The Magnolia Palace(84)
Her voice was soft, musical, lost in her past. For a moment, Veronica could see the ghost of the younger woman she once had been. A woman with good posture and untamable hair. Not a classical beauty, more of a handsome one.
“What happened, with your beau?” asked Veronica.
Miss Helen flashed her an angry look. “I was betrayed by one of my own employees. She stole him, along with something even more valuable to me.”
“There was something else we found,” Joshua said. He opened up the second compartment and Veronica braced herself as he reached inside. He turned to Miss Helen and opened his palm to reveal the cameo.
She grabbed it out of his hand and held it up for closer scrutiny. “It can’t be. No, I don’t believe it. It’s been in there all this time?”
“I don’t know for sure,” said Joshua. “Is this what you thought your employee stole?”
“My private secretary. Yes. But that doesn’t make sense. She wouldn’t have known about the panels. She wasn’t here when they were in use.”
“What happened to her?”
Outside, the sun beamed for the first time in three days, but Miss Helen looked as pale as the snowdrifts. “I don’t want to think about that. It was a terrible time.” She stood staring into the distance, clutching the cameo with both hands like it was a rosary.
“Can we get you some water?” asked Veronica. She didn’t want to be in this room right now; everything was closing in.
“No. No. I’m fine. There’s one thing, though.” She began to laugh, a note of hysteria in her pitch. “There’s a secret compartment inside the cameo, which was discovered inside a secret compartment. Isn’t that a peach of a thing? Now, that would make a good clue for a scavenger hunt. Frick’s Folly, indeed.”
Her words tumbled out like she was losing her grasp on reality.
Veronica waited, hoping Miss Helen would stop talking, show them out, and thank them for their help. But her hopes faded as Miss Helen turned the cameo over. Her finger found the tiny button, and with a soft click, the back of the brooch opened.
Veronica was done for.
Chapter Eighteen
1919
In the library, a slew of faces stared at Lillian: Mr. Childs, Mrs. Dixie, Miss Helen, Mrs. Frick, and the attorney. She shrank into her seat, aghast at what was being implied: that she had doctored the drink that caused Mr. Frick to overdose and die.
“I didn’t add anything to the glass of water,” Lillian blurted out. “I simply handed it to Miss Helen, I assure you.” In the early-morning hours, she’d been tired and confused, but certainly not enough to accidentally add something to the glass. Someone else had done that, and left it waiting for an unsuspecting person to administer.
“Maybe the nurse made a mistake and left a second dose out,” said Miss Helen.
“Then why would she come to me?” answered Mr. Childs. “She wouldn’t have to say anything and we would be none the wiser. No. She suspected someone did so intentionally. And because of that, I’ve asked a private detective to join us.” He rose and went to the door, calling down the hall for Kearns. “Tell Mr. DeWitt we are ready for him.”
“How dare you, Childs?” said Miss Helen. “You went with us to bury Papsie, knowing all the time that you would challenge the will with this false accusation. What if the bulk of the money had come to you, would you have simply sent this detective person away?”
“I’m simply trying to get to the bottom of what happened the night Father died.”
“It’s terrible enough, Childs,” said his mother, a handkerchief clenched to her mouth, muffling the words. “How could you?”
The private detective—a slight man with a pink turned-up nose—entered, and Mr. Childs addressed the family’s attorney with a dismissive wave of his hand, as if he were a mere chimney sweep. “We are done with your services for now, Mr. Smith.” As the attorney scurried out clutching his stack of papers, the private detective surveyed the room’s interior. Lillian imagined him calculating the total cost of the artwork, furniture, and drapes, estimating how much he could make off the Frick family’s squabbles.
Her first impulse was to run. She hadn’t done anything wrong, but how easy would it be for Mr. Childs to say that she’d been in cahoots with Miss Helen?
She tried to shake off the shock at this strange turn of events, to think clearly. Anyone in the family might have wanted to kill Mr. Frick. As ludicrous as it sounded, even Miss Helen—if she’d known that her father was planning on changing his will—had motive. But if he had no intention of updating his will, Mr. Childs had every reason to see his father dead in a suspicious manner, one that would clear the way for Mr. Childs to contest the will or, even better, have Miss Helen blamed for the death and stripped of her inheritance. To be perfectly honest, even Mrs. Frick, who had endured years of teasing and disaffection from her husband, might have wanted to free herself of his torment. But while the family was certainly not the happiest of clans, would one of them really be capable of such a deadly act?
Mr. DeWitt spoke. “I understand that there is some discrepancy regarding the death of Mr. Frick. I’ve already interviewed the nurse who was on duty that night, per Mr. Childs’s instructions. She has informed me that it appears that Mr. Frick was given a second, deadly dose of sleeping medicine. I’ve also been told that there is another possible crime surrounding his death. That a cameo containing a valuable gem was stolen from his coffin a week prior. Is that right?”