Called to Hyde Park, New York, ex-Air Corpsman turned detective Victor Van Voorhis comes to only three conclusions about his newest case: the gulf between his status and the wealthy Westbrook family is no trifling matter; someone brutally killed a young mother; and the victim’s brother-in-law is one of the most intriguing men Victor has ever met.
Inventor Abraham Westbrook lost his wife five years ago and is worried about the effect another death in the family will have on his children. He spends most of his time tinkering with steamships, but even his inventions can’t distract him from wishing Victor was in his life for any reason other than a murder investigation—one where Abraham himself is a suspect. He’s hidden his desires all his life, but no longer. Somehow, he’ll catch the detective’s eye.
With murder standing between them and a killer stalking the Westbrooks, Abraham and Victor’s chance at happiness could go up in steam.
Chapter One
EVEN A house like this, in the heart of Hyde Park, had its nasty secrets. Detective Victor Van Voorhis stared at the house. Huge and shockingly white, it had a round turret at one end, with a covered porch jutting beyond it. Another, even larger, porch was on the other side, with gingerbread trim dripping down from the eaves. He couldn’t easily count how many windows the house had.
Victor hadn’t wanted this assignment, but he could not turn it down.
A woman lay dead inside. The uniformed officer on the scene didn’t think she died accidentally. A murder among the rich; nothing would be easy about this case, not even if her gardener still stood over her with bloody shears in his hand.
To be fair, Victor had never really worked with the wealthy, and he was breaking his mother’s cardinal rule about prejudging people. Still, he had heard plenty of talk from his superiors who moved in those circles. The wealthy were different.
He recognized the officer on the stoop. The young man kept looking nervously at the carved door, as though intimidated by it. “Tinney,” Victor called, and the man turned his way with a look of relief. “Anything you can tell me?”
“The doctor hasn’t arrived.” Tinney’s relief faded as he wrinkled his nose. “Mrs. Westbrook is at the bottom of the stairs. Her husband is down in the city, has been all week. The nanny found her and took the children to their uncle’s.” Tinney gestured to an older, even grander house across a grassy swath that led to the river. Victor wasn’t sure it could be called a block, as there wasn’t a tight structure to it, like in town.
Climbing the steps, Victor asked, “Has anyone spoken to them yet?”
“No, sir, but O’Malley is watching the house to make sure no one tries to leave.”
“Good.” Victor opened the door, and Tinney followed him in. He didn’t need to do more than step into the ornate foyer.
Blood pooled over the chessboard of black-and-white marble flooring. The ludicrous thought this poor woman would never want to be seen like this flashed into Victor’s mind, but what else could he think with her skirts flipped above her knees? He noticed the mirrored bottom of the foyer’s hat rack. This was a woman—or maybe it was her husband—who checked ankles to make sure they weren’t indecently uncovered by a short skirt.
“Doc never likes us to turn ’em over until he sees ’em first,” Tinney explained. Victor nodded. He knew of Dr. Ackermann’s preferences. “Head wounds do bleed a lot,” he said, but he doubted it would bleed this much. Something beyond a fall at play. He could see why it had been reported as possible murder. He didn’t want to provoke Ackermann’s wrath by rolling her over, but he could feel around her head to see if he could detect any major fractures.
Blood covered her forehead. Matted hair stuck to his fingers, but it told him instantly what he needed to know. The whole back of her head was gone.
“Are you messing where you don’t belong, Detective?”
Victor glanced over his shoulder at the rotund old man who puffed his way inside, carrying a black leather bag. “Just checking something.”
The doctor harrumphed at him and set down his bag. “‘Murder or accident’ is your usual question, but I suspect you already have some ideas.”
“Looks like she was shot in the head, but I’m waiting for your opinion,” Victor said to placate Ackermann. The doctor was easier to deal with if he felt like he was the one in charge.
Ackermann’s face twisted in a deep grimace as he dug in his bag. He handed Victor a rag for his hands. “No woman should be shot, let alone in the head.”
Victor didn’t disagree. He moved aside to let the doctor grumble his way through an initial exam. The photographer arrived, and Victor told him what shots he absolutely needed. While the man worked, Victor took copious notes. By the third time Victor repeated his instructions, the photographer rolled his eyes.
“We’ll take her to my lab,” Ackermann said at last.
“I’ll go talk to the next of kin,” Victor said. “Hopefully, they’ll not fight over the idea of an autopsy.”
“I’ll wait to start, of course, until we find out if we need the court involved.”
“Thank you.”
Victor left Ackermann and hiked over to the other house to do what he considered the hardest part of his job. As gruesome as a corpse could be, it distressed him less than having to talk to people on the worst day of their lives.
The marble steps to the house carried him past soaring Greek columns and left him feeling underdressed and shabby. Like the crime scene, this house had countless windows. High above, carved stone wrapped the roofline. It had a terribly cold appearance, as if the living made their home in a place of the dead. The home looked so much like a massive crypt Victor couldn’t escape the feeling of knocking on the door to a mausoleum. A red-eyed maid opened the door and peered at him fearfully. “I’m Detective Victor Van Voorhis. I need to speak to the master of the house.”
