Murder at the Breakers (5 page)

“No!” I shouted.

“Sorry, Miss Cross. It’s time you accepted the fact that your brother has always been a good-for-nothing—”

Jesse cut off his partner with a wave. “That’s enough.” Then his voice gentled. “Brady, do you have anything more to add? Anything in your defense?”

“Only . . . that I don’t think I killed anyone, Jesse. I honestly don’t.”

“I’m sorry, Brady. I truly am. But I don’t see that I have any other choice.”

With a resigned nod, Brady stood. The word
no
shot from my mouth countless more times, but no one listened, not even Brady.

Officer Dobbs produced a pair of handcuffs. “Stuart Braden Gale, you are under arrest for the murder of Alvin Goddard. . . .”

My brain formed denials until I realized I was actually shouting the words. The officers began walking Brady out of the room, and Neily’s arms came around me, holding me still when I might have gone hurtling after my brother.

In the doorway, Brady stopped and turned partly around. “It’ll be all right, Em. I’ve done some rotten things in my life, but I didn’t do this. At least . . .” He paused, his brow furrowing, teeth catching at his bottom lip. “I don’t think I did. . . .”

His uncertainty cut through my horror, tugging my heartstrings while at the same time jolting me back to practical matters. “Make sure he’s seen by a doctor,” I called out. “Do you hear me, Jesse? My brother received a wound to the head. He needs a doctor.”

Jesse nodded, and then they were gone.

My eyes sprang open and I bolted upright. Several seconds passed before I remembered I was home in bed, and that the incessant roaring in my ears was only the tide against the promontory. As I sat shivering and clutching the sheets, the night’s horrors paraded through my brain. A vague sensation nagged that a detail of the utmost importance had invaded my dream and thrust me from sleep.

Though I’d have preferred to retreat back into quieter dreams and forget all that had happened, I forced myself to review the night as though examining pictures in a catalogue. The images were jumbled, indistinct, so I climbed out of bed and made my way in the dark to my desk. By the struggling light of a cloud-choked moon, I found a clean sheet of paper, uncorked my ink, and began writing at a furious pace. The voices, the struggle, the body . . . Brady on the floor, the fallen candelabrum, the bourbon . . .

Suddenly, I jumped up and hurried barefoot down the hall toward the only source of comfort I could rely on. Without knocking—with hardly a notion of what time it could be—I opened Nanny O’Neal’s door and sprinted inside.

“Nanny! Nanny, wake up.”

The broad figure beneath the blankets stirred. Then Nanny came fully awake, just as she always had when I was a child and had come seeking solace after a nightmare. She had been my nurse years ago, and now she cooked and kept house for me here at Gull Manor. But she was so much more than that. My friend, my confidant, my grandmotherly source of wisdom.

Her hand groped on the bedside table for her spectacles, and she wiggled her bulky frame into a sitting position. Through the darkness she peered at me, her chubby arm coming around my shoulders. “Too upset to sleep, sweetie?”

I shook my head. “Brady’s been framed. I know it.”

“I believe it, too, Emma. Brady might be irresponsible and rash, but underneath he has a good heart. You have to keep believing in him.”

“No, Nanny, you don’t understand. I have proof there was someone else in that bedroom tonight. Someone else is involved.”

She grasped my shoulders and set me at arm’s length. “What proof, Emma?”

“The bourbon,” I said conclusively.

T
he next day brought more rain, a drizzly, blustery morning that felt more like September than mid-August. After several hours of fitful dreams that left me distraught and anxious to see Brady, I gave up on sleep just after dawn. As early as it was, I found Nanny already awake and the morning room filled with the welcoming aromas of a hearty breakfast. I headed for the coffee urn.

Nanny sat at the table with the morning edition of the Newport
Daily News
open before her, a bowl of oatmeal half-finished at her elbow. “I knew you’d be up with the sun today, if not sooner.”

