Read Murder at Marble House for Free Online

holding both arms out with a theatrical flourish. She wore a shapeless frock with arm slits rather than sleeves, and the sides of the garment caught the breeze like violet sails. Her eyes were lined with kohl, her skin powdered, her lips and cheeks rouged—almost shockingly so. She reminded me of a tropical bird, from her flashy attire to the penetrating look in her eye as she surveyed us without blinking.
    From across the table came a breathless murmur, almost too low to be heard. “Ellen Deere.”
    I peered over at Mrs. Stanford, but her face was a blank, her lips the same thin line as usual. I swung back toward the newly arrived guest to find her staring daggers across the table, straight at Hope Stanford. But only for the briefest moment. Then her expression cleared, became serene and cordial.
    Aunt Alva came to her feet. “Consuelo, darling. This is your surprise!”

Chapter 3
    “C ome, Consuelo!” Aunt Alva held out a hand as she urged her daughter to stand. “Come meet Madame Devereaux. She is here to read your fortune. Isn’t that exciting?” She turned her attention to the rest of us. “Madame Devereaux will read all of our fortunes in the garden pavilion just as soon as she has set up for us.” She gestured to the bit of curving roof just visible above the tall hedges lining the garden path. “Her instruments for divining the future were delivered earlier, and in a little while we’ll all head across the garden to hear what life holds in store for us. Remember, ladies, choose your questions wisely!” She ended on a note of laughter, but the women around the table traded wary looks, myself and Consuelo included.
    My better sense proclaimed the medium a charlatan. Such individuals typically preyed upon the elderly, the bereaved, and the desperate. But even if the woman could genuinely divine the future, did I really want to glimpse what lay in store for me? An uneasy sensation told me I didn’t, that such things were best allowed to unfold as they would. Consuelo’s troubled expression mirrored my sentiments.
    But her mother wasn’t about to let her daughter demur. “Come here, dear,” she said with barely suppressed impatience.
    Consuelo stood and approached the medium. Though Madame Devereaux had seemed tall standing beside Grafton, I realized now that was merely an illusion conjured by the height of her turban. Her dress consisted of layers of draped fabric in shades of amethyst, violet, lavender, and lilac, flowing unbelted from her shoulders to the floor, essentially hiding her figure and making it impossible to determine if she were slim or stout.
    Her numerous bracelets jangled as she held out her hand to Consuelo. “Miss Vanderbilt, a great pleasure.” Her voice was deep, throaty, and held a hint of an accent that wanted to be French, but wasn’t quite. At least, not the French accent I’d learned at school.
    My cousin hesitated. The tension had returned to her neck and shoulders, and I guessed Consuelo wanted no part of the afternoon’s entertainments. Yet after a pause, she grasped the medium’s hand and gave it a single, cordial shake. “How do you do?”
    Madame Devereaux gasped. Snatching her hand back as if Consuelo had placed an ember in her palm, she staggered backward. Her eyes shot wide open, then glazed over as she stared at Consuelo. Her mouth gaped like that of a beached fish.
    “You’ll never be happy. Never be happy with him, ” she intoned in a strained voice. “Oh, child . . . you poor child . . . stay away from him. Never, never trust him. Consuelo Vanderbilt . . . hear me. You’ll never know happiness with a scoundrel such as he. . . .”
    “Whatever do you mean?” Consuelo demanded when the woman trailed off, her voice fading like the lingering note of a plucked harp.
    Her mother hurried forward and sandwiched herself between Consuelo and the medium. “There, there, now, Consuelo, dear—”
    Before Alva could say another word, Consuelo snapped, “Let her