Murder at the Breakers (13 page)

In all the danger and upset that night, I forgot to give Jesse one vital piece of information. I’d seen a number stenciled on the rear bumper of the carriage that tried to run me off the road. I wasn’t able to make out the exact digits, but the fact of its being there constituted what could prove a valuable detail in discovering the driver’s identity.

That morning I awakened with a stiff neck and a bruise on my shoulder that prevented me from being able to reach around and button up the back of my dress. Katie helped me, dressed my hair, and even worked a bit of magic across my nape with a light-fingered massage. I’d just finished a breakfast of toast and scrambled eggs when noises from the driveway sent me to the front of the house. From the parlor window I recognized Hank Davis, the wheelwright from Stevenson’s Livery in town, driving his mule and work cart toward the house while towing my buggy behind. I went out to meet him on the drive.

“Good morning, Mr. Davis. How bad is the damage?” I also wondered with no small trepidation at how much it would cost.

“Axel was busted. I replaced it with a new one and stuck on a temporary wheel to get the thing home, but don’t recommend driving on it.” The man tipped his hat, then jumped down from the seat. He hitched up his overalls once his feet hit the ground. “I should have a new wheel for you by tomorrow afternoon.”

“No sooner, I guess?”

“Sorry. If I coulda fixed the old wheel, I woulda, but it’s just too bent, Miss Cross. You don’t want to be shimmying around on the road, now, do ya?”

After what I’d experienced last night, the answer to that was a resounding
no.
“Thanks for bringing the rig home, Mr. Davis.”

“No trouble a ’tall. How ’bout I tow it ’round back and put her in your barn?”

“I’d appreciate that, thank you.” He climbed back onto his cart, but before he set the mule in motion, I placed a hand on the traces. “Mr. Davis, would you know if anyone . . . peculiar . . . leased a carriage last night?”

He frowned and tugged at his hat brim. “Peculiar how, Miss Cross?”

“Well . . . either peculiar in that they might not normally need to lease a vehicle, say, one of the quality here for the summer who already has a carriage house filled with vehicles. Or may be someone who didn’t seem to want to be . . . recognized?” Realizing how ridiculous that sounded, I wanted to cringe.

“Now, that’s a funny notion, especially in a town the size of Newport. But you’d have to ask Stevenson about that. I don’t take much notice of the folks leasing carriages.”

“No, I don’t suppose you do,” I mumbled. Well, then, I’d just have to go into town and ask Mr. Stevenson myself. No, I amended, I’d tell Jesse about the numbers, and he would speak with Mr. Stevenson. Yes, that was safer and made more sense. But then again, when did I ever listen to my better sense?

I had another reason to go into town today anyway. I wanted to question the landlady at Theodore Mason’s boardinghouse. He’d claimed to be in his room during the night of the ball, reading. I hoped the landlady might be able to corroborate his alibi, at least enough to confirm that she never saw him go out.

The question was, how would I get to town? How would I get anywhere in the next day and a half?

A plan presented itself to my mind, but it wasn’t one I relished. If I asked my relatives for the use of one of their carriages, they would inevitably ask questions. Aunt Alice would be more than happy to supply me with a buggy and driver—
after
I explained why I couldn’t use my own . . . and
after
I told her what I intended doing in town. Not to mention
after
she insisted on accompanying me.

It was either borrow a carriage or wait. I didn’t dare call Jesse on the telephone to tell him about the leasing numbers because one never knew who might be on the line, just listening. . . . Besides, my baser instincts were getting the better of me. I wanted to snoop around the livery and see what I could find out for myself. Ducking into the alcove beneath the stairs, I lifted the telephone’s ear trumpet from its cradle and cranked the call box.

“Morning, Gayla,” I said when the operator came on the line after a jangle and a few electrical pops.

“That you, Emma? How you doing today? How’s your brother?” I heard the sympathy in her voice even over the static in my ear. Like Adelaide, Gayla had been a longtime school friend of mine.

“He’s holding up, thanks for asking.”

“Are your parents coming home?” This time a clear note of censure laced her tone.

“I wired them the other day. Still waiting to hear back. Listen, Gayla, could you connect me to The Breakers?”

“Sure thing, dearie. One sec.”

