Jack throws his hands into the air. "Anywhere. Just bend down and pick up whatever you can. Hey, Coop, you going to help?" He grabs another drawer and puts it in place.

Cooper doesn't flinch. It's as if he hasn't heard a thing we've said.

A surge of adrenaline hits my system, propelling me forward. There's no time to make the bed properly, so I figure it's best to camouflage things as much as possible. Wadding his bed sheets in a pile, I shove them into the near-full hamper, then drape the stripped mattress with the bedspread and set his pillows in place. It looks as good as new, at least at first glance. Then I scoop up his scattered clothes, cram them into each drawer without any care as to where they should actually go. As Jack rights the desk and replaces the drawers, I do shove the books back on the bookcase. They're not in any discernible order but at least they're all spine-out.

Just as we've finished setting up Cooper's laptop and printer, the ambulance sirens whirr in the distance. The room's not perfect, but at least it doesn't look like a war zone. I don't think I've ever moved so fast, not even when we outran the plateye h.e.l.lhounds at the museum.

Wheezing for air, I kneel beside Cooper and place my hand on his. "They're coming. We're going to have to let them in the door and tell them what happened. Can you get up?"

He looks up at me, his hunter-green eyes rimmed with red and heavy with grief.

The sirens blare up the long oak-lined driveway leading to High Point Bluff.

Jack crouches in front of Cooper. "Dude, just get yourself downstairs, okay? We'll do the talking until your dad shows up. Think you can do that?"

Cooper nods.

"Good. Come on." Standing, Jack extends his hand to Cooper, who takes it and pulls himself up to his feet.

We race through the hall, then down the stairs just as the doorbell rings. Johnson and Briscoe, the two paramedics who helped Miss Delia after she was attacked, are at the door, a stretcher in hand.

"She's in the master bathroom. It's at the back of the master suite at the end of the hall." I point in the general direction.

"Would you like us to come with you?" Jack asks as they push past and mount the stairs.

"No thanks," Briscoe answers. "We'll take it from here. Y'all wait on the sheriff. He ought to be around shortly."

With nowhere else to go, we settle onto the upholstered bench on the side of the grand foyer, waiting for whoever comes next. Cooper grasps my hand, gripping my fingers as if his life depends on it.

"It'll be okay. I promise," I whisper.

He gives me a hard squeeze.

Jack's shoulders slump as if the adrenaline rush has finally worn off and the enormity of everything that's happened has finally hit him. "I can't believe it. Missy is dead." He stares down at the floor, his mouth agape.

A single tear runs down Cooper's cheek. Which is super weird. Of course her death is a horrible shock, but she was pretty awful to him, especially lately. No one would blame him if he didn't exactly mourn her pa.s.sing.

I search for something to make him feel better. "I'm sorry for your loss. I'm sure you're going to miss her." Lame, but isn't that what you're supposed to say when someone dies?

Both he and Jack turn to me, their brows crinkled in confusion.

"Are you crazy?" Jack asks.

I shrug. "What do you want from me? His stepmother just died and he's obviously upset about it."

Cooper shakes his head. "I'm sorry she's gone. But that's not why I'm upset." He swallows hard.

"Then why?" Jack looks mystified.

Cooper draws a deep breath then exhales, bracing himself. "She looks just like my mom did when she died."

Chapter Ten.

"What?" Jack asks, his jaw hanging as slack as mine.

Cooper never talks about his mother. Ever. So to bring her up now-and her death when he was just five years old-amid everything that's happening just makes it all the more jarring.

Cooper opens his mouth but then shuts it again and drops his gaze to the floor.

Sirens wail and speed toward the house. Jack and I spring off the bench and charge to open the front door. Two sheriff cars barrel down the driveway at top speed, kicking up gravel, then skid to a stop behind the ambulance in front of the Big House. The two deputies in the first car barely allow it to come to a stop before jumping out and racing up the front steps.

The first, a thick-necked, muscle-bound specimen of crime-fighting prowess, clasps his hand on the grip of his holstered revolver. "Where's the crime scene?" he asks Jack.

