Murder at Rough Point (17 page)

“We were cut off for a moment.”

“I said you mustn't try to come home until the storm is over. The waves are engulfing parts of Ocean Avenue. Almy Pond is overflowing. You'll never make it.”

“All right, Nanny, I'll stay put.”

“Good. And one other thing—”

The line went dead. I tapped the switch hook several times and was rewarded by another burst of static followed by dead air. Whatever else Nanny wished to tell me would have to wait. At least I knew she and Katie were safe.

Thus assured, I began the climb to the second story. I saw no sign of either of my parents, but I met Miss Marcus and Niccolo on their way down. At the landing I hesitated, still clutching my tea tin in one hand. The dampness from outside clung to my clothing, but the warmth of my father's embrace lingered. I remembered what my mother had said about Father being hurt by my aloofness, and a burning guilt spread from my heart outward. Mother had also mentioned Aunt Sadie as part of the reason they felt confident I would be all right when they left for Paris. Had I, in my desire to prove myself as independent as my great-aunt, led my parents to believe I simply hadn't needed them anymore . . . in effect, pushed them away?

No one could lay claim to a perfect life. I certainly couldn't. Whatever their faults, whatever misdeeds drove them from Paris back to America, they were still my parents. They loved me in their way, and I loved them in return. Perhaps it was time I ceased judging and learned to forgive and accept them as they were. I crossed the landing and knocked at their door. Although I heard their voices inside, muffled through the door, I received no answer. I knocked again, louder, and this time distinctly heard a bustle of shuffling feet, the thump of a heavy object, and a door closing. From inside, the key turned in the lock, and my mother cracked the bedroom door a few inches.

“Oh, it's you, Emma. Uh . . . do you need something, darling?” It didn't escape my notice that she didn't widen the door, or that my father hovered several feet behind her, looking rather like a thief who had been interrupted on his nightly prowl. He didn't greet me or invite me in. What happened to the affectionate father I'd met in Uncle Frederick's office? My suspicions emerged to all but obliterate my daughterly resolve of moments ago.

“What are you doing?” I asked bluntly.

“Nothing. We merely wanted a few moments away from the others. You understand, darling. It's been so stressful.”

Yes, it had, but stress didn't explain my mother's wide-eyed, nervous look or my father's continued impersonation of a thief confronted by the night watchman.

“May I come in?” I didn't wait for an answer, but thrust my arm into the gap and elbowed the door wider. Mother hesitated an instant, but apparently when she saw I would not be deterred she stepped aside so I could enter. “What was all that noise I heard before you came to the door?”

Father still hadn't moved from his startled stance. “Emmaline, I don't believe I like your tone. Are you accusing your mother and me of something?”

“Should I be?” With that I went to the wardrobe and flung the doors open. Not a stitch hung from the rod, but two valises occupied the floor of the piece. That had been the thump I'd heard. I pivoted on my heel. “Going somewhere?”

Neither of them said anything. Color suffused Mother's cheeks, and Father's lips flattened.

“Jesse said no one may leave Newport,” I reminded them.

“Now, Emma, we have no intention of leaving Newport,” my mother assured me.

“That's right, Emmaline.” His features tight, Father slipped his cigarette case from his breast pocket, opened it, and then closed it with a snap without having removed one of its contents. “There are plenty of places to stay right here in Newport.” His expression softened. “If what has happened has anything to do with that . . . you know, that painting . . . then your mother and I might be better off somewhere else rather than staying here and endangering another of our friends.”

“We all agreed, Father, that remaining here together was safer than splitting up. Besides, Nanny tells me Ocean Avenue is flooded. There is no saying what condition other roads are in. Bellevue might very well be reduced to a sea of mud. It would be dangerous to go anywhere at present.”

“We don't plan to go very far,” Mother said.

I narrowed my eyes at her, and then at my father. “Just where
were
you planning to go, then?” Did this have anything to do with my father's attempted telephone call?

