by Mary Kruger
“We’re here to work, not gawk,” Matt snapped. “Pay attention.”
“Sorry, Cap,” Charlie said, sounding not at all contrite.
“Miss Cassidy,” Hutton said, and, across the room, a girl in a blue dress with enormous sleeves, perched precariously on a stepladder high above the marble floor, turned to look at them. Her face went white, and the mask she held, suspended by velvet ribbons, slipped from her fingers to shatter on the marble floor. “Miss Cassidy!”
“Miss, are you all right?” the maid who was holding the ladder chimed in.
“Matt.” She stayed where she was, and for a moment there was taut silence. “You’re here about the murder.”
“Miss Cassidy.” Matt acknowledged her with an expressionless face, though Charlie glanced at him curiously. He was acutely aware of where he was, and who he was. Five years ago, in what seemed like another lifetime, he had looked on this girl almost as a sister. Now she was one of the cottagers, and more than her position lay between them. “We’d like to talk to you.”
Gathering her voluminous skirts, Brooke scurried down from the ladder. All morning she had been expecting this, since the news of the body found on the Cliff Walk had spread through the house, stunning everybody. Another murder. Dear heavens. Would it never end? “Of course. I imagine you’ll want to speak to everyone in the house.”
Matt inclined his head. “We do.”
Brooke nodded. How she was holding on to her composure, she wasn’t certain. “Hutton, will you see to it?”
“Do you know these—gentlemen—miss?” Hutton said.
“Yes.” Oh, yes. How strange to see Matt after all this time, and here, of all places. He was from another time, when their fathers had been partners on the Newport police force. She hadn’t been a cottager than, but a townie, living an ordinary life in Newport’s Fifth Ward. Returning here every summer since was strange. Once it had been home; now she was an outsider and her old friends were uncomfortable with her. Including, apparently, Matt. Of course she knew he had become a cop. It was a natural choice of occupation for a policeman’s son. “Hutton, please gather the staff together and explain what is happening.”
“What of Mr. and Mrs. Olmstead, miss?”
“I’ll talk with them.”
“Very well, miss.” His back ramrod straight, the butler turned and stalked out of the room.
Brooke blew out her breath, lifting a strand of hair off her forehead. “I’m sorry about the confusion around here. There’s a party tonight, and—but you don’t want to hear about that.” She turned to the man standing next to Matt, looking about with unabashed curiosity. “And you are-?”
“Sergeant Sweeney, miss.” He smiled at her. “This is some place.”
“It’s not much, but we call it home,” she murmured, the corners of her mouth tilting. “Please, gentlemen, sit down.” She indicated the chairs grouped on the Persian rug in the center of the room.
“Miss?” a voice said behind her. She turned to see Annie, the maid who had been helping her decorate before the arrival of the police. “Should I clean up the mask?”
“The mask?” Brooke looked down at the shards of porcelain littering the floor. “Oh, dear. Aunt Winifred will have kittens. Yes, clean it up, Annie, and then you can get on with your other tasks. I am sorry,” she said again, turning to Matt. “We’re all at sixes and sevens today. Please, sit. Would you like something to drink?”
Matt looked at the gilt and satin chair she indicated and then sat, rather gingerly, as if afraid it wouldn’t hold him. Charlie showed no such fear, sitting solidly and flipping open his notebook. “No, thank you. We’re on duty.”
Brooke sat across from them, her feeling of unreality deepening. In the old days, the good days, her father had sometimes discussed his cases with her. Now she was the one being questioned. “Of course.”
“Now.” Matt frowned at his notebook. “Miss Cassidy.”
“Matt.” The distance between them hurt. “We’ve known each other too long to be so formal.”
“As you wish. Miss—Brooke. Have you noticed anyone missing from the staff?”
“Oh, Gawd!” Annie exclaimed, the dustpan falling with a clatter.
Brooke jumped, her hand going to her throat. “You think she’s—one of ours?”
“We haven’t identified the body yet.”
