A Golden Cage

by Shelley Freydont

  Deanna stayed as close on her heels as possible, and they entered what must have been a parlor. Very little light made its way through the dirty windows or the stained glass transept. Not only was the room dark, but there were the odors of mold and rot and camphor.

  A small lamp was lit in a far corner, and Gwen made her way toward it.

  “Brunoria Deeks?” Gwen said in a commanding voice.

  Deanna had no idea whom she was addressing; there didn’t appear to be anyone else in the room.

  “Who’s there?”

  Deanna stepped back.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sakes.” Gwen groped her way across the room and turned the lamp higher.

  “Who’s there? Turn that off. Do you want to drive me to the poorhouse?”

  This was said at a screech, and Deanna’s first response was to cover her ears. She resisted.

  “Mrs. Deeks?” Gwen asked.

  She got no response.

  “Mrs. Deeks,” she said loudly.

  “Eh?”

  The poor old lady was hard of hearing.

  Gwen looked around for another lamp and turned it on, too.

  From the depths of a Queen Anne wing-backed chair came a fat accusing finger. It wagged and pointed first at Gwen, then at Deanna, where it stayed.

  “Gran Gwen?” Deanna squeaked. She’d gotten a glimpse of the woman behind that finger. Corpulent, with thin gray hair covered partially by an old lace cap. Another lamp was lit, and Gwen came to stand in front of the woman who sat there.

  The old lady grabbed the arms of the chair and pulled herself forward, the chair creaking under her shifting weight.

  “Mrs. Deeks?” Gwen practically yelled the name.

  Mrs. Deeks squinted at her and patted the side table until she found a magnifying glass. She held it up toward Gwen and squinted some more, which closed her eyes to mere slits, as her mouth hung open to reveal a set of false teeth.

  “Who wants to know?” she yelled.

  Gwen glanced at Deanna—this had probably been a wasted effort. The woman couldn’t see or hear. And most likely never left the house.

  There was the cloying smell of dead roses in the air, maybe emanating from the lady or from a vase somewhere in the darkness. It was hard to make out any of the furniture pieces much less what the shadowed objects were. Deanna had to fight the instinct to put her hand over her nose.

  At least there were no cats.

  Gwen pulled up a chair and sat on the edge. “I’m Gwendolyn Manon,” she yelled into the woman’s ear.

  “Do I know you?” the old woman yelled back. “Because if I don’t . . .” She fumbled by the side of her chair and retrieved a cane with a curved black handle.

  Gwen gently but efficiently took it from her hand and balanced it against the arm of her chair.

  Deanna was impressed. The old woman barely seemed to know what had happened.

  “We’re looking for you great-niece, Amabelle Deeks.”

  “Don’t know her. I want my tea.”

  As she spoke, the maid who had opened the door stepped through the archway, carrying a heavy tea service. It rattled as she fought to hold it upright while looking for a place to put it. Gwen slid a stack of musty magazines from a coffee table and the girl fairly dropped the tea tray onto the table.

  “Go away now! This lady will pour!”

  The girl curtseyed and walked quickly out of the room. The old woman followed her with her eyes until she was around the corner of the hallway, then she leaned forward to make sure she was really gone.

  “Steals my cookies!” She pointed the finger that had greeted them toward a marble-topped étagère. “They are in there. The bottom cabinet!”

  Gwen fetched them without blinking. Opened the bottom cupboard door and extracted a large rectangular tin, which she placed on top of a small table at Mrs. Deeks’s elbow.

  “Shall I open them for you?” Gwen yelled.

  “I can hear you just fine. Stop blasting my ear.” Mrs. Deeks reached greedily for the tin, pried it open, but instead of taking a cookie or offering it to Gwen and Deanna, she held it toward them. “See! It was practically full two days ago. That maid steals them. Like I don’t feed her enough. The hotel sends down my meals and she about starves me, so she can have ’em herself.”

  Mrs. Deeks looked like she was far from starving.