“He’s expecting you. You can give your coat to Justin.” She waved her hand to indicate what looked like a tree stand with hands. She pressed the brass dogwood flower-shaped button in its center and the thing rumbled.
It wheezed and hissed little puffs of steam, and the arms extended as the contraption lurched forward on its wheeled base, startling Victor. He studied the machine, having never seen anything like it. He wondered how the mechanical butler worked, but it didn’t seem to work without someone there to turn it on. Was it more than a mechanized coat rack? Victor would have to ask.
“Do you like Justin?”
The male voice dragged Victor’s attention away. A tall, almost overly thin man stood in an interior doorway that led deeper into the home. He was surprisingly clean-shaven, though his walnut hair was mussed. Grief pinched his otherwise fine features.
“You named a machine?”
The man offered a wan smile. “It’s a quirk of mine, one of many. I name all my inventions. I’m Abraham Westbrook.”
To Victor’s surprise, this wealthy man stuck out his hand to shake. Victor felt nicks and calluses he hadn’t expected to find on a rich man’s hands. “I’m Detective Victor Van Voorhis. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Abraham nodded. “Thank you. Her children are upstairs with mine and their nannies. They weren’t here when it happened. Will you need to speak to them? They’re naturally very upset.”
“Later,” Victor said, handing his coat to Justin, who rolled away back to its corner. “Just briefly about the morning, before they left. You can be present, of course. However, I have questions for you, sir, about your sister-in-law. I understand your brother is in the city. Were you and your wife at home this morning and afternoon?” Victor had no real idea how the rich spent their days. Why wasn’t this man at work? Did he even work?
“I was here in my workshop.” Abraham gestured toward a hallway. “My wife passed over five years ago.”
“I’m sorry.” The generic words of sympathy tumbled out of him. Victor was used to saying them several times a day when working a case.
“It’s fine, Detective. Come with me. We can talk in my library. It will be more comfortable.”
“Of course.”
Victor followed him through a living room roughly the size of Victor’s house, then down a hall with carpeting that ate all the sounds of their passage and felt like walking on a cloud. The scent of old books, slightly musty and even dustier, hit Victor’s nose as they entered the library. A large marble fireplace dominated one wall, with comfortable-looking chairs and a table with a whiskey decanter and glasses set out in front of it. Rows of books lined every other surface, along with more knickknacks and other memorabilia than Victor could easily take in.
Abraham indicated for him to have a seat. “I’m going to have a whiskey for my nerves. Don’t be offended if I don’t offer you any. I prefer you to be clear-headed for this.”
It actually sounded vaguely offensive, but Victor merely nodded, settling into the best chair he’d ever sat on. “So. Your workshop?”
“I’m in my shop most of the day. I’m an inventor. It’s my brother who runs the family business. All of this”—he waved his hands at the room—“is from the fur and textile trade. Ben is down in the city, as I’m sure you know. He’s on a private airship heading here now. And if the next question is would he have reason to kill his wife, I would say no. I had no sense they were the least bit unhappy. She told me she was hoping to have another child. If my brother had a sinister thought toward his wife, I don’t know about it.”
Victor met Abraham’s gaze before asking, “How was your relationship with his wife?”
If the inventor picked up on the innuendo, he chose to ignore it. “Permelia came over some nights with the children, but we have little to talk about. She resented that I preferred to work on gewgaws and not the family business.” He shrugged, but from the stiffness in that gesture, it was obviously an old, well-chewed bone of contention.
“So you didn’t get along?” Victor studied Abraham’s face. Victor’s mind turned the man’s name over and over. It was oddly familiar.
“No, nor did she like my wife when Minerva was alive, but it wasn’t hostile.” Abraham thought for a moment, rolling his bottom lip in and chewing on it for a moment before continuing, “Just cool like winter. I think she didn’t like the long hours Ben spends in the office and blamed me for not picking up some of the work. She doesn’t—didn’t—understand Ben enjoys working. He also prefers I stick with my inventions. He’s my younger brother, and he always felt the need to prove himself to our father, who never approved of my hobby.”
“Judging by the steam butler, it’s a successful hobby. I’ve never seen its like. It’s impressive,” Victor said.
Abraham nodded and a dark lock of hair fell in his eyes. “Now that Father has passed, I have created my own company. It helped to take some of the tension out of my relationship with my brother. I inherited our father’s company, but I’ve signed the controlling share to Ben.” He scowled. “I’m rambling, aren’t I?”
“Call it giving me a complete picture. It can only help.”
Abraham snorted. “I like that, using a fairly new technology as analogy.”
Victor smiled, wishing he could concentrate on the notes he tried to write. Even more distracting than the man’s name was the man himself. How unprofessional of Victor to think a victim’s relative and potential suspect was good-looking.
Not that it would matter. The man obviously had tastes society felt were normal—unlike his own.
He tried to shake himself out of his inappropriate thoughts. Collecting himself, Victor asked, “Do you know if Mrs. Westbrook was having difficulties with anyone?”
Abraham’s fine features pinched as he mulled it over. “No. You’d best ask that question to her staff. They spend far more time with her than I.”
Victor’s next question died when he heard a strange hissing sound. He turned, looked over his shoulder, and saw a mechanical dog lumbering their way. “My word!”
