© 2016 by Margaret Brownley
Print ISBN 978-1-62836-628-0
eBook Editions:
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Cover design: Müllerhaus Publishing Arts, Inc., www.Mullerhaus.net
Published by Shiloh Run Press, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.shilohrunpress.com
Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.
Printed in the United States of America.
The LORD is good, a strong hold in the day of trouble; and he knoweth them that trust in him.
NAHUM 1:7
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Calico, Kansas
1880
Katie Madison tied the black satin ribbon at her neckline and frowned. The lopsided bow wouldn’t do. She yanked the ribbon loose and tried again. Today she was all thumbs, and everything that could go wrong, did. Already she’d broken a shoelace, snagged a stocking, and torn the hem of her dress.
Just as she finished tying the bow for the third time the bedroom door flew open and her roommate’s brunette head popped inside. “Katie! Hurry or you’ll be late.”
“I’m trying, I’m trying.”
Mary-Lou’s green eyes narrowed, and her Southern drawl grew more pronounced. “Pickens has a burr in his saddle. Said if you don’t hurry he’ll have your head!”
Katie’s stomach knotted. She was already in trouble with the restaurant manager. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
“A minute might be too late.” The door slammed shut, and Mary-Lou’s footsteps echoed down the hall as she yelled for the other Harvey girls to make haste. “Y’all better hurry now, you hear?”
Katie whirled about for one last look in the mirror and hardly recognized the image reflected back. The black dress with its high collar, starched white apron, and black shoes and stockings made her look more like a nun than one of Pinkerton’s most successful female detectives.
Even her unruly red hair had been forced to conform to Fred Harvey’s strict regulations. Parted in the middle, it was pulled back in a knot and fashioned with the mandatory net. The rigid hairdo did nothing for her, appearance-wise. All it did was make her eyes look too big and her freckles stand out like brown polka dots.
Wrinkling her nose, she turned away from the mirror. It was a good thing she’d chosen to be a detective as she had neither the looks nor housekeeping skills needed for landing a husband.
Not that she was complaining; two Harvey girls had been found dead, and it was her job to find the killer. The assignment of a lifetime had landed in her lap.
Working undercover was never easy, but so far this particular disguise was proving to be the hardest one yet, even harder than last year’s job as a circus performer. At least here she didn’t have to hobnob with lions, and for that she was grateful. All she had to deal with now was a possibly deranged killer.
Pausing at the door, she checked that her leg holster and gun were secured beneath her skirt. The pocket seams had been ripped open for easy retrieval. Hand on the doorknob, she braced herself with a quick prayer. God knows, she needed all the help she could get.
Leaving the room, she raced along the hall and sped down the stairs. Just as she reached the bottom tread the heel of her shoe caught on the runner. Arms and legs flailing, she hit the floor facedown, and the wind whooshed out of her like juice from a squashed tomato.
Momentarily stunned, she didn’t move. Not till noticing the polished black shoes planted in front of her did she gather her wits. Looking up, she groaned.
The manager, Mr. Pickens, glared down at her, hands on his waist. A large, imposing man, he looked about to pop the buttons on his overworked vest. Judging by his red face and quivering mustache, his patience was equally tested.
“Miss Madison. You’re late!”
Her mouth fell open. Was that all he cared about? No concern for her welfare? No thought that she had injured herself?
“Well, are you going to lie there all night?”
“No, sir.” She scrambled to her feet and smoothed her apron.
His eyebrows dipped into a V. “Shoulders straight, head back, and for the love of Henry, smile! I want to see some choppers.” He spread his thin lips to demonstrate but did a better impersonation of a growling dog than a friendly waitress. “Do you hear me?”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “Choppers.”
“Tonight you’re the drink girl. Do you think you can handle that?”
Plastering a smile on her face, she nodded. How hard could it be to pour tea?
He gave her a dubious look that did nothing for her self-confidence. “We’ll soon see. Follow me.”
He led her to the formal dining room where tables were already set for the supper crowd. The room was decorated in shades of brown and tan. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the railroad tracks. Beyond, fields of tall grass and wildflowers spread a colorful counterpane beneath a copper sky.
The restaurant was shorthanded, and she had been handed a uniform the moment she stepped off the morning train. After that she’d hardly had time to catch her breath. So many rules and regulations to remember. No notepads or pencils were allowed. That meant she was expected to memorize the menu. She was also instructed to radiate good cheer to even the most difficult of patrons.
Her chances of lasting through the night didn’t look promising, and that was a worry. The investigation depended on her keeping her job as a waitress. No one at the restaurant knew her legal name or real purpose for being there. As far as anyone knew, she was simply a farm girl who traveled all the way from Madison, Wisconsin, looking for adventure and a better life.
Pickens quickly pointed out the silver coffee urns and teapots. He stared at her with buttonhole eyes. “You do know the cup code, right?”
“Uh.” There was a code for cups?
“Cup in the saucer means coffee.” He demonstrated as he spoke. “A flipped cup against the saucer is for iced tea. A cup next to the saucer—milk. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir, next to the saucer.”
