by Mary Kruger
“What about Nellie Farrell?”
“What about her? That had nothing to do with this. No, mark my words. I’ll solve that case, too, and if I’m not mistaken, there’ll be a promotion in it for me.”
Matt let the pencil drop again. “Maybe.”
“Stop playing with that damned pencil!” Tripp braced his hands on Matt’s desk and leaned forward, all cordiality gone. “You’d better listen to me, Devlin. One of these days I’m going to be in charge around here, and I’ll be watching you. One mistake, Devlin, just one, and you’ll be gone. Understand?” Matt stared unblinkingly back at him, still toying with the pencil. “I said, do you understand?”
“Detective?” someone said at the door.
“What?” Tripp barked.
“Come in, Charlie,” Matt said at the same time. “I believe he means me, Tripp.”
Tripp snorted and straightened, glaring at Charlie. “What do you want?”
“The lieutenant told me to report to Detective Devlin, sir,” Charlie said, sounding innocent. “You have something for me to do, sir?”
“Yes.” For the first time since Tripp had come in, Matt smiled. “We’re back on the Nellie Farrell case.”
“What!” Tripp yelled. “But that’s my case-”
“Take it up with the chief,” Matt said, leaning his head back on his linked hands. “And don’t make me tell you again. Get out of my office.”
“Don’t think I won’t talk to Chief Read. You’ll be hearing from me, Devlin,” he blustered, and stormed out.
Charlie grinned. “Good to have you back, Cap.”
Matt returned the grin. “Good to be back, Charlie. Now.” He straightened. “Where do we stand on Nellie Farrell?”
“It’s gone cold.” Charlie straddled a chair, his arms folded on the back. “You don’t think Pierce did it, do you?”
Matt gave him a look. “No, I do not. I don’t think Pierce did anything.” He let the pencil drop once more and then pushed it away. “How is Annie McKenna?”
Charlie’s face brightened. “She’s fine. I saw her last night.”
“Oh?”
“Just to make sure she was all right.”
“Of course.” Matt’s tone was dry. “She hasn’t received any threats?”
“No. But she’s scared, Cap. Real scared.”
“We’ll find him, Charlie. Tell her that. And stop calling me ‘Cap’.” He grimaced. “After this last disaster, I’ll probably never make captain.”
“Maybe not. Listen, Annie was telling me something last night. There’s going to be a ball at Belle Mer next week.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. To announce Miss Cassidy’s engagement.” He hesitated. “You knew about that, didn’t you?”
“Yes. So the killer will probably be there.”
“Probably,” Charlie agreed. “Annie’s certain she’d know his voice if she heard it again.”
“Good.” Matt drew some paper forward. “All right. We’ll get something up for that night. Quiet, though. And in the meantime we’ll take another look at Farrell.”
“Where, Cap? We looked everywhere we could.”
“We’ll look again, and we’ll look harder. Ask around, that kind of thing. There’s got to be some way to find out who her lover was. And once we find him, we’ve got her killer.”
“All right.” Charlie stood up. “I’ll get right on it. Anything else?”
“No. Yes,” Matt said, as Charlie went to the door. “I want to see all the reports from the Cliff Walk investigation.”
“Thought you would. I already got ‘em together for you.”
“Good. Good work, sergeant.”
“Thanks, detective.” Charlie grinned. “Glad you’re back,” he said, and went out.
“Me, too.” Matt leaned back, again resting his head on his hands. It was good to be back. Like being home. Or it would be. Determinedly Matt pulled paper toward him and began making notes. He would not rest until the true Cliff Walk Killer had been found.
Belle Mer rose high against the sky, the early evening sun making a nimbus about it. Matt looked at the house for a moment more and then resumed his scrutiny of the barren patch of earth on the Cliff Walk. This was where it had all begun. Not the killings themselves, but the realization that the tenor of the case had changed. This was where Rosalind Sinclair’s body had been found.