  “And my newspapers. She can’t read; I don’t know why she’s gotta mess up my newspapers. Can’t get anybody decent to do for you these days.”

  It wasn’t hard to understand why no one wanted to work for Mrs. Deeks.

  “Anything silver or gold she can lay her hands on, it’s gone. I’ll be a pauper by the time she’s finished with me.”

  “If she’s stealing from you, why don’t you let her go?” Gwen said in an almost normal voice.

  “What?” the old woman yelled. She took a cookie for herself, put the tin back on the table, and replaced the lid. Evidently she was not going to share her cookies or her tea with her guests.

  “I told her I was going to tell the police. But I wouldn’t let them in. Can’t have them tromping all over the carpet.”

  “You summoned the police on her?”

  “No. Didn’t have to. They came. The girl was carrying on and crying so, I didn’t let ’em in. But if it happens again, I will.”

  “How long has this been going on?” Gwen asked, cutting a look toward Deanna.

  “Since just after she came here. Must be two weeks, two months, three. I don’t know; lose track of time, since I never get out.”

  “Why don’t you get out?” Gwen asked.

  “Where would I go?”

  Gwen suppressed a sigh. “Can you tell me if you’ve seen Amabelle recently?”

  “Don’t know her.”

  “She is your nephew’s daughter.”

  “Him!” She said it as if Gwen had asked her to say a bad word. “I remember. He married that girl, what’s her name? Roslyn. Rose something.”

  “Rosalie.”

  “Beneath him. A penniless orphan who didn’t know how to keep her place.”

  “They had a daughter.”

  “Had several. Got no use for any of them. Do they ever come to see me? The devil with them.”

  She picked up her teacup with a palsied hand.

  “I believe Amabelle was the youngest,” Gwen persisted.

  “The one that ran off to become an actress! Just like her mother. Spends the Deeks fortune and has no loyalty.”

  “She’s appearing this week in Newport with a theatrical troupe.”

  “Don’t want to know about it. Unchristian harlots, every one of them.”

  “Has she been to visit you?”

  “Would have thrown her out if she did. Don’t want the likes of her in my house. I’d send her packing before she knew which way was out.”

  Gwen stood. “Thank you for your time; enjoy your tea. Deanna, are you ready?”

  Deanna nodded; more than ready, she hadn’t even bothered to sit. She practically ran for the door and away from that cloying scent and awful old woman.

  The maid must have been standing in the foyer, because she met them at the door, looking frightened.

  Gwen nodded and smiled at her. “What’s your name?”

  “Li-Lilbeth, madam.”

  “Well, Lilbeth, Mrs. Deeks says you’re stealing from her.”

  “Madam. On my oath. I never took nothing of the old lady’s. She eats the cookies and forgets she ate them. She misplaces things. I find them and put them back, but she don’t remember. Please, madam. I’m not a thief.”

  “How old are you, Lilbeth?”

  The maid didn’t answer.

  “You know you should be in school, not working for a few pennies from this disagreeable old woman.”


  Lilbeth hung her head.

  “How much does Mrs. Deeks pay you?”

  “A dollar fifty a week, ma’am.”

  “And you sleep at home?”

  “I just come in days.”

  “You promise me you have never stolen from Mrs. Deeks?”

  Lilbeth nodded vigorously. “I promise. I never did. I didn’t eat her cookies or any of the food what the hotel brought, and I didn’t steal anything, not even a penny, I didn’t mess with her newspaper or nuthin’. Oh, and I don’t want to go to jail.”

  “You won’t go to jail if you’re telling the truth.”

  Lilbeth sketched a fast cross over her chest.

  Gwen nodded. “Then you bring your mother around to my house on your day off, and we’ll see if something can be arranged for bettering your position in life.”

  “Me and my ma?”

  “Yes, you and your mother. Here’s the address.” Gwen handed Lilbeth a card. Not her normal visiting card that had only her name on it, but a card of about the same size, complete with address and telephone number.