“Sorry about that. Harrison, my son, has hay fever that seems to be caused by dogs, but he really wanted one, so I built him this. That’s Cerberus. He’s far more advanced than Justin. I can’t get Justin’s hands to grip right, so mostly he rolls around being not as helpful as I intended. Cerberus is supposed to be upstairs with the children.” Pride in Abraham’s expression warred with the apologetic tone in his voice. Victor stared at the dog, and something clicked. He twisted back around to face Abraham. “West Twelve Engines.”
Abraham’s deep brown eyes brightened. “You’re either an airman or an enthusiast. Most wouldn’t know about my airship engine.”
“It’s the former. Many corps men do end up in police work,” Victor said as the dog came over to him and nudged his leg like an actual dog. He found himself rubbing its metal head. “And I’m well aware of your engines. They made a real difference in the battle of Eastport.”
“I’m glad to know that. I’m very proud of those engines.” Abraham tasted his whiskey. “I wish I knew something that could help you, Detective,” he said, changing the subject. “I’m rather ashamed to admit, I’m all too often immersed in my work, and I spared little time for my sister-in-law.”
“Fair enough. Would anyone try to harm your brother by killing his wife?”
Abraham’s face twisted, his eyes losing their fire as he contemplated that question. “It’s possible. I know we’ve had some competition from the Astors and James Middleton. Ben did recently buy out the Williams’s fur company. The father died last year, and his son, Drew, has gambled away an ungodly sum of money. He was extremely vocal about Ben ‘stealing’ his company. I have to say, though, I can’t imagine Drew working up his nerve for anything more than having another glass of brandy or a hand of cards.”
“It’s still worth looking into.” Victor made a note of the names.
“I can’t think of anyone else. As I said, I don’t really keep my hand in the family business. My own takes up most of my time. I’m sure my brother can add to the list.”
Victor nodded. “May I speak with the children now?” He looked forward to that even less than the conservation they were having now.
“Are we done?” Abraham’s eyebrows arched.
“For now. I’ll be back once I have more information from my men and the doctor, sir.”
Abraham’s lips pursed and he set aside his whiskey. “Yes, then, I’ll take you to the children before I have too much of this and become useless. I have no head for alcohol, and they need my strength now.”
“I’m sure, sir.”
“You don’t have to call me ‘sir,’ Detective. You may call me Mr. Westbrook, or Abraham, if you’re so inclined.”
“Thank you, Mr. Westbrook,” Victor said, though he wished he could be casual enough to call the man Abraham. He wanted to try that name on his tongue.
Abraham stood and Victor followed him up a sweeping staircase with woodwork so ornate, he was glad he wasn’t a maid tasked with dusting it. They had to climb to the third floor. It seemed like an unlikely place to put children until he realized the sounds of them playing wouldn’t be heard down below so as not to intrude on whatever their parents were doing. Of course, it didn’t seem as if Abraham was in the house long enough to be bothered. It was just another way the rich were different, Victor supposed.
Abraham rapped sharply on the door, then turned the crystal knob and let Victor in. Both nannies were well dressed but puffy-eyed from crying. They were dry-eyed now, however. The nearly half-dozen children played quietly with dolls and blocks. They broke off their play to watch Victor warily, seemingly unsure of what to make of the stranger in their midst.
Abraham squatted down to address the young ones. “Children, this is Detective Van Voorhis. He’s going to try to find who brought so much sadness down on us.” He stood back up and turned to Victor. “Detective, these are my children—Abe, the eldest, and Harrison and Vivian, the twins.” Abraham rested his hand on the girl’s head, rubbing her scalp. Her walnut curls waved with the motion. Victor guessed the twins to be about eight years old and Abe a few years older. “And my nephew, Michael, and niece, Lizzie. This is my governess, Miss Hettie Wedderburn, and Ben’s, Miss Lulu Nash. Ladies, any help you can give Detective Van Voorhis, I’d appreciate it.”
“Yes, Mr. Westbrook,” they chorused with almost matching bobs of their heads. Abraham indicated for Victor to sit in a chair next to the governesses. He himself sat on the window seat, overlooking the whole scene.
Victor asked, “Miss Nash, can you describe this morning? Was there anything unusual you can remember?”
Miss Nash shook her head slowly, bunching and unbunching the sodden handkerchief in her lap. “It was a normal day, sir. I took the children to the park, as I often do on a fine morning. Mrs. Westbrook rarely comes with us.” She paused to daub her nose. “She was supposed to call on Mrs. Collins. I think she was dressed for going out. I barely looked.” Miss Nash broke into a bout of weeping. Miss Wedderburn patted her arm, an attempt to calm Miss Nash. The children turned pale as they watched Miss Nash cry. Abraham handed her his handkerchief.
After waiting until she calmed some, Victor asked, “So, Mrs. Westbrook only rarely went out with you and the children?”
“Mommy doesn’t like the sun,” Lizzie said, tugging at one of her curls. She didn’t quite meet Victor’s eyes.
“It gives her bad headaches,” her brother, Michael, added.
“Mrs. Westbrook had sick headaches. She had to lie down with the curtains pulled,” Miss Nash said.
