A Golden Cage (16 page)

“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.”

T
rue 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 Deanna 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?”

“I thought I would go out to the lawn and sketch a bit this morning unless there's something you'd like me to do.”

“Not at all, though you do have to attend some daytime functions or your mother will take you back.”

“Well, Vlady and Herbert did mention they were playing tennis later, but then I'd have to invite Ivy Bennett to go with me. She's the only girl I know that will actually run after a ball.”

“Runs in the family, I suspect.”

“Because her uncle is such a sporty person?”

“That, too. Mainly just wild. Maybe you can convince Joseph to come with you.”

“No. I don't want to interrupt his work. I'll be fine.” She went upstairs to get her sun hat and art supplies. She did, however, slow down as she passed the library.

Joe was sitting at the desk, shirtsleeves rolled up, forehead resting in one hand as he studied a piece of drawing paper. Her movement must have caught his eye, because he turned, straightened up. “Is there something?”

“No, I just . . . I was just on my way outside to sketch. What are you working on?”

“Well,” he said, scrubbing his face, “remember the big wheel they used in the play at the Judge's fete?”

“The one that carried the married couples to heavenly bliss.”

“Yeah, that one. Though I think I can put it to better use.”

Deanna didn't think heavenly bliss sounded all that bad, but she stepped into the room and went to look over Joe's shoulder at the drawing.

It was a good drawing, Deanna realized. She could tell exactly what it was, a Ferris wheel with two rectangles, one extended at a right angle to the bottom right and another to the top left.

“What does it do?”

“Well, nothing yet. But while I was watching the play, I was thinking about conveyor belts and how much room they require while still needing manpower at each end, plus elevators, so . . .”

Deanna laughed. She couldn't help herself. “Do you even know what the play was about?”

“Sure, some Egyptian stuff.”

“So the Ferris wheel would replace the conveyor belt?”

“In some instances. Especially in limited spaces. And this would eliminate the need for an elevator, which would also cut down on inefficiency.”

“How?”

He frowned at her. “Are you really interested?”

She nodded. “If I wasn't, I would have gone out the conservatory door and not passed by at all.”

He smiled slightly. “So theoretically, the filled bags would move along this shorter belt.” He pointed to the bottom right with his pencil point. “Get deposited on the flatbed of the wheel, where they would move counterclockwise to eleven o'clock on the other side, then they would be off-loaded onto another conveyor belt which would take them to be packed in boxes that would eventually be crated and carted to stores or depots or docks.

“It would be a continuous delivery system, consolidating space rather than being divided between conveyor belts and elevators that once unloaded are sent back empty for another load.”

“Which wastes time. And how will it be powered?” asked Deanna.

“With electricity, ideally. Though I don't believe the one they used in the play was electrified. I'm hoping to get a closer look.” He shrugged. “As long as they're here.”

He scribbled something on the drawing. “And if I added gears here and . . .” He trailed off, and Deanna realized he was working out some detail and had forgotten she was even there.

She tiptoed out of the room and went through the conservatory to the lawn. She tried not to look at the place where Charlie had lain as she passed by, but she couldn't repress a shiver at the memory.

What had he been doing here? He must have been looking for Amabelle. Maybe they had planned the robbery together. They'd argued. No one had mentioned finding the earrings, so Amabelle must still have them. But that didn't make sense. She distinctly remembered the blades of grass on his shoes and the grass stains on his trousers. As if he'd knelt—or fallen—or been dragged across the grass. The grass was mown once a week, and even though the landscapers were meticulous about raking the lawn clean afterward, he might have picked up a few blades wet from dew. But that still didn't explain why he was found in the conservatory.

She hurried out into the sunshine and saw that Carlisle had set her camp chair and easel in the shade of a tree. She didn't really feel like sketching, but she opened her pad, set it on the easel, and looked out to sea. Really, how many seascapes and landscapes did she need to draw? She should be doing something.

She took out a pencil and began to sketch, not the waves or the cliffs but the conservatory fireplace. The body sprawled on the carpet in front of it. The grass on the heels of his shoes, the stains on his plaid suit. His face turned to the side as if he were sleeping. But she didn't draw his wounds; it was a sacrilege to destroy such a handsome face.

She hesitated, pencil inches from the page. There was no reason to ruin that face.