Matt closed his eyes and the scene burst into his mind as if it were still happening: the sprawled body, undignified in death, with the gulls, squawking, flying above; the curious bystanders and the ashen face of the girl who’d found the body; and the red rose, whose significance still eluded him. Apparently it didn’t elude Tripp, Matt thought, opening his eyes and blinking in mild surprise at the tranquility of the day. He had to give Tripp credit for something. Linking the rose to a gardener was actually rather smart, or would be, if the roses were an important clue. Matt doubted they were.
Sometimes studying again the place where unsolved crimes had been committed suggested new ideas to him, new plans of action. Not today, however. The Cliff Walk was as it always had been, and this section was bare, anonymous, a convenient spot for dispatching a victim. He’d do better sitting in his office and sorting through the mountain of reports Charlie had dredged up for him. He turned and was about to go, when a scuffing sound behind him made him turn.
The man walking toward him was dressed casually, but among other things Matt had learned from this case was how to spot expensive tailoring. He knew this man, too; a memory flashed into his mind of him standing, at ease and supremely self-confident, at the Casino, a tennis racquet in hand. “Mr. Vandenberg,” he said, by way of greeting.
“Detective Devlin.” Miles ambled over to him, hands in pockets and shoulders set in a fashionable slouch. “It is still detective, isn’t it?”
Matt kept his smile pleasant, refusing to be goaded. “It is. You live around here, Mr. Vandenberg?”
“Near enough.” He pointed south, where the Atlantic stretched to meet the horizon. Silhouetted against the rich blue sky was an enormous gabled house, dark and somehow ominous looking. “At the Point. Don’t tell my friends, but I enjoy taking a stroll on the Cliff Walk.”
“Why wouldn’t you want them to know that?”
He shrugged. “So plebian, isn’t it? But then, I appreciate Newport.” From an inner pocket he withdrew a silver cigarette case and proffered it to Matt. “Care for a smoke?”
“Thank you.” Matt took a cigarette, noting as he did the distinctive etched design of grapes and vines on the case’s lid. Somewhere, sometime, he’d seen something like that. “That’s an unusual case,” he commented, as Miles snapped it shut and slid it back in his pocket.
“You have a good eye, detective. Yes, it is unusual. One of my ancestors was a vintner. This is my own design. Tiffany made it for me. The cigarettes, however, are ordinary Cameos.” He took a long drag. “Yes, I appreciate Newport. More, perhaps, than any of my friends.”
Matt cast him a shrewd look. “Is that why you never leave, then?”
“Been checking on me, detective?” Matt shrugged in response. “Then you must know that my wife is ill and it’s been recommended that she stay in one place.”
“The dampness here doesn’t bother her?”
“No.”
“And you don’t miss New York?”
Miles tossed his cigarette down and ground it out with his heel, though it was barely half-smoked. “Is this an interrogation, detective?”
“No. Just curiosity. I’m from Newport, myself. I have to tell you I wouldn’t mind seeing someplace new. Yet you—the cottagers—seem to take all this”—he turned and gestured toward Belle Mer—“for granted.”
“Some do, detective. I, on the other hand, appreciate what I have. I rarely go anyplace else. New York, especially.” Absently he withdrew another cigarette, tapped it on the case, and lighted it. “This is where Rosalind Sinclair’s body was found, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm. If I may ask you a question, detective? The killer has been caught, hasn’t he?”
Matt smiled again. “I’m just tying up some loose ends, Mr. Vandenberg.”
“Ah. Aren’t you happy about the arrest?”
The sardonic note in his voice made Matt shoot him a look. “Don’t you think Thomas Pierce did it?”
“A common gardener? Hardly.” Miles discarded the second cigarette, this time tossing it over the cliff. “There’s a bit too much élan to the crimes for him, don’t you think? Besides, I can’t see Rosalind consorting with him.”
“She didn’t have to,” Matt said mildly, wondering about Miles’s comment. No one else thought the crimes at all stylish.
“Ah. You subscribe to the madman theory, detective? Then why was she dressed in a maid’s uniform?”
“I don’t know.” Matt kept his smile bland. “Why was she?”
“To meet someone, of course. I suggest you look a little harder at the people she knew, detective.”
“Oh? As you pointed out, the case is closed.”
“Mm. But I do wonder, you know, why Paul Radley said he was on the steamer from New York that night.”
