A Golden Cage (6 page)

“Several of the young women. At least I assumed they were from the theater. Girls from the chorus. Six or seven, most dressed the same way as, um, Deanna described.”

“Planning to pick up a little extra cash between performances?”

Joe nodded. “Some of the actors might have been there, but since they weren't running around in Egyptian kilts, I wouldn't know. I was only there for an hour at the most.”

“Hopefully one of the members of the troupe knows more, but if not, I'll have to question the other guests.”

“The yacht guests or the party guests?”

Will swallowed. No one in the force wanted to deal with the cottagers. They wielded a lot of power, and even the highest officials thought twice about crossing them. That job had fallen to Will since he was well educated and grew up if not exactly one of their set, at least having been accepted by it. Until he'd joined the force, of course, then everything changed and they conveniently forgot that he had ever been a guest in their homes.

“Good luck with trying to get them to talk. They may not be afraid of the police, but they're petrified of their wives, and they won't take a chance of ending up in the gossip column of
Town Topics.
”

“True. Sometimes I wonder why I was cursed with an aptitude for science.”

“You mean you'd rather be knocking heads together down in the Fifth Ward than following forensic clues to a successful end.”

“Something like that.”

“You wouldn't be happy. Come on. I'll ride with you back to town.”

They walked around to the kitchen door, where Cook handed Will a large basket filled with sandwiches, pickles, a pie, and a jar of tea. Will kissed her cheek.

“Get on with you, now. And don't you share that. You eat every bite yourself.”

While Will secured the basket to his bicycle, Joe picked up his own bicycle.

“Going back to work?” Will asked.

“Yes, but first I'm going to follow Dee and make sure she gets to her group in one piece.”

“What you really mean is you're going to make sure she goes cycling instead of deciding to search for Amabelle Deeks.”

Joe grimaced. “Something like that, but afterward I could drop by the yacht, just to see who's still there nursing a pounding head and if anyone remembers anything about last night. That will save you the aggravation of dealing with them.”

“Unofficially, of course,” Will said.

“Of course.” Joe grinned. “I think I might have left my hat there.”

They rode north toward the town and parted on Thames Street, Will to the police station on Marlborough Street, and Joe to ride by the Washington Square, where the Newport Ladies' Cycling Club met.

He slowed to a stop when he saw the ladies and their bicycles
gathered on the side of the street. There must have been ten or twelve of them. Joe even recognized a few.

As he watched, they climbed onto their bicycles and pedaled away in the opposite direction. Deanna, as one of the lesser-experienced riders, was positioned near the back of the group. Joe watched until they turned the corner and the last one disappeared from view. Satisfied, he turned his own bicycle in the direction of the wharves.

*   *   *

D
eanna had to concentrate to keep her handlebars steady. Between the rough street and the proximity of the other cyclists, it was a bit nerve-racking. She knew that, like every other skill, conquering cycling was merely a matter of practice. And she was already feeling more comfortable astride the contraption. The group moved at a sedate pace, navigating between pedestrians and carriages and handcarts. As soon as they passed the string of shops that lined the street, they would pick up speed until they came to the open road.

Two young women stood on the walk, waiting for the group to pass before crossing the street. One was tall with light brown hair, the other a blonde, slightly shorter and plumper than her companion. They were dressed for shopping and carried themselves well, but there was something about them that told Deanna they were not members of the cottagers. Deanna recognized them immediately as members of the acting troupe.

Their dresses were fashionable, but made of less-expensive cloth than their couture cousins. Their demeanor was polished, but learned. They weren't at all stilted, just seemed to be enjoying themselves as they leaned toward each other
chatting. One thing gave them away. They were carrying their own packages.

Deanna was so intent on watching them that she nearly ran into another cyclist. She put on the brakes and stopped in the street. The other cyclists continued on their way.

The two actresses started across the street. Deanna slipped off her bicycle and rolled it over to walk next to them.

They both turned their heads to look at her but didn't slow down.

When they reached the other side, they would have gone on without acknowledging her, but she called out, “Please wait.”

They kept walking and she hurried to catch up. “I just want to know if you've seen Amabelle.”

They hesitated, then started walking again, ignoring her.

