A Golden Cage by Shelley Freydont Page B

with an iron glove. Fortunately she was out of the country, and as far as Joe was concerned, she could stay there. Though she might do a better job of keeping Deanna out of trouble than he seemed to be doing.
    â€œAnd now the damn girl has disappeared. We have the entire household looking for her.”
    Will had started a circuitous route around the room. He looked out the French doors that led out to the lawn. Checked the marble floor for footprints. Inspected the cushions of the wicker furniture, the tables, the baskets of exotic plants, searching for any clue that might lead to the reason for the man’s death or who killed him and how. Besides the obvious: his face and head and been bashed in.
    Joe and his father stood watching until Will came back to them and pulled out a black notebook and pencil.
    He cleared his throat. “Did the dead man—”
    â€œHis name is Charlie,” Lionel supplied. “My wife and Miss Deanna met him briefly backstage at the play.”
    â€œThe play at . . .”
    â€œFor Judge Grantham’s birthday party. His son-in-law and daughter brought in a troupe from Manhattan to perform.”
    Will nodded and continued to write.
    The front bell rang, and Carlisle excused himself to answer it. He returned a few minutes later, accompanied by the medical examiner, the police photographer, and several other police officers, who looked nervous to be in the home of one of Newport’s elite.
    Will gave orders for the men to search the grounds.
    â€œWe’ve begun a search of the house,” Lionel told him. “And sent the stableboys out to search the cliffs. Though in retrospect, I suppose we should have waited for your men. We were concerned for the girl and her safety. The cliffs here can be treacherous if you don’t know them. Especially at night.”
    Carlisle stepped into the room.
    â€œYes, Carlisle?”
    â€œCook has prepared coffee and a light repast in the breakfast room if the sergeant would like to continue his questioning there. The ladies are already there.”
    â€œThis is a little strange,” Will confided to Joe as they walked toward the door.
    â€œWell, at least Carlisle didn’t call you Master William, like he used to.”
    â€œFor which I’m truly thankful. This is uncomfortable enough.” Will stopped to say a few words to the medical examiner and then accompanied Joe down the hall to the breakfast room.
    Cook’s light repast turned out to be warming dishes of eggs, tomatoes, ham, sausages, and a rack of toast surrounded by homemade jams and honey.
    Joe filled his plate. Murder or no, he wasn’t about to turn down Cook’s breakfast.
    Will turned down food, though he did accept a cup of coffee.
    â€œThere’s no reason to stand on ceremony with us, Will,” Laurette said.
    â€œYes, ma’am. It’s just that it goes against protocol to break bread with those you’re questioning. Even if they’re not suspected of a crime,” he added hastily.
    Carlisle filled his cup. “Cook anticipated this. She asked if you would step round to the kitchen before you leave. She has packed you what seems to be a very substantial picnic lunch.”
    Will grinned, but quickly wiped it off his face. “Tell Cook I shall certainly stop in at the kitchen on my way out.”
    *   *   *
    D eanna couldn’t repress the sigh that escaped as she listened to Will question the Ballards. They were acting so formal, as if they were strangers, and it was so stupid. Obviously none of them had killed that poor actor, Charlie.
    But he was dead. Amabelle was out there somewhere, probably frightened, and surely hungry. If they would just put their heads together instead of acting like people in a play, they might be able to find her before something bad happened to her . . . if it hadn’t already.
    Was it Charlie she’d been running from? That didn’t