Death on the Cliff Walk

by Mary Kruger

  Charlie looked away. “I don’t know if I can, Cap. Tripp won’t give me the time of day, never mind let me know what’s going on.”

  “You’ll hear things, though, Charlie.”

  “Yeah, I will. But I don’t know, Cap-”

  “Look. We both know Tripp’s not going to solve this thing. That means he’ll still be out there, Charlie. Whoever did the killings is still out there.”

  Charlie looked off into the distance. “I’ll let you know what’s going on, Cap,” he said finally, “but on the quiet. If it gets out that I’m talking to you, we’ll both be in trouble.”

  Matt nodded. It was one thing jeopardizing his own career; it was another to ask Charlie to jeopardize his. That didn’t allay the strange sense of urgency he felt, however. He didn’t think they’d heard the last of the Cliff Walk Killer. “All right, Charlie. We’ll work it out so no one will know.”

  “Yeah. Good. Listen, Cap, I’ve got to get back.”

  “I know.” Matt held out his hand. “Been a pleasure working with you, sergeant.”

  “An honor working with you, detective.” The two men shook hands and then Matt turned away, mounting his bicycle again and riding off. Where he would go, he didn’t know. He only knew that the case, and his part in solving it, wasn’t done yet.

  The air was sultry, humid, heavy. Brooke blew a strand of hair out of her face and wished that the high boned collar of her dress weren’t quite so constricting. She tugged at it as she slipped through the gates that led from the grounds of Belle Mer to the Cliff Walk. At least there was a damp breeze off the water here, ruffling her hair and stirring her skirts. Brooke stood still, taking in deep breaths of the pungent, salty scent, and feeling as if she’d just escaped from prison.

  Uncle Henry was safe. She had helped prove conclusively that, not only had he had nothing to do with the Farrell woman’s murder, but that he wasn’t involved in the Cliff Walk killings, either. The cost, however, was high. Society delighted in scandal. When it was thought that Uncle Henry was a murderer, the Olmsteads had been shunned. Now that it was proved that he was merely a philanderer, people were visiting in droves. Allegedly they called to offer commiseration, but Brooke wasn’t fooled. She had seen avid curiosity in too many eyes in the past to believe words of sympathy now. Since Aunt Winifred was, for the most part, still prostrate from shock, Brooke had had no qualms about telling Hutton not to admit any visitors.

  Thankfully, the flow of visitors had dwindled to a trickle. It was mid-afternoon, time for the daily promenade on Bellevue Avenue and the Ocean Drive. That meant the Cliff Walk and the rocky shore were empty, except for a few fishermen in the bay, checking their lobster pots. Today was the first time she’d walked here since—since seeing Rosalind’s body. Amazing to think that had been less than a week ago, so much had happened since. And yet, the image of what she had seen remained sharp and clear, as if Rosalind’s body still lay on the bend in the path, crumpled and still...

  A foot appeared in her vision. Gasping, Brooke jerked her head up. A man stood there, silhouetted against the sky, perhaps the murderer, come to gloat over his victim—but no, it was only her imagination, playing tricks on her. It was Matt who stood there. Only Matt.

  They stood staring at each other for a moment, and then he glanced away. “Hello, Brooke.”

  “Matt,” she said, equally polite, though a thousand questions crowded into her mind. What was he doing here? “I—it doesn’t look as if anything ever happened here, does it? There’s not a trace of it.”

  Matt glanced down, and she wondered if he were seeing the same image she was. “No.” He looked back up. “Are you all right, Brooke?”

  “Yes.” She straightened. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “And your aunt and uncle?”

  “What do you expect?” She allowed bitterness to creep into her voice. “Uncle Henry hasn’t stirred from his hothouse since he came home, and Aunt Winifred has locked herself in her room. Except for when we first came home and she quarreled with my uncle.”

  “I’m sorry.” Hands thrust into his pockets, he turned, looking out to sea. “I didn’t want to disrupt your life, but-”

  “But you did,” she said crisply. “What do you want here, Matt? Hoping to find another victim?”