They traded a look, and Father said, “The Breakers, where else? Your mother and I are always welcome.”

“You can't go there. You know you can't. The house has been shut down for the winter. Even the chandeliers and wall sconces will be wrapped in linen. What will you do, stumble around in the dark, sit on covered furniture, and sleep on stripped beds? Not to mention the kitchen larders will be bare, with only enough stores for a skeleton staff.”

“I'm sure with one wire to New York—”

“You cannot!” My voice rose and I took a moment to collect my composure. More calmly I said, “You cannot bother Aunt Alice about anything, not with Uncle Cornelius still so ill.”

My uncle, the recognized head of the Vanderbilt family, had suffered a stroke of apoplexy in July. The circumstances had been deplorable and it still made me cringe inwardly to remember the awful scene moments before he collapsed. The attack had left him considerably weakened and partially paralyzed. The thought of disturbing my aunt and uncle with any matter, great or small, raised my protective hackles. I would not allow it.

“He's as bad as that, darling? We thought after all this time . . .”

I swung around to face my mother so abruptly she flinched and trailed off. “He is
very
bad. His physicians have forbidden him to work, which they needn't have bothered doing since he is in no condition to walk up and down stairs, much less manage his railroads. Uncle William and Alfred have taken charge.”

“Alfred? Not Neily?” Father frowned in puzzlement.

I shook my head sadly. Father was correct. Ordinarily Neily, as firstborn son, should have stepped in for his father. But in this case, it was his younger brother, Alfred, whom his parents had chosen for the task. “Not Neily,” I said, “not after his elopement with Grace Wilson. News of Neily's engagement is what brought on the stroke in the first place, and now that they're married Uncle Cornelius has cast him off and written him out of his will.”

“I was so sure Cornelius would relent about that. Grace is a lovely girl and her father is as rich as Midas.” Father pursed his lips around a low whistle. “Poor Neily. I suppose you don't cross a Vanderbilt, not even your own father, and expect to get away with it.”

“Yes, well, I'm sure you can see this rules out The Breakers as any sort of haven for the time being.”

“You're right, of course, darling.” With an innocent expression, Mother capitulated much too easily. “We'll stay. Won't we, Arthur?”

My father conceded with a nod. Then his gaze dropped to my hems. “Why are you wet? Surely you haven't been traipsing outside in this weather?”

“Goodness, Emma, your father is right. You look like you've gone wading at the beach.” Mother looked distinctly satisfied at having found a way to turn the questioning back around to me. Her eyebrows rose to meet the fringe of her curled bangs. “What
have
you been doing?”

I could trust them with the truth, or I could make up an excuse. I hesitated for a split second before deciding on a partial truth. “Patch needed to go out, so I brought him into the service courtyard.”

I left their room feeling unsettled and not a little skeptical. If I had learned anything from being a journalist, and from the events of the past two summers, it was that when backed into a corner people will say anything, true or not. I didn't like myself one bit for mistrusting my parents or for lying to them, but my instincts told me they weren't being entirely honest.

In my room I searched about for a secure hiding place for my tea tin and settled on the bottom of my own valise, placed at the back of the wardrobe closet. As Mrs. Wharton and I had verified, no one from the house would have seen me retrieve the cigarette stub, and I therefore saw no good reason why anyone would search my room. I would pass this evidence to Jesse at the first opportunity.

Quickly I changed my clothes for dry stockings and a fresh skirt and shirtwaist. With Aunt Sadie's embroidered shawl tied around my shoulders to ward off the chill that pervaded the house, I returned downstairs with my damp things with the intention of hanging them in the cellar laundry room. My encounter with my parents continued to trouble me. Their unexpected arrival in Newport had raised my suspicions, and nothing in their behavior since justified lowering my guard. Was I being a disloyal daughter? Part of me believed so, saw myself as having become so jaded due to my recent experiences with crime and murder that I could no longer look upon the very people who raised me without assuming there must be some guilt. I wanted to escape such thinking, to return to the Emma who trusted unconditionally until proven wrong—as I had trusted Brady last summer, believing in his innocence even when evidence pointed to the contrary.