“I was struck by something at the house, but I think I’ll have you step outside for that,” Victor said, not wanting to discuss the crime scene details in front of the children. It would terrorize them, and no small amount of diplomacy would be necessary to keep Abraham Westbrook’s good will. “But first, I have a couple of questions for Michael and Lizzie.”
“We can help,” Michael said earnestly.
“Was your mother angry at anyone? Was she upset this morning?”
Lizzie shook her head, sending her blonde ringlets flying. “Uh-uh.”
“She didn’t like Mrs. Williams or Mrs. Crawley,” Michael said, and his governess hushed him.
“No, let him talk,” Abraham said, raising a hand to wave her off. “Michael, how do you know this?”
Michael pursed his lips, looking at the floor, then said, “You can hear Mommy and Daddy talking through the vents.”
“Can you tell me why your mother didn’t like Mrs. Williams or Mrs. Crawley?” Victor asked, jotting the names into his notebook.
Michael almost twisted in place with his emphasis he didn’t know anything. “No, sir.”
“That’s still very helpful,” Victor said to encourage the boy.
“Aunt Permelia said Mrs. Crawley acted better than she should,” Abe offered, then looked to his father. “What does that mean?”
“Later,” Abraham replied, pulling his lips into a scowl.
“Lizzie, Michael, did you see anyone strange outside of your home today?” Victor figured it was a long shot, and both kids shook their head. “Was your father home today?” At that question, Abraham stiffened and grimaced, twisting his handsome features. Victor had upset the man, and he found himself hating that he had. The emotion startled him, as he’d rarely worried about distressing others. Causing discomfort was an unfortunate part of his job, delivering bad news as well as questioning people to uncover the actual criminal.
“Father is in the city,” Michael said.
“Daddy works too much,” Lizzie added.
“Detective, sir.” Vivian put up her hand as if in school. “I heard Aunt Permelia saying some lady was a thief, but I don’t know who.”
“Vivian, where would you have heard such a thing? We wouldn’t want to be telling stories to the detective,” her father scolded gently.
“I’m not. The last party you and Uncle Ben had with all those people over? I snuck down and was listening at the door. I know it was wrong.” Vivian peered askance at her father, not looking particularly embarrassed by her transgression. “But I was curious.”
“We’ll talk about that later.” Abraham looked at Victor. “I’m not sure who she means, but I could get you a list of those at the party by tomorrow if it would help.”
“It certainly couldn’t hurt. I have no more questions for the children.” Victor got up. “Miss Nash, if you’d follow me for a moment.”
“Do you need me, sir?” Miss Wedderburn asked, clenching her handkerchief tightly. “I wasn’t over at Mr. Westbrook’s house, and I didn’t see the Missus today. I’m not sure I can help.”
“You can stay with the children. If I think of any questions for you, I’ll send for you,” Victor replied, offering up a faint smile for her.
Miss Nash and Abraham followed him down the hall. Victor turned to face her before the grand staircase. “I didn’t think it appropriate to ask in front of the children, but you mentioned she was dressed to go out. What struck me as odd was, she was shot on the stairs.”
At that, Miss Nash let out a little sob. Abraham’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped. Dismay washed over Victor as he realized they hadn’t known how Mrs. Westbrook died. He should have realized, since he had been told it was a fall, possibly more. Victor hadn’t said anything to the contrary in his talk with Westbrook. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I thought you knew.”
“They told me it was an accident,” Abraham said, rubbing his knuckles against his chest as if trying to keep the emotions locked in there. “I suspected that might not be the whole truth when I saw the uniformed officer outside my house, and, obviously with your arrival, it would have to be something more.”
Victor nodded. “Yes. My point is, why was she on the stairs? Where were the rest of the household servants if Miss Nash and the children were the first through the door?”
“It’s the servants’ day off,” Miss Nash replied. “Mrs. Westbrook was having lunch at Mrs. Collins’s. Cook left a cold meal for us for this evening. It would have been nice in this heat.”
“Then who would have answered the door?” Victor asked.
Miss Nash’s pale brow beetled as she mulled that over. “Mrs. Westbrook would have had to have done it. But why would she have been back up on the stairs?”
“That is my question,” Victor said.
“I could only think she knew whoever was at the door and was comfortable enough with them to let them in while she was alone. She could have been going back upstairs to retrieve something. Did she have her hat on, Detective?” Abraham asked.
“No. I suppose that is a possibility, a fairly good one.” Victor cocked his head. “Miss Nash, could you possibly write down a list of anyone who might have come calling that Mrs. Westbrook would have let in? Mr. Westbrook, could you do the same?”
Abraham nodded. “Could you come back tomorrow for these lists? It might take a while.”
“I can send someone around,” Victor replied, then let Miss Nash go back to the children. “This is a start.” He wagged his notepad. “I still have neighbors to talk to.”
“I’ll show you the way out.”
Abraham waited until they were outside before saying, “You still have to consider me a suspect, don’t you? I’m certainly someone Permelia would have opened the door to.”
“You make a point there,” Victor admitted, hearing the engines of an airship. He looked up. “The West Twelves?”
Abraham shook his head. “No, that’s the sound of the West Fourteens. My brother is probably on that ship. The landing strip isn’t far from here. Do you want me to take you there?”
