CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Imanage a few hours of sleep, the armoire I pushed in front of the wall panel doing a little to assuage my nerves, the heavy police presence playing a role, too.
I wake, the morning sun shining through the curtains. My head pounds, my eyesight bleary. I glance over at the clock, surprised to see that it’s nearly eleven in the morning. I’ve slept through breakfast. Carolina and Asher will likely already—
It crashes into me like a wave.
Carolina’s body lying on the ground.
The detective questioning me.
My sister is gone forever.
I scramble out of bed, heading to the window to see if the police are still searching the grounds. I can’t see them or hear the dogs.
It feels like I’m walking through a nightmare.
I dress quickly and head downstairs to see if there are any updates.
The house is preternaturally quiet.
If a dead peacock caused a mass exodus of staff, how many have fled after a murder?
“Miss Acosta.”
I whirl around at the sound of my name.
Mrs. Morrison stands outside the library. Her hands are clutched against her chest. She normally favors simple gray dresses, but today she has opted for an austere black, and the sight of the mourning color threatens tears once more.
I glance down at my own skirt, belatedly realizing that the green skirt and white shirtfront are livelier than I should have chosen for myself. My grief is hardly rational or expedient.
Mrs. Morrison’s gaze runs over my skirt, but she doesn’t say anything about my inappropriate choice of outfit.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” she murmurs, not quite meeting my gaze.
“Thank you.”
It’s staggering to think of how many times people have said that phrase to me in the last few weeks.
“I’m surprised you’re still here. I imagine a great deal of the staff have left. Understandably so.”
She stiffens. “Mr. Wyatt hired me to care for the house. I would never abandon my post.”
Is she loyal to Asher or to Marbrisa? And why did she seemingly dislike Carolina so?
“Can we speak, Mrs. Morrison? Privately? I understand that you worked at Marbrisa right after it was built by the previous owners. I heard a bit about the unpleasantness that happened back then. Do you think there could be a connection between the two events?”
“Of course not,” she sputters.
“I want to talk about Anna Barnes.”
“I don’t gossip about my employers.”
“Anna Barnes is no longer with us. And if she was, and there was some connection between her death and what is happening now, don’t you think she would want you to do something about it?”
“You’re just like your sister, aren’t you?”
She doesn’t necessarily say it like an insult, but it’s clear it isn’t a compliment, either.
“Did Carolina ask you about Anna?”
“She did. And I told her the same thing that I’m telling you. What happened to Anna Barnes was fodder for gossip for long enough. Let the woman rest in peace.”
“And Carolina? How can my sister rest in peace if her killer is on the loose? Help me. Please. There might be something in the past, something that you know that could be helpful.”
She sighs. “Fine. I have an interview with Detective Pierce right now. I’ll come see you after.”
I pray she doesn’t tell Detective Pierce that I was asking about Anna Barnes. He already seems suspicious enough as it is.
I walk outside, belatedly realizing that I’m retracing my steps from last night, traversing the same path. I veer off to the front of the mansion, not yet ready to be reminded of what happened, unable to look at the spot where my sister was killed.
George is pruning the hedges near the front door, the police nowhere to be found.
He sets the shears down when he catches sight of me.
“I heard about your sister. I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Is there anything you need?”
I shake my head.
“Did the police question you?” I ask him.
“This morning. I was supposed to have a meeting with Mr. Wyatt about the gardens. When I arrived, the police were here.”
“Did you see Asher?”
“No. They questioned all the staff. The ones who were around, at least. Word of the murder got out quickly, and more people decided they didn’t want to risk working here anymore. Some were afraid, some didn’t take kindly to being questioned about a murder.”
“What did you tell the police?” I ask, struggling to keep my voice steady. “What did they ask you?”
“I didn’t tell them much. I work in the gardens—it’s not like I’m aware of what’s going on inside the house.”
“But you heard gossip, surely.”
“I did. I’m not going to repeat it to the police, though. I don’t want to accuse someone who is innocent.”
“Did you ever see Carolina in the gardens?”
“Not really. Your sister didn’t seem like the type to get her hands dirty.”
“How about the greenhouse? Maybe she wasn’t alone,” I press. “Perhaps she was meeting someone there. A man?”
He’s silent for a beat. “I saw her coming out of the greenhouse once. The day you arrived at Marbrisa. She was with a man. It wasn’t Asher. I didn’t think much of it—I figured it was a friend of theirs.”
My heart pounds. “Are you sure you didn’t recognize him?”
“I don’t know. I’m sorry. Like I said, I work in the gardens. They’ve never introduced me to their friends and the like. I just remember thinking it was strange that your sister would go to the greenhouse, considering she’d never shown an interest in it before.”