But if I believed my parents were guilty, what exactly had I thought they'd done? Murdered Sir Randall and Claude Baptiste? No, I could honestly state that I didn't believe that. Perhaps some of my old self remained after all. Still, that nagging sensation wouldn't quite leave me.

As I passed the doorway to Uncle Frederick's office, I detoured in, albeit partially against my will. Father said he had been attempting to wire Brady when the operator interrupted with Nanny's call. It would be simple enough to verify that—if I could get through to town.

I set my damp clothing down and picked up the telephone. I heard nothing at first and, disappointed, was about to give up, but after tapping repeatedly at the switch hook I heard a voice.

“Operator. How may I direct your call?”

“Gayla, is that you?”

“Is this Emma?” asked the familiar voice on the other end. My old schoolmate launched into numerous inquiries, as she was apt to do. “How is everything? Is your uncle Cornelius still feeling poorly? Have you heard from your cousin since he eloped? What a pickle that was. Oh, I heard Ocean Avenue is flooded. Oh, dear, are you calling for help? Is anyone hurt . . . ?”

In a town as tightly knit as Newport, rumor and gossip spread like wildfire, so I wasn't at all surprised that our main operator knew the intimate details of my relatives' lives. I knew her to be a good-natured young woman at heart, and I appreciated her concern, truly I did, but Gayla was wasting precious time. The line could go dead again at any moment. Her chatter did reassure me on one matter, however. Word of the two deaths at Rough Point had not yet gotten around town, or Gayla would have insisted I tell her everything I knew.

I called her name to silence her, even as part of me yearned to tell her I'd made a mistake and hang up. “Gayla, I understand my father tried to wire Brady in New York a little while ago.”

I held my breath, waiting for her to verify that my father had, indeed, tried to place a call to the Western Union office in town.

“How is Brady faring in the big city?” she asked instead.

“He's fine, Gayla. The point is, Nanny interrupted the call, and then the line went dead. Is it possible for him to try again now?” An ember of guilt seared beneath my breastbone. This constituted deceit on my part, even if ultimately my hunch proved correct.

“Yes, when Mrs. O'Neal came on the line wanting to speak to you over at Rough Point, it sounded important enough to break in on your father. I've been a bit worried, I don't mind telling you. That place is too isolated for my comfort, stuck out there on that promontory and all exposed to the worst of the weather. Funny, though, you must have misunderstood what your father said. You can't send a wire from Lo—”

Scratchy static replaced Gayla's voice, followed once more by dead air. From
where
? I practically screamed the question into the ineffectual gadget. Good grief, a little rain and suddenly we were thrust back decades in time. What had she been about to say?
Lo
—with the
o
pronounced with an
au
sound
.
What logically came after that?

I seized on a possibility. Long Wharf? Had my father been placing a call down to the wharf to book passage on a steamer?

My hands trembled slightly as I replaced the receiver onto the switch hook. I stood motionless for several seconds, lost somewhere between having my suspicions confirmed and disbelieving my father would have lied to me. My mother too, for she went along with this story of wishing to move over to The Breakers.

So I had caught them in the act of attempting to flee Aquidneck Island. The question remained as to their motive. To avoid endangering more of their friends, as they claimed? To remove
themselves
from danger? If so, how cowardly of them. Or had they wished to escape becoming suspects themselves?

These were questions I couldn't answer, nor did I believe I'd gain any satisfaction from confronting them. If they had lied once they'd lie again. I raised my hands and let my forehead sink into them. What was I going to do?

Another question I couldn't answer.

* * *

After leaving my rain-dampened outfit with Irene, I found myself walking aimlessly back into the main portion of the house. Thoughts and suspicions clashed in my mind, as turbulent as the weather outside. Those shadows that so disturbed my cousin Consuelo descended heavily over me, making me shiver from both the chill and the foreboding I couldn't shake.