Victor nodded and let Abraham take him to a steam-chugging horseless carriage. As it hadn’t had time to build up a good head of steam, the carriage crept along almost slower than walking. It gave Victor time to get the steam up for what would be a grueling, emotionally draining interview.
EVEN A house like this, in the heart of Hyde Park, had its nasty secrets. Detective Victor Van Voorhis stared at the house. Huge and shockingly white, it had a round turret at one end, with a covered porch jutting beyond it. Another, even larger, porch was on the other side, with gingerbread trim dripping down from the eaves. He couldn’t easily count how many windows the house had.
Victor hadn’t wanted this assignment, but he could not turn it down.
A woman lay dead inside. The uniformed officer on the scene didn’t think she died accidentally. A murder among the rich; nothing would be easy about this case, not even if her gardener still stood over her with bloody shears in his hand.
To be fair, Victor had never really worked with the wealthy, and he was breaking his mother’s cardinal rule about prejudging people. Still, he had heard plenty of talk from his superiors who moved in those circles. The wealthy were different.
He recognized the officer on the stoop. The young man kept looking nervously at the carved door, as though intimidated by it. “Tinney,” Victor called, and the man turned his way with a look of relief. “Anything you can tell me?”
“The doctor hasn’t arrived.” Tinney’s relief faded as he wrinkled his nose. “Mrs. Westbrook is at the bottom of the stairs. Her husband is down in the city, has been all week. The nanny found her and took the children to their uncle’s.” Tinney gestured to an older, even grander house across a grassy swath that led to the river. Victor wasn’t sure it could be called a block, as there wasn’t a tight structure to it, like in town.
Climbing the steps, Victor asked, “Has anyone spoken to them yet?”
“No, sir, but O’Malley is watching the house to make sure no one tries to leave.”
“Good.” Victor opened the door, and Tinney followed him in. He didn’t need to do more than step into the ornate foyer.
Blood pooled over the chessboard of black-and-white marble flooring. The ludicrous thought this poor woman would never want to be seen like this flashed into Victor’s mind, but what else could he think with her skirts flipped above her knees? He noticed the mirrored bottom of the foyer’s hat rack. This was a woman—or maybe it was her husband—who checked ankles to make sure they weren’t indecently uncovered by a short skirt.
“Doc never likes us to turn ’em over until he sees ’em first,” Tinney explained. Victor nodded. He knew of Dr. Ackermann’s preferences. “Head wounds do bleed a lot,” he said, but he doubted it would bleed this much. Something beyond a fall at play. He could see why it had been reported as possible murder. He didn’t want to provoke Ackermann’s wrath by rolling her over, but he could feel around her head to see if he could detect any major fractures.
Blood covered her forehead. Matted hair stuck to his fingers, but it told him instantly what he needed to know. The whole back of her head was gone.
“Are you messing where you don’t belong, Detective?”
Victor glanced over his shoulder at the rotund old man who puffed his way inside, carrying a black leather bag. “Just checking something.”
The doctor harrumphed at him and set down his bag. “‘Murder or accident’ is your usual question, but I suspect you already have some ideas.”
“Looks like she was shot in the head, but I’m waiting for your opinion,” Victor said to placate Ackermann. The doctor was easier to deal with if he felt like he was the one in charge.
Ackermann’s face twisted in a deep grimace as he dug in his bag. He handed Victor a rag for his hands. “No woman should be shot, let alone in the head.”
Victor didn’t disagree. He moved aside to let the doctor grumble his way through an initial exam. The photographer arrived, and Victor told him what shots he absolutely needed. While the man worked, Victor took copious notes. By the third time Victor repeated his instructions, the photographer rolled his eyes.
“We’ll take her to my lab,” Ackermann said at last.
“I’ll go talk to the next of kin,” Victor said. “Hopefully, they’ll not fight over the idea of an autopsy.”
“I’ll wait to start, of course, until we find out if we need the court involved.”
“Thank you.”
Victor left Ackermann and hiked over to the other house to do what he considered the hardest part of his job. As gruesome as a corpse could be, it distressed him less than having to talk to people on the worst day of their lives.
The marble steps to the house carried him past soaring Greek columns and left him feeling underdressed and shabby. Like the crime scene, this house had countless windows. High above, carved stone wrapped the roofline. It had a terribly cold appearance, as if the living made their home in a place of the dead. The home looked so much like a massive crypt Victor couldn’t escape the feeling of knocking on the door to a mausoleum. A red-eyed maid opened the door and peered at him fearfully. “I’m Detective Victor Van Voorhis. I need to speak to the master of the house.”
“He’s expecting you. You can give your coat to Justin.” She waved her hand to indicate what looked like a tree stand with hands. She pressed the brass dogwood flower-shaped button in its center and the thing rumbled.
It wheezed and hissed little puffs of steam, and the arms extended as the contraption lurched forward on its wheeled base, startling Victor. He studied the machine, having never seen anything like it. He wondered how the mechanical butler worked, but it didn’t seem to work without someone there to turn it on. Was it more than a mechanized coat rack? Victor would have to ask.
“Do you like Justin?”
The male voice dragged Victor’s attention away. A tall, almost overly thin man stood in an interior doorway that led deeper into the home. He was surprisingly clean-shaven, though his walnut hair was mussed. Grief pinched his otherwise fine features.
