A Golden Cage (7 page)

“No, that's what they wanted to know. Seems she's disappeared.”

“They think she killed Ch-Ch—” Talia burst into tears.

Rollie put his arm around her. “Courage,
mon amie
.”

Deanna looked at both of them, still not sure if this was honest emotion or put on for her benefit.

Well, either way, she would listen and, if need be, would tell them enough to get them to trust her. Whatever she had to do to help Belle.

“She didn't kill Charlie,” Noreen said. She narrowed her eyes at Deanna. “Did you know about Charlie?”

Deanna nodded. “I'm so sorry.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No, of course not.”

“Maybe you should just start at the beginning.”

They sounded just like characters in one of Deanna's detective stories.

“Ama—Belle's mother is a friend of the people I'm staying with. She asked us to say hello. See how she was.”

“Try to get her to come home,” Talia said. “We heard all about her parents. And how stifling they were.”

“We didn't come to coerce her to go back. I don't even know her parents. I didn't even meet Belle until last night.”

“And she agreed to meet you today? Why?” Noreen asked.

“She didn't.”

“Ha.”

“Do you want to hear what I have to say and maybe help me find her before she gets hurt?”

Noreen made a sour face. “Or find her so they can send her to jail.”

“Stop it!” Talia cried. “Charlie's dead and maybe Belle did kill him.”

Deanna's heart hiccupped.

Gil grabbed Talia by the shoulders and yanked her to her feet. “You're getting hysterical. Pull yourself together and be quiet.

“Now, miss—I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name.”

“Randolph, Deanna Randolph, but you can call me Deanna.” Deanna gave him her most charming smile.

It must have worked, because Gil nodded slightly. “Deanna,” he said, drawing out the syllables as if he were savoring them. Then he smiled. “We'll call you Dee.”

Deanna took a breath. “Fine. My friends call me Dee.”

At least they had until recently.

“Belle came to our house last night,” Deanna continued. “It was very late and she woke the household. She seemed . . . distressed. I took her upstairs and gave her a nightgown and we talked a little about dime novels and what it was like to be an actress, and then my maid took her down to the guest room. It was nearly light by then.”

Now Deanna hesitated. How much could she tell without impeding Will's investigation? He hadn't said anything about keeping the information secret. Of course, it probably didn't occur to him that she might run into Belle's colleagues and friends.

It certainly hadn't occurred to her.

“What did W—the police tell you?”

The four actors frowned at her. Finally Rollie said, “Just
that Charlie was dead.” His voice wavered, and Talia slipped her hand into his. “And that they were looking for Belle,” he continued.

“You must forgive our emotions,” Noreen said.

Deanna thought Noreen was controlling hers to perfection. But the others seemed genuinely moved.
They're actors
, she reminded herself. But didn't actors have to feel more emotions than ordinary people in order to portray them so well? Still, it wouldn't do to drop her guard while around them.

“Later that morning a parlor maid discovered Charlie. He was lying on the floor of the conservatory.” She watched her audience for the slightest hint of recognition. And got none.

“He'd been bludgeoned to death.” She shouldn't have said it. She knew better than to divulge the details of a case and take the chance of tipping off the perpetrator, but she also knew the value of shock tactics. And her announcement certainly had shocked them.

Talia gasped a cry, Rollie covered his face with his hands, Gil turned to look out the window. Only Noreen stood unmoved, except that her face had drained of color, leaving her makeup looking like slashes of paint. “He was a beautiful man,” she said quietly.

Was.
Only now he was barely recognizable as the handsome, laughing young man who had taken Belle to dinner.

Gil turned from the window. “And they think Belle beat him? With what? She wouldn't. She couldn't. Charlie could have easily overpowered her.”

“Did you tell this to the police?”

“Of course not. We're educated, sophisticated people, Miss Randolph. We understand more than most why the police look anywhere but the local elite for their miscreants. They'd happily
blame one of us for this—we're outsiders, morally suspect, hated and feared and yet loved and idolized.