  “No. God, no.” He shook his head. “I’ve been taken off the case, Brooke.” At her silence, he looked up. “That doesn’t surprise you, does it.”

  “No, not really. I remember what happens when a policeman annoys the wrong people. My father did it once or twice.”

  “I’ve been suspended, Brooke.” He looked out to sea again. “I’m not only off the case, but I’m off the force.”

  Brooke reached out her hand, and then pulled it back. He was no longer any friend of hers. “Surely not forever?”

  “Probably.”

  “What will you do?”

  Matt shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t expect this-”

  “Well, you should have!” she exclaimed, anger boiling up within her. “It was criminal of you to arrest the wrong man.”

  “And of course everyone knows that a man in your uncle’s position couldn’t commit such a sordid crime.”

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it! How could you have made such a mistake, Matt? My father once told me that after a while he could tell if someone was guilty. How could you think my uncle-”

  “There was evidence, dammit!”

  “What, a cuff link? Have you found anything else that links him to the Farrell woman? Have you?”

  “No, dammit, but whoever’s doing the killing has to be stopped.”

  “So you let that pressure you into arresting the wrong man? Matt, how could you? When you had to know my uncle had nothing to do with it.”

  “How could I know that? The evidence was there, Brooke. I didn’t like it anymore than you, but it was there. The fact that he prefers maids, his inability to tell us his whereabouts, he’s left-handed, the roses-”

  “The roses?” Brooke said, when he didn’t go on.

  “Nothing,” he said, waving his hand in dismissal.

  “No, it’s not nothing,” she persisted at the look on his face. “You meant something by that.”

  He turned away. “I can’t tell you.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t, Matt Devlin!” This time she did reach out to him, clutching at his sleeve. “What do roses have to do with this?”

  Matt looked down at her hand, and very carefully pulled away. “Dammit. Will you forget I said anything?”

  “No.” She crossed her arms on her chest. “I think you owe me an explanation, Matt.”

  “Brooke.” He rubbed his finger across his mustache. “All right. There was a rose found by every body on the Cliff Walk. There was also one at Nellie Farrell’s house.”

  Brooke frowned. “I don’t understand. Roses are common enough in the summer.”

  “This was a special rose. An American Beauty rose.” He hesitated. “Like the ones your uncle grows.”

  Brooke drew in her breath, remembering the other night, when Matt and Uncle Henry had gone off together to the conservatory. “So that’s why you were asking about roses.”

  “Yes. Brooke, I want you to keep this to yourself.”

  “But, Matt, other people grow American Beauty roses.”

  “Other people didn’t have other evidence against them.” His eyes met hers, grave and solemn. “I made a mistake, Brooke. I was eager to solve the case and I moved too fast. But the evidence was there.”

  “I wonder...”

  “What?”

  Brooke’s brow furrowed in thought. “If there were such strong evidence, could someone have perhaps manufactured it?”

  “I thought of that.”

  “And?”

  “What can I do about it now?” His voice was bitter. “I’m off the case, remember?”

  “But whoever’s taken it over-”

  “Detective Tripp? Ha. He can’t see beyond the end of his nose
.”

  “Then why in the world has he been given the case?”

  “Because he won’t offend anyone.” Matt jammed his hands in his pockets. “Do me a favor. Don’t mention the roses to anyone. We want to keep that secret.”

  “I must admit this is the first I’ve heard of it. Or that the murderer’s left-handed.”

  “Damn.” Matt turned. “Did I say that, too?”

  “Another secret?”

  “Yes.”

  “I won’t tell anyone.” The breeze whipped at her skirts, and she looked up at the sky, dark with heavy, threatening-looking clouds. “If the new detective is as bad as you say, the murders may never be solved.”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

  “Matt.” She paused. “If someone set up the evidence against my uncle, it has to be someone I know.”

  “Don’t think of it!” Matt swung toward her. “Don’t even think of doing anything on your own.”