“You named a machine?”
The man offered a wan smile. “It’s a quirk of mine, one of many. I name all my inventions. I’m Abraham Westbrook.”
To Victor’s surprise, this wealthy man stuck out his hand to shake. Victor felt nicks and calluses he hadn’t expected to find on a rich man’s hands. “I’m Detective Victor Van Voorhis. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Abraham nodded. “Thank you. Her children are upstairs with mine and their nannies. They weren’t here when it happened. Will you need to speak to them? They’re naturally very upset.”
“Later,” Victor said, handing his coat to Justin, who rolled away back to its corner. “Just briefly about the morning, before they left. You can be present, of course. However, I have questions for you, sir, about your sister-in-law. I understand your brother is in the city. Were you and your wife at home this morning and afternoon?” Victor had no real idea how the rich spent their days. Why wasn’t this man at work? Did he even work?
“I was here in my workshop.” Abraham gestured toward a hallway. “My wife passed over five years ago.”
“I’m sorry.” The generic words of sympathy tumbled out of him. Victor was used to saying them several times a day when working a case.
“It’s fine, Detective. Come with me. We can talk in my library. It will be more comfortable.”
“Of course.”
Victor followed him through a living room roughly the size of Victor’s house, then down a hall with carpeting that ate all the sounds of their passage and felt like walking on a cloud. The scent of old books, slightly musty and even dustier, hit Victor’s nose as they entered the library. A large marble fireplace dominated one wall, with comfortable-looking chairs and a table with a whiskey decanter and glasses set out in front of it. Rows of books lined every other surface, along with more knickknacks and other memorabilia than Victor could easily take in.
Abraham indicated for him to have a seat. “I’m going to have a whiskey for my nerves. Don’t be offended if I don’t offer you any. I prefer you to be clear-headed for this.”
It actually sounded vaguely offensive, but Victor merely nodded, settling into the best chair he’d ever sat on. “So. Your workshop?”
“I’m in my shop most of the day. I’m an inventor. It’s my brother who runs the family business. All of this”—he waved his hands at the room—“is from the fur and textile trade. Ben is down in the city, as I’m sure you know. He’s on a private airship heading here now. And if the next question is would he have reason to kill his wife, I would say no. I had no sense they were the least bit unhappy. She told me she was hoping to have another child. If my brother had a sinister thought toward his wife, I don’t know about it.”
Victor met Abraham’s gaze before asking, “How was your relationship with his wife?”
If the inventor picked up on the innuendo, he chose to ignore it. “Permelia came over some nights with the children, but we have little to talk about. She resented that I preferred to work on gewgaws and not the family business.” He shrugged, but from the stiffness in that gesture, it was obviously an old, well-chewed bone of contention.
“So you didn’t get along?” Victor studied Abraham’s face. Victor’s mind turned the man’s name over and over. It was oddly familiar.
“No, nor did she like my wife when Minerva was alive, but it wasn’t hostile.” Abraham thought for a moment, rolling his bottom lip in and chewing on it for a moment before continuing, “Just cool like winter. I think she didn’t like the long hours Ben spends in the office and blamed me for not picking up some of the work. She doesn’t—didn’t—understand Ben enjoys working. He also prefers I stick with my inventions. He’s my younger brother, and he always felt the need to prove himself to our father, who never approved of my hobby.”
“Judging by the steam butler, it’s a successful hobby. I’ve never seen its like. It’s impressive,” Victor said.
Abraham nodded and a dark lock of hair fell in his eyes. “Now that Father has passed, I have created my own company. It helped to take some of the tension out of my relationship with my brother. I inherited our father’s company, but I’ve signed the controlling share to Ben.” He scowled. “I’m rambling, aren’t I?”
“Call it giving me a complete picture. It can only help.”
Abraham snorted. “I like that, using a fairly new technology as analogy.”
Victor smiled, wishing he could concentrate on the notes he tried to write. Even more distracting than the man’s name was the man himself. How unprofessional of Victor to think a victim’s relative and potential suspect was good-looking.
Not that it would matter. The man obviously had tastes society felt were normal—unlike his own.
He tried to shake himself out of his inappropriate thoughts. Collecting himself, Victor asked, “Do you know if Mrs. Westbrook was having difficulties with anyone?”
Abraham’s fine features pinched as he mulled it over. “No. You’d best ask that question to her staff. They spend far more time with her than I.”
Victor’s next question died when he heard a strange hissing sound. He turned, looked over his shoulder, and saw a mechanical dog lumbering their way. “My word!”
“Sorry about that. Harrison, my son, has hay fever that seems to be caused by dogs, but he really wanted one, so I built him this. That’s Cerberus. He’s far more advanced than Justin. I can’t get Justin’s hands to grip right, so mostly he rolls around being not as helpful as I intended. Cerberus is supposed to be upstairs with the children.” Pride in Abraham’s expression warred with the apologetic tone in his voice. Victor stared at the dog, and something clicked. He twisted back around to face Abraham. “West Twelve Engines.”
Abraham’s deep brown eyes brightened. “You’re either an airman or an enthusiast. Most wouldn’t know about my airship engine.”
