by Mary Kruger
“Brooke, how could you?” Aunt Winifred had wailed, her blue eyes huge and reproachful. “To identify a dead body is just not done.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt,” Brooke murmured mechanically, sipping at tea that had gone cold. Several hours had passed since she had seen Rosalind’s body on the Cliff Walk, and still she felt shaky, though she was now safe in her aunt’s oval-shaped bedroom. Winifred, wearing a frilly white bed jacket, sat ensconced in her magnificent gilt and white bed, an enameled chinoiserie bed tray set across her lap. Her dogs, rare chihuahuas from Mexico, lolled on the pink satin quilt. For some reason, Winifred had named them after English poets, but to Brooke they resembled nothing so much as bad-tempered rats. She was never quite comfortable in this room, so much her aunt’s, with its beruffled vanity table and satin-upholstered chairs in too many shades of pink, but today it was a haven. In times of crisis she needed family.
“Really, I don’t know what you were thinking of. Grace!” Winifred’s voice rose sharply. “This tea is cold. A fresh pot, if you please. Really,” she said again, as Grace, her maid, removed the offending teapot, “and on today of all days, when we’re having our very first party here.”
“I assure you, that was on my mind.”
“Do not be snide, Brooke. It doesn’t become you. Now. We must think how to salvage this situation.”
Brooke’s cup clinked as she set it down on the saucer, hard. “Surely we’re not still going to have the party!”
“Why shouldn’t we? What happens on the Cliff Walk doesn’t affect us. We are constantly being reminded, are we not, that it is public property? Why, we cannot even fence off our own section.” She made a face. “Distasteful thing. I imagine the hoi polloi is out there even now.”
“Yes, people are there. Aunt, we should cancel, if only out of common decency-”
“Indeed, we will not! No one can reasonably expect it of us at such short notice. And after all the work I’ve done. I find it terribly rude of that policeman—what was his name?”
“Detective Devlin.”
“Devlin. Yes. Irish, of course. He was very rude. Telling me to cancel the party. As if he had the right!” She sat up straighter, her face flushing. “A common policeman, telling me what to do!”
“Aunt, your heart,” Brooke said, alarmed by Winifred’s color. Winifred subsided, falling back against the pillows, and Brooke breathed easier. Of all today’s trials, she suspected her aunt found being summoned downstairs by a policeman, and before she had had a proper breakfast, the worst. “Please don’t distress yourself so. Uncle Henry has promised you we’ll have the party.”
“Yes.” Winifred’s voice was smug. “I am very glad he’s friendly with Senator Burdick. He should be able to control the police. That Detective Devon-”
“Devlin.”
“Whichever. He needs to know his place. Much too aggressive a young man.”
“Matt was only doing his job, Aunt.”
“Matt?” Winifred eyed her. “Are you already on a first-name basis with that—person?”
“I’ve known Matt for years, Aunt. He and I were friends.”
“A common policeman?” Winifred’s voice rose several octaves.
“My father was a common policeman.”
“Please don’t remind me. Oh, my heart.” She patted at her chest. “I’m having palpitations. Grace! My medicine, please. At once!”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Brooke muttered, though she rose and bent over the bed. Winifred’s color was normal, and her breathing was regular. “Please calm down.”
“Calm down!” Winifred glared at her over the familiar brown bottle of Mrs. Pinkham’s elixir, which Grace held out to her. “When I learn that my niece is consorting with a cop?”
“It’s hardly that.”
“It had better not be. Oh, give me that.” Winifred grabbed the bottle and took a healthy swig, grimacing at the taste. “You are close to making a decent match with Eliot Payson, and I want nothing to ruin that. You must promise me you will not see Devlin again, Brooke.”
Guilt sizzled through Brooke at the mention of Eliot. She’d hardly thought of him today, and yet they were close to an engagement. Aunt Winifred was right. That was important. “I won’t, but-”
“Promise me, Brooke.”
“I promise, Aunt. But he’s bound to be back to talk with us.”
“Let him. But I will not have you going the way of your mother.” Winifred grasped Brooke’s hand tightly. “It’s bad enough I lost my only sister. I will not lose you, too.”