  “But I can help! Look what I found out, about the missing maid’s uniform, and what Annie heard on the Cliff Walk, and where my uncle actually was-”

  “No! Dammit, Brooke, this person has already killed five times. Do you want to be the sixth?”

  “N-no.” She stared at him. “You think it might come to that?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d be careful.”

  “No, Brooke.” His face was stony. “If you keep on with this, I’ll see to it that you’re put into protective custody.”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  “Don’t try me, Brooke.”

  She turned away, biting her lip. He’d do it. Of that she had no doubt, and it meant she was powerless. There wasn’t anything she could do to restore safety to her world. It was a terrifying thought. “It looks like rain. I’d better go in.”

  “Brooke.” His voice stopped her as she began to turn, and her eyes met his, serious and as brooding as the lowering sky. “I don’t want anything happening to you. You do know that?”

  “Yes.” This time, she forced herself to turn away. “Good-bye, Matt,” she said, and hurried off, back to Belle Mer, back to her peaceful, normal life. Nothing had changed. Matt was just a policeman doing his job, and once the furor had died down things would go on as they had before. Except, she thought, fear clutching her throat as she stepped onto the loggia and into shelter, that the Cliff Walk murderer had yet to be caught. Dear heavens. Would this nightmare never end?

  Chapter 11

  Out past Sachuest Beach, the old man stood on rocks shiny with waves and expertly cast his fishing line far out, past the line of breakers near the shore. The rain that threatened had yet to fall, but the sky was darkening by the moment and the surf was incessant, angry. Carefully picking his way across the wet rocks, Matt cursed under his breath and considered calling out a greeting. He’d have to shout to be heard, however, and it likely would startle the old man, intent as he appeared to be on his fishing. He’d probably fall, then; with his bad leg it was a miracle he’d gotten out onto the slippery, treacherous rocks. The old man. Matt’s father.

  “Well, boyo, don’t sneak up on a man,” Sean Devlin said before Matt had quite reached him, displaying again the heightened awareness of his surroundings that had made him a successful cop.

  “Hello, Da.” Hands in pockets, Matt balanced himself on the rocks. “Fish biting today?”

  “Nothing good. Blues aren’t running and no stripers to be found.”

  “What are you doing out here, Da? You could fall on the rocks.”

  “Fall? Ha. Never fallen in me life, boyo, and don’t you think it. Only place I can come to get some rest from your ma. A dear soul, she is, but she does like to talk.”

  Matt smiled. Since the first death on the Cliff Walk he’d had little chance to visit his parents, who now lived in a cottage in Middletown, the town next to Newport. Growing up in the Fifth Ward, Newport’s Irish neighborhood, Matt had known two things. His father loved his work as a policeman, and his mother, missing the hills of Ireland, longed for a home in the country. It was ironic that the end of his father’s career had meant the realization of his mother’s dream. “Ma’s well?”

  “That she is. She’ll be talking to her grave.” Sean twitched the fishing rod, but there was no response on the line. “Haven’t seen you for a while, boyo. Heard your arrest went bad.”

  Matt’s shoulders hunched. He’d long ceased to wonder about his father’s sources of information. The preliminary hearing had been just that morning, yet his father already knew about it. “Worse than bad. I’ve been suspended, Da.”

  “Happens to the best of us.” Sean reeled in his line. “Think I’ll quit for the day. Haven’t had a catch this past hour.”

  “Be careful, Da.” Matt took Sean’s elbow as the old man turned on the rocks.

  “Don’t coddle me, boyo.” Sean shook off the hand. “I’ve gotten around without your help all this time.”

  “Da,” Matt protested, but without heat.

  “If you want to help, take the bucket.”

  “Yes, Da.” Matt picked up the battered wooden bucket in which sat three small fish. He wrinkled his nose. He hated the smell of fish. Hated fishing, come to that. If that were all he had to fill his days, he’d go mad. He frowned. What if he didn’t get back on the force? “Thought I’d spend a few days with you and Ma,” he said, as they clambered over the rocks toward shore. “If it’s all right.”

