Murder at Rough Point (10 page)

“Don't they? Do you believe our society to be free of superstition? I'm only asking you to think of Mr. Vanderbilt— of all your Vanderbilt relatives, and of yourself. This story will surely send your name, along with those of all your relatives, catapulting across the country.” He raised his eyebrows and gazed down at me from his superior height. Rather than recoiling from his scrutiny, I in turn studied him closely. Something in his tone challenged me to envision the consequences of attaching my name to such a scandal, but rather than a warning, his very posture and the animation with which he spoke seemed to
en
courage rather than discourage. An appeal to my journalistic ambitions?

I couldn't fathom why he would tempt me to write an article he believed might injure his employer. Did he fear losing his position should the house sell? But no, I remembered that he administered Uncle Frederick's other estates as well as this one. If the property were to sell, he would not be out of a job.

Puzzling . . . Perhaps I'd read him incorrectly.

“I'll think about what you've said, Mr. Dunn. Come, Patch.” I started to turn away but the man spoke my name again. I waited.

“If there is anything I can do for you, please let me know.”

“Thank you. I'm sure we'll be fine. You, Irene, Carl, and Mrs. Harris are doing a splendid job so far.”

He stepped closer to me, crowding me and making me want to retreat up the stairs. “I meant you personally, Miss Cross. You and I should stick together. We are rather two of a kind.”

Indignation traveled through me. Was this a romantic overture? Whatever it was, it felt intrusive. “What do you mean?”

“Only that you and I are here for professional reasons. We are not guests, but neither are we servants. It can be a tenuous balancing act, no?”

My ire disappeared as quickly as it had come. “I see. Yes, you're right, I suppose. Thank you, Mr. Dunn. Patch?”

My dog no longer stood at my side. I heard his steps pattering across the dining room. His sensitive nose must have sniffed out something savory cooking in the kitchen, and since he and Mrs. Harris were already fast friends, I decided to let him enjoy his visit. I went in search of Mrs. Wharton.

“M
rs. Wharton, why did you really ask me to stay here? And please tell me the truth.”

I'd found the woman outside, where the lawns rose to a rocky crest smothered in late-season wildflowers before falling away to the Cliff Walk. She sat on a garden bench gazing out at the ocean. She held one hand anchored at the crown of her hat, while the other held her dress against her knees in defiance of a brisk wind determined to reveal silk stockings and a pair of tasseled, low-heeled boots.

With a wounded expression she turned to me where I had settled on the bench beside her. “Whatever has led you to find insincerity in my words and actions, Miss Cross?”

I hesitated over that, at a loss for words. “I'm sorry,” I said at length. I, too, held my skirts against the wind. “It's just that nothing here is as it seems, is it?”

“What a cryptic thing to say. Randall's death has left us all distraught, to be sure, but you talk as if there is some plot afoot.”

“Isn't there? If you tell me your reasons for wanting me to stay at Rough Point have not changed from yesterday, I'll believe you. But what I do not believe is that my parents are happy to see me here. And I wondered if perhaps . . .”

“If perhaps I had engineered your reunion with your parents?” She pursed her lips. “Why would I do that? I'm not one to meddle in the affairs of other people's families.”

The wind plucked tendrils from the braid hanging down my back. I had come out without my hat, as I often did at home, and shaded my eyes from the afternoon sun with my hand. My aunt Alice Vanderbilt would have been mortified by my failure to heed precautions against freckling. “Why would my parents plan to come to Newport, tell neither me nor my brother, and not seem pleased to learn I'm staying in the same house as they?”

“I cannot speak for your parents' reasons, but I can tell you how this retreat came to be.” She was momentarily distracted by the drone of a bumblebee hovering in a patch of black-eyed Susans and snowy sweet alyssum. I remained silent, waiting for her to gather her thoughts. She turned back to me. “In Paris, your parents often spoke of Newport, of the old days before people like your relatives and yes, my own parents, drove the intelligentsia away. One could see the affection they felt for this place, hear it in their voices. So, when both Niccolo and Claude found reasons to come to America, they decided to arrive early and see Newport for themselves. Vasili planned to come with them.”

“Why Vasili? Did he also have business here?”

“No, not exactly, although should Claude direct
Carmen
in New York, he will of course choose Vasili as his choreographer.”

“You say ‘of course' as if it's a given. Do they always work together? I thought Mr. Pavlenko is employed by the Imperial Russian Ballet.”

“He is, but the ballet season doesn't begin again till spring. In answer to your question, no, they didn't always work together, not until . . .”