I heard a series of clicks, and then Bateman, the acting head butler at The Breakers, bid me good morning.

“Hello, Bateman, it’s Miss Emma. I wonder if you might do me a favor.” Would I be so lucky as to bypass having to speak with my aunt or uncle and have Bateman grant my wish? “My buggy needs repairs and I need a vehicle today—”

“Please hold, Miss Emmaline.”

My stomach sank. A moment later, a second voice came keening over the line. “Emmaline? Good morning, dear!”

I jerked the ear trumpet away from my head. Aunt Alice never did quite get the hang of speaking on the telephone. She seemed to think one needed to shout as if across a great distance. Gingerly, I brought the trumpet back up to my ear and spoke—much more quietly—into the mouthpiece. “Hello, Aunt Alice. I don’t mean to disturb your morning. I just wondered if I might borrow one of the smaller buggies. I don’t need a driver . . . just going into town . . .”

“Gladys and I can be along to collect you in half an hour. Will that do?”

“Oh, but . . .” My protest died on my tongue. I knew better than to argue. It would only waste time and in the end the results would be the same. Instead, I agreed, hung up, and raced upstairs to smarten up my appearance. I’d dressed in a rather plain brown carriage outfit that morning, but now I switched it for the sapphire blue with the velvet braid and jet buttons. As I smoothed the jacket’s flounced peplum and straightened the collar, I was once again grateful for Nanny’s talents in keeping my wardrobe presentable. I’d neither shame my wealthy relatives nor prompt Aunt Alice to feel obligated to purchase new clothing for me—or send over Gertrude’s castoffs. While I valued my cousins’ kinship, I never wanted their charity. We Crosses—and Gales—took care of ourselves.

And each other. That last thought sent me down the stairs at a run, just in time to see the black victoria carriage with the swooping
V
’s emblazoned in its sides rolling up the driveway. I yelled my good-byes to Nanny and Katie, and bounded out the door.

“My goodness, you’re in a hurry this morning,” Aunt Alice called from inside the posh vehicle. Her window was open and Gladys leaned over her mother to peer out.

My frustration in having unwanted company for my errand was immediately tempered by the excitement shining in the girl’s eyes. I saw she had dressed her hair with extra care that morning, eschewing her usual spiraling curls for a more subdued—and grown-up—coif that left only a few tendrils to dance beneath her wide, beribboned hat.

“Goodness, Gladys, don’t you look mature,” I exclaimed as the footman handed me into the carriage. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were eighteen at the least.”

Aunt Alice harrumphed her disapproval, leading me to imagine the debate that had preceded Gladys’s new hairstyle. But Gladys herself could not have looked more pleased.

“Don’t you remember, May Goelet wore her hair this way at the luncheon on the afternoon before her coming-out ball. I was allowed to go to the luncheon,” she added with a proud lift of her chin.

Aunt Alice rolled her eyes and harrumphed again. “I wasn’t at the luncheon,” I gently reminded Gladys. “It was in New York, and I was here.”

“Oh, yes, I forgot. Well, I’ve wanted to wear my hair this way ever since.”

“And very becoming on you, it is,” I said enthusiastically. To my great surprise, Aunt Alice didn’t ask me any questions, not even about why I needed transportation that day. My cousin continued to chatter on, though I noticed she avoided any references to the most recent social event—her sister’s coming-out ball. I wondered how much had been explained to her. Once I caught Aunt Alice’s eye over the bobbing flowers on Gladys’s hat. Her eyebrows twitched closer and she gave a slight shrug. And as the girl’s voice continued to fill the vehicle, I found myself longing to be her age again . . . to be free of all responsibilities. Suddenly the weight of seeing Brady exonerated seemed impossible to bear. I wanted to shrink beneath the burden, simply let my knees give way and allow the cards to fall where they may.

“We’re almost to town,” Aunt Alice said with a glance out the open window. “Where to, Emmaline?”

In the echo of her no-nonsense voice, I knew I had to answer her. I had to make a plan. I had to save my brother. There would be no sinking beneath any burden, no matter how weighty. No challenge was too great for a Vanderbilt, and I was a Vanderbilt, after all.

“The livery first,” I said decisively. “Then the police station.”