“Please,” Deanna said, maneuvering her bicycle alongside them. She didn't want to give too much away. Will would have her head if she warned them about Charlie and the missing Amabelle, but she needed to know if the girl was all right. Deanna just hoped she didn't run into him before she could look for her.

“Have you seen Am—Belle today?”

They kept walking.

“I was supposed to meet her this morning but she didn't come.” Deanna mentally crossed her fingers, but what was a little lie when Amabelle's life might be at stake?

One of the women stopped. “What would Belle be doing meeting you and in the morning, of all times? We're theater people. We work late and sleep late.”

The taller of the two said, “Come on, Talia. Haven't we had enough of the rich slumming on us for one week?”

Talia, the plumper of the two, nodded, but said, “Belle is one
of them, in case you forgot. Nice enough, though. We'll tell her you asked about her . . . when she wakes up.”

The two women exchanged quick looks and began to walk faster.

“Would you mind if I came to see if she's awake?”

“Mrs. Calpini doesn't like the guests to have visitors, does she, Noreen? We'll give Belle the message.”

“Please, it's really important.”

The taller actress, Noreen, turned on Deanna. “Just what are you up to? Her mama didn't send you down to spy on her, did she? Belle said someone had come and tried to get her to leave the show last night.”

“She told you that?” Deanna asked. Had Belle misinterpreted their visit? Laurette certainly didn't say anything close to that. She'd even wandered off to talk to the other girls and left Deanna and Belle together. Then the two of them had left for supper.

But who else would have tried to persuade her to leave the theater troupe and return home?

“I don't want her to go home,” Deanna said. “I think she should do what she wants. I was just supposed to meet her.”

“Aw, Noreen, let her come. Maybe Belle was supposed to meet her. She's always doing crazy stuff like that.”

Noreen didn't look convinced, but she moved over and the two women allowed Deanna to walk along beside them. She wanted to ask what kinds of crazy things Belle did, but didn't want to press her luck. If she found Belle safely tucked in her own bed, well, then she'd decide what to do.

She was pretty sure Will would be questioning the actors about her whereabouts and about Charlie's movements the night before. She just had to make sure she was gone before he arrived.

She'd just see if Belle was there and then she'd leave.

Mrs. Calpini's boardinghouse was a gray clapboard house with a white front porch. The windows were open and white gauze curtains wafted in and out with the breeze, reminding Deanna of Amabelle's gauze hem, swaying beneath her cape the night before.

Deanna leaned her bicycle against the latticework alongside the house, then climbed the steps behind Talia and Noreen and stepped into a square foyer. The house was clean and neat though a bit shabby. A wardrobe mirror sat to one side, next to a hat and coatrack.

A cherrywood staircase climbed one wall. The wood was polished but the stair runner was faded and worn. Deanna could hear the sounds of a piano coming from the parlor, but Noreen and Talia didn't stop. Once they'd decided to bring Deanna with them, they seemed in a hurry to get it over with. They looked quickly around and motioned her to follow them upstairs.

They climbed all the way to the third floor, where they stopped in front of one of four doors.

Noreen knocked softly.

There was no answer.

“See, I told you. She's still sleeping.”

“Please try again,” Deanna said.

She knocked again. “Belle, Belle, you have a visitor.”

Not getting an answer, she slowly turned the knob, opened the door just wide enough for her to stick her head in, then she opened it all the way.

“She isn't here.”

“Oh,” squeaked Talia as if she'd just seen a mouse. And from what Deanna knew about boardinghouses, she might have.

“She must have gone out,” Noreen said, and started to close the door. Deanna slipped past her and forced her way into the room.

“Hey, what do you think you're doing?”

Deanna quickly looked around the small room, trying to see if anything looked unusual. But Belle's dressing table was neatly arranged; her clothes hung on pegs along the wall in lieu of a closet, which was probably reserved for the larger rooms.

“She's not here. Now you'd better go. We'll tell her you were looking for her.”

Deanna nodded and went back to the landing just as a young man bolted up the stairs. “The police are here. They're looking for Amabelle, and they want everybody downstairs.”

Talia and Noreen exchanged panicky looks, then turned on Deanna.

“Did you set us up?”

Deanna shook her head. And she would be in serious trouble if Will Hennessey caught her here. She instinctively started toward the stairs.

Noreen grabbed her and pulled her back. “You're not going down there.”