“It’s the former. Many corps men do end up in police work,” Victor said as the dog came over to him and nudged his leg like an actual dog. He found himself rubbing its metal head. “And I’m well aware of your engines. They made a real difference in the battle of Eastport.”
“I’m glad to know that. I’m very proud of those engines.” Abraham tasted his whiskey. “I wish I knew something that could help you, Detective,” he said, changing the subject. “I’m rather ashamed to admit, I’m all too often immersed in my work, and I spared little time for my sister-in-law.”
“Fair enough. Would anyone try to harm your brother by killing his wife?”
Abraham’s face twisted, his eyes losing their fire as he contemplated that question. “It’s possible. I know we’ve had some competition from the Astors and James Middleton. Ben did recently buy out the Williams’s fur company. The father died last year, and his son, Drew, has gambled away an ungodly sum of money. He was extremely vocal about Ben ‘stealing’ his company. I have to say, though, I can’t imagine Drew working up his nerve for anything more than having another glass of brandy or a hand of cards.”
“It’s still worth looking into.” Victor made a note of the names.
“I can’t think of anyone else. As I said, I don’t really keep my hand in the family business. My own takes up most of my time. I’m sure my brother can add to the list.”
Victor nodded. “May I speak with the children now?” He looked forward to that even less than the conservation they were having now.
“Are we done?” Abraham’s eyebrows arched.
“For now. I’ll be back once I have more information from my men and the doctor, sir.”
Abraham’s lips pursed and he set aside his whiskey. “Yes, then, I’ll take you to the children before I have too much of this and become useless. I have no head for alcohol, and they need my strength now.”
“I’m sure, sir.”
“You don’t have to call me ‘sir,’ Detective. You may call me Mr. Westbrook, or Abraham, if you’re so inclined.”
“Thank you, Mr. Westbrook,” Victor said, though he wished he could be casual enough to call the man Abraham. He wanted to try that name on his tongue.
Abraham stood and Victor followed him up a sweeping staircase with woodwork so ornate, he was glad he wasn’t a maid tasked with dusting it. They had to climb to the third floor. It seemed like an unlikely place to put children until he realized the sounds of them playing wouldn’t be heard down below so as not to intrude on whatever their parents were doing. Of course, it didn’t seem as if Abraham was in the house long enough to be bothered. It was just another way the rich were different, Victor supposed.
Abraham rapped sharply on the door, then turned the crystal knob and let Victor in. Both nannies were well dressed but puffy-eyed from crying. They were dry-eyed now, however. The nearly half-dozen children played quietly with dolls and blocks. They broke off their play to watch Victor warily, seemingly unsure of what to make of the stranger in their midst.
Abraham squatted down to address the young ones. “Children, this is Detective Van Voorhis. He’s going to try to find who brought so much sadness down on us.” He stood back up and turned to Victor. “Detective, these are my children—Abe, the eldest, and Harrison and Vivian, the twins.” Abraham rested his hand on the girl’s head, rubbing her scalp. Her walnut curls waved with the motion. Victor guessed the twins to be about eight years old and Abe a few years older. “And my nephew, Michael, and niece, Lizzie. This is my governess, Miss Hettie Wedderburn, and Ben’s, Miss Lulu Nash. Ladies, any help you can give Detective Van Voorhis, I’d appreciate it.”
“Yes, Mr. Westbrook,” they chorused with almost matching bobs of their heads. Abraham indicated for Victor to sit in a chair next to the governesses. He himself sat on the window seat, overlooking the whole scene.
Victor asked, “Miss Nash, can you describe this morning? Was there anything unusual you can remember?”
Miss Nash shook her head slowly, bunching and unbunching the sodden handkerchief in her lap. “It was a normal day, sir. I took the children to the park, as I often do on a fine morning. Mrs. Westbrook rarely comes with us.” She paused to daub her nose. “She was supposed to call on Mrs. Collins. I think she was dressed for going out. I barely looked.” Miss Nash broke into a bout of weeping. Miss Wedderburn patted her arm, an attempt to calm Miss Nash. The children turned pale as they watched Miss Nash cry. Abraham handed her his handkerchief.
After waiting until she calmed some, Victor asked, “So, Mrs. Westbrook only rarely went out with you and the children?”
“Mommy doesn’t like the sun,” Lizzie said, tugging at one of her curls. She didn’t quite meet Victor’s eyes.
“It gives her bad headaches,” her brother, Michael, added.
“Mrs. Westbrook had sick headaches. She had to lie down with the curtains pulled,” Miss Nash said.
“I was struck by something at the house, but I think I’ll have you step outside for that,” Victor said, not wanting to discuss the crime scene details in front of the children. It would terrorize them, and no small amount of diplomacy would be necessary to keep Abraham Westbrook’s good will. “But first, I have a couple of questions for Michael and Lizzie.”
“We can help,” Michael said earnestly.
“Was your mother angry at anyone? Was she upset this morning?”
Lizzie shook her head, sending her blonde ringlets flying. “Uh-uh.”
“She didn’t like Mrs. Williams or Mrs. Crawley,” Michael said, and his governess hushed him.
“No, let him talk,” Abraham said, raising a hand to wave her off. “Michael, how do you know this?”
