Jack shakes his head. "No, I won't."

"No, he won't," Cooper says at the same time.

Beau waves his hand. "That's what all the Guthries say. But time has a way of proving them wrong. Just ask your daddy about how he swore he was going north to make his own way. Yet when your momma kicked him out, where'd he go? Straight back here to High Point Bluff." He erupts in laughter, which rattles in his chest and kicks off a coughing fit that causes him to wince and clutch at his side.

White-hot anger boils in my gut. I hate when he belittles my father and detest even more when he speaks of my mother. He has no idea what happened between them. No one does, actually, since neither one of them has ever told Jack or me why they divorced, but whatever the reason, it's between them. It's none of Beau's business, and it's certainly not Claude's.

Sheriff Walker clears his throat. "So y'all found her this morning?" He hiccups then covers his mouth. "Excuse me."

Cooper nods. "Yes, sir. It was quite a shock."

"I called 9-1-1 as soon as we found her," Jack adds.

"But it was pretty obvious she was...well, you know." I shudder at the memory of her lavender shoulder and blue-black gums. "There wasn't anything we could do."

"I'll bet it was difficult." The sheriff's stomach rumbles. Rubbing his uniform with his palm, he hiccups again, this time with more force. "Goodness, forgive me. I let Thomas talk me into the blue-plate special this morning at Daisy's. Looks like that wasn't the best decision." Chuckling, he looks back at his notebook, stares for a moment, then strokes the black-and-white whiskers in his trimmed beard. He looks a little confused.

Claude tilts his head and peers over his blue gla.s.ses. "Did you have any other questions, Sheriff?"

Staring at the paper in his hand, the sheriff bites his bottom lip. Blinking several times, he flicks his wrist, flipping the cover closed. "No, I think that about covers it." Though he doesn't look entirely convinced.

Seriously? I'm no supersleuth, but even I think there's plenty of stuff left to ask. Like for instance, was Missy sick or did she have any health problems? Did she take any weird drugs? Did she have any enemies? Plus a whole list of other questions a kindergartener could probably come up with. Not to mention a query about the solarium. He had to have seen that disaster area. Isn't he at least wondering what the heck happened in there?

Claude peers into the sheriff's eyes. "So what can you tell us? Do you have a cause of death?" His stark-white teeth gleam.

Sheriff Walker hiccups again, this time hard enough to shake his chest. "I probably shouldn't say anything until the coroner completes his examination." He scratches his head and looks around the room. "I suppose it can't hurt to tell you there were no obvious injuries."

Claude narrows his gaze. "So you're thinking natural causes?"

Sheriff Walker nods as he rubs his stomach. "Possibly, though you can never be sure without an autopsy, especially with someone so young." Another hiccup leaps from his mouth, snapping his head back. "Especially when we find an unusual substance near the deceased. It's usually best to wait for the toxicology reports."

Beau wails. "I won't allow my sweet sugar bee to be cut up." His chest shudders and he swallows a sob.

Claude puts his finger up. "What type of substance?" He bores into the sheriff with his stare.

"We're not sure, actually." He blinks a few times, then glances at his notes. "Black, tar-like. None of us has ever seen anything like it before. It could be something, or nothing at all. There's no way to know for sure until we hear back from the lab."

"And if you don't find anything, you'll be right back where you started. With natural causes," Claude says as if it's a predetermined certainty.

The sheriff nods. "Yup. Natural causes. Sounds about right."

Sounds right? Actually, it sounds pretty stupid. And hasty. Not to mention sloppy. Why wouldn't the sheriff want to conduct a full investigation before deciding what happened?

Sheriff Walker hiccups again, but this time, his lids bulge and his cheeks puff outward. "Forgive me, that sc.r.a.pple is getting the best of me." He jumps from his chair, then scrambles out of the library. His footfalls carry down the hall. A moment later, the powder-room door slams shut.

Claude turns to Beau. "I think I'll check on the deputies' progress upstairs. I'm guessing they might need a little a.s.sistance. When I'm through, why don't we meet in your study to finish our discussion about the museum?" He pushes off the sofa, flattens the creases in his black suit pants, and straightens his tie.

Beau beams even though a minute ago he was on the verge of weeping. "Excellent idea, Corbeau."

My body hums with a sick, antsy feeling. What the heck is going on? Claude seems happy to jump into this investigation-maybe too happy. Doesn't he already have his hands full with the museum heist? Does he really need to get so involved in this one? And now that I think of it, the whole natural-causes thing was his idea. How did he get the sheriff to agree so easily? Maybe there was a little something extra in that virgin mint julep after all.

I have no idea why but I'm suddenly feeling as ill as Sheriff Walker. Desperate for fresh air, I could race to the windows and throw them open, but that would only keep me in this musty, old room. I've got to get out of here. Now.

I turn to Cooper. "I'm not feeling too well. I need to get outside and breathe. Maybe sit on the beach for a while."

He nods. "Sure. Whatever." But he doesn't meet my eyes; instead he keeps his gaze trained on his feet.

I pause, surprised he didn't offer to come with me like usual. Normally he'd grab any chance to get out of here and flee the craziness of this house and his father's cruelty. But this is no ordinary day and it's not fair to expect him to act like it is. Missy's death was a shock, but it's obviously brought up horrible memories of his mother. He needs s.p.a.ce to process this. But I need a cool sea breeze and the sun's warm rays to purge the queasiness churning my stomach.