“Oh. Is it the same as the others?”
“Looks that way.”
“Oh, dear. Do you have any idea who did it?”
Matt grunted, a sound that could mean anything. “Where were you last night?”
“I was at Wakehurst with my aunt, for a musicale, and I believe Uncle Henry was at a meeting of the Casino board.”
“We’ll want to talk with them later. What time did you get home?”
“Rather early. Around eleven.”
Matt looked up from his notebook. “That’s early?”
Brooke lifted her chin at the note of criticism in his voice. “Actually, yes. I found it too warm for sleeping, though, so I went onto the second-floor loggia for a time.”
“Mm-hm.” He noted that down. “It overlooks the Cliff Walk, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.”
At that he looked up, his eyes so piercing that she was glad she wasn’t guilty of anything. He would surely discover it if she were. “Did you hear anything?”
“Not out of the ordinary, no. But then, so many people use the Cliff Walk.”
“Mm-hm.” Matt looked down at his notebook, formulating his next question. “Have you—what the-!” He stopped, staring outside, as a man in leotards flew into the air, executed a perfect somersault, and then descended from view. “What is going on?”
“Who? Oh.” In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Brooke smiled. “My aunt’s party.” She waved her hand in dismissal. “It’s a circus.”
Matt looked at her from under his brows. “Apparently.”
“No, I mean it literally. I’m sorry, I should explain. You see, my aunt wants tonight to be special. After all, it’s our housewarming. Up until last week we had an indoor garden party planned, with trees in tubs, turf and a stream. All quite standard.”
Matt and Charlie exchanged quick looks. “Quite.”
“But Aunt Winifred thought it sounded boring. Where she ever got the idea of a circus!” Brooke reached up to brush a strand of hair away from her face, and his gaze fastened on her hand. It was as white, and as soft-looking, as the victim’s. Matt’s uneasiness grew. “I can’t tell you what I’ve gone through, getting the tents for the midway and finding entertainment at such short notice. But you don’t want to hear about that.”
“Only if it matters to the case.” He paused. “Why are you doing the work, and not your aunt?”
Brooke stiffened. “I act as her social secretary.”
“Oh.” There were a number of things he could say to that, but this wasn’t the time. “Now, as we were saying. You heard nothing suspicious last night?”
“No, nothing.”
Matt turned to Annie, who had long ago given up any pretense of cleaning, and was listening avidly. “What about you?”
“Me, sir?”
“Yes, you.”
Annie shrank back against the wall. “N-nothing, sir.”
Brooke turned to look at her. “Annie, do you know anything about this?”
Annie’s hands twisted together. “Oh, miss, I didn’t do anything wrong, I swear.”
“No one is saying you did. Were you out last night?”
“No. Yes.”
“Well? Which is it?” Matt said crisply.
Brooke gave him a look. “My aunt has a rule about servants going out without permission. Especially if they’re not alone. You won’t lose your job, Annie,” she said reassuringly. “Who were you with?”
Annie stared at the floor. “Sam, miss.”
“Sam?” Matt said.
“Sam Thompson. He’s a footman at Bealieu. We’re keeping company,” she added, defiant
ly.
“On the Walk, Annie?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you see anything?”
“No, sir, nor heard nothing, neither. We went down to the Forty Steps.” She glanced quickly over at Brooke. “There was a sort of party there.”
Matt nodded. He was well aware that servants from the cottages often met at the Forty Steps, the steep stone staircase that led from the Cliff Walk down to treacherous rocks and pounding surf. As a patrolman, he’d been called to disturbances there more than once. “When was this?”
“Around midnight.”
“Hm.” Matt leaned back, rubbing his chin. “We don’t know the time of death yet, but...”
“The murder had to happen after that,” Brooke said. “The body was found between the Forty Steps and our gate.”
“Hm?” Matt gave her a look. “Yes, looks that way. Who else might have seen something last night?”
“I don’t know, Matt. I haven’t heard of anything. But then, our staff wants to keep their jobs.”