“Do you,” Matt said, casting his memory back. They had established that Radley had been on the steamer as he’d said, hadn’t they? “Why?”
Miles shrugged. “Curiosity. And I’m not unfeeling, detective. I’d like to see justice done as much as anyone.” His face hardened. “This is my town. I don’t like what’s happening here.”
God help him, another amateur detective. “Neither do I.”
“I didn’t think so. If you’ll excuse me now, I’ll continue with my walk. Good day, detective.”
Matt nodded in reply, watching for a moment as the other man strode along the path toward his house, in contrast to the casual stroll he’d displayed earlier. A man of contrasts was Miles Vandenberg, Matt thought, turning and walking away himself. A man of secrets, with more going on inside than he probably let on. Was he really happy living in constant isolation at the Point, splendid though it was? Matt doubted it. That Vandenberg had probably lied about that wasn’t what bothered him, however, Matt conceded, as he reached the Forty Steps and turned off the Cliff Walk, onto the street. Vandenberg had just given him reason to suspect someone else for Rosalind’s murder. The question was, why?
The summer season was in full swing in Newport. With the fear caused by the deaths on the Cliff Walk now a thing of the past, the cottagers threw themselves into the serious pursuit of pleasure. New ensembles from Paris or New York were ordered, worn, and discussed with much solemnity by the fashionable; the Casino held its annual subscription ball, while Tennis Week, at which the national championship would be decided, was in full swing; and everyone gossiped. And, on a balmy August evening, Belle Mer threw open its doors to the Four Hundred to celebrate the engagement of Brooke Cassidy to Eliot Payson.
The night of the ball, Brooke burst into her room, frazzled and on edge. The first guest was due to arrive in forty-five minutes, and she wasn’t even dressed. Having to oversee preparations for the ball, as well as being its guest of honor, was a bit much. “Annie, help me get these buttons undone. And hurry! There’s no time to waste.”
Annie, acting as Brooke’s maid for the evening, came over and deftly worked at the buttons on Brooke’s frock. “If you don’t mind me saying, Mrs. Olmstead works you too hard, miss.”
“I don’t mind it, usually.” She blew out her breath, lifting a strand of hair. “But there’s just so much to see to, apart from the ball.” Her eyes met Annie’s in the mirror. “You know what you’re to do?”
“Yes, miss. I’ve drawn your bath, by the way, so if you hurry you should be done in time.”
“Yes, yes.” Clad now only in chemise and frilly underdrawers, Brooke turned toward Annie. “You will be careful? You’ll remember to stay behind the potted palm near the door-”
“Yes, miss, and listen to the voices as people come in. I’ll be careful to stay hidden, I promise. And if I do hear him I’ll tell you right away. Or Charl- Sergeant Sweeney. Nothing to it, miss.”
“I hope not. I do wish we could have the sergeant in the Italian Hall, but too many people know his face.”
“I know. I wonder, miss. How do you think he’d look dressed as a footman, in breeches and hose? I’ll bet he has fine legs.”
Brooke stared at her. “Annie.”
“It’s a thought, miss. Now, quick, into your bath, or you will be late.”
“Yes, Annie,” Brooke said and, throwing her another look, hurried into the bathroom adjoining her room.
A short while late Annie sat ensconced behind a huge potted palm, just inside the entrance to the Italian Hall. There, everything had got done on time, and the evening looked to be a success. Miss Brooke looked a treat in her gown of oyster white satin, with its huge puffed sleeves of Alençon lace and the gold satin roses trailing down the front of the skirt, as if scattered there. A lovely gown, it was. Annie wished she could wear something like that. Well, it wouldn’t be so fine, of course, she couldn’t afford it, but something, anyway. For her wedding day, if she ever married? It was something she’d been thinking of more often lately.
Two men, dressed in impeccable black tailcoats, walked by her hiding place, discussing events on Wall Street that week, and their appearance made Annie straighten. She was here to do a job, not to daydream. Miss Brooke and Charlie—Sergeant Sweeney—were depending on her. Still, a lot of the guests were here already, and she hadn’t heard that voice yet. She shivered. She’d know it when she heard it again, that she would. Likely she’d never forget it. Already she’d heard it in her dreams, and she feared she always would.