“I'll be in such trouble if they find me here. I've got to get away.”

“You're not going anywhere until we find out what's going on.” She was gripping Deanna's arm so tightly that Deanna couldn't run. “Timothy. Hold on to her.” She shoved Deanna toward him.

The actor grabbed her and held her in a tight embrace. Only it wasn't an embrace at all.

Noreen rushed to the far end of the hallway and opened a door. It was a linen closet. “Put her in there.”

“Norie, what are you doing? Who is she? What if the police find her?”

“No,” Deanna whispered. She was in such trouble.

“They won't. At least not until she answers to us.” Noreen pushed Deanna inside. “One peep out of you and it's curtains. Understand?”

Deanna nodded. Noreen shut the door and Deanna was left in the dark. She heard a key in the lock. She was well and truly trapped. Now, if the actors just didn't give her presence away.

J
oe wheeled his bicycle down the wooden pier and leaned it against a pylon next to the
Sophia
, the scene of last night's carousing. If Joe knew anything about Newport after parties, at least a few men would still be partying or sleeping it off on the yacht this morning.

The crew had finished up its work of clearing any residual vice from the night before. Liquor bottles had been disposed of, food dumped overboard to feed the fish of Newport Harbor. The deck was swabbed, and the yacht gleamed innocently in the morning sun.

Joe nodded to the bosun, who was acting as a de facto sentry, but he merely nodded back and turned to look out to the bay. The man would no more think of stopping Joe than stopping the Judge himself, not that Judge Grantham would ever lower himself to such debauchery. Actually, Joe had been somewhat surprised to see Walter there the night before. It made him like the man more than he usually did.

Joe wasn't really shocked that Walter enjoyed a bit of fun. The Judge wouldn't begrudge him as long as he was discreet and did nothing to embarrass or humiliate his daughter. The Judge, according to Joe's grandmother, had been known to have a drink or two and enjoy not only the theater but a day at the races. The moral, the judicial, the capitalists, and even most of the reformers were known to turn a blind eye when the occasion called for it.

Lord, he is beginning to sound like his mother.

He shook off the thought and stepped into the darkened parlor cabin, which only a few short hours before had been rollicking with food, drink, and half-clad women. This morning only the stale odor of liquor and smoke gave evidence to the previous evening. That and the snoring that reverberated from various places in the darkened room.

Here and there he could see the dark shapes of gentlemen sleeping on chaises and in chairs, still dressed in evening wear. Mostly young bucks who would rouse themselves and stagger down to the corner pub to rub elbows with the hoi polloi long enough to have a wake-up drink before continuing on their way home.

He wouldn't get any information out of them—at least not for a while—and he doubted any of them would have much memory of the night's activities. He trod across the room, careful not to step on any recumbent forms that might lie in his path, and entered the hall that ran between the several guest rooms.

The doors were all closed. Either unoccupied and cleaned, or still in use. And Joe had no intention of disturbing anyone in flagrante.

He continued aft until he heard voices, then climbed out to
the deck, where a breakfast was in progress. Mersey was there, as well as several other men Joe recognized. Vlady Howe, Erik Dolan, who was visiting the Wetmores for the season, Frank Trumball, who spent his summers drifting between Saratoga and Newport, never staying long at either, and a couple of others.

“Ballard”—Mersey motioned him over—“looks like you actually made it home last night. What brings you back? Perkins, bring Ballard a cup of coffee and an eye opener.” He leaned forward. “Good for what ails you. Even if nothing ails you.” He laughed until he coughed.

Perkins—Mersey's “yacht boss,” as Mersey called him, served as valet, butler, and all-round dogsbody, as far as Joe could tell from the few occasions he'd seen him—bowed and crossed to the coffee urn.

Joe didn't make a habit of associating with Mersey. There was nothing really wrong with him; he was just lazy, dissolute, and lived to be entertained. He was also quickly dissipating into illness.

“Why did you come back, Joe?” Erik asked.

“Thought I might have left my hat here.”

“Well,” Mersey said, “I'll get Perkins to have a look-see, once we clear out all the dead men, and he'll have one of the boys bring it round to you. Sit down and have some ham and eggs.”

“Thanks,” Joe said, and helped himself to another breakfast. One that he didn't want, but needed in order to have an excuse to stay.