“Still reading the enemy?” I indicated the newspaper. I wrote my society page articles for the much smaller Newport
Observer.

“The letters to the editor are livelier in the
News
. Sit. Eat.”

I sighed. “It smells wonderful, but as hollow as I’m feeling this morning, I’m afraid I’m not very hungry. Coffee will do.”

Her spectacles flashed briefly in my direction. Then she calmly hoisted her stout body out of the spindle-back Windsor chair. “You’d be surprised.”

With that simple statement, she padded to the sideboard and promptly loaded a plate with plump sausages, scrambled eggs, and slices of toast whose russet coating hinted at a generous sprinkling of cinnamon. Nanny had set out to tempt me this morning. Next, she ladled oatmeal into a bowl, and as she brought both plate and bowl to the table, she winked. “Maple and brown sugar. Your favorite. Starving yourself won’t help Brady.”

“Neither will gorging myself.”

She sat back down, picked up her spoon, and poked it at the air toward me. “Eat.”

After a lifetime of learning one could never successfully argue with Nanny, I did as I was told, grudgingly at first, then with growing enthusiasm. I had to admit, filling my belly with warm, rich food renewed my strength, my outlook, and my resolve to see my brother exonerated for a crime I knew, in my bones and in my heart, he could not have committed.

Within the hour I was dressed in my sturdy blue carriage dress—the one of Aunt Sadie’s that Nanny had freshened with black velvet braid and new jet buttons. Outside, Katie helped me hitch Barney up to the buggy, both of which also had belonged to Aunt Sadie.

The rain had abated to a light mist that silvered the promontory and lent a shine to our faces. Barney, a sweet roan gelding who was willing to go out in any weather as long as he didn’t have to proceed at too hasty a pace, gave my shoulder an affectionate nibble as I tightened his harness and secured it to the traces. Katie stood back as I did so, and another of last night’s revelations bubbled up through the muddle of my thoughts.

I pondered how best to broach the delicate subject, then decided there was no good way except to dive right in. “Katie,” I said, “I’ve been wondering about . . . well . . . about when you first came to stay with me last spring.”

A wave of crimson flooded her face, her freckles standing out golden in comparison. “I’m ever so grateful to you, Miss Emma, and I try my hardest to pull my weight, truly I do. I suppose I shouldn’t have presumed. It’s just that I’d heard tell of your aunt always lending a hand to any girl in need and I . . . I hadn’t anywhere else to go. . . .”

I didn’t think it was possible for such a ruddy blush to deepen, but Katie’s did. She clutched her apron and began twisting the hem around her index finger.

“I know, Katie. It’s quite all right. Aunt Sadie provided a much-needed service here in Newport, and I’m only too happy to continue in her footsteps.” My great aunt Sadie, who’d lived a spinster’s life by choice and quite proudly, had rescued countless disgraced and dismissed maids over the years, opening her home, her finances, and her arms to them when no one else would. I’d inherited her house; it was only right I inherited her good works as well.

I secured the last buckle on Barney’s harness. Scratching behind his ears, I turned to face Katie. “What I’m wondering is whether I understood the facts of what brought you here.”

“I was in the family way, miss,” she murmured so low I had to strain to hear her over the shush of the breeze and the hiss of the ocean.

“Yes, Katie, of course. But . . . the man . . .” Before I could continue she turned away with a cry.

“Oh, please, miss! Don’t make me talk about it.” She drew her apron up over her face.

“But I need to know,” I persisted. “Was it Mr. Neily? Or was it Reg—”

She let out a wail. “Don’t make me think about . . . about my poor babe . . . and . . .” Her words dissolved into sobs.

“All right, Katie. There, there, now.” I went to her and patted her back, then slipped an arm around her shoulders. “We won’t discuss it just now. Someday, though, when you’re ready.”

With a trembling breath, she lowered the apron, wiping her eyes with it before letting the starched linen fall back in place against her skirts. “Thank you, miss. And now I should see to . . . to the laundry.”

