice trailed off, and his eyes bulged, staring out the window at a point beyond Ellie’s right shoulder.

She whirled around in her chair in time to see a bareheaded man stagger down the middle of Grant Street. One hand clutched his head, the other gripped a dust-covered slouch hat.

“That’s the foreman from the Busted Shovel,” Parker said at the same instant Ellie recognized Marvin Long, the man she’d encountered twice in the hotel lobby and once in the alley behind Pickford Hall.

Without another word, Parker bolted out the door. Ellie fished in her reticule, tossed the payment for her meal on the table, and hurried out to join the small crowd that had already gathered and was shouting questions.