“As for hot tea,” he continued, and her heart sank. “The cup will be flipped upon the saucer.” He then explained how to tell if the customer wanted black, green, or orange pekoe tea by the direction of the cup handle. “Any questions?”
She had plenty, but he didn’t look in any mood to answer them, so she shook her head no.
Satisfied that she had donned the proper attitude or at least a Harvey-worthy smile, he turned. Giving three quick claps, he called the workers front and center. “All right, ladies, take your stations!”
“Don’t be nervous,” her roommate, Mary-Lou, said as they strode side by side to the back of the room.
Easier said than done. Katie stopped to stare at the cups on the table. She’d come face-to-face with some of the most ornery outlaws in the country, and she wasn’t about to let a china cup intimidate her. On second thought, maybe just a little. Did the cup handle facing right mean green tea or pekoe?
Already her cheeks ached from smiling, but that was the least of it. Her collar itched, and the stiff starched apron felt like a plate of armor.
As if to guess her rising dismay, Mary-Lou said, “You’ll like it here once you get used to it. You just have to work fast, be polite, and smile.”
“Nothing to it,” Katie muttered. She only hoped she had enough energy left at the end of the workday for sleuthing.
A loud gong announced the imminent arrival of the five-twenty-five. Windows rattled, and the crystals on the chandelier did a crazy dance as the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe train rumbled into the station. With a blare of the whistle, it came to a clanging stop in front of the restaurant.
Moments later, the door flew open and travelers filed into the dining room like a trail of weary ants. Only thirty minutes was allowed for meals before the train took off again. The Harvey House restaurants took pride in the fact that no one had ever been late boarding a train because of inept service.
Katie planted a smile on her face and a prayer in her heart. God, please don’t let me be the one to break that record.
Sheriff Branch Whitman looked up just as the door to his office flew open. A cultured but no less commanding voice shot inside.
“Sheriff! I need a word with you!”
Branch lifted his feet off the desk and planted his well-worn boots squarely on the floor. He recognized his fastidiously dressed visitor at once, though they’d never been formally introduced.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Harvey?”
The renowned restaurateur stabbed the floor with his gold-tipped cane. He was somewhere in his midthirties, but his meticulous dark suit and Vandyke beard made him appear older.
“You dare to ask a question like that!” Harvey pushed the door shut and gazed at Branch with sharp, watchful eyes. “You know as well as I that someone is killing off Harvey girls.” His British accent grew more pronounced with each word. Even his bow tie seemed to quiver with emotion. “And what, may I ask, are you doing about it?”
Branch slanted his head toward the chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat and—”
“I don’t want a seat. I want to know what has been done to find the killer!”
Branch indicated the stack of files in front of him with a wave of his hand. “I can assure you that I’m doing everything in my power—”
“Balderdash!”
Harvey’s impatience was no worse than Branch’s own. The killings had turned into one of the most puzzling crimes he’d ever worked on. Despite weeks of investigation, he still didn’t have a single suspect. Given the nature of the town, that was odd.
If a youth took a fancy to a pretty girl, or a married man so much as thought about straying, the locals knew about it. Somehow folks even knew that a young one was on the way before the expectant mother. Yet two young women had been murdered, and no one saw or heard a thing.
“I can assure you,” he said, “that the person or persons responsible will be brought to justice.”
Before Branch took over as sheriff three years ago, Calico was, by all accounts, the roughest, toughest, and wildest place in all of Kansas, rivaled only by Dodge City. But he’d single-handedly changed all that, and it was now a right decent town—or was before the two recent murders.
Harvey’s eyes glittered. “It’s been six weeks since Priscilla’s death.” Priscilla was the first woman to die. Less than three weeks later, the girl named Ginger was found dead in an alleyway.
“These things take time.”
Harvey straightened a WANTED poster on the wall with the tip of his cane. The man was as fastidious with his surroundings as he was in dress and speech. No doubt he took issue with the stack of folders and papers strewn haphazardly across Branch’s desk.
“Too much time if you ask me. So what have you got so far?”
“Right now, nothing.” Branch’s jaw clenched. He suspected the killer was a Harvey employee, but he wasn’t ready to reveal that information. Not yet. He couldn’t take the chance of word getting out that the crime was an inside job.
“This is no less than what I expected from local authorities.” Harvey leaned on his cane, and his eyes hardened. “That’s why I hired the Pinkerton National Detective Agency. Your services will no longer be needed.”
Branch glared at him. Services? Harvey acted like he was firing one of his employees. “What happens in this town is my responsibility, and any outsiders—”
“Will report to me!” Harvey snapped his mouth shut and leaned over his cane as if to challenge Branch to disagree.
“Now wait just a minute.”
Harvey’s expression darkened. “No, you wait. We’ve wasted enough time and now a second girl is dead.”
“And I will find her killer—both their killers.” He didn’t know Priscilla all that well, but Ginger was his favorite waitress. She’d often brought his evening meal to the office if she knew he was working late. Since he refused to adhere to Harvey’s unreasonable regulations—particularly the no coat, no service rule in the main dining room—she did him no small favor.
