“Leblanc,” the housekeeper supplied for her employer. “The bloke’s name is Tom Leblanc. That much I heard before he barreled quite by me. Bothering a family on Christmas Eve. I said to myself, says I, What’s bloomin’ next?”
Vanderbilt held up his hand. “We do not blame you, Mrs. Smythe. Mr. Leblanc, I believe I understand your sense of urgency to be done and return home to . . .”
“New Orleans,” Leblanc thundered. “High time I got back. But first, I got me a slippery dago to catch. Name of Sal Catalfamo.”
Checking behind her and hoping the twins hadn’t heard, Kerry glimpsed Tully’s expression at the far door of the butler’s pantry, Jursey’s right below that: two identical slivers of wide-eyed confusion at the demand—and the unfamiliar name.
Turning back, Kerry saw on George Vanderbilt’s face a flash of something—the twitch of a brow, a flint strike of the eye—but then it was gone.
Vanderbilt lifted his glass of wine as the string quartet swept into “God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen.” “And the hunt for this man really needs to be conducted on Christmas Eve? Surely, Mr. Leblanc—”
“Christmas Eve and four damn years up till now!” the man bellowed.
The string quartet stuttered to a stop, the viola’s bow screeching on its strings.
“The ladies, Mr. Leblanc. Your language. What merited four years?”
Leblanc paused, letting the moment build. In the silence, only the crackle and sigh of the three fires sounded.
Leblanc lowered his voice so that the long table of diners had to lean toward him. “I’ll tell you, then, shall I?”
The hiss and spit of the logs. The guests with their jewels winking, their eyes wide on the detective.
“Right, then. I’m tracking the dago for the murder in 1890 of the police chief of New Orleans. There’s been sightings around here of a man who sounds a hell of a lot like Catalfamo. I’ll be searching your house and your stables.” He swept a burly arm. “I’ve also had a report from a reliable source with knowledge of this estate that there’s reason to connect Catalfamo with your murder here back in October.”
Afterward, Kerry was not sure if she met George Vanderbilt’s eye or just imagined she did. She did know, in that sliver of second, that she’d made a decision.
“Cedric,” she whispered as she lifted the gate. “It’s dinner.”
A scream from George’s sisters brought everyone to their feet as the Saint Bernard bounded into the room, mud flying as he paused to shake his thick coat. Wineglasses pitched forward and sterling clanked as the big dog spun to find his master. Ecstatic, Cedric leaped to his master’s side and lifted two filthy front paws to the table.
It might have been the result of the jolt of the dog’s body or the footman who’d bent with the tureen being suddenly flustered, but terrapin soup flew over the guests at George Vanderbilt’s left: soaking the bodice of one, spattering the diamond tiara of another, and sloshing the tuxedo front of Frederick Vanderbilt, turning his torso a deep, gelatinous green.
The man, Kerry thought with satisfaction, who’d made the pitiable hovels comment.
George’s mother was calling for everyone to sit down. Stipples if not entire swaths of green had found their way onto at least a half-dozen diners.
Leblanc, disgusted, yanked out a watch from his waistcoat pocket and scowled at its face.
Vanderbilt surveyed the chaos of his family wiping at jeweled stomachers and tailed jackets, several of them stalking away from the table. “I will, of course, have everything thoroughly cleaned. And what cannot be cleaned, replaced.”
Apoplectic, Mrs. Smythe appeared in the butler’s pantry. “They said below it was that beast of a creature who’s . . . dear Lord, it’s worse than disaster, is this.” She waved to the nearest footman. “Go ’ed, lad, now. Get the four-legged fur bag downstairs and locked up. All that clobber he’s ruined.”
Stepping into the banquet hall, Kerry cleared her throat. As always, she’d acted on impulse—in this case to give Bergamini more time. But what if that meant the twins would go hungry now because she’d be fired? “I’m so sorry, Mr. Vanderbilt. It’s my—”
But Vanderbilt held up his hand. “It’s my fault, actually. For not properly training my dog.” In the glance that snapped between them, Kerry caught the hint of a smile.
He faced Leblanc. “And you, sir. I can tell you we employed literally hundreds of men from Italy up until a few months ago. They laid the limestone for Biltmore, scored and carved it. I did not, needless to say, know all their names. Since then, most or all of them have returned to their own country. What I can assure you is that there is no one currently employed on my estate by that name.”
Leblanc let his scowl singe the length of the table. “Murder. In New Orleans. And maybe also the one here. So I’ll just be searching your house and stables.”
The guests looked up from their dripping jewels, their ruined gowns and tails.
From the far end of the table, a hesitant voice—hardly more than a whimper. “Uncle George? About the Italian . . .”
Emily Sloane was swaying slightly, her face a ghastly white.
“Yes?”
“That one Italian stablehand of yours. Is that who Mr. Leblanc might mean?”
Kerry watched in horror. Emily Vanderbilt Sloane, who’d been here in the autumn when Marco Bergamini was hired. Who would have known not only that he was here, but also that he’d been connected at least in some minds with the death at the station.
And now, Emily Vanderbilt Sloane, standing straight in her diamonds and turtle-soup-spattered silk, was about to confirm for Leblanc that he’d come to the right place.
Chapter 35
With Nico on his back, Sal bolted through the stable courtyard, lit only by a single lantern on either side of the main doors and the glow of a fresh dusting of snow. He’d counted on the bricks still being clear after he’d shoveled and swept late this afternoon. But now every step marked their path from the main house.
Sal’s feet fought for traction over the slick of the bricks. Nico wrapped both arms around his brother’s neck as if their lives depended on his holding fast—which they did.
No time now to fret over the tracks. No time to ask the best place to hide. No time to tell anyone why they had every reason to run.
He’d thought confessing to Kerry MacGregor could be protection if he and Nico got caught again in a maelstrom of blame. One person, at least, who would stick by them. But now he was cursing himself for not guessing that Leblanc would ram his way into a private estate. Without permission. On Christmas Eve.
Stupido. Cosi dannatamente stupido. How could he have been so damn stupid?
Slipping and sliding and cursing himself as he ran, Sal carried Nico through the stables and out the far double doors toward the woods. With no clear idea where they were going, Sal wanted only right now to put distance between himself and Leblanc. Nico’s survival depended on Sal’s.
Crashing through the thickest parts of the forest, Sal was banking on Leblanc trying to track him on horseback. The more mountain laurel to wind through, the more frozen streams, the more blackberry brambles, the better.
Snow dropped from pine branches as they ran. Nico clung tighter to Sal’s neck, impeding his breath.