“It was a pretty happy crowd last night,” he said as Erik slid over to make room for him. Joe sat.

“Yeah, but it got even better after you left.” Frank laughed. “I think.”

Unfortunately, Joe never drank enough to forget the boring evenings spent at the soirees, fetes, balls, and dinners that Newport was addicted to. He hadn't planned on attending any of them this summer, but with Deanna here, he couldn't not go.

Though as it turned out, he didn't really need to go. His mother and Grandmère, for all their bluster, kept a watchful eye on her, and would never let any harm come to her if they could help it. Still . . .

“Brilliant of Edgerton to bring the theater to town for the Judge's birthday.”

“Surprised he managed it. Mrs. Grantham was dead set against it. She's joined one of those women's groups that's always harping about something. Oh, not like the one your mother belongs to,” Erik added quickly.

“I can assure you that my mother and Mrs. Grantham will never be members of the same club,” Joe said.

“Thank God for that,” Mersey said. “Between her and his wife, Drusilla, I don't know how poor Edgerton gets in even a bit of fun. Do you know they even balked at serving whiskey at the ball? As if a fellow could drink champagne all evening.”

“I'd be giggling like a girl halfway through the night,” Frank said. “No, give me a good aged whiskey to offset the bubbles.”

“And the chorus girls were a nice touch,” Joe added, apologizing silently to his mother.

“Very nice,” Mersey agreed. “We were going to bring down a couple of those big birdcages, maybe have the girls show off some leg and their own exotic plumage.”

Frank laughed. “But none of us could figure out what to do with the birds. Did you see those things? Huge and mean. Had to give the idea up.”

“The girls did all right without it,” Erik said.

“Indeed.”

“There was one particular blonde,” Joe began.

“Why, Ballard. Never knew you to slum down, in spite of the talk a while back.”

Joe waved his hand dismissively in the air. He could imagine all the interpretations they might make of his gesture.

“But I know the one you mean,” Frank Turnbull said. “Left early, well before first light. She must have found a good position. . . .”

The men laughed.

“. . . If you know what I mean,” he continued. “I didn't see her most of the evening, then she left early. I'm thinking that woman knows how to use what she's got.”

“I wonder where she went,” Joe said, noticed the others looking oddly at him, and hurriedly added, “Was there another party I missed last night?” He laughed, not very convincingly, he thought.

But they all joined in, and Joe used the opportunity to take his leave. He had no talent for this. How on earth did Will ever learn anything during an investigation?

*   *   *

D
eanna didn't think she could stand being stuck in the linen closet much longer. She was about to yell “Let me out” when her rational mind took over. She'd be in big trouble if the police found her here. And being found locked in a linen closet would be beyond humiliating.

Kate Goelet wouldn't be caught locked in a closet. She would figure out a way to free herself. Cad Metti, who was Elspeth's favorite female detective, would break the door down,
but that would draw too much attention, and that's the last thing Deanna wanted.

She looked up from where she was seated on the floor. The closet was dark and fairly large, but the space was taken up with deep shelves holding sheets and towels, which didn't leave her much room for maneuvering.

Deanna considered the doorknob; it was worth a try. She pressed her ear to the door and, not hearing anything, she tried to turn it. It didn't budge.

She groped in her hair for a hairpin, and when she found one, she straightened it out and began to poke at the keyhole. But since she had no knowledge of how to pick a lock—none of the novels she read actually described the process—she had no success.

She tossed the hairpin aside and groped along the walls, pressing her palms to the plaster, like one of those mimes at the musical theater house, looking for she didn't know what: an extra key hanging by a nail in case someone got inadvertently locked in, which would be ridiculous. A light switch. She hadn't noticed if the boardinghouse was wired for electricity or still using gas. She cautioned herself to be more observant in the future.

All her exploring didn't uncover one thing that would help free her. Finally admitting defeat, she sat down on the floor again to wait for her captors to release her.

And while she waited she listened, but all she could hear was an occasional murmur, then a sudden outburst of anger that had her pressing her ear to the door. But try as she might she couldn't make out a single word.

She jumped when she heard steps on the stairs. Lots of steps. It was bound to be the police, come to search Amabelle's room.
And Deanna felt just a soupçon of annoyance that she hadn't gotten there first. Well, she'd gotten there, just hadn't had time to search.