“In this weather? Where would you hang it to dry?”

“The dusting, then.” The wind blew and she shivered.

I realized she was hoping to escape accompanying me into town, perhaps fearing that in the closeness of the carriage seat I’d return to the subject she so wished to avoid. I set her at ease. “You go on inside and have a cup of tea first. And more of Nanny’s porridge.”

As I watched her trudge back up through the kitchen garden, I pondered cousin Reggie’s newfound attempts to play the grownup. Whisky was part of that game. Did it also include forcing himself on helpless maids in his father’s employ? The notion sickened me.

And what did it say about the society we lived in that poor girls like Katie were dismissed without references while the men who disgraced them received pats on the back and the discreet applause of their fellows?

Climbing into the seat, I flapped the reins and set Barney to a walk. If it didn’t rain too hard, the oiled canvas roof should keep me fairly dry. I was just circling to the front of the house when a larger and more solid vehicle turned off Ocean Avenue and rumbled toward me.

Oh, dear. I should have planned for this and left earlier.

“Emmaline, where do you think you’re going in that weather-beaten contraption?” my uncle’s voice boomed even before the brougham had stopped. The rear door swung open and Uncle Cornelius leaned his grizzled head out of the carriage.

“Into town, of course, to see Brady and talk to Officer Whyte.”

“Not alone, you’re not. Jakes!” he called out. “Take Miss Cross’s buggy back to her stable and unhitch the horse.” The footman sitting beside the driver jumped down from the box. My uncle’s face angled back in my direction. “Emmaline, you’re coming with us.”

“Thank you, Uncle, but I’ll need my own carriage today. I have other errands to run. Jakes, turn around.”

The footman came to a standstill, looking from his employer to me and back again. I settled the debate with a “Giddup, Barney,” that started the buggy moving. “I’ll see you in town,” I called as I maneuvered around my uncle’s carriage and continued onto Ocean Avenue.

“We have the preliminary report from the coroner,” Jesse Whyte said once Uncle Cornelius, Neily, and I had settled ourselves in front of his desk at the police station. I was relieved that Officer Dobbs was nowhere in sight. Elbows propped on the desktop, Jesse tented his fingers beneath his chin. “I’m afraid it doesn’t look good for Brady.”

“Nothing looks good for Brady.” My uncle scowled. “He was caught red-handed.”

I bristled, but turned my attention back to Jesse. “What did the coroner say?”

“Bruising indicates the victim was struck on the shoulders, head, and the back of the neck before he fell.”

“Or was pushed,” Uncle Cornelius muttered.

Neily leaned forward, hands on his knees. “It couldn’t have happened in the fall?”

Jesse shook his head. “He might have struck one of those areas on the balustrade, but all three? And since he fell onto grass, it isn’t likely he acquired the bruises as he hit the ground. Besides, the blood had time to clot and cause discoloration before death occurred.”

“I don’t understand.”

It was Neily who turned to me to explain. “When someone dies, their blood stops pumping. That means no bleeding beneath the skin, and therefore no bruising.”

“That fits with my theory of a third person in that room. Someone who knocked Brady out and then attacked poor Mr. Goddard.” I stopped short. “Jesse, please don’t sit there shaking your head.”

But he did just that. “Sorry, Emma, but we found the candelabrum beside your brother. He’s already admitted to using it to see his way into the room.” He sent me an apologetic look. “I can’t ignore the facts. Brady had motive, opportunity, and the very weapon used to incapacitate Goddard before he was pushed to his death.”

“But . . .” My stomach sank as I realized this time he’d used
pushed
instead of
fell.
But I wasn’t about to give up. “There’s something else we’re all forgetting. Something no one thought about last night, not even Brady.” I gripped the arms of my chair. “The bourbon. Brady doesn’t drink bourbon. Ever. It’s champagne, cognac, dark ale, or Scotch whisky. Nothing else.”

