A Golden Cage (4 page)

Now she was talking to a bona fide actress. Well, almost bona fide. And it was time she probed a little deeper into why Amabelle had come.

“Mrs. Ballard says that the theater is one of the only places that women earn as much as men.”

Amabelle shrugged. “I guess. But being in the chorus doesn't pay all that well for either men or women.”

“But if you work hard and—”

Belle sighed. “The leading actors have a better time. They get real parts and are courted by patrons, taken out to dinner. People send them gifts. They are treated with deference and get called great artistes. The chorus?” Amabelle shrugged again.

Deanna really hoped she had a better repertory of gestures if she planned longevity in the dramatic arts.

“Some people stay in the chorus their whole lives.” Belle was beginning to sound like the vapid young ladies Deanna spent every afternoon with.

“But you get to dress up in costumes and pretend to be somebody else. And meet interesting people.”

Amabelle had begun to relax, but now the blood rushed from her face and she gripped the tapestry in both hands.

Deanna shot a desperate look toward the dressing room. Amabelle looked like she might bolt, wearing nothing but a see-through gown that made Deanna blush for her.

Elspeth bustled into the room. “I bet there are all sorts of handsome young men in love with you,” she said matter-of-factly
as she pulled Amabelle to her feet and relieved her of the tapestry.

She only gripped it for a moment, then allowed Elspeth to pull off her costume and replace it with Deanna's nightdress.

“I—” She shot a look at Deanna. It was obvious that she was surprised at Elspeth's familiarity. “Yes, very handsome . . . and some not so.” Amabelle turned to let Elspeth button up the front buttons. It was a gesture more natural than any of the others she'd made that night.

As soon as Elspeth closed the last button, Amabelle tried to hide a huge yawn behind the back of her hand.

“You're tired, miss,” Elspeth said, dropping back into her role as maid. It occurred to Deanna that Elspeth might make a good actress, though she'd never suggest it. She needed Elspeth by her side.

Elspeth saw Amabelle to her room down the hall. She returned a few minutes later with a knowing, “There's a man involved.”

Deanna, who was just drifting off to sleep, sat up. “Yes, I thought maybe that was the case. Did she tell you?”

“Didn't have to. Always is with actresses.” And on that pronouncement, she tucked Deanna in and went off to seek her own rest.

When Deanna woke next, it was light outside and there was a bustle in the hallway. It must really be late. But when she turned to look at the clock, she saw that it was only six o'clock. She'd barely been asleep two hours.

She scooted back down under the covers and had just closed her eyes again when Elspeth burst into the room.

“Miss, miss! There's a body in the conservatory.”

D
eanna's first thought was that whomever Amabelle was afraid of had found her and killed her. Then she had a worse thought. One of the Ballards? She threw back the covers and practically fell out of bed.

“Who is it?” she asked, groping for the sleeve of the robe that Elspeth held out for her while her feet slid into her slippers.

“I don't know, miss. A stranger. The parlor maid went in to clean and found him. Been screeching ever since. Not making no sense at all. Thought you'd want to come see.”

A well-brought-up young lady would stay cringing and simpering in her bedroom, holding smelling salts to her nose, and would remain there until the excitement was over and the gossip had started.

Deanna was well brought up. Too well. But she had no intention of missing the excitement. And she bet neither did any of the Ballards.

She managed to get the second arm in her dressing gown. “Bring my salts,” she ordered Elspeth.

Elspeth frowned at her.

“I do have some, don't I?”

“Yes, miss, but why?”

“Well, you need an excuse to come see, don't you?”

“Yes, miss.” She rummaged in the dressing table drawer, snatched up the never-used bottle of smelling salts, and hurried after Deanna.

She met Gran Gwen and Laurette at the head of the stairs, Laurette was already dressed except for her hair, which was hanging down her back in long tresses. Gran Gwen was still in her nightclothes, covered by a heavy brocade caftan. They could hear Mr. Ballard's quiet yet authoritative voice ordering maids and footmen to clear the area.

“They're in the conservatory,” Gran Gwen said. She immediately started down the stairs; Deanna, Laurette, and Elspeth followed quickly behind, Elspeth gripping Deanna's arm so tightly it was beginning to hurt.

They passed the parlor and the library. A group of servants were crowded around the conservatory door. Gran Gwen cleared her throat, and they quickly dispersed, leaving the entryway open.

But when she tried to enter, Carlisle, the Ballard butler, stepped in front of her. “Madame, I don't think you should come in.”

“Thank you, Carlisle,” Gran Gwen said, and walked right past him.

“Mrs. Ballard,” Carlisle protested as Laurette followed her mother.

“It's all right, Carlisle. Has someone called for a doctor?”

“Yes, Madame, and also for the police.”

“Ah.” Laurette followed Gran Gwen into the room, and Deanna and Elspeth followed so close on her heels that Carlisle had no choice but to let them pass.

