by Mary Kruger
Matt glanced out as he passed the piazza, scanning the tables. Most of them were empty. It was nearly noon, and people had left for luncheon, Brooke apparently among them. Just as well, he told himself, turning away and squelching an irrational feeling of disappointment. True, she did know the people involved in this case. True, she could ask them things he couldn’t. He could not, however, involve her in an investigation. Best to stay away from her completely, he thought, and set out for the station.
“Cap,” Charlie called as Matt walked into the station. “These telegrams just came.”
Matt took the sheaf of yellow papers Charlie handed him, without breaking stride. “From New York?”
“Yeah.” Charlie grinned. “All the background information you asked for. I told them they should ask about the household staff, as well.”
Matt stopped. “Don’t tell me there are maids dead there, too.”
“No. Somethin’ else, though. One of our possibles got himself into trouble a few years back. Seems a maid who worked for him found herself pregnant and caused a ruckus.” His grin widened. “Sued him for paternity. Didn’t win, but it caused a hell of a scandal.”
Matt let out a silent whistle through his teeth. “Good work, Charlie. Who was it.”
“Well, that’s the thing, Cap.” Charlie’s grin faded. “We already have evidence against him, but I don’t think you’re going to be too happy.”
Matt went still. “Who?” he asked again, but he knew already. “Don’t tell me-”
“Yeah.” Charlie nodded. “It was Henry Olmstead.”
“Miss,” Annie called as she crossed the lawn. “That policeman fellow is here again.”
Brooke, a paintbrush placed crosswise in her mouth, looked up from her easel. “Which one is that?”
“The one that’s sweet on you.” Annie stopped a few paces away and squinted at the canvas. “Nice. I like this one, Miss Cassidy.”
“What do you mean, the one that’s sweet on me?”
“What? Oh. Detective Devlin. Thought you knew.”
“He is not sweet on me, Annie.” Brooke slammed the paintbrush down on the edge of the easel, annoyed. “Heaven knows that’s the last thing he is.”
“I don’t know. Seems to me, the way he looked at you last time he was here-”
“What does he want, Annie?”
“He wants to see you. Actually, miss,” her hands twisted in her apron, “he asked to see Mr. Olmstead. Hutton sent me out here to tell you.”
“Hutton told him Mr. Olmstead’s not at home, didn’t he?”
“Yes, miss, but now he’s asking for you.” She waited. “Should I tell him you’ll be in?”
Brooke glanced toward the easel. “Yes—no. Tell him to come out here,” she said, and turned back to her work. The light was behind the hydrangea bush, just the way she wanted it. If she waited even a few more days, the flowers would have faded and she’d lose her chance to paint them. Besides, Matt had not been eager for her help in the last few days. Why should she jump to his bidding now? Still, she wished she wasn’t wearing a paint-spattered smock over her skirt and blouse and that her hair was neater. She wished she knew where her uncle had been last night. Lying to Matt was going to be difficult.
“Brooke,” Matt called as he crossed the lawn, and she turned again. As Annie had, he stopped a few paces away, staring at the canvas. “I didn’t know you painted.”
“I took it up after I went to live with my aunt and uncle.” Picking up a turpentine-soaked rag, she wiped her brush. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“Mm. I like it.” He moved to the side, studying the painting. “It looks like something I saw in Boston once. By a French artist, what was his name? Monet.”
“Thank you,” she said, surprised both by his knowledge and the compliment. “I don’t consider myself his equal, but I like it. It keeps me busy.” She concentrated on dabbing paint in just the right place. “Why are you here, Matt?”
“Came to see your uncle.” Hands in pockets, he moved to stand behind the easel, so that she couldn’t avoid seeing him. “I understand he’s out.”
“Yes.” Brooke frowned at the canvas, not looking at him. “I don’t know where he is.”
“I see. Any ideas?”
“Have you tried the Reading Room? I think he was there this morning.”