“Oh. Yes, yes, of course.” Aunt Alice’s lips turned down as if she had a bad taste in her mouth. I can’t imagine that she had ever tread in either sort of place. “I suppose it can’t be helped. But why the livery?”

I raised my eyebrows in innocence. “One of my buggy’s wheels went wobbly on my way home last night, which is why I needed a vehicle today. I need to . . . check with Mr. Davis if the new one is ready yet and pay him.” I knew very well the new wheel wouldn’t be ready yet, and beneath a fold of my skirt I crossed my fingers as children do to ward off the transgression of a lie.

“Mr. Davis?”

“The wheelwright, Aunt Alice.”

“Ah. You know, Emmaline, this is one more reason you shouldn’t be driving your own buggy. You might have swerved off the road and gone straight into the ocean.”

She didn’t know the half of it.

Aunt Alice rapped on the roof, and when her driver opened the trap to peer in at her, she said, “Take us to the livery, please. . . .” She paused and looked over at me. “Is there more than one in town?”

I clarified which establishment I needed to visit and minutes later we arrived, my relatives looking puzzled but vaguely interested in the workings of such a mundane business. I wondered what to do next, how I might evade their curiosity for a few minutes at least. Then an unexpected miracle occurred.

“Great thundering Zeus, is that who I think it is?” the owner, Percy Stevenson, exclaimed from inside the shack that housed his office. I heard a chair scrape, something solid, like a book, hit the floor, and through the window I saw Mr. Stevenson scrambling to button his coat, slick his hair down, and cover it with his derby. In another moment he came hurrying outside. “Mrs. Vanderbilt! A pleasure, madam. A very great pleasure, indeed. And such an honor. What . . . what can I do for you on this lovely morning?” His expression turning to horror, he reached up and snatched the hat he’d just placed on his head. He whisked it to his side, nervously patted his thinning hair, and sputtered something about excusing his manners.

“We’re here on behalf of my niece,” my venerable aunt all but barked, her lips curving downward. The footman helped us out. As we arrived Aunt Alice had told Gladys to wait in the carriage, but now the girl climbed out anyway. She peered all around her, looking like a cheerful flower amid the dust and clutter of the stable yard.

“Is that a forge?” she asked, pointing into the shadows of a lean-to. “Is that where the horses are shod?”

“It is, Miss Vanderbilt.” Mr. Stevenson tipped a bow. “Would you like to see?”

“She most certainly would not.” Aunt Alice clasped her hands together, her purse dangling from between them. “We’re here about a new wheel for my niece’s buggy. Is it ready?”

“Oh, I . . . I’ll have to check . . .” The proprietor scratched at his chin and looked uncertain as to what he should do next.

“Then I suggest you do just that.”

Aunt Alice’s terse command set his feet in motion. He disappeared between the farrier’s lean-to and the shed that housed the carriages for lease.

“I want to see the horses,” Gladys announced, and without pausing scurried through the stables’ open doors.

“Gladys! Gladys, come back here this instant!” Aunt Alice bustled after her, her high-heeled boots raising a small cloud at her hems that the laundry maid would have a terrible time with later. “They aren’t like our horses at home,” she called after her daughter. “These are dirty creatures. . . .”

Did I mention a miracle? It occurred in that moment, for I suddenly found myself all alone. Wasting no time, I strode into the shack and slipped behind the counter where Stevenson did business. There were several ledger books resting on the rough oaken surface, along with a padlocked cashbox that appeared bolted to the counter itself. My attention went to the largest leather-bound book; it sat open with a pen resting in the crease of its pages.

My fingers trembling, I cast a glance out the window, then through the open door. I listened, hearing voices that were too far-off to herald anyone’s imminent approach. Looking down at the page, I began scanning the entries scribbled along each printed line. Names, followed by dates and carriage numbers. Quickly enough I saw that there hadn’t been any rentals so far that morning. I flipped the page to yesterday’s entries but saw no familiar names, nothing that struck a warning bell. My gaze swept to the left, to the page from two days ago. My heart began to pound.

