A Golden Cage

by Shelley Freydont

  She jumped when she heard steps on the stairs. Lots of steps. It was bound to be the police, come to search Amabelle’s room. And Deanna felt just a soupçon of annoyance that she hadn’t gotten there first. Well, she’d gotten there, just hadn’t had time to search.

  She knew it was wrong, but she couldn’t help it. Hadn’t she helped bring a murderer to justice just a few weeks ago?

  “Is this the room?”

  Will’s voice. Deanna shrunk back, making herself as small as possible in case he thought it necessary to search the linen closet.

  She heard a door open. Will must have stepped inside, because she didn’t hear anything else for several minutes. Deanna tried to breathe as quietly as possible, but to her ears each breath sounded like a hurricane. At last she heard the steps return, then go down the stairs, and she let her breath out in a thankful whoosh. Surely it wouldn’t be long before they let her out.

  But it seemed like forever before Deanna heard the key in the lock. She pushed to her feet, but unfortunately her foot had gone to sleep while she waited in the cramped space, and she fell back on her rear end—a term her mother would never allow her to use—and was sprawled ungracefully on the floor just as the door opened and four faces peered in, then down at her.

  “Get up,” said Noreen.

  “My foot went to sleep.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” said a second man who had joined the two actresses and the man who Deanna recognized as Timothy. “This is your dastardly spy?” He reached down and offered his hand.

  Deanna took it and he hauled her to her feet.

  “There now. Would you like to explain yourself?”

  “Yes,” Deanna said. “Are the police gone?”

  “They left,” Noreen said. “But I wouldn’t put it past them not to be lurking in the bushes waiting to catch us out in something.”

  “Bring her back to your room, Gil. It’s the most secluded.”

  “Not a good idea.” He turned to Deanna. “I’m Gilpatrick Finley. You can call me Gil.” He smiled at Deanna and gestured her to the back of the landing. “But really, the state of Rollie and my digs . . .”

  “Out late,” the other man explained. “Landlady hasn’t had a chance to make the beds.” He stuck out his hand. “Roland Gibbs at your service. My friends call me Rollie. Are you friend or foe?”

  Deanna shook it. “Friend, I hope.”

  “That remains to be seen,” Noreen said. “And I suggest we get out of this hallway and find out just what she’s about.” She huffed out an exasperated sigh. “We can use our room.” She grabbed Deanna by the elbow and muscled her down the hall, where Talia opened the door at the far end. They all crammed into the room.

  It was a small room, not much bigger than the linen closet—or a Bonheur bathroom. The wall was covered with cabbage rose wallpaper. Two twin beds were separated by an oval rag rug, and the room had one window that looked into the windows of the house next door. Beneath the window, a curved-front dresser and a washstand vied for space. On the far side of the bed an upholstered side chair was shoved into the corner.

  Noreen squeezed between the bed and the wall to extricate the chair, and carried it to the center of the room. “Sit,” she ordered Deanna.

  “Prepare yourself for interrogation of the vilest kind,” Gil said in sepulchral tones.

  Deanna wasn’t sure if he was kidding or trying to scare her.

  She sat. Noreen stood before her, fists on her hips. She was pretty in an exotic-actress way, graceful and sure of herself. But she was also physically strong and spoke with such an edge of hardness and mistrust, so at odds with her looks, that Deanna wondered for a moment if she wasn’t acting.

  Actually, they all seemed to be acting. Facing her in a semicircle like judges at an inquisition. Only Talia kept glancing at the door as if she were afraid the police would raid the room and they would all be carted off to jail.

  Or was it something more sinister than that?

  Nonsense, Deanna told herself. She was falling under the allure of the actors and the stage. She had to admit it was energizing.

  Noreen leaned over until her face was inches from Deanna’s. “Now, why are you looking for Belle? What do you know? Why do—”

  “Why don’t you stop asking questions long enough for her to answer one?” Gil suggested, and smiled at Deanna.