“We won't be cooperating with them or making it easy in any way to accuse one of our own.”

“Or with you,” Noreen added, frowning down at Deanna. “I ask you again. What's your interest?”

“I'm worried about her. The police don't—as far as I know—suspect her of murder, but I am concerned for her safety. How do we know that whoever killed Charlie didn't kill Belle or wants to and is looking for her as we speak?”

“Wait a minute,” Gil said, striding across the room and coming to stand over Deanna. “The police knew his name was Charlie, but if they came straight here from the scene, how did they know?” He narrowed his eyes at Deanna, and the affably, slightly roguish man became a predator. He turned away, then came back, leaning over her. “They must have learned it from you. How did you know his name was Charlie if you just met Belle last night? Did she tell you about him?”

Deanna shook her head. “But I recognized him from when we were backstage. He'd come to take her to dinner. She called him Charlie.”

“Charlie. Charles Withrop,” Gil said.

“And he was more than a friend,” Talia said. “He was her fiancé.”

“Talia, that's enough.” At last Noreen seemed to be losing her sangfroid.

“Noreen, at least listen to what she has to say.” Rollie shot a hopeful look at Deanna. “If it can help catch Charlie's murderer and find Belle.”

Noreen frowned. “If you're a spy for the coppers . . .”

“I'm not,” Deanna said. At least she wasn't officially a spy.
But if she learned anything that could help catch the killer, she would be duty bound to tell. She started to say so, then held her piece.

“Then why are you interested in Belle?”

Deanna looked down at her hands, which she was glad to see sat quietly in her lap. Calm. At least on the outside. “I thought we might be friends.”

Noreen cracked a laugh.

“Why?” Talia asked. “Belle isn't one of your class anymore. Why would you want to be friends?”

“I don't know,” Deanna said. “Why do any two people become friends? Why are you and Noreen friends?”

“We work together,” Noreen said. “You obviously don't have to work at all, and you certainly aren't an actress. How could you and Belle possibly have any common interests as friends and after knowing each other for not even a few hours?”

“But we do.”

“And just what is that?”

“Like I told you, we both like dime novels,” Deanna said, feeling embarrassed and for some reason sad.

“Well,” Gil said. “I didn't think ladies read books for the masses.”

“I do,” Deanna said, beginning to get a little tired of their attitude.

A knock at the door made them all jump.

“Noreen, have you seen Rollie and Gil? Edwin wants to see us all downstairs.”

“I'll go find them,” Noreen called. “We'll be down in a minute.” She waited until the footsteps receded. “You'll have to go now.”

“But I—”

“Listen. If the police hold us in town until they find Belle, we'll lose a huge amount of income. Income none of us can afford to lose. But we can't discuss this now.”

“And you can't stay here by yourself,” Rollie said. “I'll escort you downstairs.” He offered Deanna his arm. Reluctantly, she took it. She hadn't learned anything helpful except that this was a very loyal group, so loyal that they might withhold any useful information until it was too late to save Belle Deeks.

Rollie walked her down the stairs, put his finger to his lips at the bottom of the stairs, and motioned her to stay until he peeked into the parlor. Then he gestured for her to hurry to the door, which Deanna did. And before she knew it, she was back on her bicycle and pedaling toward . . .

She meant to head south, back to Bonheur, but at the next block she turned west. Joe had said he'd seen Belle at a yacht party. Maybe Belle had returned there today.

*   *   *

J
oe stepped out into the bright sunshine and walked down the gangplank to the pier. He took a couple of deep breaths in an attempt to drive the odor and sting of stale whiskey, eggs, and cigars from his person.

He made his way over to where several of the crew members were now standing on the pier, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and passing around a bottle of Mersey's whiskey.

Joe nodded to them and slowed. But he could tell right away they weren't in a talkative mood. He'd do better to leave them to Will and the head-cracking dock patrol.

With a final look around he took his bike and rolled it across the wharf to the street.