J
ack Parsons’s name wavered in my vision as my temple began to throb. Then my eye landed on another that caused me to suck in a breath: Derrick Anderson. I went utterly still, my gaze darting back and forth between the two. And then a third name caught my eye, vaguely familiar . . . In the next instant recognition leaped from the page to virtually grab me around the throat.

It was not a name I would have known even a few short weeks ago, but at the beginning of the summer, Neily had hired a new valet—a man named Owen Darville. His signature stared up at me from the page.

There were other familiar names, of course, some belonging to summer visitors who moved in my relatives’ social circle. Leasing vehicles wasn’t unusual. Newport was part of Aquidneck Island, and since most of the quality arrived by steamer, the expense of bringing a carriage along for a mere week or two often outweighed the benefits, even for wealthy individuals.

Yet, the coincidences in this case were piling up too high to be innocuous. All right, Jack Parsons had every reason in the world to lease rather than bring his own carriage; after all, he was also renting the house he was staying in and had no permanent ties to Newport. The same could be said about Derrick Anderson, who claimed to be here researching an article about powerful businessmen. Although when I’d met him outside Adelaide’s house the other day, he’d been on foot.

Could he have leased a carriage for one specific purpose . . . say, to run me off the road? Far-fetched? Perhaps, but despite his denial, I still felt he’d been following me that day, for reasons that somehow had to do with the charges against Brady.

But staring up at me was also that third name, Owen Darville. Had the servant himself needed a carriage—which seemed unlikely—or had my cousin sent him to obtain transportation that would be unrecognizable to anyone who knew him? Maybe to visit Grace Wilson without setting her neighbors’ tongues wagging. Or maybe to send me a not-very-subtle message last night—to mind my own business and stop investigating.

I restored the pages to their original positions and hurried back outside. Aunt Alice and Gladys were just then stepping out from the stables, the former looking none too happy.

“Really, Gladys, that’s no way for a lady to behave. I should lock you in your room when we get home.”

“Oh, I just wanted to see the horses, Mama. I wanted to see if they were happy or not.”

Her mother waved a dismissive hand in the air. “What a ridiculous notion. Horses happy! What nonsense have you been reading lately?”

“Neily told me that most hacks lead unhappy lives, and that our horses are very lucky to be privately owned and taken such good care of.” The girl looked back at the stables over her shoulder. “But these horses didn’t look terribly miserable. I suppose Mr. Stevenson is nice to them.”

“Oh, hurry along, child. Emmaline? Emmaline, where are you?” Alice’s voice rose an octave as she singsonged my name. “Now where did that girl disappear to?”

A few feet outside the shack, I halted and stood with my hands clasped behind my back as though idly biding my time for Mr. Stevenson’s return. “Here I am, Aunt. Still waiting to discover if my wheel is ready.”

At that moment the proprietor came loping into the stable yard. “Hank says your wheel won’t be ready till tomorrow, Miss Cross. Said he told you that this morning.”

Indeed, he had, but I pretended surprise. “Dear me, I must have misunderstood. Tomorrow you say?”

“Sorry, but it’s been a busy week here. Lots of repairs lately. I hope you understand.”

I started to assure him I did, but Aunt Alice spoke over me. “We most certainly do not. However, if it can’t be helped, tell us what we owe you and have the wheel sent out to my niece’s residence tomorrow the very moment it is ready.” She started to open her purse.

“Oh, Aunt Alice, that isn’t necessary. I can—”

“Bah, Emmaline. You’re as poor as a church mouse; don’t try telling me you’re not. If you won’t let me supplement your income, at least allow me to lift the occasional unexpected financial burden from your shoulders.” She raised an eyebrow and pinned Mr. Stevenson with a sharp gaze. “Well, sir, how much?”

“Oh, er, that’s very kind of you, Aunt Alice. Thank you. . . .” She briskly waved away my gratitude. Gladys and I left them to settle the bill, and I fervently hoped Aunt Alice wouldn’t bargain the man down so low he couldn’t make a profit. As we climbed back into the carriage Gladys began telling me about the horses she’d seen, but my mind drifted to what I’d learned and what I needed to do next, if only I could manage a few hours without Aunt Alice chaperoning my every move.