Out in the hall the orchestra, placed in the gallery above, was playing ragtime, and people were dancing the two-step, the latest dance craze. Oh, it was a fine sight, the gentlemen in white tie and black tails, the naval officers, invited so that there would be enough men present, resplendent in their white dress uniforms. In contrast, the ladies’ gowns were sumptuously colored, and there were enough precious jewels to run a small country. The Mrs. Astor herself, dressed in her customary white satin, surely was wearing a fortune in diamonds, from the triple-strand necklace that was rumored to have more than two hundred stones, to the magnificent brooch on her bosom, to the tiara, glittering upon hair that was suspiciously dark for a woman of her age. Lord, what she wouldn’t give for just one of those diamonds, Annie thought, wistfully.
In contrast to the guests’ finery, the hall was almost plain in its decoration. Oh, there were vines of flowers festooning the galleries and tubs of roses set everywhere, as well as more potted palms, but Mrs. Olmstead had, for once, wanted the decorations kept simple. This was Miss Brooke’s night. All attention was supposed to be on her. Annie’s eyes sought and found Brooke dancing with Mr. Payson, making her smile. They made a lovely couple. Maybe not what she’d have chosen for Miss Brooke, but a good match, all the same. She was still watching them when someone stepped in front of the palm, blocking her view.
Biting her lips, Annie cursed under her breath. If the man didn’t move, how was she supposed to do her job, let alone watch the ball? Yet she couldn’t say anything, and thus give herself away. She sat back, annoyed, but resigned to wait until the man, whoever he was, decided to move.
“Annie.” It was a whisper, and it sent convulsive shivers down her spine. She’d heard that voice before, oh yes, she had, with all its menace and threat, but never had she thought to hear it in quite this way, in the middle of a crowded ballroom. “Hello, Annie. Remember me?”
Annie swallowed and stayed absolutely still. Maybe if she didn’t move... “I remember you. And I see you, you know,” he said. At that she did move, her hand jerking involuntarily against the palm, causing its leaves to rustle. “Oh, yes.” A hoarse chuckle. “I know you’re there. Intriguing hiding place, but you’ll have to come out sometime, won’t you? And when you do, I’ll be watching.” Another hoar
se chuckle. “Remember that, Annie. And remember Illumination Night.”
With that, the man moved away. Paralyzed by fear, Annie gripped the sides of her chair, but some part of her mind was on her task. Leaning forward, she peered through the fronds, trying to see who it was. A gent, that much was certain, of medium height and dark hair. More than that she couldn’t see, however. His back was to her as he walked away, and, in a moment, he was swallowed up by the crowd, just one man among many, dressed in black. She had lost him. He was gone, but he was also still there. Of that, she had no doubt.
Well, she wasn’t going to sit here like a target and let him get her! No, not her, Annie McKenna. She was smarter than that. After all, they had a plan, didn’t they? Didn’t matter if she came out now, he’d seen her already and she had no doubt he was telling the truth. He would be watching her.
The thought almost made her dive back behind the palm for protection, but pride kept her going. There was no safety there. Safety lay across the crowded floor. Picking up a tray, she made her way across the room. No one paid her any heed; she was just a maid, after all, and she wasn’t going to look around to see if someone were watching her. She would not—would not!—imagine that at any moment a hand would descend upon her shoulder, dragging her away and locking onto her throat, and-
“Miss Brooke.” Fear made her voice breathless, as she came up to Brooke, standing in a small group that included Mr. Payson and the Olmsteads. “Mrs. Smith needs to see you in the kitchen a minute.”
“Oh, bother. Now?” Brooke said, but she moved away. This was the signal they had arranged earlier if Annie heard anything.
“Yes, miss. I’m sorry, miss.”
“Oh, Brooke, now?” Winifred wailed. “But your uncle is just about to make the announcement.”
“I won’t be a minute. Excuse me,” Brooke said, smiling, and walked away, by Annie’s side. “Well?”
“He’s here, miss.”
