He looked up. “Yes?”

  Daisy didn't want to worry him. But she had to know. And he was a technical person. He liked to fool around with drones and other mechanical things. "Do you know anything about bugs? Like, listening devices? What do they look like?"

  He stared at her in confusion. “Why, do you think—”

  “Oh, no. It’s just regarding the Masterson case. She was afraid she was being bugged,” Daisy’s lie tumbled from her lips almost too easily, leaving her regretting having even asked.

  “No, can’t say I do. But they keep getting smaller and smaller, don’t they? I imagine they’re teeny-weeny, probably the size of a poppy seed, by now.”

  She tried to smile back at him, but the thought was too unsettling.

  He took her hand and gave her a chaste peck on the cheek. “You have a good trip, love, and call me when you return.”

  Daisy said goodbye, closed the door, then double-locked it, pulling on it to make extra sure that it was closed. When she turned around, all she could think about was the many spying devices, each the size of a grain of sand, that could fit into her apartment without her even knowing they were there.

  #

  Though there was some delay taking off, the flight from Newark was a quick one.

  Even so, Daisy enjoyed it. For the first time in her flying life, she'd been unexpectedly upgraded to first class. Whenever a client told her to book a flight on their dime, though these wealthy clients probably only traveled first-class, she never could bring herself to spend the extra money. It was the result of growing up in a middle-class, one-parent family, where her father had always been thrifty. So this was a stroke of good luck, even if it was only for an hour-long flight.

  As she dug into details of the case, she hoped it wouldn’t be the only luck she’d have on the trip. She hoped it was a sign of good things to come.

  Nibbling on a Danish and sipping free mimosas at seven in the morning, she sunk into the sumptuous leather chair and paged through all the information about Davis Masterson’s murder.

  First, the details of the crime. She didn't have a police report yet, but she did have a printout of an article by a tabloid news media outlet that was so in-depth to the point of being intrusive. It included photographs of the body being wheeled out of the mansion and into an ambulance, detailed bios of all the Mastersons who lived there, incriminating photographs culled from various social media profiles belonging to the victim, even a floor plan of the lower level of the mansion, where the body was found.

  According to the article, Davis Masterson went out to a bar in Newport and met a man, returned after two in the morning, and was seen by servants going off to bed with her new friend. In the morning, she was discovered in her jewelry showroom, strangled, and her unknown lover was gone . . . as was a priceless jewel called the Paris Pear, a rare 36-karat yellow diamond that was said to be the clearest and largest of its kind in the world.

  Apparently, the murderer was also a thief. All signs seemed to point to this anonymous lover. Or maybe that’s what the killer wanted her to think. So far, all the possibilities were still on the table.

  She decided to look more into the Masterson family.

  Though "Masterson" was, in American culture, a household name, always in the news and gossip columns for their many business pursuits, romantic entanglements, and scandals, Daisy had barely paid attention until now. She vaguely understood that Davis was the one the media concentrated most of their time on—the gorgeous thirty-something who'd been married a half-dozen times and whose face had graced the cover of many magazines, as well as her own clothing line and perfume. It was impossible to get away from the woman’s flawless face.

  But the other members of the family were more of a question mark.

  Oliver Masterson, the patriarch of the family and owner of a national supermarket chain, had had his own six spouses over the course of his life—most of them models or movie starlets—before passing away five years earlier. There were three Masterson children, and of those, Davis was the eldest and had inherited the family mansion in Newport.

  There was a litany of Masterson scandals over the years—the middle child, Joey, had gotten a DUI for driving over 130mph on the Sunset Strip in Hollywood before passing away from a drug overdose at seventeen. Davis was involved in a sex tape and had been kicked out of the University of Tampa for plagiarism and attempting to bribe a professor with sexual favors. One of Oliver Masterson’s wives had alleged domestic abuse, and another had brought along a number of odd stepchildren who seemed to be in and out of rehab as often as the Hollywood party scene.

  But Oliver's youngest child, Arianna Masterson, Davis's half-sister, was younger than Davis by twelve years and a very different Masterson in almost every respect. She had her sister's pin-straight, ebony hair and captivating light eyes, but she was unattached, and there were no news stories of her romantic relationships. She'd attended Harvard and then Brown, graduating early with her Ph.D. in applied mathematics at the age of twenty-three.

  As far as scandals involving young Arianna, there were none to speak of. For someone born into the spotlight, she'd managed to live a remarkably low-profile life. The only articles Daisy could find on her were about her graduation and when she showed up on the arm of one of her more famous family members. She also seemed to be the family spokesperson—any time the media wanted a quote about the latest Masterson scandal, she was always there to provide a diplomatic response.

  So it made sense that Arianna, the one with her head firmly screwed on, would’ve been the one to call in someone to settle things in a family where nothing was ever settled.

  Daisy closed her eyes, wondering if that was true of all wealthy families. So far, from what she’d seen, the more wealth a family had, the more problems they had to go along with it.

  It made her think of Charlie. Their father never would've let Charlie go on that boating expedition after his high school graduation had he known the trouble the Mackeys were involved in. But families like that were minefields. Rich enough to cover up their problems so regular people couldn’t see them in the light of day.