Brooke turned her hand in her aunt’s grip, squeezing back. “You’re not going to lose me, Aunt.”
“I should hope not. I have much better plans in mind for you, Brooke.”
“Yes, I know.” Brooke released her hand, unreasonably disappointed. Aunt Winifred was far more concerned about Brooke’s social standing than anything else. She should have known. Brooke’s past life in Newport was best forgotten. Yet, never in that life had she had to face something like this...
“You look as if you could use this,” a voice said at Brooke’s elbow, jarring her from her thoughts. Before her the party went on, seeming unreal after all that had happened. Yet for now all she could do was be a good hostess. She looked up to see Miles Vandenberg, holding a cut crystal flute of champagne out to her.
Brooke managed to smile as she took the glass. “Thank you, Mr. Vandenberg. Though I think lemonade would probably be more sensible,” she said, carefully setting the champagne down on the broad granite balustrade.
He leaned his forearms on the balustrade, a youngish man of medium height, dark-haired and dark-eyed and attired in a tuxedo jacket, a rose tucked into his lapel. The new style of dinner jacket was scorned by some, but Brooke liked it. For all his isolation from the fashionable world, Miles managed to stay au courant. “Are you always so sensible, Miss Cassidy?”
“With my aunt, someone has to be.” She took a sip of the champagne. “Ah, that is good. Thank you, Mr. Vandenberg.”
“Please call me Miles. I think we’ve known each other long enough to dispense with formalities. You are looking charming tonight, my dear.”
Brooke gazed off toward the Cliff Walk before answering. “Thank you, Mr.—Miles.”
Miles turned toward her, frowning. “You sound distracted. Am I boring you?”
“What? Oh, no, of course not.” Brooke smiled briefly. “I was thinking of the tragedy this morning. I’m afraid I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind all day.”
“The tragedy? Oh, Rosalind.” Miles drained his glass. “Adds some excitement to the evening, doesn’t it?”
“That’s a terrible thing to say.”
“Is it? Take a look out there, my dear.” He gestured toward the lawn. “It’s all anyone is talking about. Can you deny that it’s made your party a success?”
Brooke looked out. “It’s horrid,” she said slowly.
“Yes, but true. Why else do you think some people are here? For the sensation, of course. Freddie Jamison, for example. He never comes to affairs like this.”
“He’s lucky he wasn’t arrested, jumping over the police barrier the way he did.”
“Indeed. But it was smart of the police officer not to do so, considering that Freddie’s father is active in local politics. It was, after all, just high spirits.”
“Of the liquid kind.”
Miles shrugged. “What of it?”
Brooke sent him a troubled glance. Ordinarily she liked Miles Vandenberg. He was handsome, easy to talk to, and, like her, a bit of an outsider. His wife’s health made her an invalid and kept her immured in their mansion, the Point, which meant the Vandenbergs lived in Newport the year ‘round. It didn’t seem to bother Miles; he was that most valuable of commodities, an agreeable male available to dance court on the ladies of Newport. At a moment’s notice he could be counted on to make up the proper number at dinner, or to escort a society matron, whose husband might be gamboling on his yacht or still at wor
k on Wall Street, to a concert at the Casino or a picnic at Bailey’s Beach. He was always perfectly groomed and attired, perfectly charming. Without thinking about it much, Brooke had always liked him. Tonight, however, his attitude and that of the guests’ bothered her. A girl had died, and people seemed to care only about the sensation it caused.
“It’s terrible,” she said abruptly.
“What is?”
Brooke looked up at him in surprise. “Why, the murders, of course.”
“Let’s be honest, my dear. No one really liked Rosalind. No one’s sorry she’s gone.”
Brooke gasped. “That’s awful!”
“But true. Or do you plan to tell me that you liked her?”
“I—felt sorry for her.”
“There, you see my point? No one mourns her. Except perhaps her parents.”
“It’s terrible,” Brooke repeated, and shivered, because it was true. Rosalind hadn’t been well-liked; her sharp tongue had seen to that. Still, her death should mean more than just scandal. “She was a person. So were the other poor girls.”
