Murder at Marble House(90)

“So I gather you’re telling me Mr. Stan—” I glanced at Brady. “Your associate stole your half of your mutual investment. Is that correct?”

“Yes, that’s correct,” he said, mocking my tone. “And if you and a good dozen other lollygaggers hadn’t been clogging the roads, I might have been able to intercept that damned boat.”

“Rutherfurd . . .” Brady’s voice took on a growling edge. “I’ll thank you to watch your language in front of my sister.”

Winty tossed up his arms. “Your sister, sir, has single-handedly become the bane of my existence.”

“I beg your pardon!” My hands went to my hips. “It certainly wasn’t I who led you astray, was it, Mr. Rutherfurd? No, that was your own doing. You made your bed, and now you must—”

“Miss Cross, my bed promised to be quite tidy until you decided to poke your nose into other people’s business.”

“I was only interested in the whereabouts of my cousin. Had you not conducted yourself so suspiciously, I would be none the wiser today. Now, regardless of whatever excuses you gave the police for your reckless driving, can you prove you were at the wharf that day?”

“I can,” he said with enough confidence that I felt half-inclined to believe him.

I folded my arms. “As well-known around town as you are, I suppose it should be easy enough to prove one way or another.”

“Then go ahead and prove it, one way or another.” His eyes narrowed, and a little shiver traveled across my shoulders.

Still, I asked, “At any point did you head in the opposite direction, to the beaches?”

He wrinkled his nose. “You mean to Easton’s?”

“Or beyond.” He must not have been reading his newspapers lately if he didn’t automatically associate my questions with Amelia Beaumont’s death.

“Good heavens, Miss Cross. If I want to stroll along a beach, I’ll head over to Bailey’s to mingle with my own kind. Our kind,” he amended after an instant’s pause. Was that an attempt to placate me? He blinked. “As it is, I don’t much care for sand.”

Neither do I . . . not anymore, I thought, remembering the sight of Lady Amelia’s dress, like a heap of sand and seaweed.

I had one more question for him. “Have you heard anything from Consuelo?”

“No.” He narrowed his eyes again and studied me. “But why do I sense that you might have? Do you know anything about where she is? If you do, Miss Cross, please tell me. I have a right to know. I might . . . be able to help her.”

Had he had a change of heart when it came to fighting for her hand in marriage?

“No, Mr. Rutherfurd, I don’t know where she is, although I have every hope of finding her soon.”

He stepped closer. “When you do, will you bring her here? To me?”

“That I will not, Mr. Rutherfurd.” His expression fell, but I kept on. “You gave up any rights to Consuelo’s confidence, first when you backed away so entirely at the news of her engagement, and second when you decided to put in with . . .” I smiled grimly. “Your associate.”

A vein in his temple throbbed. “Miss Cross, I would thank you to leave. Now.”

“We were just going. Come, Brady, I believe we’re finished here. But, Mr. Rutherfurd, you might want to drive more carefully in the future.”

The rest of that day, and the next, passed in a frustrating tedium of inactivity, at least when it came to discovering Consuelo’s whereabouts. Derrick telephoned to tell me only that his “sources” were still working on digging up the property records on the cottages near Second Beach. He offered to come to Gull Manor to review what we already knew, and when I listlessly declined that idea, he proposed another lesson in self-defense.

Self-defense . . . against whom? Against him and the temptation he aroused in me despite my every resolve to the contrary. No, I told him, I was still sore from our last session. I didn’t mention that the ache was inward rather than outward, of the sort that left no visible bruises.

Early the next morning he called again. This time, he had news.





Chapter 17

“Emma, I’ve dug up some names of people living near Second Beach, but from what I’ve been able to gather, it wouldn’t make sense for your cousin to stay with any of them.”

“What do you mean?” Clutching my robe tighter around me with one hand, I used the other to press the ear trumpet tighter to my ear.

The line crackled a moment, and then his voice came clearly over the line. “. . . Elderly couples, young families, a few immigrants. . .”