“I’ll have something to report to you soon.” He sounded more certain than he felt. Each day that passed made finding the killer that much more difficult. Trails grew cold. Clues were lost. Memories faded. Even more worrisome was the possibility that the killer would strike again.
“Not soon enough.” Harvey swung his cane under one arm and pulled his watch out of his vest pocket. “I’m sure the detective has arrived by now. If not on the morning or noon train, then on the five-twenty-five.” He flipped the case open with his thumb. “I trust you’ll give him your full cooperation.”
Branch stiffened. Over his dead body. “Now see here—” The last thing he needed was some inept detective running loose in his town. Last time the Pinkerton operatives were involved in one of his cases they let the bad guys escape and almost got him killed. And look at the mess they made with the James gang. They could deny it all they wanted, but everyone knew the Pinkertons blew up the outlaws’ house, killing Frank and Jesse’s young half brother. No surprise there. The Pinkertons were known for their bullying tactics and underhanded methods, none of which Branch would tolerate.
Harvey replaced his watch and tipped his bowler. “Have a good day, Sheriff.” He left with less fanfare than when he arrived.
Branch pounded his fist on the desk. “Dash it all!” The town was his responsibility—no one else’s. The very thought of an undercover detective sneaking around like a mole in the ground set his teeth on edge.
Came in on today’s train, did he? If the Pink was like most other passengers, he’d appreciate a good meal. Was probably at the Harvey House restaurant chowing down at that very moment. That was as good a place as any to intercept him. He pulled out his watch. He’d have to hurry if he wanted to reach the restaurant before the train left the station.
Decision made, he shot to his feet and plucked his Stetson off the wall.
One thing was certain. The man better enjoy his meal because if Branch had his way, the detective would be back on that train before he could say cock robin.
The woman glared at Katie. “You gave my son hot coffee!” The notch on her front tooth pegged her as a seamstress who bit off thread rather than cutting it with scissors.
Katie looked down at the pudgy face of a two-year-old and whisked his cup away. “Oops, sorry.”
“I ordered iced tea,” the man Katie pegged as a banjo player groused. She guessed his profession based on the callus on the side of his right thumb. “You gave me hot tea.”
“Milk? You gave me milk?” This from a gray-haired woman who stared at her cup with the same look of horror one might regard a rattler. Hands and neck dripping with jewels, she acted like a rich widow used to having servants answer her every whim.
By the time Katie straightened out the drinks, she was ready to call it a night, though none of the other girls seemed so inclined. Instead they darted around tables like lively balls in a game of bagatelle.
To outward appearances the smooth flow of dishes, which came and went with nary a spoken word, seemed like magic. In actuality, it was all part of a carefully orchestrated plan.
The train porter had taken travelers’ food orders at the last stop and telegraphed the restaurant. This allowed cooks to prepare meals in advance. Supper was seventy-five cents and after each passenger paid, he or she was directed to the table where soup or salad waited.
While the diners worked on the first course, Katie followed Mary-Lou into the kitchen to refill her coffeepot.
Praying that the night would soon end, she spread her mouth in what she hoped would pass as a smile. A Harvey girl must never look dowdy, frowzy, or tired, even if her feet were killing her or her thoughts less than charitable.
On the way back to the dining room she bumped into the dark-haired waitress named Tully. “Why you…” Tully snapped her mouth shut and threw her shoulders back in an attempt to regain a positive, upbeat appearance. She might have succeeded had it not been for the Long Island (Rhode Island?) hen on her tray drowning in coffee.
“You’ll pay for this,” she muttered under her breath. With a smile that was more lethal than friendly, she did a dainty pirouette and returned the drowning hen to the kitchen.
Katie stiffened at the sound of her name. She turned and found Mr. Pickens practically breathing down her throat.
“Miss Madison! A word with you. Now!”
After Pickens finished chastising her for working too slow, Katie straightened out the beverage mess and returned an empty teapot to the counter in back of the room.
The ten-minute warning for boarding the train had sounded, but time had never passed more slowly. Katie wasn’t certain she could hold out for another minute, let alone ten.
Tully whispered something to her roommate. Tully was tall and willowy with skin as smooth as honey. Katie envied the woman’s ability to look graceful in the rigid uniform, while she felt awkward and out of place. But then, that was how she’d always felt, even back home.
The shadow of growing up in a family of beautiful women seemed to follow her wherever she went. Her four sisters all took after their mother in looks and had landed successful and well-respected husbands. Katie had the unenviable distinction of being both the black sheep of the family and the ugly duckling.
Tully’s voice brought her out of her reverie. “Why not let the new girl do it?”
“Do what?” Katie asked, keeping her tone neutral. Alienating the others would only make her investigation more difficult.
Tully pointed to the tall, lean man who had just walked into the dining room. Katie guessed from the badge on his vest that it was Sheriff Whitman. That was a surprise. Everything she heard about the man indicated he was an old crank, set in his ways and unwilling to listen to reason or work with Pinkerton detectives.
In contrast, this man was somewhere in his early to midthirties and didn’t look like any crank she’d ever met. He wasn’t bad to look at, either. Not bad at all.