“The accident that prevents Mr. Pavlenko from ever dancing again?”

She nodded and changed the subject. “Once Josephine heard of their plans, she decided it was time to see America again, too. I don't think anyone minded really, although Claude refused to be railroaded into casting her as his Carmen.”

“Why is that?”

“You'll have to ask Claude. Perhaps after the misfortune of our failed collaboration, he simply doesn't wish to work with members of our little set anymore. Vasili excepted, of course. But then they're the very best of friends.”

“I find that rather odd.” I toed the grass curling around my feet. “I'd sooner expect Vasili and Niccolo to be close companions—they're so close in age. But Vasili and Monsieur Baptiste . . .” I shrugged. “How did you and your husband come to be involved in the retreat?”

“Ah. I thought of offering Land's End, but as I believe I mentioned to you, I knew my family would close in on us immediately.” She breathed in the sea air, sweetly fragranced by the flowers. Beyond our tranquil scene, out beyond the cliffs, the ocean foamed with the restless force I'd sensed last night, coiled energy waiting to trounce our shores. “The thought of seeing Newport from an artist's singular perspective proved too much of an enticement to be ignored. I wished to experience those distant, idyllic times, before greed and extravagance and social competition put their taint on this place. And I could not do that at Land's End.”

“So your family still doesn't know you're back?” When she shook her head, I felt a burst of indignation on the part of her kin. Being the last to learn of my parents' return still chafed. Had they also believed including me would taint their singular perspective upon coming home? “I take it my parents decided to travel with the others, and arranged to lease the house.”

Mrs. Wharton's answer surprised me. “No, I arranged for the house, actually. At that time, it didn't seem that your parents had any intention of coming home. It was very sudden, their change of heart. Only days before we set sail. And then Randall came along as well. I suppose he didn't want to be left behind all alone, especially with the disappointments he'd recently suffered. And he had been toying with the notion of buying property in ‘the colonies,' as he called this country. I told him Rough Point was for sale.” She fell silent a moment and then said, “One cannot help but wonder, if we had all remained in France . . .”

I placed my hand over hers. “Don't. You'll only torture yourself with thoughts like that.”

When I left her, I was no less perplexed about my parents' behavior, nor any more enlightened about the dynamics that drove this group.

* * *

That evening after dinner, Niccolo retreated to his bedroom, and to his cello. I sat at the half landing, soaking in the sweet perfection of each note, allowing the melody to envelop me and squeeze tears into my eyes. At the same time, my thoughts went hurtling over time and place and circumstance. My mind replayed my last and only conversation with Sir Randall, then flashed the image of his body broken against the rocks. I went further back in time, and relived the moment my mother had chosen a younger Mrs. Wharton over the child I had been. I saw my parents as they were now, distant and secretive. And I considered all that Edith Wharton had imparted to me as we sat on the bench with the wide, restless ocean stretched before us.

Whatever answers I sought seemed as ungraspable as the tide. At one point, as Niccolo's playing continued to wash over me, I considered taking Patch and going home to Gull Manor. Why stay? A man had died, had taken his own life, and I could do nothing to change that. My parents were being somehow deceitful, and once again I could do nothing about it. If Mrs. Wharton wanted my advice concerning her manuscript, she would know where to find me. This was no longer a retreat, but a study in tragedy and clashing egos.

But it was growing late, and dark, and there had been that final, silent request from Jesse, who seemed less than satisfied with the conclusions reached concerning Sir Randall's death. I wasn't sure what he hoped I would discover, but he had set me a challenge knowing full well I couldn't resist. With a new resolve I went up to bed, though I slept fitfully and woke often. Fatigue dragged at my limbs the next morning, but with my mind fully awake I quit my bed just after sunup, hoping I might enjoy a solitary breakfast before the others made their appearance.

It turned out I was not the earliest riser. Sobs—my mother's—came from the housekeeper's bedroom across the hall, where my parents were staying. I stopped at their threshold. I shouldn't have, but I couldn't bring myself to walk away. Before I put my ear to the door, I listened for signs of anyone else nearby. Voices echoed from downstairs, and I wondered if anyone had slept at all last night. Quickly I traversed the corridor to the gallery that looked down onto the Great Hall. From there I could see out the towering hall windows onto the lawns, dappled with the shadows of a cloudy sky. A steel gray ocean sent whitecaps to lather the cliff face. Closer in, I spotted the youthful Vasili and the older Claude walking together along the rise in the lawn, the former practically bouncing on his feet and the latter seeming pressed to keep up.