  Gil was a handsome man, fine figured, and Deanna thought she recognized him as the head bedouin in last night’s play. Rollie, on the other hand, was medium height, slightly fleshy with dark red hair that was pomaded and combed back from a high forehead. Deanna definitely remembered him as the comic character of “This” and his silly song trying to convice the schoolgirls he was “This” and not “That.”

  “Thank you,” Deanna said, trying to appear refined and confident. She didn’t think she was fooling any of them. They could probably do upper-class snobbery better than she could.

  She sighed. “I’m looking for Belle because I’m worried about her.” No need to say that she may be wanted for murder . . . yet. “Did the police have any idea of where she is?”

  “No, that’s what they wanted to know. Seems she’s disappeared.”

  “They think she killed Ch-Ch—” Talia burst into tears.

  Rollie put his arm around her. “Courage, mon amie.”

  Deanna looked at both of them, still not sure if this was honest emotion or put on for her benefit.

  Well, either way, she would listen and, if need be, would tell them enough to get them to trust her. Whatever she had to do to help Belle.

  “She didn’t kill Charlie,” Noreen said. She narrowed her eyes at Deanna. “Did you know about Charlie?”

  Deanna nodded. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Maybe you should just start at the beginning.”

  They sounded just like characters in one of Deanna’s detective stories.

  “Ama—Belle’s mother is a friend of the people I’m staying with. She asked us to say hello. See how she was.”

  “Try to get her to come home,” Talia said. “We heard all about her parents. And how stifling they were.”

  “We didn’t come to coerce her to go back. I don’t even know her parents. I didn’t even meet Belle until last night.”

  “And she agreed to meet you today? Why?” Noreen asked.

  “She didn’t.”

  “Ha.”

  “Do you want to hear what I have to say and maybe help me find her before she gets hurt?”

  Noreen made a sour face. “Or find her so they can send her to jail.”

  “Stop it!” Talia cried. “Charlie’s dead and maybe Belle did kill him.”

  Deanna’s heart hiccupped.

  Gil grabbed Talia by the shoulders and yanked her to her feet. “You’re getting hysterical. Pull yourself together and be quiet.

  “Now, miss—I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Randolph, Deanna Randolph, but you can call me Deanna.” Deanna gave him her most charming smile.

  It must have worked, because Gil nodded slightly. “Deanna,” he said, drawing out the syllables as if he were savoring them. Then he smiled. “We’ll call you Dee.”

  Deanna took a breath. “Fine. My friends call me Dee.”

  At least they had until recently.

  “Belle came to our house last night,” Deanna continued. “It was very late and she woke the household. She seemed . . . distressed. I took her upstairs and gave her a nightgown and we talked a little about dime novels and what it was like to be an actress, and then my maid took her down to the guest room. It was nearly light by then.”

  Now Deanna hesitated. How much could she tell without impeding Will’s investigation? He hadn’t said anything about keeping the informati
on secret. Of course, it probably didn’t occur to him that she might run into Belle’s colleagues and friends.

  It certainly hadn’t occurred to her.

  “What did W—the police tell you?”

  The four actors frowned at her. Finally Rollie said, “Just that Charlie was dead.” His voice wavered, and Talia slipped her hand into his. “And that they were looking for Belle,” he continued.

  “You must forgive our emotions,” Noreen said.

  Deanna thought Noreen was controlling hers to perfection. But the others seemed genuinely moved. They’re actors, she reminded herself. But didn’t actors have to feel more emotions than ordinary people in order to portray them so well? Still, it wouldn’t do to drop her guard while around them.

  “Later that morning a parlor maid discovered Charlie. He was lying on the floor of the conservatory.” She watched her audience for the slightest hint of recognition. And got none.

  “He’d been bludgeoned to death.” She shouldn’t have said it. She knew better than to divulge the details of a case and take the chance of tipping off the perpetrator, but she also knew the value of shock tactics. And her announcement certainly had shocked them.