“No one is allowed to eat in the dining room without wearing a coat,” Tully explained. “You need to escort him over to the coatrack to borrow one.”
“Even the sheriff is required to wear one?” Katie asked. She knew that such rules applied to the hoity-toity restaurants in some of the large cities, but here in Kansas?
“Harvey rules,” Tully said with a smile that seemed a tad too sweet for Katie’s peace of mind.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“You better,” Tully said, “if you want to keep your job.” It sounded like a warning.
Katie set her mouth in a determined smile and threaded her way through the dining room toward the sheriff. She was an expert in putting men in jail. How hard could it be to put a man in a coat?
Branch scanned the crowded dining room. No sign of Harvey. Good. The last thing he wanted was another encounter with the Englishman.
He was here for one purpose and one purpose alone: to pick out the Pinkerton detective in time to escort him onto the train before it took off again.
Three possible suspects immediately caught his attention. One was a young man in a checkered coat with the eager look of a detective on his first case. Another was an older man whose interest in the attractive waitresses was probably personal but could just as easily be professional. A third man was doing a bad job of pretending to read a newspaper. Instead, his gaze kept darting around the room as if he was either looking for someone or suspected that someone might be looking for him.
Branch was just about to mosey over to the newspaper guy when he spotted a young woman barreling toward him like a missionary targeting a possible convert. Since he didn’t recognize her, she had to be new. So they sent a greenhorn to do the job, did they? This should be interesting.
She greeted him with a smile—and no Harvey girl smile was prettier. Hers was as wide as the Kansas prairie. But something about her didn’t add up. Even as she tried to conform he sensed her resistance, sensed her sizing him up like a general planning an attack.
“Sheriff.” She was a wee bit of a thing, barely reaching his shoulders. Never had so much feminine charm been packed into such a small package. Her big blue eyes almost seemed too large for her delicate features. A thin veil of freckles bridged her nicely shaped nose. The dazzling red hair didn’t seem to belong in the rigid knot at the back of her head. Instead, it looked like it should fall down her back as free as the wind.
The smooth, graceful movements of her slender hips seemed to challenge the rigid confines of the black-and-white uniform. Yep, she was a looker all right. Not the conventional type by any means, but that’s what made her stand out from the others. Where did Harvey find these girls?
He held his hat in his hand and nodded politely. “Howdy, ma’am,” he drawled. “Guess you’re new ‘round here.” Must have been hired to take Ginger’s place, but he didn’t want to say as much.
She nodded. “My name’s Miss Madison.” She lifted her voice to be heard over the buzz of chatter and clank of dishes. “Miss Katie Madison.”
“Mighty pleased to meet you, Miss Madison. Sheriff Whitman here, but my friends just call me plain ol’ Sheriff.”
“And your enemies, Sheriff? What do they call you?”
“There’re some things I’d rather not say in the company of a lady such as yourself.”
Something like annoyance crossed her face, though he couldn’t imagine what he’d said to offend her.
“If you’ll step over to that rack, I’ll help you pick out a dinner coat.” Her calm, casual voice seemed at odds with her sharp-eyed regard.
“Don’t have much use for dinner coats,” he said. “Same for neck chokers.” Why any man would submit to wearing a tie was beyond his comprehension.
Her smile faded, and she glanced over her shoulder where the other three Harvey girls watched, along with their boss, Pickens.
She turned back to him, and he could see the wheels spinning in that pretty head of hers. “What a pity,” she said. “A handsome man like you.”
“The other girls tried flattery, too. It didn’t work for them, either.”
She lowered her head and glanced up at him through a fringe of lush lashes. Eleven. She had eleven tiny sun dots on her nose. Startled to find himself counting freckles, of all things, he drew his gaze to her pretty eyes, which looked blue as the wildflowers that grew alongside the railroad tracks. Chiding himself for being so easily distracted, he glanced at the newspaper guy.
“If you’ll excuse me, ma’am—”
“I really need this job,” she said. “And if I don’t get you into one of those coats I could be fired.”
Something in her voice made him hesitate. “That seems a bit drastic. Far as I know, none of the other girls lost their jobs because of me.”
“I’m afraid I’m not in my boss’s good graces at the moment.” Her cheeks grew a pretty rose color. “I messed up the drink orders something awful and drowned a Rhode Island hen.”
“You did that?” he said, feigning shock.
Her brow furrowed. “It might have been a Long Island hen.”
“That’s even worse,” he said lightly, hoping to tease another one of her brilliant smiles from her.
She hesitated a moment as if trying to decide if he was joking. “So, please. Will you help me?”
He was so caught up with the hen business—or maybe it was the intriguing way her eyes flashed as she talked—that he momentarily forgot what she wanted him to do.
“So will you?” she pleaded when he failed to respond. “Wear a coat?”
“Oh, that.” Opposed to wearing a dinner coat on general principle, he grimaced at the thought.
Unfortunately, he was also opposed to turning his back on damsels in distress. The look of dismay on her face meant the job was important to her. No surprise there. Until Harvey and his restaurants came along, few legitimate jobs existed for women, especially in this town. The work was hard and expectations high, but the job allowed a woman to earn a fair living and still stay in God’s good graces.