“No one cares much about them, either. After all, they were only maids.”
Brooke gripped the edge of the balustrade. It might very well be true that the Four Hundred cared little about the deaths, but for Brooke, who counted more friends among the servants than among society, they meant something. “They didn’t deserve what happened to them,” she said, through gritted teeth.
“Oh, undoubtedly not. I met one of them, you know.”
Brooke looked up. “Did you? Where?”
“Oh, it was purely by chance. She was keeping company with one of my servants, I forget his name. In any event she was at the Point one day. Pretty girl. What a shame,” he added, absently.
“That’s right. A footman, wasn’t it? I’d imagine he’s a suspect.”
“I imagine so. I wonder if I should keep him on?” He stared out over the lawn for a moment, and then turned to her, smiling. “This is a boring conversation, Brooke. Could we go onto something else?”
“Did you tell the police?”
“About what? Seeing the girl at my cottage? No, why should I?”
“It might help them.”
“I can’t imagine how.” Miles lifted his glass, frowning at it when he realized it was empty. “No, I don’t plan to tell them, Brooke. I don’t plan to talk to them about anything.”
“How are they supposed to solve the crimes, if no one will help?”
Miles set his glass down and turned to her. “This has you worried,” he said slowly. “I wonder why.”
“Brooke,” a voice called behind them, and, distracted, Brooke turned.
“Oh. Eliot.”
“Why are you hiding up here, darling? Evening, Vandenberg,” Eliot Payson added, leaning forward to kiss Brooke on the cheek.
Miles nodded. “Payson.”
“People are wondering where you are,” Eliot went on, standing by Brooke’s side.
Brooke glanced up at him. His light brown hair was ruffled and there was a scent of brandy on his breath. If he’d indulged too much, however, it showed neither in his appearance nor his voice. It never did. She had a brief image of how she must look, flanked by two well-dressed, attractive men, and wondered what people would think if they knew how she really felt at the moment. “Are you enjoying the evening?”
“I’d enjoy it more if you were with me.” He bared his teeth in a smile at Miles. “Mustn’t monopolize her, Vandenberg.”
Miles returned the forced courtesy with a nod. “I wouldn’t dream of it, old man. She’s all yours.”
“Oh, honestly!” Brooke broke away from Eliot’s grasp, annoyed with both men. “Was there something you wanted, Eliot? Because I have to go inside to make sure everything’s ready.”
“Er, no.” Eliot’s gaze was so blank it angered her further. “Just wanted to see you, that’s all. Oh, and your aunt thought maybe we could start getting everyone inside.”
“A good idea. Please go and tell them,” she snapped, and, turning on her heel, stalked across the loggia to the glass doors that led inside, leaving the two men to stare at her in bewilderment.
Once inside Brooke blew out her breath, lifting a strand of hair away from her face. Drat, her hair was coming loose again, she thought absently, shoving the strand back into place. Her momentary fit of temper was already passing, as it usually did. It wasn’t fair of her to be angry at Eliot for something that wasn’t his fault. He was what he was, and usually she accepted that. She couldn’t change him, or any of the guests, mortified though she might be by their behavior. Surely someone truly mourned Rosalind; surely many thought the deaths of four young women, whether maids or not, tragic. She had overreacted to one man’s opinion. Her unease remained, however, as she walked into the dining room to check on preparations there. Something was very wrong in her world.
Annie was just laying out silver cutlery in precise rows on the huge mahogany sideboard, under Hutton’s watchful eye, when Brooke walked into the dining room. “Oh, miss! Are the guests coming in so soon?” she exclaimed.
“Ahem.” Hutton cleared his throat. “That’s no way to speak to Miss Cassidy, McKenna.”
“It’s all right, Hutton.” She sent them both a quick, strained smile. She liked Annie, and tonight she felt even closer to her, because of what they had both gone through that morning. “Yes, we’re trying to get them inside now. The circus is too successful, it seems.”
“Then I’ll make sure everything else is ready, miss,” Hutton said, and left the room.
“Phew!” Annie let a heavy silver fork clatter to the table. “Didn’t think I’d do anything right with old fish-eyes there watching me.”