  All of these families hid secrets. It was inevitable.

  She looked at a photograph of a gorgeous Davis Masterson, lying naked on her stomach with her raven hair and long, lithe limbs covering her body in strategic locations. She was wearing a huge, breathtaking yellow diamond around her neck, biting a ruby-red fingernail in an innocent way, but her expression was far from innocent.

  Beautiful glossy pictures like this one hid as much as those wealthy families did. So Daisy couldn’t help but wonder.

  What sort of secret was your family hiding, Davis?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Daisy arrived at the Providence Airport at a little before noon.

  As she stepped toward the baggage claim, she saw a man waiting there, holding a tablet with the name FORTUNE written on it. The old man looked proper and humorless, just like Jeeves, the butler. He even bowed slightly as she approached and said in a pleasant British accent, "Miss Fortune. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Van Blair, the Mastersons’ driver.”

  “Nice to meet you, Van Blair,” she said as he motioned to the bag she’d slung on her shoulder.

  “May I?”

  She let him take it and escort her at a hurried pace across the concourse and out the sliding doors to a waiting car. But it wasn't just any car. It was some sprawling English model with sleek curves and a high shine—a Bentley or a Rolls; Daisy didn't travel in such circles as to be able to tell the difference. Opening the door for her, he bowed again, seeming a little put off that she was several steps behind.

  "I'm so sorry to rush you, Miss," he said as she climbed into the enormous cabin, the backs of her lower thighs brushing against a soft, sumptuous velvet seat. "But Miss Arianna is quite anxious for your arrival."

  Before she could respond, he closed the door and jogged to the driver’s side.

  When he sat down and took off, she said, “It’s okay. I’m sorry the plane arrived late. There was a delay at take-off. I hope you weren’t waiting long.”

  “Not at all.”

  She peered out the window at the capital city. As they took the entrance ramp to the highway, the airplanes and runways quickly gave way to small row homes packed together, old factories, and boxy warehouses. "Is it a long ride from here to Newport?"

  “With traffic, it would be, but it’s Sunday. I should think I’ll have you there in under thirty minutes.”

  “Oh, that’s not bad.”

  “It’s a different world out there, I assure you.”

  Van Blair was right. She spent a few minutes checking her phone, now that it was off airplane mode, for any messages she might have missed. There was one from Dr. Smolyak, providing details of the latest tests they’d run on her father. Or no details, as it was—the test was negative, once again, providing little insight into his condition. She bit her lip, her mood turning sour when he ended the message with a reminder to let him know about the arrangements they’d discussed.

  When she ended the voicemail, she looked out the window and found them crossing a bridge to a beautiful, affluent seaside town of sleek schooners traversing the sparkling bay, small shops, well-dressed people, and of course, massive homes.

  “Oh, it’s beautiful here. I’ve never been,” she said, powering the window down slightly to sniff the sea air.

  “Indeed,” he said with a hint of pride in his voice. “You will especially like the Mastersons’ estate. I would say, on this island of beautiful homes, theirs is one of the most photographed.”

  “Is it?”

  He nodded. "Mr. Oliver Masterson bought it decades ago from the Vanderbilt family and transformed it. He was very meticulous in its design, blending old and new. I apologize that while you are there, you will see many individuals photographing it from the ocean path, and some can trespass and be quite aggressive."

  Daisy couldn’t imagine living somewhere that was constantly photographed by strangers. It had to feel like living in a fishbowl. Then again, all of the Mastersons must’ve felt that way, no matter where they went. “Is that because of the house or because of its occupants?” she asked him.

  For the first time, he smiled slightly. “I would have to say it is a little of both.”

  “But it strikes me that Davis was someone who liked the attention.”

  He didn't speak; he simply nodded. It occurred to Daisy that he was far too proper to even hint of negative thoughts about his employer.

  “Arianna doesn’t seem that way, though.”

  "No, she is not. Miss Arianna prefers to stay out of the spotlight as much as possible. Davis was . . ." He paused, weighing his next words. "She enjoyed the attention. She was quite the woman. We are very distraught by what happened to her.”

  “In that very mansion, too. Do you live there?”

  “Me?” He shook his head. “No, I, and most of the servants, live in that large carriage house next door. You must have seen it when you arrived?”

  She recalled the building—it was so big, she'd thought it was a barn for animals. “A lot of servants?”

  "No. She employs twenty of us, Miss. The housekeeping staff, two gardeners, a nanny, a personal assistant, and me. But she has many stylists, make-up artists, influencers, and business advisors going in and out, as you can imagine.”

  “No security?”

  "No security staff, per se. We do have a gate that operates from the main house and a camera out there. Ransom, the head butler, handles all that."

  "I heard the main suspect was someone who she'd met at the club that night. What can you tell me about him? It seems from the news reports that he slipped away unnoticed. If there was a camera . . ."

  He swallowed. "Well, I don't like to speculate, Miss. But yes, she was with a man. From what I hear, no one on the staff got much of a good look at him. And though we have a gate in the front of the compound, in the rear, there's only a barrier of rocks leading down to the ocean path. If I had to guess, I think an athletic person might be able to scale the rocks in the night and climb down to the ocean path unnoticed."