He followed her worried glance to the back of the room. Pickens was no friend of his, which meant cultivating one in Miss Madison might not be such a bad idea. Especially since his investigation into the Harvey girl murders was going to the dogs faster than a flock of fleas.
“What do I get if I put on one of them there straitjackets?”
She laughed, a musical sound that was as infectious as it was pleasant to hear. “A straitjacket will earn you a second helping of pie.”
He grinned. “Well, ma’am, I don’t suppose I can turn down an offer like that.”
Relief flickered across her face. “I don’t suppose you can,” she said. “Follow me and I’ll set you up.”
With a rueful glance at the three suspected Pink detectives, he followed her.
She led him over to a rack where a dozen or so coats hung. Quickly riffling through them, she settled on a black frock coat that would have been right at home at a funeral, preferably on the guest of honor.
She met his gaze with a look of apology. “I’m afraid this is the closest we have to your size.”
She held the coat up for him with a beseeching smile. As much as he wanted to, he didn’t have it in him to deny her request. Swallowing his protests, he turned and slipped his arms through the sleeves. The coat barely fit his wide shoulders and stuck out over his holstered guns.
She covered her mouth and her eyes rounded in dismay as she watched him try to button it. The sleeves hit him at least six inches above the wrists.
“I can see why you’re opposed to wearing a coat.”
“Straitjacket,” he said. “Let’s hope I don’t need to make a quick draw.” He could hardly move his arms, let alone reach for his guns.
Her eyes softened as she studied him, allowing a glimpse into their very depths. “Thank you for helping me.” He had a feeling she wanted to say more. But after a quick glance around, she fell silent.
He lowered his head next to hers, and a sweet lilac fragrance filled his head. “Perhaps you can do me a favor,” he said, his voice low. “I’m looking for a man. Don’t know his name. Don’t know what he looks like. All I know is that he’s a stranger in town.”
“As you can see, Sheriff, we have a whole room full of strangers,” she said.
“Yes, but this one plans to hang around.”
“I see.” She tilted her head to the side. “I’m new myself, but I’ll ask the other girls if they know of any recent arrivals.”
“Appreciate that, ma’am.”
A blast of the train whistle created a flurry of activity. Passengers grabbed their few belongings and rose from their seats, chair legs scraping the wooden floor. The throng of diners streamed outside, some holding small children by the hand. Soon the buzz of excited voices faded behind the closed door, and only Branch and the restaurant workers remained.
He peered out the window and watched as all three men pegged as possible Pinkerton detectives boarded the train.
Blast it. That could mean only one thing. The detective had arrived earlier and was already checked in at the hotel.
He whirled about and practically bumped into Miss Madison. “Sorry, I have to go,” he said, wiggling out of the coat like a moth from a cocoon.
“But your pie—”
“Another time.” He really wanted to stick around if for no other reason than to get to know the pretty waitress better, which struck him as odd. Since his wife’s death he hadn’t really noticed other women. Work, church, and parenting his seven-year-old son took up all his time, and that was how he wanted it. Opening up his heart meant having to accept the possibility of loss again, and that he could never do. Once was enough.
More than enough.
He shoved the coat into her hands and, with a doff of his hat, quickly left the restaurant.
That night after the Harvey House was closed for business, Katie ate a late supper with the other three Harvey girls. They sat at a long wooden table set aside for employees just off the kitchen. Tully and Mary-Lou were all atwitter over the restaurant owner’s unexpected visit earlier that day.
Dubbed Transcontinental Fred, Mr. Harvey had single-handedly made rail travel more bearable by providing fine food and good service for weary Kansas travelers. Rumor had it that he planned to build his train station restaurants all the way to California.
“He’s so handsome,” the girl named Abigail exclaimed with a sigh. “And so tall.”
“He’s also terribly married,” Tully said.
“Yes, but don’t you just love the way he speaks?” Mary-Lou imitated his English accent which, given her Southern lilt, was no easy task: “How dare you call them waitresses. I won’t have it. They’re Harvey girls.”
That brought a round of laughter from the others.
Katie’s interest in the man was strictly out of curiosity. Most of the renowned people she’d had occasion to meet were bank robbers, counterfeiters, or con artists, not legitimate businessmen like Mr. Harvey. So that alone made him a novelty.
After the evening meal had been cleared away, the stations left spotless, and the tables set for breakfast, the Harvey girls clambered upstairs to their rooms.
Never had Katie known such luxurious surroundings. Her job as a detective required her to spend much of her time in cheesy, flea-ridden hotels. The last one she’d stayed in caught fire in the middle of the night, obliging her to stand outside in her nightclothes while the two-story building burned to the ground, taking her few belongings with it.
But the room she shared with Mary-Lou was fit for a queen. It was decorated with floral wallpaper, lush wine-red carpet, brocaded draperies, and fine oak furniture. Each of them had their own beds with thick mattresses, soft pillows, and satiny quilts.
She threw herself facedown on the bed, letting her feet dangle over the end, and it felt like she had landed on a cloud. “Whoopee!”