  She reached back into her purse and pulled out a dollar, which she pressed into the girl’s hand. The girl’s eyes widened, then she bounced on her heels twice, said “Thank you, missus,” and ran to open the door.

  “Don’t forget, Lilbeth. On your next day off.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The door closed.

  “Well, that was a waste,” Gwen said as they made their way back to the street. “Unless that was an act to keep us from finding the girl.”

  “Do you think it could be that? I can’t imagine Amabelle staying in that house, but I did wonder when she said the maid was stealing things.”

  “I don’t know, but I really feel we’ve done enough to help Amabelle Deeks. She’ll just have to make the next move.”

  “If she’s still alive.”

  A breeze ruffled through the tree branches, setting a chill to the air. Deanna looked back at the neglected house. “How can she live in that airless place? I wanted to open every window.”

  “She’s clearly not healthy, and the neglect has made her cantankerous.”

  “But she’s driven everyone away.”

  “I suppose.”

  Another breeze ruffled the leaves, stronger this time. “I do believe it’s going to rain. Come, I’m for home and a respectable tea.”

  Deanna couldn’t agree more, but she had to look back one more time. Was the old woman watching them from one of those darkened windows? Because Deanna definitely felt something crawling up her spine. But not a sound or a movement came from the old house. Every door and window was sealed—like a tomb, Deanna thought—except for one tiny, forgotten dormer window, raised just enough for the dingy curtains to dance through the opening. A last, forgotten symbol of hope.

  Or a flag of surrender.

  Deanna shivered.

  Gwen took her arm and together they hurried toward the waiting carriage. As soon as the carriage started up, Gwen put her head back and closed her eyes.

  “Depressing,” she said. “No old person should be left alone to end their life like that. And no young person should start theirs like Lilbeth.”

  “Will you really help her?”

  “But of course, if she and her mother are willing. I lend a hand here and there as I might. Save one or two from working and breeding themselves to an early death.”

  * * *

  Laurette’s overnight valise was sitting near the front door when Gwen and Deanna arrived home.

  “Dear me, I hadn’t realized it was so late,” Gwen said. “Tea at once, Carlisle, for Miss Deanna, and I’ll have a spot of sherry.”

  “Very well, Madame. Mrs. Ballard is in the parlor at the moment.” The butler bowed and disappeared down the hallway.

  Gran Gwen immediately went into the parlor, drawing off her gloves, then unpinning her hat. Deanna didn’t know whether to follow or go to her room, so she followed. She was interested if Laurette had found out any more about her missing diamonds.

  Laurette was sitting on the settee. Her son was pacing in the space in front of the mantel. Laurette cast an exasperated look to her mother.

  “Well, Joseph. What a nice surprise,” Gwen said, sailing into the room. “Deanna and I were out for a drive and I do believe there’s a storm brewing.”

  Joe turned, and the storm brewing was in his eyes. Now what was he mad about? Why didn’t he just keep himself and his bad mood in the Fifth Ward and leave them alone?

  Though it was his house, Deanna reminded herself. Still, why couldn’t he just be civil?

  “What is going on here?” he asked without a word of greeting. “I come home to find my mother packing, my grandmother and”—he gestured in Dee’s direction—“driving about looking for a thief and possibly a murderer.”

  “I take it you told him about the diamonds,” Gwen said to Laurette, ignoring her grandson completely.

  “I was given the third degree,” Laurette said, her eyes twinkling at Joe.

  “Do you three realize the danger you could be in?”

  “Surely it’s over for us,” Gwen said. “Charlie was killed, and Amabelle must have taken the jewels the first night she was here. And there’s the end to our involvement.”

  “How can you know for sure? Mama, it’s time to leave for the ferry. I’ll drop you on my way.”

  “Yes, dear, thank you.”

  He nodded brusquely. “I’ll be waiting at the carriage. I’ll be back in time for dinner.” He shot a defiant glance at Gwen. “And I’ll be staying at Bonheur until my father returns.” He strode out of the room, and if the doors at Bonheur hadn’t been so heavy, Deanna was sure they would have slammed behind him.