The conservatory air made Deanna shiver. The morning light was just beginning to seep into the room, and the chill of the marble-and-wood floor bit through the thin soles of Deanna's slippers.

Lionel Ballard knelt over a man, who lay on his back on the Turkestan carpet. Behind him, a marble statue of Aphrodite was flanked by two large needle palms.

The weak rays of the sun cast their fronds into high relief, accentuating their sharp edges.
Like daggers
, Deanna thought.

Two footmen stood off to the side, their expressions blank, but their eyes fixated on the recumbent man.

It looked just like an illustration for
Beadle's Weekly
. “The Body in the Conservatory.” And it made the whole situation unreal.

But only for a second.

Deanna couldn't see who it was, but she knew who it wasn't. Not Joe, because Joe would never wear those plaid trousers, which—Deanna realized with a sickening jolt to her stomach—looked awfully familiar.
The kind of suit that actors favored.

She glanced over to see if Laurette was thinking the same thing, but it was hard to tell, since Laurette was staring intently at her husband's back.

Deanna took a step forward; Elspeth's small hand clamped around her elbow, not to stop her, but to stay close. As one, all four women moved closer.

Mr. Ballard rose to his feet, leaving a full view of the man's face. A young face, a handsome face, except where the cheek had been crushed, blond hair—matted with blood.

Deanna brought her fist to her mouth. Elspeth's grasp was
so tight, Deanna was afraid her fingernails might draw blood. Gran Gwen sucked in a sharp breath. Only Laurette kept her presence of mind to take a closer look.

“My dear.” Mr. Ballard reached for his wife.

But it seemed she barely heard. “The poor boy. It's that young man from the theater.”

“Charlie,” Deanna said, but her voice didn't sound like her own. “Charlie. We heard Belle call him Charlie.”

“That's right,” Laurette said. “But what on earth is he doing here?”

“Where is the girl?” Mr. Ballard asked. “How could she possibly sleep through this racket?”

The four women exchanged looks.

“I'll go see if she's still asleep,” Deanna said. “Come, Elspeth.”

They walked abreast to the door and across the landing and up the stairs. Then, seeing that no one was about, they took the hallway at a run.

The guest room was empty. Deanna's nightgown lay across the bed. But the cape, the gauze costume, and Amabelle's shoes were gone.

And so was Amabelle Deeks.

*   *   *

J
oe Ballard and his apprentice, Orrin, had just fired up the new centrifuge machine they were working on when there was a rap at the door to the warehouse.

“Must be Hiram,” Joe said. “I wonder if they had any trouble last night?” He put down his wrench and went to answer the door.

Joe had hired Hiram Harkevy to oversee a corps of local men to guard the workshop at night or when Joe was away for more than a few hours. Like last evening.

There had been several break-ins and sabotage attempts on his inventions, which he hoped would soon revolutionize the refining and distribution of sugar. But the sugar industry was volatile, and some people would stop at nothing to gain an edge, even if it meant stealing Joe's machinery. Or destroying it.

His father and George Randolph had recently almost lost their sugar refining business. Fancy negotiating and a little underhanded coercion had saved it, but their major competitor, H. O. Havemeyer, who now owned the monopoly on sugar refining, was determined to buy them out or finish them off.

And Joe didn't intend on letting that happen.

He opened the front door and was surprised to see Will Hennessey. Joe felt a frisson of panic as he did every time he unexpectedly opened the door to Will, his friend from college, and now a sergeant of the Newport Police Department.

An unannounced visit from the police didn't bode well.

“Your family is fine,” Will said before Joe even had time to ask. “And Deanna.”

Joe stepped aside. “Come in. I think there's still some coffee.”

“Thanks, but I'm on my way to Bonheur and thought you might want to come.”

“Bonheur? I thought you said everything is fine.”

“Your family is. But it seems they discovered a body in the conservatory.”

Joe cocked an eyebrow. “A body . . . in the conservatory? Is this some kind of joke?”

“No. The maid went in to dust this morning, and a man was lying on the floor, evidently bludgeoned to death, though I won't know for sure until I see for myself and the medical examiner has examined the body. I thought you might want to come.”

“Of course,” Joe said, already removing his leather work apron. “You said a man. Is it anyone we know?”

“I don't believe so. But Carlisle called as soon as they found the body. We'll know more once we get there.”

Joe, realizing he'd stopped to listen to Will's answer, yanked the apron over his head, threw it on a peg, and went to the back room to let Orrin know where he was going. Also to reassure his apprentice that all was well, since his sister, Elspeth, was Deanna's maid.

Joe didn't bother to wash, just unrolled his sleeves, grabbed a tie, and slipped into his jacket as he walked Will to the door.

“I'm on my bicycle. I thought it would be faster than waiting for the police van. They'll meet us there.”

Joe nodded and rolled his own bicycle out to the street.