"Upstairs, hang a right, then head to the end of the hall."

Muscles and his partner fly up the stairs. A second later the Beaufort County sheriff jogs up the porch steps, then wipes the soles of his buffed cowboy boots on the mat before stepping into the house. Moving with less urgency than his deputies, he removes his ten-gallon hat. His close-shorn gray hair sets off his light brown skin. "Morning. I'm Sheriff Walker. Beau home?"

I rise off the bench. "No, but he's on his way. Mrs. Beaumont's upstairs. In the master bathroom. The paramedics are up there, too." Swallowing hard over the lump rising in my throat, I point in the general direction of the growing commotion upstairs. Even from down here, I hear their shocked and almost excited voices. St. Helena's a pretty sleepy island so I'm guessing they don't come across many dead bodies. At least not those belonging to young people.

The sheriff nods. "Sounds like Goodwin and Thomas have it well in hand. But there's likely to be a bunch more folk coming through here and y'all probably don't want to be in the way. Is there some place quiet you can wait for Mr. Beaumont?" His lips curl into a benevolent but unmistakably lethal grin. Though he asked nicely, this isn't a request.

Jack nods. "Uh, sure. I guess we can hang out in the library. Hey, Coop, come on, we're moving out of here."

"Huh?" Cooper's head snaps up. He stares at us for a second. When Jack motions toward the library, Cooper nods. "Oh, yeah. Sure." Pushing off the bench, he heads across the foyer, his expression as flat as an ironing board.

"He's still in shock," I tell the sheriff, as if it's not totally obvious.

"I bet," Sheriff Walker says as he accompanies us to the library door. Ducking his head, he scans the room, then watches as we take our seats. Cooper and I share one of the huge, red-silk sofas while Jack settles into a leather club chair. "It shouldn't be too long. Soon as Beau gets here, we'll have a little talk about how you found her. Until then, I'm going to have a look-see around the house. You don't mind, do you?"

"No, course not." Cooper shakes his head and his eyes drift toward the window to stare out at the rose garden.

When Sheriff Walker steps away, a wave of relief crashes over me. Thank goodness Jack had us straighten Cooper's room. That mess would have definitely raised his suspicions. But then my stomach drops just as fast. The solarium. We didn't think to check it this morning and have no idea whether it's still the shambles it was last night before we left. Knowing Missy, there's no chance she cleaned it up and even less that Beau fixed it. What the heck is the sheriff going to think when he sees it?

Jack shoots me a look, his twin sense undoubtedly on full alert. "What's wrong, Em?"

"The solarium," I whisper, just in case Sheriff Walker's still in the hall, eavesdropping.

A deep grunt rumbles in his chest. "Dang. I didn't even think about that." Sinking back into the club chair, he rubs his chin. "There's nothing we can do about it. If they see it, we'll just say it's under renovation. It already looks like it's been hit by a wrecking ball. Plus, since her fingerprints are all over the place, we're safe. It can't implicate us like the knife."

As if he's just reminded himself of the real danger, Jack lunges forward again. "The knife. Was it in the bathroom?"

"I looked around and didn't see it near her." Then a horrible thought grips me. "Of course it could have been under her."

Jack sinks his forehead against his open palm. "Well, if it's up there, they'll find it."

"What if it's not?" I whisper, my brain spinning with the possible permutations.

Cooper pulls out of his trance. "Then someone else has it."

But who? Before I have a chance to contemplate that, a commotion erupts in the hall. Voices converge and raise, making it impossible to make out any words.

"Enough of this obstruction!" Beau's slurry voice booms above the rest and bounces off the high ceiling in the foyer. "My wife is dead! I demand to see her!" A strange, strangled sound erupts, halfway between a gasp and a stifled wail. If I didn't know he was soulless, I'd swear he sounded heartbroken.

Seconds later, Beau drags himself into the library, grunting as he leans hard against his cane. Huffing for air, he grumbles unintelligible words as he clutches his side with his free hand and hobbles toward the sofa facing Cooper and me. With great effort, he eases into the well-worn depression in the cushions as the wooden frame cracks and squeaks under his weight. As usual, the stench of rancid luncheon meat hovers around him.