“Did you tell the police any of this?”
“No.”
“You need to. It can help with the investigation.”
“What is there to say? I saw your sister talking to someone. That’s hardly a crime. If I accuse the wrong person . . .” He shifts uncomfortably. “Despite all the strange happenings, this is a good job, and I can use the work . . .”
His voice trails off, but I can hear the unspoken fear there, can see how nervous my question has made him. In my efforts to try so hard to treat him as though we are equals, eradicating the social barrier between us, I failed to realize and acknowledge that we are not the same. He has so much more to lose than I do.
Is that how the rest of the staff feels?
The Depression has ended, yes, and many have left the job of their own volition, but I wonder if there are some like George and Mrs. Morrison who are now placed in the awkward position of having to risk their futures by testifying against people who are wealthy and powerful, the fear of retaliation breathing down their necks.
“Do you think she was killed by someone she knew?” George asks me.
“That makes the most sense, doesn’t it? What are the odds that someone just happened to stumble upon her in the gardens and decided to kill her?”
“She could have interrupted something she wasn’t meant to see. A robbery, perhaps? After all, Marbrisa has a reputation. Everyone has heard about the house’s legendary art. Not to mention your sister’s extensive jewelry collection.”
That’s true. I hadn’t even considered the robbery angle, but given the house’s notoriety and Asher’s wealth, it makes sense. But if it was a robbery, why didn’t they take anything? Did Asher’s appearance interrupt them in the act?
“Maybe it was a robbery. But why the maze, then? Why not just break into the house and be done with it?”
“She could have interrupted them before they could reach the house.”
I suppose he’s right, but there’s something about it that just feels off, wrong. This seems personal in a way I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s like the mosaic in the house’s entryway—I can see the individual pieces, but I can’t figure out how they connect.
“Are you sure you never saw anything else? I understand your reluctance to incriminate someone with the police, but you can tell me. Even something small could be helpful.”
“Are you investigating her murder now?” he asks incredulously.
“She was my sister. How can I not see this through to the end? There were so many times in life that I failed her by not being the sister I wanted to be. Our last conversation was a fight. We said terrible things to each other. I owe her this.”
“I mostly tried to steer clear of your sister. I’m sorry, but she wasn’t the easiest person to work for. She and Mr. Wyatt would fight and the whole house would feel the tension. The staff would walk around on eggshells, trying not to upset either one of them, trying not to get in the way. He threatened to fire me once over a hedge that he said wasn’t symmetrical in the maze. I need this job. I need the money. But I can’t say I blame everyone who has quit.”
My stomach sinks at the mention of Asher’s name. I remember how strange it felt when I first arrived here. How uneasy the staff was, the sensation that they were all tiptoeing around a bomb that was ready to explode. The man George describes—the sort of man who would lose his temper over something so trivial as an uneven hedge—isn’t the man I’ve come to know over the past couple of days. Was I wrong to trust Asher?
“Asher told me they didn’t fight.”
“And you believed him?”
“I don’t know. He seemed credible. I thought he was telling the truth.”
“Well, he was lying. They did fight. Enough that everyone knew that they were unhappy in their marriage. Even someone like me who stayed confined to the gardens.” He hesitates. “You should be careful in that house.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The police are here,” he murmurs, my question left unanswered between us.
I whirl around. Detective Pierce walks toward us from the main house, flanked by two other officers in uniform.
I turn back toward George.
“I’ll come find you later. Be careful, Carmen.”
“You fought with your sister before she died, didn’t you?”
I glance up at Detective Pierce from my vantage point on the blue silk couch in the drawing room. Initially, when we came in the room, I was eager for the chance to sit, my body exhausted by the weight of the events of the last few days. Now, it feels as though he has the advantage over me once more.
I have a feeling that it’s an investigative trick he learned along the way. Now that I’ve had the benefit of a few hours of sleep, my mind slightly less muddled, it’s clear that he’s a man who takes his job very seriously, and each of his movements is methodically planned.
Surprise fills me. “Who told you that?”
“That doesn’t matter. Someone heard you fighting. What were you fighting about?”
Was it Mrs. Morrison? When I saw her earlier, she said she had to talk to Detective Pierce. And yesterday while Carolina and I were arguing, I saw a woman wearing a dark dress in the hallway. It could have been Mrs. Morrison. What else did she tell him?
“We were sisters. We argued. We loved each other, but that didn’t mean we always agreed on things.”
It’s so hard to know what’s the right thing to do; should I be honest with the detective and just admit that Carolina and I were arguing? Or should I hold back and see if he is bluffing? More than anything, I want my sister’s killer to be brought to justice, and if telling the truth helps—
“I was worried about Carolina,” I admit.