  She blinked. That seemed awfully risky, considering how well-known the Masterson family was. “Weren’t they concerned about the dangers of that?”

  “Oh, yes. When the elder Masterson was alive, he kept a firm hand on his children, and so there wasn’t much trouble. But as he got older, they got more out of hand. With the Mastersons filling social media more and more, more and more tourists have tried to come up to the house that way. The Mastersons were looking into installing a perimeter fence, but unfortunately, too late.”

  The car veered down a road hugging the coastline, which contained some of the biggest and grandest mansions Daisy had ever seen. Each one was set back from the road beyond a vast green lawn, and some had fences and bulwarks constructed to separate them from a neat ocean path that was practically bustling with people strolling along its length.

  “I’m sure it’s more than tourists, though, right? The Mastersons must get their share of paparazzi, too?”

  The car slowed. “I suppose you can see that for yourself,” he said, motioning up ahead with his chin. “That one there is Watersedge, the Masterson family mansion.”

  She squinted through the windshield. Up ahead, the narrow road was choked with news vans, and a small crowd had gathered at the gates of one of the mansions. They were all holding cameras and microphones, eager to break the story.

  Van Blair slowly navigated through the crowd and powered down his window. The reporters hurled so many questions at the poor driver that Daisy couldn't hear one of them.

  Van Blair didn’t have any intention of answering any of them, either. “Privacy, please,” he announced to the crowd as he drove through the picture of composed sophistication. “Your presence is not welcome here.”

  He pressed a button on his dash, and the gates slowly opened. Daisy half-expected the throng to make a mad dash for the doors, but instead, they hung back, letting the gates close again upon them. "I thought we were in trouble for a moment," Daisy said, letting out a relieved breath.

  "Oh, no. I'm sure you've read Miss Arianna is not shy about pressing charges when she catches trespassers. The usual reporters know better. It's the tourists that don't know who are the most trouble.”

  The car passed underneath a tangle of tree limbs, and the mansion appeared. It was a limestone creation that looked like a European palace. “Oh, my.”

  Van Blair spoke as if he'd recited the words a thousand times before, hitting upon every one of the questions in her head: "The style of Watersedge is Italian Renaissance. The mansion covers nearly an acre of the Mastersons’ thirteen-acre property and has seventy rooms, including twenty-six bedrooms and twenty-three fireplaces. Indeed many of the rooms were constructed by artisans in Europe and brought over, piece by piece. The great hall has fifty-foot ceilings and chandeliers made from the rarest crystal in all the world.”

  Daisy's most recent case had involved one of the biggest mansions in America, and she'd expected that everything else would pale by those standards. But Hollywood's Castle Paradiso had been gaudy to an extreme and so huge that everything had been falling into disrepair. This mansion, Watersedge, was clearly well cared for. In fact, she didn't think there was a single blade of grass out of place on the lush front lawn, and the massive fountain out front, with the two gold, cavorting mermaids, was spouting water at full blast, making the whole place seem to glisten in the sunlight.

  “Wow,” was all she could say as the car meandered up a drive made of small white pebbles. Now, she understood why people would want to leave the path to get a closer look. The only thing that prevented it from being a picture postcard were the two Newport Police vehicles parked haphazardly near the front steps. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Indeed, it is one of the oldest and finest properties in town, which is saying very much. After all, this was the first playground for the rich in the Gilded Age. The Vanderbilts, the Astors, the Morgans all summered here, at one point, and many of their homes are still here, operating as museums.”

  He slowed the car to a stop in front of the sprawling stone staircase and stepped out to open the door for her. When she emerged, she saw a woman with clipped, burgundy-red hair standing at the top of the staircase. Though her hairstyle had changed from the photographs she'd seen, the breathtaking beauty of her face, the dark hair, pale skin, and light eyes gave Arianna Masterson away.

  “Thank you, Van Blair. Ms. Fortune,” she said in a no-nonsense way, approaching with a quick once-over, hand-stretched to shake. When Daisy took it, it was as cold as ice but delicate and smoother than silk. "I'm glad you're here. Come this way, and I will fill you in."

  She turned on her heel and walked down the walkway that went around the house at an even more hurried pace than Van Blair. After a few steps, Daisy had a feeling she was in the military, being briefed on a vital, top-secret operation. Even the way the heiress spoke, with emotionless, clipped sentences, gave her that impression. "Davis Masterson arrived here shortly after two in the morning and, according to a witness, went straight to her bedroom with her male guest. Only one servant was working at the time, and he only saw her for a moment. She usually slept in late when she went out, so we thought nothing of it when she wasn’t roused for breakfast, but after lunch, I became concerned because she had an engagement later that day and went to check her room. When I did not find her there, I expected to find her in the gallery, which is her favorite room in the house. That is indeed where I found her. However, she'd been murdered, and the Paris Pear had been taken from its setting. Do you have any questions?”

  This was all information Daisy had collected from the news articles. She needed more. “I have many questions. Did Van Blair take her to the club?”

 

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