Maybe it wasn't about robbery after all, but a personal
vendetta? Someone had mutilated him on purpose, because of anger, jealousy?
A Crime of Passion.
She could see it in her mind's eye. Would Amabelle do something like that?

And so what if she did? No one knew where she was.

Deanna wished she could do something to help find Amabelle Deeks and Laurette's earrings. But it was more than that. She needed to find something useful to do with her life. She'd been willing to give up her childhood flights of fancy, knowing they were just that. Unattainable. She'd resigned herself to marry into society because she thought at least then she would be able to do all the things she wanted to do. But she was quickly learning that was not the case in most marriages.

Even Adelaide, who was the perfect daughter and had until a few weeks ago been engaged and ready to begin her life in society, was now living in an institute in Geneva without her corset.

Joe was inside inventing things to help the industry and the working man—and woman.

And what was she doing?
I'm stuck
, she realized. Stuck and useless. She jabbed her pencil behind her ear and wandered over to the little copse of trees that somehow had managed to withstand decades of storms and winds. She could see the conservatory doors from where she stood. Had Charlie stood in the trees waiting for Amabelle to come out? Or did she signal for him to come in, and then she bashed him over the head?

Or had he been attacked out here, beneath the trees, by some unknown assailant? Someone who followed him to rob him or punish him? Or to punish the Ballards?

Why drag him into the conservatory unless to cast suspicion on Amabelle or the Ballards?

She began searching the ground even though it had been
several days and she knew the servants and the police had gone over it before.

“Dee? What are you doing?”

Deanna let out a squeak and turned around. “Joe, you scared me to pieces. You shouldn't sneak up like that.”

“I didn't sneak up. I looked out the window and saw you weren't where you were supposed to be, and I got worried.”

Deanna knew she should be grateful that he was concerned, but she just felt . . . cornered. “Thank you, but as you can see, I'm fine.”

“You don't look fine, you look sad. Are you missing your family?”

She shook her head. “I was thinking about Amabelle Deeks. Has Will found her yet?”

“No. And he might never. But there's nothing you can do about it. We befriended her, and she took advantage of our goodwill.”

“I know, still . . .”

“Well, you can stop worrying about things you can't fix and go change into tennis clothes. We're meeting Vlad and Herbert at the Casino.”

“Are we?” She quelled her initial jump of excitement. “What about your work?”

“It'll wait.”

“But what about your injured hand?”

“It's my left, and it isn't bad. Do you not want to play tennis today?”

“Yes, of course I do, it's just . . . Did Gran Gwen put you up to this? You don't have to, you know. I'm fine.”

“She may have mentioned it. But I could use the exercise, sound mind in a sound body and all that.”

“Oh, thank you, Joe.”

She practically ran to gather her drawing things and then across the lawn toward the house before she realized Joe wasn't coming. She stopped and turned back to him. He was standing with his hands in his trouser pockets, just watching her.

Then he pulled his hands out and made shooing motions with them and she darted toward the house. She paused at the door just long enough to glance back. Joe was looking at the ground.

*   *   *

V
lady and Herbert were already at the courts when Deanna and Joe arrived. Gran Gwen had insisted on coming with them as chaperone, and they had left her in a comfortable niche in a loggia behind an oval window surrounded by latticework.

“Now, run along. I have my book. And if I stick my head out this opening, I can see you. And really, that's chaperonage good enough for the sticklers of society. Knock the stuffing out of them, my dears. Then invite them to luncheon in the restaurant.”

Joe rolled his eyes. “Shall we?”

“Yes, we shall,” Deanna said.

“I meant shall we go?”

“I know what you meant.”

Vlad and Herbert were lounging against the steps, but straightened up immediately when they saw Deanna and Joe.

“I say, Deanna. You look wonderful.”

“Thank you, Herbert.” She loved her new outfit, so much lighter weight than her old one and much less restrictive. She might even be able to lunge after a ball. The dress was made of a white and ecru striped dimity with block pleats in the back
and smaller pleats across the shirtwaist, with peach cuffs at the wrists. She even had a new white straw boater with matching peach ribbon. She'd drooled over the catalogue picture for months before she finally moved to Gran Gwen's and was able to order it. And it was everything she'd dreamed of.