He looks at me expectantly as if he’s waiting for me to elaborate or fill in some mysterious blank. But my head’s spinning, propelled by the increasing stuffiness of the foyer and my growing suspicion of him and his motives. All I can think about is getting to the door that leads to the front porch, zipping down the steps, then racing down the beach path. It’s so close, just a few long strides away across the wide-planked hardwood floor, except Claude’s planted himself between me and that door, blocking my way. Drawing a deep breath, I remember Miss Delia’s instructions to stay strong in his presence. Clearing my mind, I mentally block out my fear, then swallow the sick feeling swirling in my stomach, and stare back into his ebony eyes. Confidence swells in my chest, making it feel lighter, and easing the anxiousness that gripped me just moments ago.
Claude’s lips part as if he’s about to say something, but then Beau grunts, breaking the silence.
“Corbeau!” The tip of his cane strikes the floor as he lumbers out of the library. “You finished upstairs with the deputies? We’ve got work to do.”
Claude pulls his gaze from mine. “Actually sir, I just missed them. They’ve already taken Mrs. Beaumont to the morgue. Sheriff Walker’s on his way there, too.”
Twisting slightly, I glance over my shoulder to see Beau chomp his soggy cigar. “Good thing. I couldn’t stand to lay eyes on her. Better to wait for the undertaker to clean her up first.” Beau’s words are so cold and indifferent they sting. I never adored Missy, but natural causes or not, something horrible happened to her. Surely she deserves more care than that, especially from someone who supposedly loved her. Not that I’d expect him to want to see her all stiff and purple, but his words are a far cry from when he first came home.
Claude laughs. “Then you might want to steer clear of the bedroom until you hire a professional cleaning crew. It’s a real mess.”
My ear lobes prick as images of black sludge spattered against milky white carpet and Missy’s pink nightie flash across my mind. How could he possibly think it’s funny?
Beau chuckles and his chest gurgles with thick, mucousy fluid. “There isn’t anything in there that’ll bother me or my man Jed. He’ll take care of it. Now quit fussing with Emma and let’s get back to business.” Shoving the cigar in his mouth, he winks at me, and then propels his body forward, navigating his enormous girth toward his private study.
Claude nods, then turns his sights back to me. “Until we meet again, Emma Guthrie.” Brushing past me, he hustles after Beau.
A new, different type of unease bubbles in my gut, replacing the woozy, sick sensation I felt before. Now I’m confused, even angry at Beau’s epic emotional flip-flopping. First he’s whimpering, then he acts like he couldn’t care less, and now he’s laughing? What the heck is going on? Granted he’s soulless, so maybe I shouldn’t be all that surprised, but something isn’t right. It’s not like he’s had a brain-ectomy, too. He’s smart enough to rip people off in business while making them believe he gave them a deal. So how is it that he just accepts the sheriff and Claude’s assertion that Missy’s death was from natural causes? Why doesn’t he want her to have an autopsy? And given his preoccupation with the museum robbery and missing Beaumont ruby, why didn’t he ask if the house had been broken into? I’d have thought he’d ride that elevator of his to the second floor to make sure his safe hadn’t been cracked, and perhaps look at the unusual black stuff they found on the carpet. But no, he doesn’t seem to be the least bit bothered by any of these gaps in logic. Which is just plain weird.
A tingling sensation dances at the nape of my neck. There’s something I’m supposed to notice. I gnaw my bottom lip and retrace my mental steps, considering the situation. Then it hits me. The black stuff. It might be the only thing that can explain what really happened up there. The sheriff took a sample, but judging by his apparent willingness to say she died from natural causes, I doubt he’ll give it the thorough going over it deserves.
But I know one person who will. And with any luck, she’ll be able to tell me if there’s anything special about that tar-like substance. But I’ll need to collect a sample of it first to show Miss Delia.
Glancing down the hall, I check to make sure Claude and Beau aren’t still lurking around. They’re nowhere in sight. Neither are Cooper and Jack, but I hear the soft murmur of their voices in the library. If I hurry, I can be up there and back without anyone knowing. There’s no use in making a big deal about the black gunk, just in case Claude and the sheriff are right about Missy’s death.