  “Oh dear,” Gwen said. “What was that all about?”

  “Poor thing,” Laurette said. “Twice now he’s—he and Deanna—have aided Will in an investigation, and he’s falling behind in his own work because of it. He’s frustrated over some mechanical problem that he hasn’t had time to fix. He’s worried about the safety of his family. And confused about . . . some other things. Don’t be too hard on him while I’m gone.”

  “Well, if he’s going to dash about like a madman the whole time, you’d better make this a very short trip.”

  Chapter

  12

  True to his word, Joe was sitting at the table when Deanna entered the breakfast room the next morning. He was drinking coffee and scribbling in a notebook. Gran Gwen was eating toast and reading a folded newspaper. But the first thing that Deanna noticed was . . .

  “There are two letters for you, dear.” Gran Gwen smiled, a sort of “prepare yourself for battle” kind of smile. Deanna only glanced at the silver salver and its contents before she crossed to the buffet and served herself eggs, ham, and toast. Not that she was hungry anymore.

  Knowing a letter from her mother had come drove away all desire to eat, or converse, or think. Better to get it over with.

  Carlisle poured her coffee, and Deanna picked up the two letters, one from her mother and another from Adelaide. She’d save that one for last. She opened the one from her mother and scanned the words, looking for the phrase “returning home.” Then sighed with relief when she couldn’t find it anywhere in the missive. It was just another list of her complaints about the hotel, the food, the doctors, the transportation, the country. It seemed like there was nothing about Geneva that her mother liked.

  Deanna thought it sounded wonderful, with its chocolate for breakfast and its clear, cold lakes and quaint houses. The way Adelaide described her few outings under the chaperonage of the institute staff made Deanna want to see it for herself.

  She folded the page and reached for the other letter.

  Joe stood. “If you ladies will excuse me, I have some work to do. I’ll be in the library.”

  That made D
eanna look up. “Aren’t you going down to the warehouse?”

  “Not this morning. I want to work on some design ideas; working here will be fine.”

  “Oh.” She would have asked him about what he was working on, but he was already striding out of the room, stopping long enough to kiss his grandmother on the cheek, and then he was gone.

  “I’m hoping,” Gran Gwen said, “that a few days back at Bonheur will make him realize that he can live here and still keep the warehouse without living on the premises.”

  “I think he likes living down there.”

  “I do, too. Though I don’t see how he could. No hot water, no real tub, the heat an afterthought, an uncomfortable peasant bed, and . . .” She shrugged. “I may be spoiled. But I find nothing about that way of living appealing.”

  Neither did Deanna.

  She nibbled at her toast while she read Adelaide’s letter.

  “And how do they fare?” Gran Gwen asked when Deanna had finished reading.

  “Mama is still complaining, and Adelaide . . .” She paused. “It’s strange, but Adelaide sounds like a different person. I guess there was an argument between her doctor and Mama, and the doctor won. But it made Adelaide sick, and he said to her that he would cure her of her mama. What do you think he meant?”

  Gran Gwen looked at the ceiling. “I have no idea.”

  “And she also says she hasn’t worn a corset in two weeks. Evidently it is one of the many institute rules.” Deanna laughed. “My sister. Can you imagine? And she sounds happy. She also says to please not tell Mama. As if I ever would.”

  “Good. Maybe the change is just what she needed.”

  Gwen went back to the newspaper, and Deanna finished her breakfast.

  “Hmmph,” Gwen said, and slapped the paper on the table.

  “Bad news, ma’am?”

  “No particular news at all. I suppose it’s too early for reportage from Judge Grantham’s case. Rather a big to-do I gather.

  “He’s bound to be returning to Newport as soon as he pronounces sentence. No one wants to be in the city at this time of year. I just hope Will has a suspect to parade in front of him. Quentin said the Judge put it to the new police chief to find the culprit and send the actors back to New York and do it before the regatta next week. What are you planning for today?”