Since I couldn’t count on a second miracle in the same day, for my next stop I wagered on what I knew about Aunt Alice. Through the little window that slid open to allow the passengers to speak to the driver, I told the man where to head next. Aunt Alice’s lips thinned with distaste as the carriage came to a stop outside the Harbor Hill Boarding House.

“Good heavens, Emmaline, what are we doing
here?
”

“Who lives here?” Gladys interjected merrily, straining to see past her mother and me.

“This won’t take but a moment.” I opened the door and started to slide out. From the rear of the vehicle the footman hopped down, ran to my side, and held out a hand to help me down.

Aunt Alice, only inches away in her effort to follow me, deepened her frown. “This isn’t the sort of place folk like us typically visit, Emmaline.”

“Well, it’s the sort of place folk like
me
visit, Aunt Alice.” My hand secure in the footman’s, I paused to explain, “I’m a Cross, don’t forget, and a Newporter to boot. And I’m here to deliver a message from Nanny O’Neal—you remember Nanny—to Theodore Mason. They’re old friends, you know.”

“Theodore Mason!” She slid back to the middle of the seat, drawing upright against the squabs. “That thief!”

Beside her, Gladys let out a nervous giggle. I caught the gleam in her eye; the child probably hadn’t had this much fun on an outing with her mother in . . . forever.

“I know circumstances shed a certain amount of guilt on Mr. Mason, but he may not be the culprit you think he is. Besides, I promised Nanny I’d stop by.”

“Couldn’t she call on the telephone?” Aunt Alice mumbled between clenched teeth, but I’d already stepped down from the carriage and was marching up the front pathway to the front door.

A disheveled young boy answered my knock, and before I could get a word out he about-faced and shouted into the depths of the hallway behind him. The German lady I’d met previously came shuffling in from a doorway off to the side.

“Yah? Ah, it’s you again. Have you not found Herr Mason?”

“As a matter of fact, I have, but I have a question I’d like to ask you, if you don’t mind.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Depends upon the question.”

“Do you know what happened at The Breakers the other night?”

“Yah, everybody knows. A man died.”

“That’s right. And I believe Mr. Mason was still living here at the time.”

“Yah, he was.”

“Would you happen to remember if he went out that night?” My heart pounded at the magnitude of my boldness. For Brady, I reminded myself.

A lengthy pause ensued. Just when I thought she’d decided to slam the door in my face, she tilted her head. “I think I don’t like to answer that question. Herr Mason is my tenant. He pays me to keep his room even when he is not living here. You do not.”

She’d called my bluff. Or had she? I drew myself up as tall as I could and arranged my features in my best imitation of Aunt Alice’s scowl—which I’d perfected after years of practice. “Do you know who I am?”

The woman shrugged as if to say she didn’t care.

“I am Emmaline Vanderbilt Cross. Do you see that carriage waiting for me?” I gestured behind me without taking my eyes off her. “Do you see the
V
on the crest?”

“Yah . . .” She seemed less certain of herself than a moment ago.

“Do you know who is
inside
that carriage?”

She shook her head almost imperceptibly, a smidgeon of fear flashing in her eyes.

“That is Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt II. Mr. Mason’s employer.” All right, so I stretched the truth a little, since the family no longer employed Theodore Mason. The landlady drew a gasp, and I decided to stretch even more. “These questions I’m asking are on Mrs. Vanderbilt’s behalf. And believe you me, when she wants answers, she does not relent until she has them.”

Yes, when it suited me, I knew good and well how to be a Vanderbilt.

“Ah, well . . . that . . . that is another story. Why did you not say so?” The woman’s eyes were wide, and she tried to glimpse the figures inside the carriage from over my shoulder. “Herr Mason . . . ah . . .” Her eyebrows knitting tight, she paused and thought a moment. “Yah, he went out. I remember he had his supper and went out the back door.”

“What time?”

“I . . . er . . .” I noticed she’d balled the edges of her apron in her fists, much like Katie had done when I’d asked her questions she didn’t want to answer. To speed things along, I glanced at the locket watch hanging around my neck. She released the next bits of information in a torrent. “It was late. He had a late supper . . . nine, ten? I don’t remember exactly. He often eats late. A lot of my boarders do. They work long hours,” she added rather defensively.