After racing up the stairs, I sprint around the landing then head to the master suite. The door is shut and draped with yellow police tape, but it only takes five seconds to remove enough to slip under and enter the room. Once inside, I head for the vanity table and grab an empty travel size bottle and the Q-tips I saw earlier, then slip around the bed to the first black spot. It’s dry, as are the few scattered drops nearby. I follow the trail to where it’s widest, a streak about three inches wide and six inches long. The sludgy substance has thickened, forming a skin on the top like a bowl of pudding left in the refrigerator without a cover.
Crouching down, I dip a Q-tip into the muck, piercing the film to find a bit of the still goopy substance beneath. A rank smell wafts from the sludge, a twisted combination of skunk road-kill and garbage left out under the scorching sun. Holding my breath, I screw off the lid and dip the bottle’s lip into the crud, then use the Q-tip to scoop some of the substance into the bottle.
A throat clears, breaking the silence. Surprised, I squeal like a pig in a smokehouse, then look up to find Cooper standing over me, his arms crossed. How did I not hear him come in?
Careful to avoid the black stuff, I roll back on my bottom and exhale. “You scared the heck out of me.”
“Sorry. I thought you were going to the beach.”
I nod. “I was. But then I had an idea and needed to stop in here for a second.”
“You’re taking your own sample.” He motions his square jaw toward the bottle in my hand. “Why? The sheriff already took one.”
“I know, but something about this stuff bothers me. I’ve never seen anything like it, and Sheriff Walker didn’t seem to know what it was either. Miss Delia might have a few ideas.”
He shrugs. “Guess it can’t hurt. But I doubt she’ll find anything.” His gaze travels to the bathroom and back again, and then settles on the four-poster bed. The bedspread and pillows are untouched and don’t even have so much as a wrinkle. His lips turn down slightly. He looks lost.
“You okay?” But that’s sort of a dumb question because it’s clear he isn’t.
“I just don’t understand.” He doesn’t look away from the bed. “It all so weird. But at the same time… familiar.”
My scalp tingles with heat. I sort of don’t want to ask, but now that he’s brought it up, I can’t help but follow through. “Do you mean your mom?” I push up from the floor and stand next to him at the foot of the bed.
He nods. “Yeah. She died right here in this room.” He eyes the right side of the bedspread. “In her sleep. I’d had a nightmare so I came in early one morning and climbed in next to her. She was so cold.” He pauses for a long moment as if replaying the scene in his head. “No matter how hard I shook her, she wouldn’t move.”
A sharp ache pierces my heart. I always assumed she’d been sick or something. I can’t imagine how horrible it must have been to be just five years old and find her like that. No wonder he never talks about her. But there’s something I don’t understand. I inch toward him gently and lay my hand on his back. “But Missy died in the bathroom. What did you mean when you said she looked like your mom? Did they find this black stuff back then, too?”
He shakes his head. “No. Their expressions. They were the same.” He shuts his eyes and swallows hard. “Mouths and eyes frozen open. Like their last moments were terrifying.” He pulls away, steps over the spree of black spots, and sits on one of the armchairs in the sitting room area. “They said my mom died of natural causes, too.” He drags his fingers through his golden-brown waves.
Goose bumps raise on my arms. The coincidences are frightening. And overwhelming. What is it they say about coincidences? That there are none? Missy and his mother’s deaths might be separated by almost eleven years, but there’s one common link. They were both married to Beau.
Blood pounds in my ears.
I’m almost afraid to ask, but I can’t stop myself. “What if it wasn’t?” My voice trembles.
Cooper looks up at me, tilting his head. “Wasn’t what?”
“Natural causes.” I bite my bottom lip. “What if it was something else?”
His brow furrows. “What else could it have been? I was little but I remember the coroner sat me down and explained that sometimes people die even though they aren’t injured or sick. I know it’s rare in younger people, but it does happen.”
“Except now it’s happened twice. Missy was acting crazier than normal but she didn’t have any diseases. And there’s no blood in here so it’s clear she wasn’t shot or stabbed. There’s only this black stuff.”
