Katie Rose Read Free

Emily responded. The motion did make it difficult to continue her observations. Reluctantly, she put the magnifying glass back inside her pocket for the time being.
    The ladies breathed a collective sigh of relief, and even the businessman appeared happier. The cowboy alone seemed unperturbed, continuing to sleep with his back against the seat. The tension in the coach remained palpable, however. The businessman spoke up conversationally, now that he wasn’t about to be dissected like an insect.
    “So, miss, are you planning to stay in Denver?”
    Emily nodded. “My father left me a property on the outskirts of town. It’s a nice house from what the attorney’s letter says. Shangri-La, it’s called.”
    “What?” The cowboy glanced up from under his Stetson, suddenly awake. “Did you say Shangri-La?”
    “Yes,” Emily answered, surprised at his interest. “It is described as a white-columned mansion, much like the old plantation houses. It even has indoor plumbing.” She gave them a superior smile. “That’s all the thing in Boston, you know.”
    The women looked puzzled, while the men glanced at each other, appalled. It must have beenthe mention of plumbing, Emily realized belatedly. Some people were sensitive to that kind of talk. The cowboy smirked and looked at Emily with new attention. The businessman cleared his throat. “That house is … not a place for a lady,” he finished lamely. “Surely someone has told you of the killings? And”—he lowered his voice—“the ghost?”
    Emily nodded eagerly. “Yes, of course. That was my primary interest. My father and his female companion were killed there. I want to investigate the murders and learn everything I can about them. And of course, there is no such thing as ghosts.” She retrieved her notebook from her bag, pushing Dr. Watson’s curious head back down again. “Now, you can probably help me. I was going to wait until I got to town to start interrogations, but as they say, there’s no time like the present.”
    The preacher choked down a laugh, while the other passengers appeared shocked. As the stagecoach rumbled into Denver, everyone was silent, and Emily quickly recorded her observations. She was satisfied with the women, the businessman afforded little data, and the cowboy was simply a cowboy. It soon became apparent that her most interesting suspect was Thomas Hall. He had gunpowder stains on his hands, smelled nothing like Father Murphy from Boston (who always seemed to carry the odors of incense and wine), and was physically more compelling than any man she’d ever met. She was almost tempted to hold up the glass again. He was very handsome and likable, but she couldn’t let that interferewith her investigation of him, or admit that her interest was in anything other than the case at hand. For as every great detective knew, emotion was deadly to logic. Thomas Hall was simply an element that warranted further scrutiny.
    The stagecoach finally stopped in the center of town. Thomas waited as the passengers moved reverently aside to allow him to pass first. Outside, a cowboy, obviously more than a little the worse for drink, tipped his hat politely, his eye marking the white collar of Thomas’s black shirt and the Bible he held. An elderly businessman dressed in a good wool suit nodded cordially, while a young woman passing by blushed and hid her face behind a lace kerchief.
    Thomas accepted their deference with a forced smile. He helped the others disembark from the coach, wishing to God that he could go into the saloon and have a shot of whiskey to warm his bones. But now he was supposed to be the preacher, Thomas Hall, and he couldn’t afford any missteps. Especially in front of Emily Potter.
    She appeared at the stagecoach door almost as soon as he formed the thought, one hand clutching the bag with the cat in it, in her other hand a book. He smiled to himself as he recalled her antics with the magnifying glass. The women on the