Mary-Lou laughed. “You’ll never be able to sleep in a regular bed again.”
Katie turned on her side. Leaning on her elbow, she rested her head on her hand. Recalling the demise of the young woman who had formerly occupied this very bed, she quickly apologized.
“I’m sorry. How thoughtless of me.” No visual reminders of Mary-Lou’s previous roommate remained, but somehow her presence could be felt. Probably because Katie had committed to memory the Pinkerton file on the latest victim. The woman was only nineteen, which made her death seem all the more tragic.
Facing the mirror, Mary-Lou drew the hairbrush through her hair. She wore a white linen nightgown that reached all the way to her bare toes, and her long brunette tresses hung to her waist in lush waves.
What Katie wouldn’t give to have hair the color of Mary-Lou’s. She would even settle for her roommate’s smooth, creamy complexion that knew no freckles. Or even her delicately shaped mouth and perfect teeth. Katie felt an unwelcomed surge of envy.
The Bible warned against such feelings as it indicated a lack of gratitude and appreciation for how God had made her, but she couldn’t help herself. Would it have ruined some divine plan if God had given her, say, blond hair or brown?
Irritated by such distracting thoughts, she forced herself to concentrate on the reason she had been sent to the Harvey House, which wasn’t to feel sorry for herself.
“You must miss your former roommate,” she said.
“I miss her something awful.” Mary-Lou worked the brush through the length of her hair. “She was like a sister to me.”
It was the opening Katie had hoped for. “Do you know who would have done such an awful thing?”
“I can’t imagine.” Mary-Lou set her hairbrush down on the dressing table and turned. “Everyone liked her.”
“What about the other woman, Priscilla? Did everyone like her, too?”
“Oh yes. She was one of the nicest people you’d ever hope to meet.”
It wasn’t what Katie wanted to hear. Nothing she hated more than a well-liked murder victim with no enemies. And here she had two. It made her job that much more difficult.
She let the silence stretch between them before asking the next question. Show too much curiosity and she could blow her cover. “Did Ginger have a beau?”
Husbands and beaus were always suspects in such murder cases—often for good reason.
Mary-Lou finished braiding her hair into a single plait before answering. “She took a fancy to a local railroad worker. His name is Charley. She wanted to marry him but, of course, we Harvey girls aren’t allowed to wed.”
After a moment she continued. “They were saving up enough money so she could quit her job.” She sighed. “He waited for her outside every Friday night after lights were out. Ginger would sneak out to be with him.”
Katie stiffened. “Sneak out? You can do that?”
“Sneaking out isn’t the problem. Sneaking back in is. She bribed one of the cooks into letting her borrow his key.”
Katie made a mental note of this information. That explained why the bodies were found outside the house. That had puzzled her at first, mainly because the house was supposedly locked up tight as a fiddle at night and the girls not allowed out past curfew.
Her investigation now became more complicated because it meant that the killer could be an outsider and not a Harvey House employee as originally thought.
“Her beau must have taken her death hard.”
“Hard doesn’t begin to describe it.” Mary-Lou reached for a blue ribbon and wrapped it around the end of her braid. “Poor man. He wept like a baby at her funeral. He still waits for her at night.”
“What do you mean?”
Mary-Lou tied the ribbon in a bow and tossed the braid over her shoulder. “Every once in a while I see him standing under the lamppost after curfew watching the house. It’s as if he still expects her to join him.”
Katie could think of another possibility. It wasn’t unusual for criminals to return to the scene of the crime. Maybe this Charley fellow was feeling guilty. Maybe that’s why he returned to the house. She didn’t want to think he was looking for a new victim.
“What about Priscilla? Did she have a beau, too?”
Before Mary-Lou could answer, the door flew open and the dorm matron, Miss Thatcher, walked in. “Lights out, ladies,” she snapped.
From what Katie had heard from the others, the woman ran the house like a general at war. She lacked the proper uniform, but no general’s scowl could compare.
Stick thin with a long, pointed nose, straight mouth, and what looked like a perpetual frown, she was apparently one of the few employees not required to smile.
Regarding Katie with an icy stare that sent chills spiraling through her, Miss Thatcher picked up, with thumb and forefinger, the white apron carelessly tossed on a chair.
“Is this yours, Miss Madison?”
Katie swung her feet onto the floor and sat upright on the bed. “Yes, ma’am. I was just about to take care of that.” Dirty clothes were to be placed in the hamper in the hall. The laundry was sent to Newton, Kansas, to be washed, but each girl was responsible for ironing and starching her own uniform.
Miss Thatcher let the apron drop like one might release a dead rat. Her gaze settled on Katie. “You’re still in your uniform.”
Feeling like a schoolgirl caught stealing, Katie rose to her feet. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You do know the rules of the house.”
She wasn’t sure which rule Miss Thatcher referred to as there were so many, but to be on the safe side she threw her shoulders back and smiled. That failed to lessen the scowl on Miss Thatcher’s face. If anything, it made it worse.
“Do I amuse you, Miss Madison?”
“No, Miss Thatcher.”
