Petticoat Detective (20 page)

The other customers in line stared at Amy. Odd as it seemed, the silence was deafening.

“May I help you?” the store owner asked in a thick German accent. He held out his hand for her money with an impatient gesture, as if he was anxious to get rid of her.

Face flaring, she paid for the flowers and left the shop without waiting for change.

W
alking along Main Street, Amy couldn’t get Mrs. Monahan out of her mind. Not only was her husband a regular parlor house guest, but he appeared to have had some sort of relationship with Rose, as well. It was the most obvious explanation for the argument overheard by Buttercup. Had it been a lover’s quarrel? Or something more sinister?

Perhaps Rose confronted him with her suspicions about his being the Gunnysack Bandit. If so, that would make him a suspect in her death.

Though it was a warm spring day, her dark thoughts chased goose-flesh up and down her spine. It wasn’t just Mrs. Monahan that had upset her. She was still shaken by the encounter with the woman and her little boy. Did one ever get used to being shunned? Probably not.

Her steps faltered as she passed the Grande Hotel and Bath House. Crazy as it seemed, the essence of Mr. Colton’s kiss still lingered. Not wanting to relive, yet again, the memory of being in his arms, she quickened her pace. It didn’t mean a thing, that kiss. Not a thing.

Little that happened between the walls of Miss Lillian’s Parlor House meant anything. The only things that seemed genuine were the sobs sometimes heard coming from the other rooms in the still of night and the nightmares that plagued her sleep.

No, his kiss hadn’t been real, no matter how much she wished otherwise. It had cost him dearly to be with her, moneywise. So who could blame him for simply demanding a service he’d paid for? He would have been within his right to expect more. Thank God he didn’t. He probably hadn’t given the kiss a second thought, so why should she?

Someone touched her arm, and she jumped. It was the beggar who’d tried to gain her attention a time or two before. Recoiling at his unpleasant odor, she pulled away and walked past him. Several feet away, she stopped and turned, shocked by the realization that she had treated him much like the little boy’s mother had treated her. Shunned him, more like it, as the town had shunned her.

This time she looked him square in the eyes.

His face was weathered, not by years, for he was still relatively young, perhaps in his late thirties, but by sadness. The hair framing his gaunt face fell to his shoulders in tangled strands. How many times had she passed him without noticing that he was a veteran of that awful war? How many times had she failed to see the man inside the weary shell?

Even a person trained to be a private eye didn’t always see what was right in front, clear as day. What else did she not see?
God, what else?

Clutching the flowers in the circle of her arm, she pulled a banknote out of her purse. She held it outward as she walked toward him. He took it from her, his fingers curling around her offering like a man grabbing a lifeline.

“God bless you, ma’am,” he said, and even his voice sounded old.

She smiled. “You don’t know how much I needed to hear that.” Now more than ever she needed God’s blessings.

“I know,” he said, and he gave her a gap-toothed smile. “I’ve been watching you, and I know.”

Surprised that he knew that about her—and maybe even a little ashamed that a beggar had given her the respect she’d failed to give him, she thanked him and hurried away.

The church cemetery was located at the edge of town. At times, Miss Lillian’s Parlor House seemed stifling, and Amy was happy to escape, if only for a short while.

She reached the church and followed a gravel path to the cemetery in back, entering through the ornate wrought iron gate. Mentally, she ran through the remaining names on her list. She’d hoped to have something tangible to write in her report to headquarters by now, but so far she had more questions than answers.

She was so deep in thought that she failed to notice the woman hunched over a grave until she almost stumbled over her.

The woman looked up, and Amy’s heart sank. It was the churchwoman, Mrs. Givings.

“Forgive me.” Not only had she almost caused the woman physical harm, she had also interrupted a private moment, made obvious by the woman’s red eyes.

Mrs. Givings struggled to her feet and pushed her spectacles up her nose. “That’s quite all right.”

Amy lowered her gaze to the inscription engraved on the tombstone.

“My daughter,” Mrs. Givings explained. “Smallpox.”

Amy’s breath caught in her lungs. The little girl was only six years old when she died. “I’m so sorry.”

“Yes, so am I,” Mrs. Givings replied.

Amy’s greatest fear was finding Cissy’s name on a grave somewhere. “How … how do you live with losing a daughter?” It was hard enough living with the loss of a sister.

The question seemed to surprise the woman. Did she not think a harlot capable of feelings? Capable of compassion?

“It’s not like I have a choice.”

“I know, but it must be … difficult.”

Mrs. Givings dabbed at her eye with a handkerchief. “Only when I focus on the loss of my daughter. It doesn’t hurt so much when I think about the glory of God’s love and grace.”

Amy felt a surge of guilt. Not only had her sister’s disappearance made her question God at times, but her job required her to make snap judgments about people, too, and she had judged Mrs. Givings a bit harsher than most. Today she realized her mistake. The woman wasn’t the annoying Bible thumper she’d originally thought. She was simply a grieving mother holding on to God with both hands.

“You lost someone, too,” Mrs. Givings said. It was a statement, not a question.

“Someone close. A family member.”

Such an observation wasn’t all that surprising. Sometimes Amy sensed loss in others, and had she bothered to look, she might have spotted it in Mrs. Givings. She often wondered if grief-stricken people sent out covert messages that could only be received by those going through similar losses.