I also heard voices from inside, probably in the drawing room, perhaps the billiard room as well. I darted back to my parents' door, determined to discover not only why my mother was crying, but why they had been so evasive since their arrival. I held my skirts aside to keep them from brushing against the door and leaned in close, my ear to the wood. If a pang of guilt struck my conscience, I reasoned that circumstances warranted my breach of propriety.

“This will solve nothing,” I heard my father say. “What's done is done, Beatrice. We can't change it.”

“But it's our fault.”

“We don't know that for sure. He might have done what he did for any number of reasons. Speculating won't bring him back.”

“Oh, stop denying it.” My mother's voice, choked with tears, rose in volume and pitch. “I warned you at the outset no good could come of your ridiculous little game. You should have left well enough alone. And now . . . now our friend's blood is on your hands.
Our
hands. I should have stopped you.”

I gasped and whisked a hand to my mouth to stifle it. They had caused Sir Randall's death? My pulse thundered in my ears, drowning out any reply my father made. In the next instant, my mother cried out and a crash sounded from inside. My circumspection forgotten, I instinctively gripped the doorknob and pushed my way into the room.

My father stood at the foot of the bed, his face a mask of alarm. My mother sat at the dressing table, hands framing her face, the mirror reflecting a shock-ridden expression. Water dripped down the wall beside the table, and a mixture of sodden blossoms and shards of green glass littered the floor beneath.

I stood immobile, taking this all in. What a threesome we made, our gazes darting back and forth, each of us waiting for someone else to speak.

Mother's gaze met mine through the mirror. “I . . . uh . . . had an accident, darling.” Her hands slid from her cheeks and fell to her lap. She attempted a laugh, a weak and unconvincing effort. “Silly me, I tried to turn too fast and struck it with my elbow. It's quite all right. I don't believe the vase was anything of great value.”

“You're up early,” my father said. An accusation? He attempted to relax his stance and only succeeded in looking more ill at ease.

I saw no reason to maintain a charade. “Me, you, and everyone else, it would appear. What was going on in here? Mother, why were you crying? And please don't deny it, I heard you from the hallway. And your eyes are red and swollen.”

She began to stammer in response, and my father crossed the room and placed a hand on her shoulder—one meant more to silence than to reassure, I thought. “Our good friend has just died, Emmaline. Surely you can understand our grief.”

“I do understand, perhaps more than you realize. But that isn't why Mother was crying, is it? At least, not the simple fact of his death.” I was about to continue, but Mother interrupted.

“Please, Arthur, let's just tell her.”

“Beatrice.” His fingers tightened on her shoulder, and a vein stood out on his temple. Then he breathed out a long sigh. “Very well. Emmaline, sit down.”

I sat at the edge of the bed, near the footboard. Mother remained where she was at the dressing table, and Father dragged a side chair away from the wall.

He sat staring down at his shoes for some moments, then at length said, “You're aware Randall's recent sculptures hadn't been well received in the art world.”

I nodded.

“There was one critic who took it upon himself to be particularly cruel, Henri Leclair. He was one of the first to publicly ridicule Randall, saying he should return to his hounds and horses.”

“That was the man's way of saying Randall had no place in the art world,” my mother explained. “Not only did his criticisms hurt Randall excessively, but paved the way for others to follow suit. I believe if not for that early assessment, other critics might have been more willing to give Randall's new abstracts a chance.”

“I understand.” I found myself gripping the brass finial on the corner of the footboard as my apprehensions slowly grew. “Sir Randall spoke to me of his disappointments. But what does this all have to do with the two of you?”

“This Leclair also had the most inelegant things to say about some of your father's work,” my mother said, as if that explained everything. I frowned, and made a circular motion with my free hand, gesturing for my father to continue.

“Randall and I decided to teach Leclair a lesson,” he said. “The man's a buffoon, with no more art expertise than a duck. Good grief, he hardly knows a Pissarro from a Monet. So we devised a plan . . .” He trailed off and glanced over at my mother, who closed her eyes and nodded. He turned back to me with a pained expression. “Randall publicly laughed off the criticism, and he invited Leclair to his Paris town house to show he harbored no hard feelings. Leclair went, and after a leisurely dinner Randall showed him a painting he had recently acquired. He said he trusted Leclair's discretion as well as his expertise to validate his purchase.”

Father fell silent, swallowing. A sheen of perspiration gleamed across his forehead. My mother prompted, “Go on, Arthur. You can't stop now.”

“Just say it, Father,” I added. “What was this painting, and why would Randall want the opinion of a man he obviously disdained, and who disdained him?”

“Because Leclair was the most pompous ass you could ever meet—”