“Then take that silly grin off your face.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The dorm matron’s dark eyebrows drew together. “For your insubordination, you will report to kitchen duty at five a.m. Do I make myself clear?”
Insubordination? Katie glanced at her roommate, who shrugged. Since she was pretty sure that making a face would not earn her any favors, she kept her expression composed.
“Yes, Miss Thatcher.”
Without another word, the woman turned off the brass kerosene lamp, throwing the room into darkness. She stopped in the doorway, her figure outlined in the soft glow from the hallway light. The way her ears stood out made her head look like a sugar bowl.
“Good night, ladies.” With that she swept out of the room with a rustle of silk, the door closing with a quiet but no less commanding click.
“What a witch,” Katie said, plopping down on her bed to pull off her shoes and stockings.
Girlish giggles rose from Mary-Lou’s side of the room.
“What’s so funny?”
“You.” Mary-Lou burst into another round of laughter. “Your first day here and already you’re in trouble with Mr. Pickens and Miss Thatcher. It takes most girls at least a week to accomplish that feat.”
Katie hadn’t meant to antagonize anyone. Certainly not the dorm matron. The woman probably knew more about the girls in her care than anyone else.
Katie grimaced. Somehow she would have to find a way to get back in the woman’s good graces. The manager’s, too.
For Mary-Lou’s benefit, she breathed out an audible sigh. “I tend to get off on a bad foot at times.” Perhaps her roommate could give her some pointers on how best to handle Miss Thatcher.
“You can’t say that about the sheriff,” Mary-Lou said.
“What do you mean?” The memory of the lawman’s intriguing dark eyes and crooked smile surprised her with its intensity.
“No one, and I do mean no one, ever persuaded Sheriff Whitman to wear a coat. You’re the first.”
For some unknown reason, that brought a smile to Katie’s face—the first heartfelt smile since arriving in town.
As much as Katie enjoyed the soft, luxurious bed, the stress of starting a new job in an unfamiliar place kept her tossing and turning.
Now as always when she couldn’t sleep, she turned to the Lord. God, don’t let me mess up this job. You know how my mouth gets away from me and I say things I shouldn’t. You have my permission to bang me on the head if I don’t curtail my tongue. And please forgive my envious heart. I’m sure You had a good reason for giving me hair the color of a rooster’s comb, and maybe one day You’ll let me know what that reason is.
She ended her prayer with a sigh but was no closer to falling asleep than before. As much as she needed the rest, everything she’d seen and heard since arriving in Calico kept running through her head. A surreptitious look or hasty conversation might or might not mean much, but no detective could afford to discount anything.
Somehow she had to find a way to talk to the sheriff in private. She only hoped her boss had exaggerated Whitman’s dislike of Pinkerton operatives. He was nothing like what she’d expected. A man willing to help out a poor waitress he’d only just met couldn’t be all that difficult to deal with, could he?
She’d considered identifying herself earlier, but too many people were present. She didn’t want to take a chance on blowing her cover.
The memory of the sheriff in that too-small coat made her giggle, and she quickly covered her mouth so as not to waken Mary-Lou.
Turning over, she pounded the pillow with her fist and closed her eyes. Startled by the vision of the sheriff’s handsome square face, she flopped on her back and stared at the ceiling.
Reading faces was a necessary part of her job, and she was better at it than many of her colleagues. The sheriff had strong features—a sign of integrity. Though he seemed outgoing and friendly enough, she’d nonetheless sensed his reserve. It was as if he’d purposely held part of himself back, the part that most intrigued her.
The thought made her groan. Homing in on a criminal’s deepest secrets was her job. Prying into the sheriff’s private life was absolutely off-limits, no matter how much she was tempted. Her Pinkerton boss expected results, and he expected them fast. She had no time to lose, and working with the sheriff might save her precious time.
He knew things about the victims and crime scenes that were not in the Pinkerton report. That made him a valuable resource.
She turned to her side. “Report to kitchen duty at 5:00 a.m.” What time was it now? It seemed like she’d been twisting and turning all night.
She reached for the mechanical clock on the bedside table. Quietly she slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the window. Between the full moon and gas streetlight there was just enough light filtering through the lace curtains for her to read the hands on the clock. Much to her surprise, it was only a little after eleven.
Someone had described insomnia as twisting and turning all night for an hour, but this was ridiculous.
Nudging the curtain aside, she gazed down at the moonlit street, and a movement caught her eye. A man stood next to the lamppost gazing up at the house. She quickly drew back. Was that the dead girl’s beau, Charley? She glanced outside again.
There was only one way to find out. Dropping the curtain in place, she felt in the dark for her clothes.
Branch picked the stranger out the moment he walked into the Silver Spur Saloon. The detective sat at a table by his lonesome. Probably trying to familiarize himself with the town before starting his investigation.
He definitely acted like a Pinkerton detective. No question. Not only was the man new in town, he huddled over his drink as if trying to make himself small and invisible.
If Branch wasn’t so incensed at the thought of having to deal with the private detective, he might have laughed. The man in his Monkey Ward clothes—new denim pants, shirt, and boots—stood out like a sore thumb. And that wasn’t even mentioning the barely creased hat.