Jack shoots me a look, silently asking if I want his company. I shake my head. Cooper needs him more than I do right now.

"Okay, I'll see you later then." I reach for Cooper's hand, but he pulls it away and waves good-bye instead.

"See you." Again, he doesn't look my way.

"Yeah, see you." Squelching the twinge of worry wiggling at the back of my mind, I rise to my feet and climb over his outstretched legs.

Exiting the library, I head down the hall toward the foyer. Just as I'm rounding the corner, Claude steps into my path.

"So, Emma Guthrie." His smile splits his face as he tucks something into his jacket pocket. "Such a lovely name. And a greater pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."

Chapter Eleven.

I suck in a breath and blink, transfixed by his slippery, almost serpentlike grin. "Uh, yeah, thanks. Me too," I manage though it's a giant lie. In fact, I could have gone the rest of my life without ever seeing him again and I'd have been happy. But now he knows my relationship to the Beaumonts and my name, a fact that will likely flip Miss Delia's lid.

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 p.r.i.c.k 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 a.s.sertion 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 a.s.sumed 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 b.u.mps 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."

He stiffens. "What are you trying to say, Emmaline? Because I'm not following you." He uses my real name but this time it doesn't ring with his sweet, lilting southern accent. Instead, it's as sharp as barbed wire.

I screwed up once before by not being honest with him. It almost broke us up, and even worse, threatened to destroy our friendship for good. So no matter how hard it might be, I've got to tell him the truth about what I'm thinking. Drawing a deep breath, I square my shoulders. "What if your father had something to do with both their deaths?"

His brow creases, his expression is a mixture of shock, disbelief, and serious concern for my mental welfare. "What are you talking about?"

"Think about it. When someone dies, they always suspect the spouse. Because nine times out of ten, the spouse did it."

"But Sheriff Walker said it's probably natural causes."

"Yeah. Why is that, by the way? Could it have anything to do with the fact that Beau basically funded his campaign? Isn't it possible the sheriff is covering for him? What's to stop him from telling the lab to alter the results on this black slime?" I contemplate adding my suspicion that the sheriff may somehow have been unduly swayed by Beau's new friend, Claude, but realize how crazy it sounds, and decide to keep it to myself until I've got a better idea of what's going on.

Cooper stares at me. I'm not sure if he's considering my reasoning or trying not to erupt. Finally he speaks. "You know, I usually disagree with Jack about you and the emo stuff, but this time I'm not so sure."

My brow knits and my hands fly to my hips. "How can you say that?"

"Because this is my father we're talking about. You've just accused him of killing my mother and stepmother. He's not the most honest business guy in the world, and he's probably a candidate for worst father of the decade, but he's no murderer."

"Have you forgotten the Beaumont Curse? He's got no soul. If he can screw a Gullah family out of their land, and destroy acres of forest to build a useless golf course development, what's to stop him from killing a couple of his wives?

Cooper's jaw tenses. "Can you stop and listen to yourself for just a second? The two have nothing to do with each other. Besides, what possible motive would my father have for killing them? He divorced his second and third wives after they left him-he could have done the same with my mom and Missy." He stands and paces the carpet.

"But Cooper, set aside for a second that he's your dad. Think about it. Two young wives with similar deaths. Don't you think it's suspicious? Or at the very least coincidental? In any other situation, the cops would be all over him."

"That's the whole point, Emma. I can't forget he's my father. Even for a second. He's disgusting and horrible but he's the only parent I've got. Maybe it's easy for you to write him off because you've got two parents who love you. And you've got Jack who's got your back no matter what. What have I got? Just my dad. If I let myself believe he killed Missy, then I've got to allow for the possibility that he killed my mother, too. And if that's true, and we can prove it..." His voice breaks as his downturned eyes drift toward the bed where his mother perished. "He'll spend the rest of his life in jail or fry in the electric chair. Either way, I'll be an orphan and even more alone than I am now." His expression is so sad it twists my heart.

"You'll never be alone. You'll always have us." My voice is soft.

He laughs but it's hollow and flat. "Sure. But haven't you heard that blood is thicker than water?"

As a matter of fact, yes I have. From Taneea of all people. Which does nothing to bolster his argument. I cross my arms. "So that means you're willing to turn a blind eye to anything your dad may have done just to keep him out of jail, or worse?"

"That's not what I'm saying."

"Then what do you mean because you've totally confused me."

He sighs. "I'm saying it's not as cut and dry as that. It's easy for you to come in here, collect a bottle of whatever that c.r.a.p is, and jump to all these conclusions because you have no idea how painful it is to lose one parent, much less two. Unfortunately, I'm not that lucky."

The truth of his words burns. Maybe I've been insensitive. This has been an especially difficult day for him and I probably should have picked my words or timing better. But that doesn't mean I'm wrong. I just have to be a little more delicate about the way I go about it. "Look, I'm sorry. I should have been more considerate. Maybe I'm wrong about your dad and what happened to Missy. But there's only one way to know for sure." I clutch the plastic bottle in my hand. "Are you okay with me taking this to Miss Delia?"

He peers at the bottle. Finally, he nods. "Yeah. Okay."

I smile. "Thanks." Then I hold out my hand. "How about we get out of here and go to the beach? The fresh air will do us both some good."

Ignoring my outstretched fingers, he shakes his head. "I'm going to pa.s.s. I want to stay in here a little while longer. Think a bit."