“Yes, I tried the Reading Room, and no, he hasn’t been there today.” He eyed her steadily, making it difficult for her to concentrate. “Why do I have the feeling you know something you’re not telling me?”
She did look up at that. “You didn’t want my help, or have you forgotten?”
“Maybe I was wrong.”
“What?”
“I can’t get you involved, Brooke.” He moved closer to the easel. “You’re a civilian, a cottager and a woman. Under those circumstances I can’t involve you in an investigation.”
“What do you want, then?”
“Did Eliot tell you anything about this morning?”
Brooke set down the brush, at last giving up any pretense of painting. “Matt, surely you don’t think he has anything to do with the murders?”
“I don’t know.” His eyes were somber. “How close was he to Rosalind?”
Brooke opened her mouth to answer, and then closed it again. “I don’t think I can tell you that.”
“You’re protecting him,” he said flatly.
“He’s my friend.”
“So am I.”
“You were,” she retorted. “A long time ago.”
“And whose fault was that, Brooke?” He thrust his face forward. “My family would have taken you in after your parents died, and you know it. And with what there was between us...”
“What was there between us?” she challenged, her hands on her hips. “I don’t recall your ever saying anything to me about it.”
“How could I, with all this?” His gesture encompassed Belle Mer and all it stood for. “All of a sudden you were a cottager. How could I say anything to you?”
“So it’s my fault? If you’d given me any kind of sign-”
“You left, damn it.”
“I needed family,” she said quietly. “Do you have any idea what it was like for me, losing both my parents at once? Not only that, but I lost my home, and all my friends, too. Once I was a cottager, they weren’t comfortable with me anymore. I needed something, Matt. I needed family.”
“And are you happy?”
“Happy enough.” She busied herself with putting her paintbox in order. “I have relatives in New York, and new friends. I’m content.”
“How much do you know about these new friends, Brooke?”
“Enough to know none of them are capable of murder,” she said, ignoring the fact that she had voiced that very fear aloud to Miles just that morning.
“How do you know? No one really knows what someone else is capable of. Rosalind Sinclair seems to have annoyed quite a few people.”
Brooke closed her paintbox. “Let’s say for the sake of argument that someone I know did kill Rosalind. Why would he kill three other women, too?”
“Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he took advantage of the fact someone’s murdering maids to make it look as if the same person killed Rosalind. I don’t think so, though. I think we’re dealing with one person.”
“Then, why-”
“I think the same person killed all four women. I think he knew Rosalind dressed as a maid—you found that out easily enough yourself—and he took advantage of that fact. He needed to get rid of her, for some reason, and her dressing up as a maid gave him a way to do it.”
“But, the others-”
“Were killed so it would look as if Rosalind was mistaken for a maid and was chosen at random. Their deaths weren’t important in themselves. Rosalind was the primary target.”
She stared at him in horror. “But that would mean he’s a madman!”
“Or someone very cold-blooded.” His face was serious. “Do you underst
and now why I don’t want you involved? If it is someone you know and you start asking questions, you could be in danger.”
“But—dear heavens.” She groped her way over to the low stone wall that enclosed the garden and sat down, staring blindly ahead. She had better reasons for staying out of the investigation than he knew, if Eliot or her uncle were involved. “It’s monstrous, Matt.”
“It is.” He stood before her. “Are you all right?”
“I-yes. I’m just stunned. Who would ever think of such a thing?” She gazed up at the house, not really seeing anything. Her safe little world suddenly seemed menacing, no longer a haven. If her uncle were involved... “I have to go. My aunt will expect me to see to things for dinner—we’re having guests, you know—and my uncle-”
“Yes? Your uncle?” he said, when she didn’t go on.
“N-nothing. I should warn him about the guests, when he comes home, that is, he doesn’t like playing host, and-”
“Detective!” Charlie called from across the lawn, running toward them.
The sight of him made Brooke stiffen. “Why is he here?”
“I don’t know.” Matt held his hand palm out to Charlie, gesturing for him to stop, all the time keeping his eyes on Brooke. “Brooke, is there something you want to tell me?”