Michael pursed his lips, looking at the floor, then said, “You can hear Mommy and Daddy talking through the vents.”
“Can you tell me why your mother didn’t like Mrs. Williams or Mrs. Crawley?” Victor asked, jotting the names into his notebook.
Michael almost twisted in place with his emphasis he didn’t know anything. “No, sir.”
“That’s still very helpful,” Victor said to encourage the boy.
“Aunt Permelia said Mrs. Crawley acted better than she should,” Abe offered, then looked to his father. “What does that mean?”
“Later,” Abraham replied, pulling his lips into a scowl.
“Lizzie, Michael, did you see anyone strange outside of your home today?” Victor figured it was a long shot, and both kids shook their head. “Was your father home today?” At that question, Abraham stiffened and grimaced, twisting his handsome features. Victor had upset the man, and he found himself hating that he had. The emotion startled him, as he’d rarely worried about distressing others. Causing discomfort was an unfortunate part of his job, delivering bad news as well as questioning people to uncover the actual criminal.
“Father is in the city,” Michael said.
“Daddy works too much,” Lizzie added.
“Detective, sir.” Vivian put up her hand as if in school. “I heard Aunt Permelia saying some lady was a thief, but I don’t know who.”
“Vivian, where would you have heard such a thing? We wouldn’t want to be telling stories to the detective,” her father scolded gently.
“I’m not. The last party you and Uncle Ben had with all those people over? I snuck down and was listening at the door. I know it was wrong.” Vivian peered askance at her father, not looking particularly embarrassed by her transgression. “But I was curious.”
“We’ll talk about that later.” Abraham looked at Victor. “I’m not sure who she means, but I could get you a list of those at the party by tomorrow if it would help.”
“It certainly couldn’t hurt. I have no more questions for the children.” Victor got up. “Miss Nash, if you’d follow me for a moment.”
“Do you need me, sir?” Miss Wedderburn asked, clenching her handkerchief tightly. “I wasn’t over at Mr. Westbrook’s house, and I didn’t see the Missus today. I’m not sure I can help.”
“You can stay with the children. If I think of any questions for you, I’ll send for you,” Victor replied, offering up a faint smile for her.
Miss Nash and Abraham followed him down the hall. Victor turned to face her before the grand staircase. “I didn’t think it appropriate to ask in front of the children, but you mentioned she was dressed to go out. What struck me as odd was, she was shot on the stairs.”
At that, Miss Nash let out a little sob. Abraham’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped. Dismay washed over Victor as he realized they hadn’t known how Mrs. Westbrook died. He should have realized, since he had been told it was a fall, possibly more. Victor hadn’t said anything to the contrary in his talk with Westbrook. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I thought you knew.”
“They told me it was an accident,” Abraham said, rubbing his knuckles against his chest as if trying to keep the emotions locked in there. “I suspected that might not be the whole truth when I saw the uniformed officer outside my house, and, obviously with your arrival, it would have to be something more.”
Victor nodded. “Yes. My point is, why was she on the stairs? Where were the rest of the household servants if Miss Nash and the children were the first through the door?”
“It’s the servants’ day off,” Miss Nash replied. “Mrs. Westbrook was having lunch at Mrs. Collins’s. Cook left a cold meal for us for this evening. It would have been nice in this heat.”
“Then who would have answered the door?” Victor asked.
Miss Nash’s pale brow beetled as she mulled that over. “Mrs. Westbrook would have had to have done it. But why would she have been back up on the stairs?”
“That is my question,” Victor said.
“I could only think she knew whoever was at the door and was comfortable enough with them to let them in while she was alone. She could have been going back upstairs to retrieve something. Did she have her hat on, Detective?” Abraham asked.
“No. I suppose that is a possibility, a fairly good one.” Victor cocked his head. “Miss Nash, could you possibly write down a list of anyone who might have come calling that Mrs. Westbrook would have let in? Mr. Westbrook, could you do the same?”
Abraham nodded. “Could you come back tomorrow for these lists? It might take a while.”
“I can send someone around,” Victor replied, then let Miss Nash go back to the children. “This is a start.” He wagged his notepad. “I still have neighbors to talk to.”
“I’ll show you the way out.”
Abraham waited until they were outside before saying, “You still have to consider me a suspect, don’t you? I’m certainly someone Permelia would have opened the door to.”
“You make a point there,” Victor admitted, hearing the engines of an airship. He looked up. “The West Twelves?”
Abraham shook his head. “No, that’s the sound of the West Fourteens. My brother is probably on that ship. The landing strip isn’t far from here. Do you want me to take you there?”
Victor nodded and let Abraham take him to a steam-chugging horseless carriage. As it hadn’t had time to build up a good head of steam, the carriage crept along almost slower than walking. It gave Victor time to get the steam up for what would be a grueling, emotionally draining interview.
Jana is Queen of the Geeks (her students voted her in), and her home and office are shrines to any number of comic book and manga heroes along with SF shows and movies too numerous to count. It’s no coincidence that the love of all things geeky has made its way into many of her stories. To this day, she’s disappointed she hasn’t found a wardrobe to another realm, a superhero to take her flying among the clouds, or a roguish starship captain to run off to the stars with her.
KOBO / GOOGLE PLAY / PINTEREST