“You accused her of having an affair. Our witness says you threatened your sister.”
“What? No. Of course I didn’t threaten Carolina. Whoever told you that is mistaken.”
“But you did accuse her of having an affair.”
“No—I just—I saw her with someone the day that I got here. In the greenhouse. She knew I saw her.”
“Who was she with?”
“A man. Beyond that, I don’t know. It was too far away to get a good look at him. I saw them from my bedroom window. The greenhouse is just on the edges of the view from my room. He moved quickly.”
“Like he didn’t want to be seen?”
“Yes. Or like he was in a hurry. I don’t know. It was quick, and at the time, I didn’t realize the significance of what I’d seen. I wish I could go back and take a more careful mental image of the situation, but unfortunately I can’t.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him that George saw the man, too, but I remember how worried he was about losing his position. It’s not my story to tell.
“And Carolina?” Detective Pierce asks. “Did it look like she was hiding something too?”
“No. I didn’t get the impression she was in a hurry at all. But Carolina was like that. She did as she pleased. She always did.”
“Did that make you jealous?”
“Of course not. I loved my sister. We were very different people, but I never would have harmed her.”
“My witness said that Carolina didn’t necessarily feel the same way about you. We received a report that she tried to push you down the stairs.”
What did Mrs. Morrison tell the police? And why would she make them think Carolina tried to push me?
“No—it wasn’t like that. At all. We were standing on the stairs talking and I slipped on one of the steps. My shoes were wet. I had been outside, and I was caught in the rain. If anything, Carolina saved me. She kept me from falling backward.”
“Yet, you don’t have any proof of this. It was just you and Carolina. Who’s to say that’s what happened?”
“I’m saying it. I’m telling the truth.”
He doesn’t respond.
“Did you find the weapon?” I ask him.
“We didn’t. It’s a big property. We’ll keep looking.”
“And what if you never find it?”
“I imagine that’s what the killer wants. But it’s no matter; good detective work involves many different avenues.”
If he’s pursuing all avenues, then I hope he’s considering the possibility that Carolina’s murder could be tied to what happened here before.
“Do you know about the house’s history? About Anna Barnes’s murder? Were you on the force then?”
His eyes widen slightly. “Who told you Anna Barnes was murdered?”
“Carolina. Right before she died.”
“Robert Barnes was never found guilty of his wife’s murder. He died before it could go to trial. I told your sister the same thing when she came to see me.”
“Carolina asked you about Anna Barnes?”
“She did.”
“You never mentioned that you knew Carolina.”
He doesn’t reply.
“Why did she go to see you?”
“Because I was the lead detective on Anna’s case. And on Lenora Watson’s.”
“Wait. Who was Lenora Watson?”
For a moment, I think he isn’t going to answer me.
“The first woman to drown at Marbrisa,” he finally replies.
My heart pounds. Three women have died under suspicious circumstances at Marbrisa.
“Not the first person, mind you,” he continues. “That poor soul was one of the laborers who built the house. But Lenora Watson died here at the party the Barneses held to celebrate the completion of their new home. It was supposed to be their introduction into Miami society, a chance for the neighbors to come from far and wide and gawk at the wealth Robert Barnes had accumulated throughout the course of his career.”
It’s easy to read between the lines. “You didn’t like them.”
“No, I didn’t. They were rich people who were more concerned with appearances and status than anything else. Robert Barnes, especially.”
“How did Lenora Watson drown in the bay?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it? Robert and Anna claimed that she’d had too much to drink—it was a very wild party—and she must have fallen into the bay. After all, it was dark, she was wearing heels, and it wasn’t the first time something like that had happened.”
“You didn’t believe them.”
“I did not.” His gaze turns speculative. “Why all the questions about Anna and Lenora?”
“You said that my sister took an interest in Anna, that she came to see you to ask about her. Doesn’t that seem strange to you?”
“No stranger than all the other things you people do. With all due respect, Miss Acosta, your sister seemed bored and like she was looking for a little scandal she could use to titillate her guests at dinner parties, maybe hire a medium to try to commune with the dead.”
By the way he says the last words with a snort, I’m certain Detective Pierce does not believe in ghosts.
“She asked me a few questions, I gave her the answers I could considering they’re both still active investigations, but that was it.”
“Maybe you should investigate a connection between Carolina, Anna, and Lenora? It just seems unlikely that three women would meet a similar fate at Marbrisa.”
“Are you telling me how to do my job, Miss Acosta? I assure you we’re exhausting all possible leads, but I will tell you this, we don’t have to go digging up ghosts to figure out what happened to your sister.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Your sister was a very wealthy woman.”