“Detective,” Charlie said again. “I’ve got to talk to you.”
“Not now, sergeant.”
“Yes, sir. Now.”
Matt at last looked away, and Brooke let her breath out in a silent sigh of relief. One more minute, and she might have blurted out all her worries about her uncle. “What is it?” he asked in clipped tones.
“Got something to tell you, Cap. It’s important.”
Matt glanced back at Brooke. Her face was pale, but otherwise composed. Damn the interruption, he thought. He had the feeling that she had been about to tell him something important. “Dammit, Charlie,” he said, but he walked over to him. He listened in silence to what Charlie told him in a low voice, his shoulders stiffening in surprise at the news and his face getting grimmer. “Damn. All right, Charlie, I’ll be there in a moment. Brooke.” He turned back to her. “I have to go. Remember what I said.”
Brooke stood with her hands folded before her. “I won’t do any investigating, detective.”
“Good.” He walked a few paces away, stopped, and then continued on. Whatever Brooke had nearly said would wait; he doubted she’d tell him now, anyway, unless he questioned her. And he didn’t have time for that, not with the news Charlie had brought him. Another body had been found. The Cliff Walk Killer had struck again.
Chapter 8
“We don’t have her name yet, Cap,” Charlie said, as they climbed the stairs leading from the Bell and Anchor saloon on Thames Street to the rooms above. This was a different world from the mansions on Bellevue Avenue, this dusty, unpaved street that ran along the waterfront and was the heart of the city’s business district. Here were shops and wharves and offices, and the saloons that catered to working men; here the voices of the people were louder, and the smell of fish pervaded everything. “One thing’s for certain. She’s not a maid.”
“No uniform?” Matt said.
“Not much of anything. You’ll see.” Charlie opened a door off the landing and Matt went in, taking in the room in one quick, comprehensive glance. The victim definitely wasn’t dressed as a maid; she was not, in fact, dressed at all. Her nude body sprawled, face down, across the unmade bed, half-on, half-off, one arm dangling limply down. Her face was turned away from Matt, a fall of thick, curly red hair hiding her features, but Matt had the impression she had been young. She had also been stabbed, more than once, and left to die a messy, undignified death.
Dr. Chandler was already there, crouching by the bed and examining the victim’s hand. “Anything?” Matt said.
“If you want time of death, I can’t give it to you yet,” Dr. Chandler said brusquely. “Looks like she was killed here, but until we move her I can’t say for sure. Look at this, though.” He pointed to the hand, and Matt crouched beside him, careful to avoid the blood which had pooled on the floor. It was a small hand, soft and white, its nails buffed and polished and shaped to perfect ovals. Like Rosalind’s, he thought. The sight evoked the same pity in him. “She fought her killer. See this nail? Almost torn off.”
“Then she might have left scratches.”
“Possibly. If you find a suspect, I’d look for marks on him. Look at this, too.”
Matt looked closer at the hand. At the base of the fourth finger the skin showed white in a narrow band. “Looks like she usually wore a ring there.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“Mm.” Matt got up, glancing around. So far he’d seen nothing to contradict his initial impression, that this was a prostitute who had been killed by her last client. The missing ring added robbery to the crime. It was very different from the murders he’d been dealing with, yet it bothered him. Five deaths in five weeks. It didn’t matter that this death broke the pattern. Its timing was coincidental, and he didn’t like coincidences.
“Cap,” Charlie called from across the room, where he and a patrolman had been going through the woman’s clothes, lying in a heap on a chair. “Come look at this.”
“Any identification?” Matt asked.
“None, Cap. Her purse is missing, and there’s nothing in the pockets. But look at this.” Charlie held up a shirtwaist. “This is good quality for this part of town.”
“Mm.” Matt examined the shirtwaist. Of white lawn, it was trimmed and tucked and edged with soft, cobwebby lace that had been stitched on by hand. Not exactly what the usual prostitute wore. The remainder of the clothing, the tan serge skirt, the houndstooth man-tailored jacket, and the silk underthings, were of similar quality. “Is this how you found them?” he asked the patrolman, who had been first on the scene when the body had been reported.