  Talia gasped a cry, Rollie covered his face with his hands, Gil turned to look out the window. Only Noreen stood unmoved, except that her face had drained of color, leaving her makeup looking like slashes of paint. “He was a beautiful man,” she said quietly.

  Was. Only now he was barely recognizable as the handsome, laughing young man who had taken Belle to dinner.

  Gil turned from the window. “And they think Belle beat him? With what? She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Charlie could have easily overpowered her.”

  “Did you tell this to the police?”

  “Of course not. We’re educated, sophisticated people, Miss Randolph. We understand more than most why the police look anywhere but the local elite for their miscreants. They’d happily blame one of us for this—we’re outsiders, morally suspect, hated and feared and yet loved and idolized.

  “We won’t be cooperating with them or making it easy in any way to accuse one of our own.”

  “Or with you,” Noreen added, frowning down at Deanna. “I ask you again. What’s your interest?”

  “I’m worried about her. The police don’t—as far as I know—suspect her of murder, but I am concerned for her safety. How do we know that whoever killed Charlie didn’t kill Belle or wants to and is looking for her as we speak?”

  “Wait a minute,” Gil said, striding across the room and coming to stand over Deanna. “The police knew his name was Charlie, but if they came straight here from the scene, how did they know?” He narrowed his eyes at Deanna, and the affably, slightly roguish man became a predator. He turned away, then came back, leaning over her. “They must have learned it from you. How did you know his name was Charlie if you just met Belle last night? Did she tell you about him?”

  Deanna shook her head. “But I recognized him from when we were backstage. He’d come to take her to dinner. She called him Charlie.”

  “Charlie. Charles Withrop,” Gil said.

  “And he was more than a friend,” Talia said. “He was her fiancé.”

  “Talia, that’s enough.” At last Noreen seemed to be losing her sangfroid.

  “Noreen, at least listen to what she has to say.” Rollie shot a hopeful look at Deanna. “If it can help catch Charlie’s murderer and find Belle.”

  Noreen frowned. “If you’re a spy for the coppers . . .”

  “I’m not,” Deanna said. At least she wasn’t officially a spy. But if she learned anything that could help catch the killer, she would be duty bound to tell. She started to say so, then held her piece.

  “Then why are you interested in Belle?”

  Deanna looked down at her hands, which she was glad to see sat quietly in her lap. Calm. At least on the outside. “I thought we might be friends.”

  Noreen cracked a laugh.

  “Why?” Talia asked. “Belle isn’t one of your class anymore. Why would you want to be friends?”

  “I don’t know,” Deanna said. “Why do any two people become friends? Why are you and Noreen friends?”

  “We work together,” Noreen said. “You obviously don’t have to work at all, and you certainly aren’t an actress. How could you and Belle possibly have any common interests as friends and after knowing each other for not even a few hours?”

  “But we do.”

  “And just what is that?”

  “Like I told you, we both like dime novels,” Deanna said, feeling embarrassed and for some reason sad.

  “Well,” Gil said. “I didn’t think ladies read books for the masses.”

  “I do,” Deanna said, beginning to get a little tired of their attitude.

  A knock at the door made them all jump.

  “Noreen, have you seen Rollie and Gil? Edwin wants to see us all downstairs.”

  “I’ll go find them,” Noreen called. “We’ll be down in a minute.” She waited until the footsteps receded. “You’ll have to go now.”

  “But I—”

  “Listen. If the police hold us in town until they find Belle, we’ll lose a huge amount of income. Income none of us can afford to lose. But we can’t discuss this now.”

  “And you can’t stay here by yourself,” Rollie said. “I’ll escort you downstairs.” He offered Deanna his arm. Reluctantly, she took it. She hadn’t learned anything helpful except that this was a very loyal group, so loyal that they might withhold any useful information until it was too late to save Belle Deeks.