“Anything they tell me will be kept private unless it’s necessary to the investigation.” He frowned. “Would your aunt really fire people for going out?”
“No. She’d make me do it.”
“Nice lady. Well.” He stood up. “I’ll want to talk to the staff.”
“Of course. You won’t keep them too long, will you?”
“If there’s someone who knows something, we’ll have to.”
“But everyone’s so busy, with the party-” She stopped herself. Living as a cottager, sometimes she got so caught up in the social world that she forgot what really mattered. “Forgive me. Of course this is more important. Aunt Winifred won’t be pleased about this,” she added under her breath.
“Detective.” A patrolman appeared at the glass door leading from the loggia. “The medical examiner’s here.”
“I’ll be right there.” Matt flipped his notebook shut. “Anything else you can think of to tell me?”
“No.” Brooke shook her head. “But I’ll get in touch with you if I do.”
“Sir?” Annie said, her voice hesitant, and Matt turned. “Who was it?”
“We don’t know. Is anyone missing from the staff here?”
Brooke and Annie exchanged a look. “Not that I know of, but I’d have to check with Mrs. Smith to be certain. Dear heavens.” Brooke walked with them to the glass doors leading out to the loggia overlooking the lawn, Annie following behind. “I hope not.”
“How well do you know the staff in the other houses, Annie?” Charlie said, speaking for the first time since the interview had started.
“Pretty good, sir.” She swallowed, hard. “You mean—you think it might be someone I know.”
“Would you mind taking a look to see?” Matt asked gently.
She swallowed again. “No. I suppose not.”
“Matt,” Brooke protested. “Is this necessary?”
“We need to find out who it is,” Matt said.
“Then I’m coming with you.”
Annie turned a grateful look on her. “Thank you, miss.”
“It’s not necessary, Brooke.”
“Annie is a friend.” Brooke’s chin was set at a determined angle. “Of course I’ll come with her.”
“A friend?”
Brooke glared at him. “Yes. A friend.”
“Fine.” Matt turned away. “It won’t take long.”
“Well, then, let’s go.” Brooke turned away, her back very straight and her head held high, Annie behind her. Wondering just when control of the interview had slipped away from him, Matt followed.
“I’m proud of you, Cap,” Charlie muttered as they crossed the lawn again, behind the two women. “You didn’t lose your temper this time. Maybe you’ll keep your job, after all.”
“I told you. We’ve had a lucky break.”
“What?”
“Miss Cassidy.”
“How do you know her, Cap? She’s a lady from the ground up.”
“So?”
“So I thought you didn’t have nothing to do with the cottagers.”
“She’s Michael Cassidy’s daughter.”
Charlie stopped dead. “Big Mike Cassidy?”
Brooke looked around at them. “Did I hear my name?”
“You’re Big Mike Cassidy’s daughter?”
Brooke’s smile was strained. “Yes.”
“Jeez!” Charlie looked back at the house. “How did you end up here?”
“My aunt and uncle took me in after my parents died.” She slowed as they walked through the huge gates onto the Cliff Walk. “Is that—her?”
Matt looked past her. Beyond the rope barricades, a stretcher held a blanket-wrapped bundle. Nearby the medical examiner, his old-fashioned Prince Albert coat buttoned to his throat, wrote something in a notebook. The crowd of bystanders had increased, while reporters scribbled down their stories. “Yes. Wait here for a moment. Dr. Chandler.” The man looked up as Matt came forward, and slid his glasses up to his forehead. “Sorry to make you wait. Anything to tell me?”
“Death was by strangulation, but you know that.” The medical examiner’s voice boomed out as he lifted a corner of the blanket and looked down at the stretcher. “Hard to say time of death for certain, but I’d put it around midnight. I’ll know more after the autopsy.” He looked down again, and then lowered the blanket. “Any idea who she is?”