He snapped to attention at being addressed. “No, sir. At least, not all of them. The skirt and jacket were hanging in the wardrobe, there.” He jerked his thumb back at the pressed oak wardrobe in the corner. “When I came in, the landlady was throwing things on the chair. I stopped her and made her leave.” He grimaced. “She’s a tough one. She carried on about getting what was owed her. Whoever rented the room didn’t pay her.”
“So everything was hung up?”
“That’s what the landlady said.” He glanced over at the body and his face turned white, so that his freckles stood out. “Can I go, sir? I’ve got to finish patrolling my beat.”
Matt nodded. There were enough other policemen around to secure the area that this man wasn’t needed. “Go ahead. Good work, officer,” he added, and the patrolman, saluting, went out. “Don’t know if I’ve seen him before. Who is he?”
“Pat Harrington. He’s new. Good, though.” Charlie, too, looked over at the body. “Far as I know, this is his first murder, but he handled it okay.”
“Did he talk to the landlady at all?”
“Only to keep her out of the room. That’ll be your job, Cap.”
“Huh.” Hands in pockets, Matt turned around, studying the room. It was small, bare, anonymous, with an iron bedstead and a plain oak washstand in the comer. That, along with the wardrobe and the straight chair, were the room’s only furnishings. The only touches of color were provided by a threadbare carpet, now unalterably stained, faded red flocked wallpaper, and a floral-painted frosted glass globe on the gas wall sconce. Not a pleasant place to die. “I assume the landlady found the body?”
“Yeah.”
“All right. I’ll talk to her later.”
“I’m ready to turn the body over,” Dr. Chandler said, and Matt moved to his side. “Rigor’s well established,” the doctor said, grunting a little as he maneuvered the still, stiff body onto its back. “I think you can safely say she was killed here. See the lividity? Can’t give you a better estimate than twelve to twenty-four hours.”
Matt nodded. She had been prett
y once, he thought dispassionately, looking at the body as an object and not as someone who had once been alive, breathing, living. It was easier that way, easier to note the lividity Dr. Chandler had pointed out, the discolored skin on the body and the side of her face where the blood had pooled, showing that she had been in that position since dying; easier to count the numerous stab wounds. “Any idea what the weapon was?”
“No, not yet. Large blade, by the size of the wounds. Sharp, too. See?” He pointed to one stab wound. “Edges are clean. I’ll know more after the autopsy.”
Matt nodded and turned away. He’d seen all he needed. “Oh, by the way.” He stopped and turned back to the doctor. “Would whoever have done this get blood on himself?”
“He’d have to. No way to avoid it, the way she was cut.” He clapped his hat back on his head. “Look for a bloodstained man with scratches on his face and you’ve got the culprit. Are you done with the body?”
“Yes, you can have it. Come with me, Charlie,” he said, heading for the door. “Tell me about the landlady.”
“You know her, Cap,” Charlie said, as they clattered down the stairs. “Julia Perry. You arrested her yourself a time or two.”
Matt stopped. “I remember, but not for prostitution.”
“No. Back when the state was dry, you brought in her and her husband for running a kitchen bar.”
“I remember now.” Matt nodded. “And if I’m correct, she’s also been accused of running a brothel.”
“Claims she doesn’t know what her tenants do in the rooms, but yeah, that’s right. We’ve raided the place now and then when the citizens start pushing us to clean up vice.”
“Sounds like she hasn’t changed.” Pushing open a door, they emerged from the stairway onto the street. Beside them was the Bell and Anchor, closed now because of the events upstairs. The patrolman standing guard at the door saluted as Matt walked in.
“Well, Julie,” Matt said, stopping and looking around. The smell of stale beer and old dust tickled his nose. “Up to your old tricks again, I see.”
“Who’re you?” The woman behind the bar peered at him. “Devlin, ain’t it? I remember you.”