  “So it’s givin’ up you are, boyo?”

  “No. At least—hell, I needed to get out of Newport. For a few days, anyway.”

  Sean threw him a shrewd took from under bushy eyebrows that were the same snowy white as his hair. “Well, come along home, then. Your ma’ll be glad to see you. Still riding that fool contraption, I see.”

  Matt pushed his bicycle by the handlebars as he walked beside his father on the sandy road, lined with marsh grass and scrub pine. “It’s decent transportation.”

  “Oh, will you listen to the boy, now? Well, if you want to waste your money that way, that’s your problem.” He glanced at Matt again. “So they suspended you, eh?”

  “They had to.” Matt stared straight ahead. “I made a mistake. Someone had to pay for it. As it is, the chief’ll probably lose his job.”

  “That’s what happens when you deal with the cottagers. They’ll do you over every time.”

  “I made a mistake,” Matt repeated.

  “So you did. Took Big Mike’s daughter to set it right, too, from what I heard.”

  Matt stopped. “Who told you that?”

  “I hear things. Come along, boyo, this fish isn’t gettin’ any fresher.”

  “Stubborn old man,” Matt muttered under his breath, but he began walking again, catching up with him. “What do you think about what’s been happening, Da?”

  “Think you’re better out of it. Anytime you get involved with the nobs and the swells you’re likely to come out of it bad.”

  “I had to do my job.” Matt’s voice was mild. If he disliked the cottagers, his father’s feelings verged on hatred, and with good reason. A carriage driven by the son of a wealthy banker had run Sean down, ending his legendary career. Sean’s leg had been so badly broken that he had been forced to retire; his fellow officers had taken up a collection to provide a pension, and Matt himself donated to his parents’ income. Adding insult to injury, the driver, though arrested for drinking illegally, since liquor was prohibited in the state at the time, had escaped with only probation. He had not even had to pay a fine, nor had he ever proffered an apology. It was no wonder if Sean were bitter. No wonder, too, if he had passed his attitude to his son. Matt felt strange now, defending the cottagers and their point of view.

  “So you did,” Sean said, breaking Matt out of his thoughts. “So you think it’s a cottager who did it?”

  “I did. I still do. If Olmstead’s innocent, someone took pains to make him look guilty. It has to be someone who knows him.”

  “Not a servant neither, bec
ause of the Sinclair girl. Or do girls like her walk out with servants nowadays?”

  “Apparently not. Not this girl anyway.” He hesitated, and then made up his mind. His father was his mentor, his ideal; he was the reason Matt had become a cop and that he had so easily gotten onto the Newport force. Who could Matt trust, if not him? Quickly and concisely, omitting no details, he told his father about the investigations of the last month.

  Sean was silent when Matt had finished, his only comment a nearly inaudible whistle as they walked along. They had left the beach behind and were now walking past tidy farms in a valley. “Sloppy police work, there at the end,” he said, finally. “You rushed things, Matt.”

  Matt scowled, not liking the reminder of his mistakes. “I know, Da, but there was a lot of pressure to solve the case.” He looked off across a field growing high with corn. “Guess I wanted to get it over with, too. I didn’t like arresting Olmstead.”

  Sean threw him the same shrewd look he’d given him earlier. “You’ve got circumstantial evidence, boyo, but nothing solid.”

  “I know. Still, it adds up, Da.”

  “So it does. You realize what that means, don’t you?”

  “What?”

  “You have to stay on it.”

  Matt stopped. “You seem to forget it’s not my case anymore.”

  “No, I’d not be forgettin’ that, boyo. But how do you think you’re going to get your job back? No one’s going to do it for you. They’re all too busy protectin’ themselves.”

  Matt opened his mouth to speak, and then stopped. It was true. The chief was a good man, but if he had to sacrifice Matt to keep his job, he would. It was up to Matt to clear his name. “I’m going to keep on it, Da.”

  “Good for you, boyo. I can help.”