Matt looked back at Annie and Brooke, and then stepped closer, his voice pitched low enough so that the onlookers couldn’t hear. The look on Dr. Chandler’s face turned from professional interest to surprise at whatever Matt was saying, and he glanced over at the two girls. “They’re talking about us, miss,” Annie said. “Do they think one of us did it?”
“Don’t be foolish,” Brooke said sharply, though she longed to know what they were saying. “Of course they don’t.”
“I’m sorry I agreed to this, miss. Do you think, if I go back to the house-”
“I’m here, Annie. Nothing’s going to happen to you.”
“I’ve never seen a dead person before. Not one that’s not laid out proper, that is.”
“It will be all right, Annie.” Brooke shifted from foot to foot. The attention of the crowd seemed to be divided between her and the body, with the reporters calling out questions that she ignored. She, too, wished she were back in the safety of Belle Mer.
“Well, could be that way.” Dr. Chandler’s voice boomed out again. Putting his glasses in his jacket pocket, he held out his hand to Matt and then ducked under the rope, held high by the patrolman on guard. “I’ll let you know as soon as the autopsy’s done. Ladies.” He nodded to Brooke and Annie as he passed them, and walked to his buggy, waiting in the street.
It was their turn now. Brooke could see it in Matt’s face. “Annie. If you’ll just come this way,” he said.
Annie turned to her, her face pleading. “Oh, miss.”
“I’m right here with you, Annie.”
“You don’t have to come, Brooke.” Matt blocked her way. “It’s not a pretty sight.”
“She needs me.” Brooke brushed past him and caught up with Annie, now standing by the stretcher. “I’m here, Annie.”
“Oh, miss-”
“Whenever you’re ready,” Charlie said quietly. He stood by the stretcher as well, and Annie looked from him to Brooke. Then her head rose, and she nodded.
Charlie lifted the blanket away from the top of the stretcher, disclosing what lay beneath. “Oh, Gawd!” Annie exclaimed, throwing her hands in front of her face and breaking into noisy tears. “It’s awful.”
“Do you know her?” Matt said urgently.
“Oh, Gawd, oh, Gawd, I wish I never looked. Oh, Gawd!”
“Do you know her?”
“I never seen her before in my life. Oh, Miss Cassidy. Miss Cassidy?”
Brooke stepped back, feeling the color drain from her face. Sounds reached her dimly, as if from a very great distance. It was awful. Her k
nees too rubbery to support her, she sank down onto a rock at the edge of the cliff, as far from the stretcher as she could get. It wasn’t a maid who had been killed. It wasn’t a maid at all. Dear God, this was worse than she could ever have imagined.
“Brooke?” Matt stood before her, and she looked up. “What is it?”
“I know her.”
“What?” He crouched down.
“I know her. Dear God.” She closed her eyes, trying to shut out what she had just seen, knowing she would remember it forever. “It’s Rosalind Sinclair.”
Chapter 2
The Flying Bellissima Brothers had performed their acrobatics, to the delight and approval of all the guests. Moths and other insects flew at the fairy lights that illuminated the circus tents, where guests in evening gowns from Worth or well-tailored dinner jackets from Brooks Brothers flitted, gawking at the fortune-teller, the juggler, the games of chance; munching on peanuts, sipping pink lemonade and having a grand time. Inside the house, the orchestra, set up on the second-floor gallery of the Italian Hall, was tuning up, while in the dining room the staff was laying out a supper to tempt even the most jaded appetite. All in vain. On this warm summer night, the guests at Belle Mer’s housewarming party could not be persuaded inside, away from the novelty of a circus, or the more lurid attraction of a genuine murder scene.
Brooke stood on the loggia, several steps up from the lawn, looking out over the scene, a part of the party in her evening gown of azure faille and silver lace, and yet very much removed from it all. It was how she had felt far too often in the past five years, but it was more pronounced now. Try though she might, she couldn’t join in the festive merrymaking below her. What she had seen and done earlier that day stayed very much on her mind.
“Brooke, how could you?” Aunt Winifred had wailed, her blue eyes huge and reproachful. “To identify a dead body is just not done.”