If the Pinkerton agency insisted upon sending its city-slicker detectives here, the least they could do was learn how to dress them properly. Most of the cowboys and railroad workers in town hadn’t seen a pair of new trousers or boots for a dozen or so years, not since Andrew Johnson was in office.
Branch had expected the detective to check in at the hotel or, at the very least, Miss Grayson’s Room and Board that day, but he’d done neither. Puzzled, Branch did a methodical search of saloons, and the Silver Spur was the fourth one he’d visited that night.
The place was in full swing. Old man Taylor played a lively tune on the mouth organ, which he blew with great diligence. Along one side of the saloon a faro game was in progress.
Branch walked up to the stranger’s table, pulled out a chair, and sat.
Monkey Suit looked up, revealing an ugly man with pockmarked skin, broken nose, and small, beady eyes. If it was possible to scare a criminal into going straight, that was the face to do it.
Branch wasted no time on introductions. “I know who you are and what you’re doing here.”
The words were barely out if his mouth before the man tossed his drink at Branch and took off running.
On his feet in a flash, Branch gave chase. The Pinkerton detectives might not know how to dress, but they sure did know how to run—his opinion of the organization went up a begrudging notch.
Shouldering his way through the crowd, Branch rushed through the swinging doors. He looked left, right, and straight ahead before spotting the man halfway down the street already.
“Stop!” he yelled.
The man ran fast as cannon fire, and Branch had a hard time keeping up. For the love of Pete, how was it possible to run that fast in a new pair of boots? Much as he hated to think it, maybe it was time to get him some of that there Monkey Ward leather.
Katie let herself outside, careful not to make a sound. The front of the restaurant faced the railroad tracks, and the back faced Front and Main. Charley stood on the street side.
After wedging a wooden spoon in the doorframe to keep the door from closing and locking, she ran along the alley. Mindful that the bodies had been found here, she kept her hand on her gun and her senses alert. The alley separated the restaurant from the baggage room, ticket booth, and waiting room. In light of the recent crimes every shadow suggested danger.
The scent of cattle from the nearby stockades made her nose pucker. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked, but otherwise all was quiet. She reached Front Street, but Charley was gone.
Disappointed, she turned back to the house but then changed her mind. She couldn’t sleep, so maybe a brisk walk would do her a world of good. If nothing else, it would give her a chance to get the lay of the land. She certainly wouldn’t have time during the day. Sticking the gun in her waist for easy retrieval, she crossed Front to Main and stepped onto the boardwalk.
Many Kansas towns had grown in leaps and bounds in recent years due to the long cattle drives, but the railway was making such drives unnecessary. Some small towns had already suffered economic hardship as a result, but not Calico. By all appearances, it seemed to be thriving.
Walking quickly, she passed rows of shops and businesses built from brick and native limestone. A large general store took up one corner, the Calico Bank another. A barber, gunsmith, saddle shop, seamstress, bakery, and bookstore stretched along Main Street in orderly fashion.
A doctor shared an office with an undertaker, which seemed like a conflict of interest.
She reached the sheriff’s office, and her pace slowed. Though the lights were off, a black horse was tethered in front. The horse nickered softly and pawed the ground.
“What do I get if I put on one of them there straitjackets?”
His voice sounded so clear and distinct in her head that for a moment she imagined she’d heard the real thing. Startled by the pleasant shiver that ran down her spine, she quickly moved away.
At least now she knew where the sheriff’s office was located. A dim light shone through the window of the Calico Gazette next door. A bespectacled man was bent over a long table, painstakingly placing type onto a metal-framed stick.
She was just about to return to the Harvey House when the sound of running feet stopped her. She turned but not soon enough to step out of the way. A man barreled into her and knocked her down.
Landing on her fanny, she yelled, “What do you think you’re doing?”
The man kept running without as much as a backward glance.
“Of all the—”
A second man suddenly bounded around the corner. Before she could pull in her legs he tripped over her foot and fell facedown on the wood plank sidewalk in front of her. His hat landed several feet away.
Katie gasped, and her hand flew to the gun at her waist. “Are… are you all right?” she squeaked out.
The man pushed himself upright on his hands, the badge on his vest winking in the street light.
“Sheriff?” She pulled her hand away from her waist.
He squinted at her. “It’s me, all right.” He climbed to his feet and his full six-foot-something height towered over her. “You’re the new Harvey girl. Miss Katie Madison.”
For some reason it pleased her that he remembered her name. A ripple of awareness reached all the way to her toes. “The coat girl,” she said and smiled.
One corner of his mouth lifted upward. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“I was just about to say the same thing,” she said.
He frowned. “What happened? Why are you sitting there? Don’t they let you sit at the house?”
She gave her head an indignant toss. “I was knocked down by a very rude man.”
His jaw hardened. “I’m afraid I’m to blame for that.” He took hold of her hand and pulled her to her feet with one easy swoop.
Concern suffused his face as he looked her up and down. Had she only imagined that his gaze lingered longer than necessary on her tiny waist and soft, rounded hips?
“He didn’t hurt you, did he?”