“Of course she was.” I glance around the room at all the finery on display. The gold and crystal chandelier alone must have cost a fortune, not to mention the artwork on display. I’m no expert, but they all look like museum-quality pieces. “A home like this doesn’t come cheaply.”
He shakes his head. “I wasn’t talking about Marbrisa. The estate is only in Asher’s name. Carolina has no claim to the property. I’m talking about the money she inherited from your parents. It’s her husband’s now.”
Surprise fills me. It makes sense given the terms of our father’s will that Carolina would have received the money outright since she was married, but I didn’t consider the fact that it would have passed to Asher. Truthfully, with the shock of Carolina’s murder, I completely forgot about our inheritance.
“It’s a nice sum that will pass to your brother-in-law,” Detective Pierce adds.
“I suppose it is. Not in comparison to all of this, though. My parents did well enough, and we grew up comfortably, but nothing like this. We’re hardly heiresses, and I doubt Asher needs the money. Carolina’s inheritance would be a small thing in comparison.”
The detective smiles, but it’s a joyless gesture.
I don’t like him.
More accurately, I don’t trust him.
He seems like he has an agenda, and until I figure out what it is, I’m going to follow Asher’s advice and be very careful in how much I disclose to him.
“You would think, wouldn’t you?” Detective Pierce says. “That’s the funny thing about old houses, though. They’re very expensive to maintain. Especially one that was in the condition Marbrisa was when Asher bought it. Like her previous owners, Marbrisa had run into a string of bad luck. It was no longer the grand house that was once the envy of Miami.”
“Yes—I know that. Asher admitted the same thing to me himself.”
“Turns out your brother-in-law blew through nearly his entire fortune buying this place. He was lucky—very few people wanted it, considering its history. But still, it was hardly a cheap investment, particularly given the cost it requires to keep the place running and how much he sank into it in the first place to get it up to snuff.”
“What are you saying?”
“That perhaps your brother-in-law isn’t as wealthy as you think he is, as he wants everyone to believe he is. Maybe Carolina discovered that for herself. I saw your sister; she was very beautiful, very glamorous. Not the kind of woman I can imagine being happy in reduced circumstances. Maybe that’s what drove your sister to look for another man. That’s not easy on a man’s ego—losing his fortune and his wife at the same time.”
“I don’t know about the money, but I never saw anything that gave me the impression that Asher was a jealous man. To the contrary.”
“So, you did discuss your sister’s marriage with her husband. Last night you gave me the impression that you knew nothing about it.”
“Last night I suffered a great shock,” I protest.
“Maybe you only saw what Asher wanted you to see. After all, no one knows what goes on behind closed doors. They were in an unhappy marriage. She was having an affair. Maybe he was, too. Your sister had the funds to keep this place running a bit longer. Where I come from that’s called motive. In fact, some people think Mr. Wyatt had turned his sights to you.”
Anger fills me. “That’s absurd. Asher did no such thing.”
“You were seen having private conversations with him on several occasions that witnesses described as ‘intense’ in nature.”
This must be coming from Mrs. Morrison . . . or Nathaniel.
“Not to mention the time you spent together in the library on the night your sister was murdered,” he adds.
“How dare you. I’ve lost my sister, the only family member I had left, and you have the audacity to stand here and sling mud at me, for what?” Now I do rise from my seated position, my legs no longer as shaky as they once were, indignation fueling my body. “You can see yourself out, Detective.”
“Fine. I’ll go. But I’ll be back. I’ll be honest with you, Miss Acosta, I still don’t know quite how this thing played out. If Asher did the deed himself or if you both conspired together. It’s mighty convenient how you’re each other’s alibis, what with you arguing that there wouldn’t have been enough time for Asher to hide the weapon and him insisting that you arrived on the scene after your sister was dead. Don’t think it hasn’t occurred to us that it would have been possible to hide the weapon if you had an accomplice.”
“I didn’t kill my sister.”
“Then I’d think long and hard about whether you want to protect that brother-in-law of yours. Because the evidence is what it is, and the odds are weighing heavily in favor of the fact that it was one or both of you. If it were me, and I was innocent, then I’d sure as hell be concerned for my own safety.”
There’s a speculative gleam in his eyes that I can’t quite decipher—does he think I’m a victim or an accomplice? And no matter how many times he suggests it, there’s something about that whole thing that makes it a bit difficult for me to imagine Asher—mild-mannered Asher—as a murderer. But then again, maybe that’s the whole point. Is it all just an act, a mask he wears? If nothing at Marbrisa is as it seems, then is Asher really the killer Detective Pierce suggests he is?
“After all, Miss Acosta, there’s still your inheritance left, and as I recall, Mr. Wyatt has control over your fortune. I wonder what would happen to that money if you died, too?”