A minute later they were bouncing down the cobblestone street. After a teeth-rattling few minutes they hit the smoother macadam of Bellevue Avenue. Leaning into the shore breeze, the two men sped toward Bonheur at the tip of the island.

Joe had worked up a sweat by the time they turned into the drive to Bonheur. No official vehicles had arrived, so they drove around to the servants' entrance, parked their bicycles, and went inside.

They could have gone through the front door. Will would always be welcomed at the front door of any Ballard house, but it was easier and faster to swing through the kitchen.

They stopped in the hallway long enough to collect themselves, Will knocking the dust off his hat and Joe pushing his hair back with his fingers. Then they made a dignified entrance into the main hall.

It was empty, but Joe could see two footmen posted on either side of the double doors to the conservatory. They nodded simultaneously and stepped aside for Will and Joe to pass.

Joe's father and Carlisle were standing over the body.

Carlisle bowed. “I'm afraid you had to let yourself in, sir. The bell for some reason didn't sound.”

“We came in through the kitchen,” Joe said, and walked past him to where Will had knelt over the body. “Who is it?”

Lionel Ballard moved closer to Joe. “Evidently it's one of the actors from last night's play.”

“What's he doing here?”

“Well, we weren't expecting him, if that's what you're asking,” his father said in his driest manner.

“No, of course not.” It had been a reflexive question.

Will stood. “Excuse me, sir, but if you could both step away from the deceased.”

“Of course, Sergeant.” Lionel moved Joe back. “We haven't let anyone touch the body.”

“Thank you, sir. And the other members of the household?”

“They have already been here, identified the poor soul as an actor named Charlie, and are off searching the house for our houseguest.”

“Houseguest, sir?”

“That Deeks girl who ran away from home, Amabelle. She showed up here in the middle of the night. Looking, I might add, like a frightened fox. I believe your mother invited her.”

Joe hoped it had been his mother's invitation and not his that had brought her here.

“Not that we expected her to arrive unannounced and close to dawn. She wouldn't talk, at least not while I was around. Deanna took her off to her room to find night things, so if you want to know more, I'm afraid you'll have to ask Dee.” He looked quickly over his shoulder, almost as if he expected Deanna's mother to be there to thwart him.

Joe knew just how he felt. The woman was a stickler and ruled Deanna and her sister, Adelaide, with an iron glove. Fortunately she was out of the country, and as far as Joe was concerned, she could stay there. Though she might do a better job of keeping Deanna out of trouble than he seemed to be doing.

“And now the damn girl has disappeared. We have the entire household looking for her.”

Will had started a circuitous route around the room. He looked out the French doors that led out to the lawn. Checked the marble floor for footprints. Inspected the cushions of the wicker furniture, the tables, the baskets of exotic plants, searching for any clue that might lead to the reason for the man's death or who killed him and how. Besides the obvious: his face and head and been bashed in.

Joe and his father stood watching until Will came back to them and pulled out a black notebook and pencil.

He cleared his throat. “Did the dead man—”

“His name is Charlie,” Lionel supplied. “My wife and Miss Deanna met him briefly backstage at the play.”

“The play at . . .”

“For Judge Grantham's birthday party. His son-in-law and daughter brought in a troupe from Manhattan to perform.”

Will nodded and continued to write.

The front bell rang, and Carlisle excused himself to answer it. He returned a few minutes later, accompanied by the medical examiner, the police photographer, and several other police officers, who looked nervous to be in the home of one of Newport's elite.

Will gave orders for the men to search the grounds.

“We've begun a search of the house,” Lionel told him. “And sent the stableboys out to search the cliffs. Though in retrospect, I suppose we should have waited for your men. We were concerned for the girl and her safety. The cliffs here can be treacherous if you don't know them. Especially at night.”

Carlisle stepped into the room.

“Yes, Carlisle?”

“Cook has prepared coffee and a light repast in the breakfast room if the sergeant would like to continue his questioning there. The ladies are already there.”

“This is a little strange,” Will confided to Joe as they walked toward the door.

“Well, at least Carlisle didn't call you Master William, like he used to.”

“For which I'm truly thankful. This is uncomfortable enough.” Will stopped to say a few words to the medical examiner and then accompanied Joe down the hall to the breakfast room.

Cook's light repast turned out to be warming dishes of eggs, tomatoes, ham, sausages, and a rack of toast surrounded by homemade jams and honey.

Joe filled his plate. Murder or no, he wasn't about to turn down Cook's breakfast.

Will turned down food, though he did accept a cup of coffee.

“There's no reason to stand on ceremony with us, Will,” Laurette said.

“Yes, ma'am. It's just that it goes against protocol to break bread with those you're questioning. Even if they're not suspected of a crime,” he added hastily.

Carlisle filled his cup. “Cook anticipated this. She asked if you would step round to the kitchen before you leave. She has packed you what seems to be a very substantial picnic lunch.”