“My sister.”

“I’m sorry.”

They stared down at the little grave, a “fallen” woman and a “pillar of society” standing side by side, bonded by grief and loss.

Amy leaned over and laid the flowers in front of the gravestone.

Mrs. Givings looked surprised. “That’s very kind of you, but I’m sure that you meant them for your friend.”

“That’s all right. I’m sure my … friend would understand.”

Someone called from a distance. It was one of the other churchwomen waving from afar. It looked like Mrs. Compton. Mrs. Givings waved back.

“I have to go. It’s almost time for the church quilting bee.” Sounding vaguely apologetic, she hesitated as if wanting to say more. Instead, she gave her daughter’s grave one last glance before hurrying away.

Amy watched until the two women vanished through the back door. The church with its tall steeple and stained glass windows seemed to beckon, and she was tempted to answer the call. She wouldn’t, of course. Couldn’t. Not dressed the way she was.

Never had she felt like such an outsider. The social barrier that separated her from Mrs. Givings had lifted, but only for a moment. Now it was firmly back in place, making even the church off-limits.

As a tomboy growing up, she’d always felt different. She would much rather chase her brothers than play with dolls or learn domestic skills. The feeling of isolation grew worse through her teens. While her friends were down by the swimming hole or enjoying wild carriage rides, she was at the sheriff’s office inquiring about her sister.

By the time she was twenty, most of her friends were already married, and some even had children. She was clearly regarded as unusual, if not altogether strange. But never had she felt like such an outsider as she did at that moment. Never had she felt so far away from God.

Though it was only a little after the noon hour by the time she returned to the parlor house, already two horses were tied up in front. Amy recognized the brown gelding as belonging to Mr. Tully, a married man. Disgust turned her stomach, and she felt nauseous. People accused prostitutes of having no moral integrity, but what about the men who sought their services? Why weren’t they held to the same standards? After living here she wondered if she could ever again trust a man—any man—even Tom Colton.

Amy had hardly reached for the bell when the door flew open.

“You’re back at last,” Miss Lillian exclaimed. “Come quickly.” She motioned Amy inside and locked the door. “Hurry, hurry.” She led the way into her office with a swish of her purple silk gown.

Bracing herself for yet another lecture on how she walked or chewed off her lip rouge, Amy reluctantly followed.

Miss Lillian reached across her desk for a brown leather book.

“Rose’s diary,” she announced with a triumphant gesture.

Amy’s mouth dropped open. “Where did you find it?” She had searched Rose’s room and found nothing.

“Beatrice and I were getting the room ready for Rose’s replacement, and we found it beneath a loose floorboard.” She handed Amy the diary and tapped the leather cover with a jeweled finger. “There’s not much there of a personal nature, but perhaps you’ll see something I missed.”

Heart leaping with excitement, Amy turned the book over. Had this been what Rose’s killer had been looking for? Maybe this was the break for which she’d been praying.

Amy started to leave then thought of something. “You keep the front and back doors locked, but what about the cellar door?”

Miss Lillian looked confused. “The cell—? Oh, you mean the trapdoor. That’s padlocked and hasn’t been opened in years. Why do you ask?”

“No reason.” Thanking her, Amy left the parlor and hurried upstairs. She paused outside her closed door, hand on the brass knob. The threads placed in the cracks for security purposes were still there, but that’s not what caused her to pause. She could no longer enter her room without thinking of Colton’s kiss. The memory of being in his arms was so vivid she had to blink to make sure he was only a figment of her imagination.

Shaking away the vision, she flung the door open. For perhaps the hundredth time that day she reminded herself that his kiss was meaningless. She meant nothing to him, and certainly he meant nothing to her.

Her job didn’t allow for romance, a fact she found out the hard way from a Chicago businessman named Paul Devereux. She might have married him except for one thing: he had no patience for her habit of disappearing on a case for several weeks at a time. Eventually he found what he called a “stay-at-home” girl. It hurt. It hurt a lot.

In retrospect, it seemed like a small price to pay for the profession she loved. Her job provided everything she ever wanted: independence, a chance to travel, thrills, and adventure. Solving crimes also gave her a sense of closure that had been sorely missing from her life since Cissy’s disappearance.

She didn’t need a man. If anything, it would only complicate her life. Complicate his.

Still, she couldn’t help but wonder how it would feel to be kissed by Tom Colton under very different circumstances. To be kissed by him as if it really
did
mean something.

R
eading Rose’s journal was like reading the scattered thoughts of a twelve-year-old. Ink smears and crossed-out words dotted the pages.

Poor spelling and lack of punctuation made the writing hard to read, at first, until she grew accustomed to Rose’s style. But even then some words and even entire sentences remained a mystery.

Poor handwriting could not be read; it had to be deciphered. A Pinkerton detective named Curt Cullins was considered an expert in the science of graphology, and she had learned much from him. He’d studied the penmanship of people from all walks of life. According to Cullins, physicians, politicians, and singers had the worst handwriting, ministers and lawyers the best.

Rose’s sentences crowded together, suggesting she probably grew up poor. Such a person was inclined to use resources carefully, and that included paper.