I didn’t bother asking her if she knew where Mr. Mason had gone that night, for I could think of no good reason why he would have told her and then lied to me about going out at all. I thanked her and made my way back to the carriage, to Aunt Alice’s disapproving looks and Gladys’s bubbly desire to know what the lady and I had talked about.

“Never you mind,” her mother chastised.

Whatever other tensions played out between mother and daughter were lost on me; I was too busy thinking about what I’d seen in that ledger book and what Mason’s landlady had told me—troubling revelations all—and once again figuring out what to do next.

Sometimes Aunt Alice was entirely predictable, and that morning I managed to use it to my advantage. But at other times she surprised me . . . and made me love her all the more.

“Aunt Alice,” I said as we entered town once more, “why don’t you and Gladys go and have lunch at the Casino or the country club while I visit with Brady.”

“Don’t be silly. We’ll all go.”

“All of us?” I stole a peek over at Gladys, who was practically bouncing up and down on the seat. “Aunt Alice, you didn’t want Gladys going into the livery stables.”

“We’re going to the jailhouse?” my young cousin squealed.

Her mother briefly took on a pained expression. “Gladys, hush.” She turned back to me. “Yes, we are going to visit Brady. Horses are one thing, but family is quite another.” Raising a fist, she rapped on the ceiling and, without waiting for the coachman to open his little window, called out, “The police station next, please.”

“But what will Uncle Cornelius say?” I fretted.

“Leave that to me.”

When we arrived, she insisted Gladys and I wait in the carriage while she disappeared into the building, accompanied by the footman. My stomach twisted into knots of impatience and a fear akin to that of a child caught breaking a particularly hard and fast rule. I couldn’t imagine Uncle Cornelius being amenable to our visit here, not by any stretch.

And then a thought I hadn’t considered struck me an even more fearsome blow. What if Jesse was there and happened to mention last night’s incident to Aunt Alice? If she found out from him, the shock of my almost being run off the road would be compounded by my having concealed it from her. And then I wouldn’t have a moment’s peace, or a moment’s independence, for the rest of the summer at least, if not well beyond that.

“I can’t believe I’m going inside a jail,” Gladys happily chatted, craning her neck for glimpses of the white building with its peaked roof and columned front porch. While the structure didn’t exactly inspire fear or foreboding, Gladys apparently had other ideas.

“I’ll wager the cells are pitch-black,” she said half-breathlessly, “with only slim shafts of light coming through the bars high up on the windows. Do you think the walls are covered in moss and dripping with gook, and . . . oh!” She turned a scandalized gaze on me. “Will there be rats scurrying about?”

“What?” I shook my worries away as her words registered. “Gladys Vanderbilt, don’t let your mother hear you talk like that or you won’t be leaving the house for the rest of the summer.” I twisted the strings of my purse in tight little nooses around my fingers. What
was
Aunt Alice doing? Dared I hope Jesse wasn’t here? I turned back to Gladys. “And it’s
no
to all of your questions, by the way. Brady is being held in a jail, not a dungeon.” Though it might as well be the latter, I silently admitted, remembering the forlorn look on his face the last time I’d seen him.

Some fifteen minutes later, I heard the clatter of high-heeled footsteps ricocheting down the walkway. I sucked in a breath. The footman swung my door open and Aunt Alice leaned in, one hand on the wide brim of her silk-flowered chapeau. “It’s all arranged. Come along, both of you.”

When she didn’t shoot me a reproving stare, I breathed a sigh of relief. Inside, we were led through a door marked
Captain Edward Rogers, Chief of Police.
The man was nowhere in sight, but Jesse stood beside the desk, one hand resting on the holster of his sidearm; seated to his left was Brady. At the sight of us he came to his feet, all smiles.

Gladys launched herself into his arms, and I found myself blinking away a tear or two as he lifted her off her feet and she planted a big kiss on his cheek. I noticed even Jesse shuffling his feet and staring hard down at the floor. I tried to catch his eye. When he finally glanced up, I nodded toward Aunt Alice and mouthed,
Please don’t tell.

I didn’t have to elaborate. He set my fears to rest with a reluctant nod. I let go a breath.

Brady placed Gladys back on her feet and leaned over her to right her bonnet, which had slipped askew. “Good to see you, cupcake.”