A Golden Cage by Shelley Freydont

Weekly
. “The Body in the Conservatory.” And it made the whole situation unreal.
    But only for a second.
    Deanna couldn’t see who it was, but she knew who it wasn’t. Not Joe, because Joe would never wear those plaid trousers, which—Deanna realized with a sickening jolt to her stomach—looked awfully familiar.
The kind of suit that actors favored.
    She glanced over to see if Laurette was thinking the same thing, but it was hard to tell, since Laurette was staring intently at her husband’s back.
    Deanna took a step forward; Elspeth’s small hand clamped around her elbow, not to stop her, but to stay close. As one, all four women moved closer.
    Mr. Ballard rose to his feet, leaving a full view of the man’s face. A young face, a handsome face, except where the cheek had been crushed, blond hair—matted with blood.
    Deanna brought her fist to her mouth. Elspeth’s grasp wasso tight, Deanna was afraid her fingernails might draw blood. Gran Gwen sucked in a sharp breath. Only Laurette kept her presence of mind to take a closer look.
    â€œMy dear.” Mr. Ballard reached for his wife.
    But it seemed she barely heard. “The poor boy. It’s that young man from the theater.”
    â€œCharlie,” Deanna said, but her voice didn’t sound like her own. “Charlie. We heard Belle call him Charlie.”
    â€œThat’s right,” Laurette said. “But what on earth is he doing here?”
    â€œWhere is the girl?” Mr. Ballard asked. “How could she possibly sleep through this racket?”
    The four women exchanged looks.
    â€œI’ll go see if she’s still asleep,” Deanna said. “Come, Elspeth.”
    They walked abreast to the door and across the landing and up the stairs. Then, seeing that no one was about, they took the hallway at a run.
    The guest room was empty. Deanna’s nightgown lay across the bed. But the cape, the gauze costume, and Amabelle’s shoes were gone.
    And so was Amabelle Deeks.
    *   *   *
    J oe Ballard and his apprentice, Orrin, had just fired up the new centrifuge machine they were working on when there was a rap at the door to the warehouse.
    â€œMust be Hiram,” Joe said. “I wonder if they had any trouble last night?” He put down his wrench and went to answer the door.
    Joe had hired Hiram Harkevy to oversee a corps of local men to guard the workshop at night or when Joe was away for more than a few hours. Like last evening.
    There had been several break-ins and sabotage attempts on his inventions, which he hoped would soon revolutionize the refining and distribution of sugar. But the sugar industry was volatile, and some people would stop at nothing to gain an edge, even if it meant stealing Joe’s machinery. Or destroying it.
    His father and George Randolph had recently almost lost their sugar refining business. Fancy negotiating and a little underhanded coercion had saved it, but their major competitor, H. O. Havemeyer, who now owned the monopoly on sugar refining, was determined to buy them out or finish them off.
    And Joe didn’t intend on letting that happen.
    He opened the front door and was surprised to see Will Hennessey. Joe felt a frisson of panic as he did every time he unexpectedly opened the door to Will, his friend from college, and now a sergeant of the Newport Police Department.
    An unannounced visit from the police didn’t bode well.
    â€œYour family is fine,” Will said before Joe even had time to ask. “And Deanna.”
    Joe stepped aside. “Come in. I think there’s still some coffee.”
    â€œThanks, but I’m on my way to Bonheur and thought you might want to come.”
    â€œBonheur? I thought you said everything is fine.”
    â€œYour family is. But it seems they discovered a body in the conservatory.”
    Joe cocked an eyebrow. “A body . . . in the conservatory? Is this some kind of