"You'll understand that given his obvious distress, Mr. Beaumont won't likely be much help in answering your questions, though we'll be happy to hear what you can tell us about this tragic accident." A familiar voice, heavily accented and slick as oil, carries from the hall. I know I've heard it before but I can't quite place it.

A second later, Claude Corbeau glides into the library with Sheriff Walker. He's wearing the same blue-lensed sungla.s.ses and sharp black suit from yesterday.

My heart seizes. What is he doing here? I shoot a glance at Jack then Cooper, hoping to grab their attention and give him some kind of warning, but neither look my way. Instead, they're both transfixed by the short, wiry man who seems to have the sheriff's rapt attention.

The sheriff smiles. "I understand. Though I do need to get some basic information, but it should be pretty painless." He sits in a club chair across from Jack.

Claude takes a seat next to Beau. I hunch my shoulders and lean against the arm of the sofa, hoping he won't recognize me. But his eyes catch mine and his brows rise slightly as his lips part in a small smile. He knows exactly who I am.

Beau extends his bloated arm behind him, reaching for the scotch decanter on the far end of the console table behind Claude, but the bottle is just out of reach. Wincing, he recoils, then rolls back on the cushion. His breath is heavy and labored. "What's a man got to do to get a drink around here? I've just learned my wife is dead and I'd like something to calm my nerves." But his voice is so garbled he sounds like he's already drunk.

"It would be my pleasure, Mr. Beaumont." Claude rises to his feet. Without taking his eyes off me, he steps around the sofa, grabs a gla.s.s from the mirrored tray, and pours about two inches of the honey-brown liquid. "Here you go, nice and stiff. I know how broken up you are." He places the crystal tumbler in Beau's outstretched hands.

"Thank you, Corbeau. I don't know what I'd do without you." Beau gestures as if to wipe away tears, except there's no trace of liquid, sweat or otherwise, on his pasty face. Then he tosses back his head and downs the scotch in one gulp.

Jack's lids stretch wide as the name registers. We share a silent exchange of looks, confirming this is the same guy who showed up at Miss Delia's yesterday. Cooper must understand, too, because he shoots me a quick side glance and tightens his grip on my hand.

Burping, Beau slams the gla.s.s next to the ashtray on the side table and turns his attention to Sheriff Walker. "Let's get down to business, Walker. This here's Claude Corbeau, one of the finest investigators in the country. I brought him to St. Helena as a second set of eyes on the King Center robbery since y'all have done such a crackerjack job finding the robbers yourselves." His sarcasm is thick and, judging by the sheriff's p.r.i.c.kly expression, hasn't been lost. Beau continues. "We were in a meeting at the museum when I learned about my beloved Missy. Corbeau's offered to help make sure nothing is overlooked." He lifts a balled fist to his mouth and appears to stifle a sob. But the whites of his eyes are as pale as always and there isn't a tear in sight.

Claude bows his head in some kind of grand show of deference to the sheriff. "I'm merely here to lend my expertise. This is, of course, your jurisdiction, but I'm happy to offer any support as necessary. Might I get you a drink, Sheriff?"

Walker puts up his hand. "No thanks. I'm on duty. And seeing as you're so keen to oversee our work, I wouldn't want to do anything to comprise the integrity of our investigation."

Claude grins. "Of course not! You misunderstand. I wasn't offering a hard beverage. It being July and all, and knowing how long you've been working, I thought you might appreciate a cool, refreshing drink. Surely that can't hurt, can it?" Claude walks to the bar and inspects the minifridge's contents. "I make the absolute best nonalcoholic mint juleps. Believe me, they're so good, you won't miss the bourbon."

The sheriff shakes his head. "Really, that isn't necessary."

But Claude gets to work anyway, filling a shaker with ice, crushing a handful of mint leaves, and pouring a mixture of liquids.

