Murder at Marble House by Alyssa Maxwell

plant matter suddenly thinned, no doubt due to the arrival of the ladies and me. Apparently we had scattered the evidence with our own footsteps.
    Still, I searched for telltale contours that might with some accuracy be called footprints, yet I could make out nothing substantial enough to identify a type or size of shoe. My only educated guess was that the shoes had been damp in order to have tracked in the mess.
    Odd. It hadn’t rained in days.
    “Finally. The police are here.” The sounds of tramping feet rendered Aunt Alva’s announcement unnecessary.
    I couldn’t have said which emotion reigned supreme inside me, relief or chagrin. Yes, I was thankful the authorities had arrived, but the expression on Detective Jesse Whyte’s face made my stomach sink. But perhaps I should clarify. The moment our gazes met, his ironic expression proclaimed he’d not only realized I was once again caught up in a murder investigation, but that he wasn’t the least bit happy about it. I suddenly wished I’d returned to the house when Consuelo had.
    Jesse’s first words to me dismissed any doubts I might have had about his sentiments. “Really, Emma? So soon after last time? Is this something you particularly enjoy?”
     
    “There were footsteps. I heard them, sir. Running across the grass.”
    “She’s lying!”
    Once again I hastened to intervene between my aunt and Clara Parker. “Please, Aunt Alva, let her answer Detective Whyte’s questions. How else will we learn the truth?”
    “We won’t learn the truth if the chit insists on lying.”
    While the uniformed men proceeded to question Marble House’s battalion of servants, the rest of us had moved into the house and upstairs to the room that had once served as Uncle William’s study during the short time he’d lived here before the divorce. Of all the rooms in Marble House, this was the least ornate and the most practical, with clean, masculine lines rendered in leather and hardwood furnishings. Here, one needn’t hesitate to sit for fear of ruining priceless embroidered silks or smudging a gilded finish.
    Clara was seated in a stiff-backed side chair in the middle of the room, her body so rigid she might have been held with ropes. One by one, Roberta and Edwina Spooner gave their statements to Jesse and his partner, Detective Dobbs. Next, the officers questioned Lady Amelia, and finally, Hope Stanford. Each gave a nearly identical version of the story. Had they seen anyone other than their little group enter or leave the pavilion? No. Had they seen anyone else in the vicinity of the pavilion? No. In the gardens? No. Were they together during the estimated time of the murder? Yes. And what did they see upon entering the pavilion?
    Again, the answers were all the same: Madame Devereaux slumped over the card table and Clara Parker standing directly behind her, her hands on the dead woman’s neck.
    Clara protested with a loud whimper at each mention of that last detail. “I was trying to take the scarf off her!”
    “There were the tracks of grass on the pavilion floor,” I reminded Jesse. “That does seem to indicate that someone had been in the pavilion before the rest of us arrived.”
    “Yes—her!” Aunt Alva’s finger jabbed in Clara’s direction.
    I swung to face her. She and I sat together on the camelback sofa beneath the mounted sabers Uncle William had brought home from the family’s trip to India last year. I couldn’t help feeling those crossed swords symbolized Aunt Alva’s and my currently opposing views. I only hoped they were mounted securely. “Are you so eager to see your own maid accused of murder?”
    Clara let out another whimper as Aunt Alva replied, “Of course not. But neither am I eager to see a murderess go free.”
    “The grass could have been tracked in by Madame Devereaux herself.” This came from Jesse’s partner, Detective Anthony Dobbs. The man sat at Uncle William’s sturdy desk, a pencil in hand, a writing tablet