Sadie had heard the rumor that Baron was ailing. Then again, he might have gone on his morning pilgrimage to Aquacia Bathhouse because a "secret" poker game was attracting conventioneers. About an hour ago, she'd watched the senator stride through the lobby with his gangly, bespectacled secretary. Pendleton had scurried to keep up, looking every inch like an underling, from his thinning, greased-back hair, to his starched chin-high collar, notebook, and stylus.
According to rumor, Baron treated Pendleton like family. The secretary had none of his own, probably because Pendleton spent every waking moment, managing Baron's business accounts. He was wholly devoted to the senator, and frankly, Sadie wouldn't have been surprised to learn that Pendleton covered up Baron's crimes.
She strained to hear what the prune-faced clerk was telling his boss, but she only heard intermittent phrases—something about an upcoming luncheon with railroad financiers. Apparently, Poppy had accepted the invitation on behalf of the senator, but he was refusing to cancel his javelina hunt with his cowboy cronies.
Cass trailed behind Baron and Pendleton, keeping an eye peeled for suspicious characters. As hard as she tried not to care, Sadie wasn't able to ignore how the heartthrob's dimpled grin quickened more than one fluttering hand-fan as ladies of all ages sighed in his wake. The knowledge that she, herself, looked like an apple barrel with a gray mop for hair didn't improve her mood.
Baron and his retinue had left the hotel 30 minutes ago. Now Sadie was waiting futilely for Collie to exit the building. She still wasn't sure where the hooligan was. Gritting her teeth, she imagined him ransacking her bedroom. She couldn't help but recall the shambles in which he and Cass had left Rex's room at the Globe Hotel. After grimly wading through what resembled a torpedo strike, the Ranger had retrieved one of the few personal indulgences he allowed himself: a silver flask. Finding his imported, Glenmorangie Scotch completely drained, Rex had raged: "It'll be a cold day in hell, before Cassidy wears a Ranger badge!"
Sadie couldn't blame Rex. Especially since Vandy had taken a crap on his pillow.
A heavy boot thumped behind her, interrupting her reverie. Ducking her head, Sadie pushed her spectacles up her nose and looked busy. Tito was exiting the stairwell with Poppy Westerfield on his arm.
For the first time, Sadie was able to lay her eyes on Baron's flesh-and-blood wife, rather than a sienna–toned daguerreotype. Sadie had to admit, Poppy was stunning, possessing all the traits Baron was rumored to covet in a woman.
Sadie studied the Galveston native. Aside from her bodice, Poppy was petite, with strawberry curls, meadow-green eyes, and an enviable waistline for a woman of 41 years—but then, Poppy had never borne children, according to her Pinkerton dossier. The senator's wife walked with an air of privilege in her elegant day dress. A shameless array of matching emeralds adorned her ears, wrists, and fingers. However, nothing more than a silver heart pendant graced her neck. She kept sliding the bauble along its chain, as if she were agitated.
Sadie thought back to a conversation she'd once had with Rex, when she'd been plying him with questions about the type of woman she needed to "portray" to attract Baron's attention.
"But what's Poppy really like?" she'd asked Rex. "You come from the same circle of privilege; I've never been to a political rally, much less a debutante's ball."
Rex had fidgeted, a sure sign his southern chivalry was vying with his lawman's code.
"Poppy grew up as the only child of a widowed attorney. She used to scribe legal documents for her father when she was a school girl, during the days when he couldn't afford the wages of a full-time clerk. Eventually, he built a prosperous legal practice and became renowned for manipulating tax laws in favor of shipping interests. However, the wealthy clientele whom he served never truly accepted him into their circle. Poppy got jilted by her first steady beau—a young sugar planter, who had political ambitions. He started courting a gal with Old Money—a textiles heiress, I believe.
"Poppy took it hard. She left Galveston to live with friends in Austin. She met Baron at some capitol shindig. Back then, he was little more than a cowboy with a dream, but he did manage to get himself elected to the Burnet City Council. He doted on Poppy. Fact is, he never did like competition, and he wound up punching out one of her suitors. Eventually, Baron won her hand. The same week he whisked her off on their honeymoon, her ex-beau and his fiancé had a tragic boating accident."
Sadie nodded. She'd read Baron's biography in a dossier. "Yes, yes," she said impatiently, "but what kind of woman is Poppy? Prudish? Flirtatious? Maternal? Absent-minded?"
"She can be charming," Rex hedged.
"Can be?" Sadie hiked an eyebrow. "And when she's not being charming, what then?"
Rex hardened his jaw. "Cold. Ice-water cold."
Recalling that conversation now, Sadie looked for signs of that chilly social maven in the agitated woman, who was toying with the heart-shaped religious relic around her throat. Sadie wondered if Poppy was merely misunderstood. Losing three children in childbirth couldn't have been easy for a wife, who watched her husband choose progressively younger mistresses every year that she aged.
Thoughtfully, Sadie watched Tito hand his boss's wife into a private surrey. Only after the two of them trotted off into the sunshine did Sadie loose a ragged breath and hurry for the stairwell.
The Westerfields' suite was located on the hotel's top floor, where Baron had reserved five rooms in the west wing. Sadie had been forced to bribe a maid to learn Cass and Collie shared the room, flanking Poppy's side of the suite. Tito's room flanked Baron's, and Pendleton's quarters were closest to the stairs. Normally, Sadie would have saved herself the fee for palm-greasing by snooping through the hotel ledger; however, the page with Cass's, Baron's, and Tito's signatures had been missing.
Half expecting to be attacked by a snarling raccoon at any moment, Sadie glanced warily over both shoulders before withdrawing a widdy from her apron pocket and unlocking the Westerfields' door. She'd already searched every desk drawer, file cabinet, wall hanging and floor plank in the Spartan campaign office that Pendleton ran for his boss in the Public Square. Unless one considered a backroom with a mattress suspicious, she could find only one other questionable thing. Pendleton had hidden two ledgers. One had contained the names of campaign donors, all meticulously entered and perfectly legal, as far as she could tell. The other ledger, oddly enough, had been blank.
Sadie sighed. Detective work wasn't quite as romantic as she'd first expected. When she'd signed on as a Pinkerton, she'd imagined posing as some exotic celebrity with a foreign accent so she could save her country. In reality, she spent most of her time skulking around in drab disguises so she could blend into a crowd. If she wasn't on a stakeout, she was searching some suspect's room. Digging through a lowlife's personal belongings was pure, nerve-wracking tedium.
Gritting her teeth, she rummaged through the dingy unmentionables in Baron's underwear drawer. It was hard not to be creeped out by the notion she might have to peel a pair of these nasty-looking shorts off the scum-bucket's erection.
Damn! What's he hiding, and where is it?
The chiffonier had been her last resort. She'd searched the entire suite for false panels in walls, fake bottoms in drawers, cleverly repaired seams in cushions, and loose floorboards under the two beds—because, apparently, Baron no longer slept with his wife.