“Annie,” Brooke reproved.
Annie grinned without apology. “Sorry, miss. I don’t mind Mr. Hutton, but it’s been that kind of a day.” Her smile faded. “You all right, miss?”
“Yes, why shouldn’t I be?”
“I can’t stop thinking about—well, you know.”
“Yes, I do know, Annie.” The last of Brooke’s annoyance fled. Now why couldn’t Eliot, or her aunt, for that matter, be concerned about her reactions to what she had seen, rather than treating it as a nuisance? “It will fade.”
“I do hope so, miss.” Annie frowned as she polished the handle of a spoon on her apron, and then set it down. “Miss?”
Brooke, about to return to the Italian Hall, turned. “What?”
“I—oh, nothing.”
Brooke walked back into the room. Annie’s face was troubled, and her brow was creased. “What is it, Annie?”
“Oh, it’s nothing, miss. You’ll think I’m foolish.”
“Maybe I will.” Brooke smiled. “But tell me, anyway. I can see something’s bothering you.”
Annie shot her a brief glance, and then returned her attention to the silverware. “It’s just that—well, I thought I heard someone.”
Brooke frowned. “Someone? I don’t understand.”
“No, miss. But there was a voice tonight I heard before.”
Brooke waited. “So?” she prompted.
“I think I heard it on the Cliff Walk.”
“The Cliff Walk! When?”
Annie set down the silver and looked straight at her. “The night of one of the murders, miss.”
Brooke drew in her breath. “Annie! Were you out there on other nights besides last night?”
“Yes, miss.” Annie wouldn’t meet her gaze. “The night the third girl was killed.”
“Dear heavens. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Thought you’d scold me, miss.”
“You’d have deserved it,” she said sternly. “But what do you mean, you heard a voice? I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I.” The furrows on Annie’s brow deepened. “I didn’t think much of it at the time, you understand, and I’ve been trying to get it clear in my head since. But what I remember is, I was just coming back in. Just got through the gates, as a matt
er of fact, but I didn’t want to go inside yet. So I stayed out by the edge of the lawn. It was a lovely night. Warm, and a lot of stars.”
“I remember.”
“I’d just got there when I heard someone go by on the path. Now I didn’t think anything of that, because there were a lot of people on the cliffs, but he was talking to himself. And what he said was, ‘That’s number three’.”
A chill ran down Brooke’s spine. “You’re sure that’s what he said?”
“Yes, miss, far as I can remember. But I was distracted, see.”
Brooke looked at her from under her brows. “Were you alone, Annie?”
“No, miss.” Annie wouldn’t return Brooke’s gaze. “Sam was with me.”
“Hm. I see. Did he hear the voice?”
“He says not. But he was distracted, too.”
In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Brooke had to fight the urge to smile. “Oh. Are you sure you weren’t imagining things, Annie?”
“No, miss. I’ve gone over it and over it and I’m sure that’s what he said. ‘That’s number three.’ I’d know that voice if I heard it again. Knew it tonight, didn’t I?”
That chill went down Brooke’s spine again. “Tonight?” she said sharply. “Where?”
“Here, miss.” Annie looked up at Brooke, and then quickly away. “It’s one of the guests, miss.”
Chapter 3
“It can’t be!” Brooke exclaimed.
“All I know is what I heard, miss, and I heard that voice again tonight,” Annie said.
“But it doesn’t mean anything.”
“No? Someone walks along the Cliff Walk saying something about the third one on the night the third girl is murdered? It gives me the creeps.”
It gave Brooke the creeps, too. But to think that one of their guests, someone she knew, could be the murderer, was ridiculous. “The murderer is a maniac,” she said, repeating what everyone had been saying over the past few weeks. “Heaven knows why he’s choosing to kill maids, but-”
“Miss Sinclair wasn’t a maid, miss.”
Annie’s words stopped Brooke cold. No, Rosalind hadn’t been a maid. Why, then, had she been dressed as one? And could the killer possibly have known she would be on the Cliff Walk? The thought made that shiver run down her spine again. “Where did she get the maid’s uniform, Annie?”
