I nod. “Really? So then you’re saying my dad mixed you a cranberry juice with lime?” I’m surprised I even remember what goes into that drink, but I’ve helped my father at enough of Beau’s parties to have learned by osmosis.
She glares at me. “Yeah, I guess.” Glancing at Dad, she smirks. “So your father’s a gravesite helper and a bartender, too. How versatile.”
Jack’s head whirls around so fast, I’m afraid it’ll snap. “And he’s the caretaker, too. Got anything clever to say about that?”
She snorts. “I guess not.” Her attention drifts to the buffet. “I’m hungry. Want something, Cooper?”
“No thanks. I don’t have much of an appetite,” he says.
“Your loss.” Her lips part in a wicked grin as she turns toward the buffet and takes a step, but her espadrille catches on the rug and she wobbles, flailing her arms to keep her balance. Her cranberry juice mocktail splashes the front of my new sundress, its bright pink instantly staining the pale blue cotton. She squeals as she teeters toward the Oriental rug, but Cooper lunges forward, scooping her up before she face plants, then sets her straight.
I gape at the huge, clingy, pink stain that covers my abdomen and trickles down the skirt.
“Oh my gosh! Thanks, Cooper. Those muscles really do come in handy,” she gushes.
“Look what you did!” I gesture to the juice that somehow managed to land only on me. There isn’t even a drop on the carpet.
“Oh no!” Cooper races to the bar to grab some napkins. Jack follows.
Taneea clamps her hand across her mouth. “Wow. That sucks. At least it wasn’t a good dress.” She snickers.
“What did you say?”
She smirks. “Come on, it’s not like it’s from a collection. I bet you can get something like it down at the Picky. Though I’ve never been inside, so that’s just a guess.”
We did buy it at the cramped local department store that’s filled with stuff left over from two years ago, which only makes her comment sting more.
Rage surges from my toenails, straight through my body, and up to my brain. “Right. Because you buy all your clothes from tacky-and-inappropriate-dot-com.”
Cooper and Jack come back, each with a wad of napkins. Jack holds out his hand, hovering over my midsection. He looks as if he’d like to blot the liquid but isn’t sure which parts might be safe to touch.
With a grunt, I grab the napkins and peel the soaked and clingy fabric off my stomach. Dabbing a few times, the thin paper absorbs a bit of the liquid but not enough to make a real dent. This isn’t going to work. “I need to rinse this out for real before it sets. I’ll be back.”
Pushing through the great room, I stomp down the hall, and head to Cooper’s room. There, I can strip off the dress and borrow some of his clothes while I rinse it out with soap. As Taneea so kindly pointed out, this is an off-the-rack dress made of cotton so thin it should only take a few minutes to dry in the dryer.
Nearing the foyer, I hear a door creak and stop short as the hair rises on my arms. I’m sure the sound came from around the corner, in the hall that leads to the west wing. The only door nearby is the one to Beau’s private study. Which no one’s allowed to enter without him. It’s so private, he keeps the key on a chain attached to his pocket. After eight summers in the Lowcountry, Jack and I have never been inside that room. Come to think of it, I doubt Cooper has either. And since Beau’s still in the great room earning his Oscar, I know it can’t be him.
Tiptoeing toward the corner, I peek my head out. Claude steps from the study and pulls the door shut behind him, then twists the knob to make sure it’s locked. He looks first to his right, then turns left. I jerk back, and listen to my heart pulse, praying I moved fast enough for him to miss me.
“Miss Emma Guthrie,” Claude calls out.
Dang. Not quick enough.
He sings my name again. “I know you’re there. Come out.”
Gulping, I force myself to walk around the corner. He’s standing in front of the study, his black suit perfectly creased, and wearing his blue-lensed sunglasses even though he’s inside. My legs tremble as Miss Delia’s words echo in my head reminding me to be strong. Drawing a deep breath, I reach under my collar to rub the blue and pink beads on my collier, which are supposed to help me connect with my spirit guide. With her at my side, I’m not technically alone with Claude. A calm rushes over me, starting at my hair follicles, tumbling down to my toenails. Forcing my shoulders back, I quicken my pace. “That’s Beau’s study.” I point to the door.
His lips slip open over his ultra-bright smile. “You’re correct.”
“His private space. No one’s allowed in there without him.”
“I was just meeting with him.”
“Really? Because I just left him in the great room. He’s been in there awhile crying about Missy.”
His gaze drops to my dress. “Pity, you’ve had some sort of accident.”
As if that’s going to deflect my attention from his trespass. Fat chance. Still, my hand clutches the moist spot on my midsection. “Yeah, your assistant tripped and spilled her drink.”
He shakes his head as he clucks his tongue. “Clumsy girl. You really ought to stay out of her way. There’s no telling what kind of trouble she could cause.”
I nod. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Claude’s brow arches above his lenses. “I wonder, Miss Emma, if you find it as interesting as I do that you are acquainted with the Beaumonts and Miss Whittaker?”
“I can’t really say, since I don’t know how interesting you think it is. This is a small island. Just about everyone knows everyone. And it doesn’t explain why you were in Beau’s study without him.”
Claude rubs his chin with his long, spindly fingers. “It is a small island. Tell me, how does someone like you come to know someone like Miss Delia?”
What he’s really asking is how a little white girl like me—or as the Gullah say, a buckruh—would come in contact with an old Gullah woman. But I’m not going to honor that kind of a stupid question with an answer. “I don’t know. I’ve spent the last eight summers on St. Helena. Who can remember how they met everyone they know?”
“Oh, I suspect you could if you tried.”
I shake my head. “Nope, nothing comes to mind.”
He leans close, way past the boundary of my personal space and whispers in my ear. “Let me offer you a bit of advice. You may want to steer clear of your dear old friend. My investigation of the museum robbery is far from over and I’ve developed some promising leads that all seem to end at her rickety doorstep. When I’m through, she may be looking at hard time.” He chuckles. “Though of course, given her advanced age she isn’t likely to have much of that left. I’d hate for you to get caught up in this nasty business.”
I take a step back. “Do you seriously think a feeble, old lady in a wheelchair broke into the museum?” I work to sound extra snarky and indignant, but the tiny tremor in my voice reveals how scared I am of his power.
“Perhaps. And maybe she had some coconspirators. You never know who an investigation like this may implicate. It’s one of the great joys of this job. The mystery.” He nudges closer. “The hunt. The capture.” His cologne hangs in the air, a nauseating mixture of patchouli, burned smoke, and a hint of something that reminds me of a Jolly Rancher candy.
Realizing I can turn the tables on him, I cross my arms and stand my ground. “You only have this job because of Beau. What do you think he’d say if he knew you were in his study? I’m betting he’d wonder how you got in, seeing as he’s got the key literally chained to his body at all times.”