Victoria Thompson: Murder On Fifth Avenue

They were all in the child’s bedroom, sipping make-believe tea from a tiny china set, when the front doorbell rang.

Catherine’s bottom lip immediately popped into a pout.

“I’ll answer it.” Her nursemaid, Maeve, jumped up from her place on the floor. “Maybe it’s not a birth. Maybe it’s Mr. Malloy,” she added with a wicked grin. Catherine clapped her hands and Sarah smiled. The child adored Frank Malloy.

“Have you seen Mr. Malloy lately?” Mrs. Decker asked from where she sat on Catherine’s bed.

Sarah wasn’t fooled by her mother’s seemingly innocent question. “No, not lately.” She pushed herself up from the floor. Whoever was at the door would probably want to see her even if they didn’t need her for a delivery.

A man’s voice rumbled below.

“Heavens, that sounds like your father,” Mrs. Decker said.

“What would he be doing here?” Sarah couldn’t remember the last time her father had been to her modest home. Surely not since her husband, Tom, died, over four years ago.

“Maybe he’s looking for me. Oh, dear, I hope nothing bad has happened. Sarah, you really should get a telephone. You have no idea how convenient they are.”

“And you have no idea how expensive they are, Mother.” Sarah left the room with her mother and Catherine close behind. From the stair landing she caught Maeve looking up, her expression mirroring her own astonishment.

“Father, what a nice surprise.”

“I hope it is.” He blinked. “Elizabeth, I didn’t know you were here.”

“You didn’t? We thought you might have come looking for me.”

“No, I…I needed to speak with Sarah, but I’m glad you’re here. It will save me having to tell it twice.”

Sarah felt a tug as Catherine peered from behind her skirts. “Darling, you remember Mr. Decker, don’t you?”

The child nodded.

“I’m very pleased to see you again, Catherine,” he said. “I believe you’ve grown since I saw you last.”

Catherine looked up at Sarah.

“I believe she has.” Sarah couldn’t blame Catherine for not answering. Her father spent his life intimidating his own business associates. Even when he was trying to be charming, he could seem frightening to a child.

“Should I take Catherine upstairs, Mrs. Brandt?” Maeve asked.

“Yes, please.”

“We won’t be long, I’m sure,” Mrs. Decker said with a smile that held all the warmth her husband’s did not. “Then I’ll be back to finish our tea party.”

Sarah saw her father’s eyebrows rise, but he said nothing as his wife stroked Catherine’s smooth cheek before Maeve took the child’s hand and led her back up the stairs.

“Let’s go into the kitchen. I’ll make some coffee.” Sarah led them to the kitchen, her home’s main gathering place. Her front room had long since been converted into an office for her late husband’s medical practice and where she still consulted with her own patients.

“I hope you aren’t here to tell us something horrible,” her mother said as her parents took seats at the well-worn kitchen table. Sarah doubted her father had sat in many kitchens in his life, but she offered no apologies. She started making the coffee.

“Chilton Devries died.”

“Good heavens! Was it an accident?”

“No, I believe it was on purpose.”

Sarah looked up. “On purpose?”

“Your Mr. Malloy believes he was murdered.”

Sarah didn’t bother to point out that he wasn’t her Mr. Malloy. “Is Mr. Malloy investigating?”

“I called him in, yes.”

Any reply she made would be wrong, so she busied herself with filling the coffeepot.

“You were very wise to choose Mr. Malloy, my dear,” her mother said. “Now tell us everything.”

While her father explained, Sarah set the pot on the stove to boil, then took a seat at the table.

“So then Mr. Malloy and I called on the Devrieses to break the news.”

“Dear heaven,” her mother said. “I suppose Lucretia became hysterical.”

“Oddly enough, no. She merely seemed put out.”

Sarah frowned. “Put out? You mean she was annoyed that her husband had died?”

“Yes, and not nearly as grief-stricken as I hope you would be if I died,” he added to his wife.

“I would be inconsolable,” she replied.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“I’m trying to remember who the Devrieses are,” Sarah said.

“You remember their son, Paul, I’m sure. You’re of an age, I believe. Mousey little boy with yellow hair. Never had much to say for himself.”

“Which hardly makes him memorable, but I think I may have danced with him a time or two when we were growing up. Is he married?”

Her mother nodded. “Yes, but I don’t think his wife is anyone you’d know. I don’t think I even know where she came from. I can’t seem recall her name, either.”

“Garnet,” her father said. “She started laughing when she heard Devries was dead.”

Elizabeth Decker’s eyebrows rose. “Laughing?”

“I’m sure it was hysteria. The shock.”

“I’m sure.” She didn’t sound it.

“Why did you feel you needed to make a special trip here to tell me all this?” Sarah asked.

To her surprise, her father didn’t answer right away. He glanced from her mother to his well-tended hands. He finally looked up, and Sarah had never seen her father look so uncertain before. “I know you have assisted Mr. Malloy with his investigations in the past.”

“Felix-”

Without turning away, he raised a hand to silence her mother. “I have not always approved of your involvement with him. You have, at times, even put yourself in danger.”

Sarah felt her hackles rising. She had fought against his will her entire life, even estranging herself from both her parents for years. She wasn’t going to submit now. “Father, I’m a grown woman and-”

“I know, I know. I don’t want to argue with you, Sarah. Just hear me out. I don’t believe you have any reason to involve yourself in this investigation. You hardly know the Devries family, but I was hoping you would accompany your mother when she makes a condolence call tomorrow.”

Both women gaped at him. Sarah found her tongue first. “A condolence call?”

He turned to his wife. “I’m afraid I already promised Lucretia you would call.”

“Of course I will. She may be insufferable, but we’ve known them all our lives. But why do you want Sarah to go with me?”

Sarah caught his glance. “Because something is very strange in that house, and I doubt Mr. Malloy has the slightest chance of finding out what it is.”

RODERICK WAS A MAN OF MIDDLE YEARS, AND FRANK could see he took his position as valet to the master of the house very seriously. His suit and shirt were impeccable. His neatly parted dark hair, lightly touched with gray, lay smoothly against his head. His suspicious glare also said he didn’t appreciate being called away from his duties by the likes of Frank Malloy.

“Mary Catherine said you wanted to speak with me,” Roderick said when Mr. Decker had taken his leave.

“Yes.” Frank led him into the ugly little receiving room and closed the door. “Would you like to sit down?”

Roderick stiffened, not giving an inch. “I don’t think that…”

“Mr. Devries is dead.”

Frank’s words had the desired effect. Roderick blinked a few times, and the color drained from his face, along with all resistance. Frank took his arm and put him into one of the wooden chairs that formed practically the only furnishings in the room.

He looked up, his face slack. “Dead? But how…?”

“We think he was murdered.” Frank sat down across from him and waited. The man who had risen to the exalted position of valet had been serving wealthy people most of his life. He’d overheard every intimate detail of their lives. Frank hoped Roderick would blurt out his opinion of someone’s guilt, but the silence grew deafening. He was far too well trained for that. He wouldn’t be where he was if he hadn’t learned to keep the family’s secrets to himself.