done her own hair for many years, the sensation was odd. Being pampered and cared for was not nearly as repellent as it should have been. In fact, Anna quite liked the relaxing sensation. Unbidden, her mother’s fierce countenance popped into her head. Victoria Bishop had not raised her only daughter to be spoiled.
Anna took the brush from Mrs. Franklin and ran the bristles away from her temple, smoothing the wave created by her impossible curls. “It’s lovely, really. I don’t usually wear it this way.”
The widow had pinned her loose hair in a cascade atop her head. When Anna perched her hat over the arrangements, the curls framed her face. The effect softened her countenance and made her look younger, more approachable.
Mrs. Franklin tugged one of the ringlets free and let it fall against Anna’s cheek. “Oh, yes, I quite like that. You have lovely hair, my dear. If I’d had that hair back in ’45, oh the trouble I could have caused.”
Judging from the twinkle in Mrs. Franklin’s eye, Anna guessed she’d broken more than one heart. “I have a feeling you caused plenty of trouble, no matter your hair.”
“True, my dear. Quite true,” the widow answered with unabashed pride.
Anna couldn’t help but laugh with Mrs. Franklin’s reflection in the mirror. When she turned away, Anna’s smile faded.
Why was accepting assistance such a shameful weakness? If the situations were reversed, if Mrs. Franklin had needed help, Anna would have happily aided her. And yet each time she relinquished even the tiniest bit of her independence, she heard her mother’s stern disapproval. Why was the desire to look attractive such an appalling offense?
If a woman’s sole purpose in life was to attract a mate, then nature would not have given us the superior brain.
Anna patted her hair and recalled her manners. “Thank you, Mrs. Franklin, for your assistance. You’ve been absolutely indispensable. I don’t know what I would have done without you this week.”
“You must call me Izetta.”
Mrs. Franklin—Izetta—straightened the horsehair brush on the dressing table. “There’s a gentleman here to see you, if you’re up for it.”
“Mr. McCoy?” Anna’s heartbeat tripped. “He’s here?”
“No. A detective. A Pinkerton detective at that. Can you imagine?”
“Well, of course Mr. McCoy will have gone.” Anna held out her hands and studied her blunt fingernails. She mustn’t let her emotions turn at the mere thought of him. “I was only hoping for the chance to thank him properly.”
“Oh, no, Mr. McCoy hasn’t gone. He and his sister have been keeping the vultures at bay.” Mrs. Franklin folded Anna’s discarded nightgown and laid it on her trunk. “It’s been a circus, let me tell you. I don’t know what we would have done without those two.”
Anna’s memories of the past week were hazy at best. The police had questioned her briefly, but she had nothing to offer. She hadn’t seen anything, and despite the ubiquitous protestors from the opposition, she’d never been threatened with bodily harm. Or shot at, for that matter. The police had pressed her for information until Mr. McCoy had ordered them away, but not before demanding they leave a guard at her door.
Mr. McCoy’s soothing voice had been the one constant in a sea of confusion. She’d caught Jo teasing him, ribbing him for treating them all as though they were his four-legged patients, and yet she’d found the deep timbre of his reassuring voice a lifeline in the darkness. She’d been injured and out of sorts, that was all. Surely this curious fascination with the man would fade soon enough. Her fellow suffragists would not approve.
Love will ruin a woman faster than rain will ruin a parade.
Mrs. Franklin paused with her hand on the doorknob. “We kept your room number secret until that reporter grew weary of trying. After you speak with the detective, you’ll have to make some decisions.”
The door swung open, and Anna’s breath caught in her throat. “Mr. McCoy! I was expecting the Pinkerton detective.”
She desperately hoped he attributed the breathless quality of her voice to her recent injury. And surprise. Yes, she was simply surprised.
He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “That’d be him.”
Her eyes widened. If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought the other man was derelict. The detective appeared to be in his late forties with a curiously rounded middle and stick limbs. As though all of his weight had congregated in his belly, starving the fat from his arms and legs. He wore an ill-fitting coat in a nondescript shade of brown which matched the shock of disordered, thinning hair covering his head.
Anna swept her arm in an arc. “I’m afraid I don’t have enough seats for all of you. I wasn’t expecting company.”
Mr. McCoy propped his shoulder against the door frame. “I’ll stand.”
How did he manage to pack such a wealth of meaning into so few words?
The detective huffed.
Annoyance radiated from Mr. McCoy’s stiff demeanor. There was obviously no love lost between the two men.
The detective straddled a chair and rested his arms on the back. “The name is Reinhart. I’m here on another case.”
A sharp ache throbbed in her temple, and Anna pressed two fingers against the pain. “I don’t follow.”
“When I’m working on a case, I pay attention to things. To everything. You never know what you might hear.”
“I see,” Anna replied vaguely, though she didn’t see at all.
Reinhart shrugged. “Anyway, I’m from St. Louis. Moved to this office last May.”
Caleb pushed off from the wall. “Just get to the point. Tell her what you told me this morning.”
The detective rubbed the salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin. “I’ve been doing some digging and I’ve heard a few things. Mind you, if you want to find the shooter, that’s a separate job. Like I said this morning, that’ll cost you extra.”
Mr. McCoy cleared his throat.
The man glared over his shoulder, his movements twitchy and nervous as a rat. “Anyway, I’ve been doing some digging, and I ain’t found nothing.”
Oddly deflated by his vague speech, Anna tilted her head. “That’s what you came here to tell me?”
“Don’t you get it? No one has claimed responsibility. No one seen nothing. Nothing.”
“I still don’t follow.”
“This is personal. Someone with a grudge against women voting wants his voice heard. He wants attention. Someone with a personal vendetta is going underground. He doesn’t want to get caught. Leastways not until the job is done right.”
While the man’s clothing and grooming might lead one to believe he was not educated, his speech let slip his intellect. Clearly playing the bumbling fool suited his work.
He glanced meaningfully at her side and Anna pressed her hand against the bandages beneath her clothing.
She sat up and winced. “Someone wants me dead. Just me?”
“That’s the way I see it.”
Blood roared in her ears. Somehow she’d pictured the act as random. A lone, crazed shooter with a grudge against women who was bent on causing an uproar. Someone determined to halt the rally.
In the back of her mind, she’d even wondered if the whole thing had been an accident. Years ago, their neighbor in St. Louis had inadvertently discharged a firearm while attempting to clean the weapon. He’d shattered the parlor window and taken a chunk out of the porch railing.
This