Ahead of him a wooden crate leaned precariously against a shipbuilder's wall. Just as he reached it, it rattled, and Joe made a quick detour away; he was in no mood for rats or feral dogs at this time of day.

The figure that crawled out was neither rodent nor beast, but a man, ancient, by the looks of him. He slowly unfolded to his feet, where he stood at an angle that complemented the crate.

He was wearing filthy denim pants held up with a piece of rope and a torn and filthier wool sweater. He squinted at Joe, his nose stuck in the air like he smelled something bad. Most likely himself, because Joe could smell him from where he stood, a combination of stale beer and unwashed body.

The man stuck out his hand, bony fingers shook either with palsy or to urge Joe into giving him something. Joe reached in his pocket, found a coin, and withdrew his hand. He flashed it open just long enough for the old man to see it but not to grab it and run.

“Where do you live?” Joe asked.

“Useta have a room over the shipbuilder's.”

“Don't have it anymore?”

“Naw. Got my palace right here.” The old man gestured vaguely in the direction of the crate.

“So you were sleeping there last night?”

“Couldn't hardly sleep with all the gaiety going on down there. Kept me awake nearly to daybreak. How's a body to sleep with all that racket?”

He lifted an arm, then let it drop. “Over on them dem
floating palaces. All sorts of carousing going on. Every end of week, always something goin' on at one or t'other of them. Women and liquor. Wouldn't even give a bit to a man in need.”

“The one last night kept you awake all night?” Joe asked.

“Pretty much all night.” The man beetled his eyes at Joe and thrust his chin out so far that Joe was afraid the rest of him would follow it, and he'd end up facedown on the walkway. “Say, why do you want to know? You ain't with the police, are you?”

Joe shook his head. “Looking for my sister.”

“You oughta not let a young girl go all among those gentlemen.” He spit out the last word, letting Joe know what he thought of those gentlemen. “She'll come to no good, if she ain't already. And don't expect them to take care of her. They don't feel beholden. They just use them and throw them away.”

He started hobbling away. Joe went after him. “You see anyone fighting? Maybe over a woman?”

“Nope. Well, yep. Only he wasn't fighting over her; he was chasing her. Almost got her, too.”

“Chasing her?”

“I'm feeling awfully parched, and I get real forgetful when I'm thirsty.”

Joe shoved his hand into his pocket and brought out a second coin. Went through the same motions he had before. Flashed both coins and closed his fist around them.

The old man moved closer.

“Tell me about this man and the woman he was after.”

“I could remember more if I had something to wet my whistle.”

Joe shook his head and started to put the coins back in his pocket.

“Wait. I'm remembering now. Young fella. He wasn't on the yacht but was waiting outside. Not one of them. First, I thought he was waiting to roll one of them gentlemen when they staggered home, so I kept my eye on him.”

To demand part of the take, Joe had no doubt.

“But he just sat there. Then this one young woman come out and he stops her. She pushes him away and runs off into the night. He yells after her, then he follows her. That's all I know.”

“Can you describe them?”

The old man heaved a sigh that ended in a rattle of a cough. He grabbed the edge of the crate to steady himself. “Young. They was young. Just young.”

He held out his hand. Joe dropped the coins into it. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a few more. “Have yourself something to eat.”

The old man just looked at him.

“Food, man. Don't waste it all on drink.”

“You one of them pro ho-pro ho—teetotalers?”

“Not me,” Joe assured him.

The old man nodded. “Then, I thankee, sir.” He pushed away from the crate. “The boy. He was a towhead.” He peered over Joe's shoulder and his mouth dropped open. “Well, did you ever, now? What's the world a-coming to? Women on bicycles, pure craziness, next they'll want the vote. You mark my words.”

Joe felt a second of sheer panic. He quelled it. It couldn't be Dee. He'd watched her cycle away with the other members of the club.

He turned around. It was Dee. She'd given him the slip. Joe gritted his teeth, waiting for her to see him, and wondered what she would do when she did.