Murder at Marble House(89)
“I can certainly understand that,” I replied truthfully. I stood and reached for a dangling corner of the sheet she held, then found the other. Together we stretched out the sheet and draped it over the line. As Katie moved to place a pin on the end nearest me, I placed a hand on her shoulder. “I am your employer, Katie, but I hope you’ll also think of me as your friend. And I do hope you know you can come to me if anything is ever troubling you.”
“I do know that, miss. Thank you.” But all too quickly she turned away to resume her task. With a sigh I left her to it, saddened but not surprised that she wouldn’t confide in me. It wasn’t the first time she’d kept her secrets to herself.
And yet, as I walked to the end of the property and stood braced against the salty breeze, I felt a sense of gratitude. For a short time at least, I’d been given the gift of ordinary matters, one might even say mundane, a brief reprieve from danger and death and the mysterious disappearance of my cousin.
I myself ended that relatively peaceful interval, this time by seeking to satisfy my curiosity. Once more enlisting Brady to accompany me, I set out to the home of Winthrop Rutherfurd.
“Let me do the talking,” I said as I steered us toward tree-lined Lakeview Avenue.
He angled a look at me from under the brim of his straw boater. “Have I ever been able to stop you?”
“No, nor I you. So please, let me ask the questions.”
“There’s no reason he should answer them, you know.”
I smiled. “Oh, trust me, there is.”
Brady studied me for several clop-clops of Barney’s slow-moving hooves. “Blackmail, little sister? You have been busy, haven’t you?”
It suddenly occurred to me I’d never fully explained to Brady about Winty’s involvement in smuggling. But I wasn’t about to embark on the details now. We’d reached Winty’s rented house.
“So how are we going to ease into this?” Brady whispered in my ear as we approached the front door. “Pretend it’s a social call?”
“Brady, do be quiet, please!” I raised the knocker and struck two resounding clanks. The door opened almost immediately, the face greeting us sending me back a step in surprise. “Mr. Rutherfurd.”
He pulled a face and said rather less enthusiastically, “Miss Cross.” His gaze shifted briefly to Brady. “Mr. Gale.”
“Winty,” my brother replied with a haughty grin that made me want to poke his ribs.
“May we come in?” I asked.
“Look, if this is about the other day . . . I’m sorry. I was in a bit of a hurry. Besides, the police have already been here asking questions, and they seemed more than satisfied with my answers.”
“Were they? And did you tell them any semblance of the truth? Mr. Rutherfurd, I suggest you let us in or we’ll be forced to discuss this matter here, and I cannot guarantee my voice will stay to a discreet level.” I wasn’t sure if it was that, or my pointed glare, that convinced him to step aside and open the door wider. Once inside he ushered us into the nearest room, a fussy, overdecorated little parlor that appeared little used. He didn’t invite us to sit, but that suited me fine.
“Now, then.” Having preceded him in, I whirled to face him. “Where were you going in such a hurry, Mr. Rutherfurd?”
“Town. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Where in town?” This came from Brady and I shot him a scowl. Yet I repeated the question.
It was Winty’s turn to glower at both of us. I simply raised my eyebrows at him and waited. “Long Wharf, if you must know.”
“Why? What sent you there in such a hurry you nearly sent my rig off the road? You might have lamed my horse.”
Winty shoved his hands in his coat pockets and strode past me. He went to the window and looked out over his neat front lawn, shaded by an old oak and a Japanese maple. His shoulders bunched. “I received a message from a dockworker—”
“Are you personally acquainted with many of those?” I interrupted.
He spun about. “No, Miss Cross, I am not. But I paid this particular individual to relay any important information concerning. . .” He paused, blew out a breath, and gave a shake of his head. “Concerning certain investments of mine.”
His look suggested I should know what he meant, which indeed I did.
“And . . .” I prodded. I sensed Brady’s interest growing as, beside me, he craned his neck slightly.
“And I arrived too late. My associate”—I knew he meant Calvin Stanford—“had arranged for a pre-crated shipment to be loaded onto a steamer the night before. That steamer put out before I reached the wharf.” He turned away again, this time to finger a lace runner spanning the top of a lovely little walnut spinet. His hand stiffened and I thought he might send the runner, and the delicate porcelain figurines ranged along it, hurtling to the floor. Then I distinctly heard “damn his eyes” whispered under Winty’s breath. That, more than anything else, clarified matters for me.