Him. Frank da Silva was dead. Dead. It didn’t make any sense.
“I didn’t say you did,” his aunt said calmly. “But someone clearly thinks you did.”
“I have to contact Jessica,” he said, fighting his way through the disorientation that was starting to cloud his thoughts. “I need to find out what happened.”
“You will do no such thing,” she said. “Not until I discuss this with your uncle.”
His aunt’s declaration struck him straight in the chest. His father was dead. Shot with Beau’s gun. And the last thing Beau did was have a rip-roaring fight with his father before leaving for Halifax.
Tell me you’re innocent.
Jessica’s plea hurt him more than he thought possible. Beau was hardly an innocent man. He’d spent a lifetime working for Frank da Silva, an iron-fisted mogul with a sharp mind and a sharper tongue—one that seemed to grow even more cutting after his wife’s death. In his youth, Beau had given himself to all the excesses that a boy with too much money at his disposal could ask for—drink, women and occasionally cards. He had a face, his father said, that could charm the devil out of his own soul, and a natural ability to put people at ease. He’d charmed teachers, women, friends, and even a few enemies. He’d used that smile and a few chosen words to get himself out of more scrapes than was probably fair. A smile and a laugh and for most, Beau da Silva could do no wrong.
Except for Frank da Silva. For him, there was little Beau did that was right. Their last meeting was so heated that Frank had sent one of his prized porcelain vases whirling at Beau’s head. Even now, Beau’s face burned from the anger of it.
And now Frank was dead.
“I have to talk to the investigators,” he said, swallowing back the bile that tainted the back of his throat. “I’m innocent.”
“Yes you do, but you need help to do it.” Aunt Vee went to her side table, scratched out a note, and rang the bell for her housekeeper. Mrs. Hayes reappeared and after receiving the note and a few words of instruction, she was gone. No sooner had she exited than Uncle Archie appeared. His normally jolly expression was solemn.
The two were a study in opposites—Aunt Vee was petite, slight, but fierce in her own way. Her husband was of average height, but his bombastic personality, generous girth, and well-trimmed but rather remarkable beard made him seem larger.
“This might be a new record for you,” Archie said, peering at Beau through eyebrows so thick they seemed to have a personality all their own. “You’ve been in town for barely eight hours and already I’m going to have the police at my door.”
Beau got to his feet and raked his hand through his hair. “I swear on my life that I’m innocent.”
“I’ve sent for that private detective I read about in the papers,” Veronica said, patting the seat beside her. “I hope he’ll be able to help us.”
“Not that Ashe fellow?” his uncle asked, his brows forming into a deep vee as he sat on the settee next to his wife.
“What’s wrong with him?” Aunt Vee replied.
“Coughlin doesn’t like him,” he said. “And he is married to one of those Everwell women. I’m not sure what your New Women’s League would think of that association.”
“You may be business associates, but any one Victor Coughlin trusts implicitly is not someone I’d leave my purse with.” Aunt Vee waved her hands around, effortlessly brushing aside Archie’s concerns as if they were an unwanted housefly. “I’m hiring Mr. Ashe, not his wife. Besides, he handled a small affair for Ann Kenny and she told me he was excellent. Very discreet.”
Within the hour, there was a ringing of the doorbell, and a moment later a tall man in a brown suit and matching derby appeared in the door. He was Beau’s height, or a little taller, with fair skin and light brown hair neatly combed back.
“Mr. Ashe,” Aunt Vee said, “here you are at last. This is my husband, Mr. Archibald Turnbull, and my nephew, Mr. Beaumont da Silva.”
“Dominic Ashe,” he said in a clear, Boston accent. He offered his hand to Beau and the men shook hands before taking a seat.
“Before we go any further, I need to know one thing,” Ashe continued, looking Beau straight in the eye. “Did you do it?”
The question took Beau back slightly, in part because of the straight forward way the American had posed it. He shook his head.
“No.”
“Any idea who did?” the detective continued.
Beau pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket and handed it to Dominic. His father had a lot of business rivals—and among those, some particularly bitter enemies. “I started making a list.”
“I recognize a few of these names,” Dominic continued. “Who would have access to your personal affects? Someone went through some trouble to pin this on you.”
Beau sat back in the chair, trying to ignore the tightness at his throat. “No idea. It’s possible any of them could have bribed someone to find my gun and use it. Frank da Silva was not an easy man to work for. If he loved you, he loved you. And if he didn’t, you were out.”
“And what happens to the business with him out of the picture?”