The sheriff takes a notebook from his back pocket and flips open the cover. "Now, Beau, when was the last time you saw Missy?"

"Last night. Before we went to bed."

The sheriff arches his brow. "Not this morning?"

"No, I left for work just after dawn. We builders work around the sun. Can't afford to waste a minute of daylight. I often sleep downstairs in my study so as not to wake her." He folds his fingers over his wide belly.

"I see. And did she appear well last night?"

"Of course. She was just twenty-two years old. In the height of her prime." Beau sniffs, then leans over to extract a handkerchief from his pocket and rubs his nose. "She was supposed to care for me in my old age. As you can see I'm not exactly the picture of health." His voice breaks. "Forgive me. I can't believe she's gone. She was my angel." His chest shudders.

Jack, Cooper, and I lock eyes. Missy was a lot of things, but an angel wasn't one of them.

Claude carries two tall gla.s.ses of light green liquid the long way around the room, pa.s.sing behind the sofa Cooper and I are sitting on, and offers a gla.s.s to the sheriff. "My famous mint julep, minus the alcohol, of course. It's my daddy's recipe." He beams.

"Thank you, but I'm all right." He raises his hand in protest, but Claude shoves the gla.s.s in his palm anyway. Reluctantly, Sheriff Walker takes it and rests it on the arm of his club chair.

Turning, Claude walks behind our sofa once again, this time stopping to grip Cooper's shoulder with his spindly hand. He leans close. "I'm sorry for your loss, son. This must be very difficult for you." He pats Cooper's neck and then ruffles the back of his hair.

Cooper twists around, releasing my hand as he does so, to address Claude face-to-face. "Thanks." His voice sounds breathy, vacant.

Claude nods, then glances at me, his eyes twinkling. He looks as if he's about to say something, but must have changed his mind because he goes back to his place next to Beau instead. Glancing over at the sheriff, he raises his gla.s.s. "Don't let that go to waste, Sheriff. My daddy would be mighty disappointed if I didn't impress you with his recipe." He takes a sip.

The sheriff tilts his head and stares hard at Claude. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were a bartender instead of an investigator."

Claude laughs. "Nonsense. Even in this air-conditioning, it's still unG.o.dly hot. I'm just trying to be hospitable. There's enough for your deputies, too, if it meets your approval."

I can't help but notice he didn't make any mock julep for us. Rude. Not that I'd take anything from him, anyway.

"You aren't going to quit, are you?" Sheriff Walker chuckles then lifts the gla.s.s and takes a sip. "Hmm, that's mighty tasty. You say this has no bourbon?" He smacks his lips a few times, savoring the flavors.

"Not a drop." Claude sits back and smiles.

The sheriff takes several more swallows. "There's plenty of mint and sugar. But what's your base?"

"It's a family secret, but there's a little of this and a little of that."

"Whatever it is, my compliments to your daddy." The sheriff raises his gla.s.s.

"Sadly, he's pa.s.sed, but he's always with me in spirit." Claude smiles.

Sheriff Walker downs the rest of his drink and squints hard at his notebook, extending his arm from his face to make out the words. "Now, kids, as I understand it, you found Mrs. Beaumont this morning."

Cooper nods. "Yes, sir. I slept over at Emma and Jack's place last night."

Claude leans forward and his lips part in a terrible, snakelike grin. "Emma. That's a beautiful name."

Ugh. I can hear Miss Delia's voice in my head cursing the fact that he's learned my first name. But all's not lost. It's only my nickname, and my last name's still under wraps.

Beau laughs. "It sure is. Though not half as pretty as she is." He winks at me, then nudges Claude's arm with his meaty elbow. "You'd never guess it, but Emma and Jack are twins. Don't look a lick alike."

Claude shakes his head. "Not a lick." He seems positively delighted.

Beau continues, his chest gurgling with every excited word. "Their daddy is my caretaker. He and I used to run wild on this island when we were boys. The Guthries have worked for the Beaumonts for generations. Just as I suspect old Jack here will end up working for my son, eventually." His lips part in a knowing grin.