  Rollie walked her down the stairs, put his finger to his lips at the bottom of the stairs, and motioned her to stay until he peeked into the parlor. Then he gestured for her to hurry to the door, which Deanna did. And before she knew it, she was back on her bicycle and pedaling toward . . .

  She meant to head south, back to Bonheur, but at the next block she turned west. Joe had said he’d seen Belle at a yacht party. Maybe Belle had returned there today.

  * * *

  Joe stepped out into the bright sunshine and walked down the gangplank to the pier. He took a couple of deep breaths in an attempt to drive the odor and sting of stale whiskey, eggs, and cigars from his person.

  He made his way over to where several of the crew members were now standing on the pier, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and passing around a bottle of Mersey’s whiskey.

  Joe nodded to them and slowed. But he could tell right away they weren’t in a talkative mood. He’d do better to leave them to Will and the head-cracking dock patrol.

  With a final look around he took his bike and rolled it across the wharf to the street.

  Ahead of him a wooden crate leaned precariously against a shipbuilder’s wall. Just as he reached it, it rattled, and Joe made a quick detour away; he was in no mood for rats or feral dogs at this time of day.

  The figure that crawled out was neither rodent nor beast, but a man, ancient, by the looks of him. He slowly unfolded to his feet, where he stood at an angle that complemented the crate.

  He was wearing filthy denim pants held up with a piece of rope and a torn and filthier wool sweater. He squinted at Joe, his nose stuck in the air like he smelled something bad. Most likely himself, because Joe could smell him from where he stood, a combination of stale beer and unwashed body.

  The man stuck out his hand, bony fingers shook either with palsy or to urge Joe into giving him something. Joe reached in his pocket, found a coin, and withdrew his hand. He flashed it open just long enough for the old man to see it but not to grab it and run.

  “Where do you live?” Joe asked.

  “Useta have a room over the shipbuilder’s.”

  “Don’t have it anymore?”

  “Naw. Got my palace right here.” The old man gestured vaguely in the direction of the crate
.

  “So you were sleeping there last night?”

  “Couldn’t hardly sleep with all the gaiety going on down there. Kept me awake nearly to daybreak. How’s a body to sleep with all that racket?”

  He lifted an arm, then let it drop. “Over on them dem floating palaces. All sorts of carousing going on. Every end of week, always something goin’ on at one or t’other of them. Women and liquor. Wouldn’t even give a bit to a man in need.”

  “The one last night kept you awake all night?” Joe asked.

  “Pretty much all night.” The man beetled his eyes at Joe and thrust his chin out so far that Joe was afraid the rest of him would follow it, and he’d end up facedown on the walkway. “Say, why do you want to know? You ain’t with the police, are you?”

  Joe shook his head. “Looking for my sister.”

  “You oughta not let a young girl go all among those gentlemen.” He spit out the last word, letting Joe know what he thought of those gentlemen. “She’ll come to no good, if she ain’t already. And don’t expect them to take care of her. They don’t feel beholden. They just use them and throw them away.”

  He started hobbling away. Joe went after him. “You see anyone fighting? Maybe over a woman?”

  “Nope. Well, yep. Only he wasn’t fighting over her; he was chasing her. Almost got her, too.”

  “Chasing her?”

  “I’m feeling awfully parched, and I get real forgetful when I’m thirsty.”

  Joe shoved his hand into his pocket and brought out a second coin. Went through the same motions he had before. Flashed both coins and closed his fist around them.

  The old man moved closer.

  “Tell me about this man and the woman he was after.”

  “I could remember more if I had something to wet my whistle.”

  Joe shook his head and started to put the coins back in his pocket.

  “Wait. I’m remembering now. Young fella. He wasn’t on the yacht but was waiting outside. Not one of them. First, I thought he was waiting to roll one of them gentlemen when they staggered home, so I kept my eye on him.”

  To demand part of the take, Joe had no doubt.