Trace studied Mrs. Friskin, who’d gone beet-red. Gen overplayed the sympathy act toward the distraught mother. “Oh, dear. Andrea is not going the same route as our Sandy St. Clair, is she?”
The woman squirmed. “We’re not sure, but it does appear to be the case. She packed her things and left home in the middle of the night.”
Gen provided the appropriate shocking gasp and rested a consoling hand over Mrs. Friskin’s. Trace could barely hold back the grin, determining his wife should be on a stage somewhere instead of wasting her talents on dangerous detective work.
“You poor dear. To have such high expectations crumble at your feet. What can I do to help?”
“Why nothing that I know of,” said Mrs. Friskin. “Obviously, Andrea will not need a new wardrobe. Unless of course, she returns. We are hopeful for that outcome.”
“We would appreciate you keeping her disappearance quiet,” said Mr. Friskin realizing they’d said more than he planned. He cast a warning glance in his wife’s direction.
“Certainly, sir,” said Trace. “My wife does not tolerate or involve herself in feeding Denver’s gossip grapevine.”
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Friskin whose smile became suddenly genuine.
Gen was making progress, earning their trust. Trace surmised dealing with people would not be something he’d need to teach his apprentice.
“Did she take personal things that might suggest she did not plan on returning?” asked Gen.
“Oh, yes. Andrea took her grandmothers emerald ring from the safe. It belonged to her, so it’s not like she stole it, but it does make me wonder if she will return.” The woman pulled an embroidered hankie from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes.
Gen inched closer and the action seemed to entice the woman to new levels of intimacy. A flood of tears erupted and she willingly collapsed into the arms Gen offered. The sobs grew louder and Mr. Friskin rose to his feet unappreciative of her uncontrollable display.
“Mr. Stapleton. Would you care to join me in the library?”
And that’s how the Pinkerton forces divided and both agents departed the house forty minutes later armed with fresh clues to help them in their search.
Chapter 4
“Do you mind taking the wagon to the farm alone? I have a clue I want to follow up on,” said Trace when they reached the livery.
“I wish I could argue but I promised to help my sisters. They will feel I’ve abandoned them by leaving home on the eve of Jethro’s wedding. There is so much food to prepare for the guests. Sandy appears satisfied to downsize the affair. The couple decided on a quaint service by the lake under a tree where Jethro proposed and refreshments afterward. Of course, her family is appalled at such simplicity and are not co-operating. None of society’s crowd will be there, except her parents and siblings, which I’m sure will be bowing their heads in shame at the disgrace their daughter has brought on the St. Clair family name.”
Trace laughed. “Would it not have been easier to invite her new husband to join the ranks and not alienate their daughter?”
“Heavens no! Jethro could never be bought. He is farmer through and through, and Sandy is well aware of the future she is signing up for,” Gen said. “Just the same, I’m glad to be gone from the house. There is bound to be tensions.”
“Suppose there is a settling-in time for all newly married folks. Look at us,” said Trace.
Gen grinned. “Yes, Mr. Stapleton. You definitely take some getting used to.”
“Not all bad, is it?”
“On the contrary. I believe we are adhering to the expectations of our agreement.” She turned toward the wagon. “I’ll just hitch up the team and head to the farm.”
He placed a hand on her arm as she headed toward the stall. “I can do that for you.” As he worked, he asked, “Do you own a horse of your own that you can ride back to town?”
“I do. Shamus is my mare. Shall I house her at the livery or do you have a lean to or barn out back of the town house?”
“I do have a shelter out back. Poor excuse for a barn but Striker is comfortable out there.”
“Striker and Shamus – do you think they’ll get along?”
“Like any new couple, they’ll adjust.”
Trace watched Gen ride out of town, then headed for the depot. Mr. Friskin speculated that perhaps his daughter had taken a train to parts unknown. He’d shown him the half ticket he’d found in Andrea’s garbage pail. In fact, he’d shown him the file on his desk that contained a number of items he’d not included as clues for the Pinkerton Agency. Newspaper clippings of some uppity family from Colorado Springs, seventy-eight miles south, some receipts for purchases, mostly toiletries but one was a baby outfit from a department store. He’d have to write it down on paper so Gen could view his findings tonight when they joined up in town again.
The ticket master at the train station searched his records and located the name that went with the number on the stub. A Simon Frezner had come in from Kansas with a child. And the only reason the employees recalled this information was because of the many complaints fellow passengers had filed. The infant cried the entire trip, and the man totally ignored the annoying glares cast his way. The clerk had not seen the man personally and could offer no description, but Trace recognized the name from his brief glimpse at one of the newspaper clippings in Mr. Friskin’s file. Trace prized himself with