She knew it was wrong, but she couldn't help it. Hadn't she helped bring a murderer to justice just a few weeks ago?

“Is this the room?”

Will's voice. Deanna shrunk back, making herself as small as possible in case he thought it necessary to search the linen closet.

She heard a door open. Will must have stepped inside, because she didn't hear anything else for several minutes. Deanna tried to breathe as quietly as possible, but to her ears each breath sounded like a hurricane. At last she heard the steps return, then go down the stairs, and she let her breath out in a thankful whoosh. Surely it wouldn't be long before they let her out.

But it seemed like forever before Deanna heard the key in the lock. She pushed to her feet, but unfortunately her foot had gone to sleep while she waited in the cramped space, and she fell back on her rear end—a term her mother would never allow her to use—and was sprawled ungracefully on the floor just as the door opened and four faces peered in, then down at her.

“Get up,” said Noreen.

“My foot went to sleep.”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” said a second man who had joined the two actresses and the man who Deanna recognized as Timothy. “This is your dastardly spy?” He reached down and offered his hand.

Deanna took it and he hauled her to her feet.

“There now. Would you like to explain yourself?”

“Yes,” Deanna said. “Are the police gone?”

“They left,” Noreen said. “But I wouldn't put it past them
not to be lurking in the bushes waiting to catch us out in something.”

“Bring her back to your room, Gil. It's the most secluded.”

“Not a good idea.” He turned to Deanna. “I'm Gilpatrick Finley. You can call me Gil.” He smiled at Deanna and gestured her to the back of the landing. “But really, the state of Rollie and my digs . . .”

“Out late,” the other man explained. “Landlady hasn't had a chance to make the beds.” He stuck out his hand. “Roland Gibbs at your service. My friends call me Rollie. Are you friend or foe?”

Deanna shook it. “Friend, I hope.”

“That remains to be seen,” Noreen said. “And I suggest we get out of this hallway and find out just what she's about.” She huffed out an exasperated sigh. “We can use our room.” She grabbed Deanna by the elbow and muscled her down the hall, where Talia opened the door at the far end. They all crammed into the room.

It was a small room, not much bigger than the linen closet—or a Bonheur bathroom. The wall was covered with cabbage rose wallpaper. Two twin beds were separated by an oval rag rug, and the room had one window that looked into the windows of the house next door. Beneath the window, a curved-front dresser and a washstand vied for space. On the far side of the bed an upholstered side chair was shoved into the corner.

Noreen squeezed between the bed and the wall to extricate the chair, and carried it to the center of the room. “Sit,” she ordered Deanna.

“Prepare yourself for interrogation of the vilest kind,” Gil said in sepulchral tones.

Deanna wasn't sure if he was kidding or trying to scare her.

She sat. Noreen stood before her, fists on her hips. She was pretty in an exotic-actress way, graceful and sure of herself. But she was also physically strong and spoke with such an edge of hardness and mistrust, so at odds with her looks, that Deanna wondered for a moment if she wasn't acting.

Actually, they all seemed to be acting. Facing her in a semicircle like judges at an inquisition. Only Talia kept glancing at the door as if she were afraid the police would raid the room and they would all be carted off to jail.

Or was it something more sinister than that?

Nonsense
, Deanna told herself. She was falling under the allure of the actors and the stage. She had to admit it was energizing.

Noreen leaned over until her face was inches from Deanna's. “Now, why are you looking for Belle? What do you know? Why do—”

“Why don't you stop asking questions long enough for her to answer one?” Gil suggested, and smiled at Deanna.

Gil was a handsome man, fine figured, and Deanna thought she recognized him as the head bedouin in last night's play. Rollie, on the other hand, was medium height, slightly fleshy with dark red hair that was pomaded and combed back from a high forehead. Deanna definitely remembered him as the comic character of “This” and his silly song trying to convice the schoolgirls he was “This” and not “That.”

“Thank you,” Deanna said, trying to appear refined and confident. She didn't think she was fooling any of them. They could probably do upper-class snobbery better than she could.

She sighed. “I'm looking for Belle because I'm worried
about her.” No need to say that she may be wanted for murder . . . yet. “Did the police have any idea of where she is?”