“Oh, come now, Emmaline.” Uncle Cornelius patted my hand where I continued to clutch the chair’s arm. “Bourbon, whisky . . . obviously Brady grabbed the first bottle within reach when he snuck into the house last night. The butler’s pantry was well-stocked, and I seriously doubt he’s all that particular.”

“But he is, Uncle.” I slipped my hand out from under his. “He’s particular about little else, but adamant about that. He always says bourbon turns him green.”

“She’s right, Father,” Neily said with a mirthless grin. “And it’s because of the time he and Alfred and I stayed up all night in the playhouse drinking your best Tennessee bourbon—” He broke off, then added with a rueful nod, “Yes, the stuff the president of Vanderbilt University sends you every Christmas. And we smoked cigars we pinched from your billiard room. We were all three sick as dogs the next morning.”

Uncle Cornelius shot him a reproving glare and rumbled something about young delinquents needing the proper restraint.

Neily shrugged. “It was years ago.”

“So you see,” I said eagerly, “someone tried to set Brady up. But they didn’t do a very good job of it. You need to let him go and continue the investigation.”

“We’ll continue the investigation, Emma.” Jesse patted the leather folder sitting on the desk in front of him. “We’ll consider all avenues. But I can’t release Brady. Not based on whisky versus bourbon.”

“But—”

“Now, if any of you can name someone else who might have had reason to do Mr. Goddard in,” he interrupted, “speak up. It could help Brady’s case.”

Uncle Cornelius began shaking his head. “Alvin was a good man. An excellent financial secretary and an ace businessman in his own right. Didn’t have an enemy that I knew of.”

My mouth fell. Rich and influential men always made enemies, always inspired envy and resentment. But I just as quickly closed my lips. I wanted to talk to Brady before I offered up any further theories. “Can I see my brother now?”

“Neily, go with her,” my uncle said before Jesse could respond.

I dug in my heels and raised my chin. “I’d rather see him alone.”

Jesse nodded. “I’ll take you to him.”

I promised myself I’d be strong for Brady’s sake. But seeing him in that cell, behind bars that were quite locked this time, undermined my resolve. The fact that he actually looked better than he usually did whenever I’d come to bail him out—less bloodshot, less pallid, less disheveled—only made matters worse. Because despite his more chipper appearance, for the first time I could remember, the devil-may-care light had faded from his eyes.

“Aw, don’t cry, Em.”

I held a handkerchief to my nose and tried to blink away my tears. “Can’t help it, Brady. They won’t let you go home with me this time.”

He wrapped his hands around two bars and brought his face closer. “Didn’t think they would, at least not yet.”

“But I have some new evidence. That bourbon bottle. Someone else had to have put it there. You didn’t drink any of it, did you?”

“Ordinarily I’d shudder and say no. But to tell the truth, I can’t remember much about what I did last night.”

I wanted to stamp my foot in frustration. Instead, I asked, “How’s your head? That’s also proof someone else was in that room. Did a doctor take a look at it?”

“Still tender and, yes, they brought in Dr. Kennison last night.” He raised a hand to the back of his head and winced. “But for all I know, Em, I knocked it against the bureau or the bedpost as Alvin and I struggled.”

“Don’t say that, Brady!” I stepped closer and lowered my voice to a whisper. “Especially where someone might overhear. You did not push Alvin Goddard to his death, so don’t go saying incriminating things and putting ideas into people’s heads. I’m going to get you out of here, Brady. I swear I will.”

“No, Emmaline. You can’t get mixed up in this mess. Leave it to the police. Let Jesse handle it.” His brow furrowed with worry. “Has Uncle Cornelius hired me a lawyer?”

“No, and . . . I don’t think he’s going to,” I said as gently as I could.

“He thinks I’m guilty.” His lips thinned. “Can’t say as I blame him.”

“Oh, Brady, why did you steal those documents?”

He met my gaze, his blue eyes frightened and sad and something more . . . regretful at having disappointed me, I thought. “The old man’s been quietly buying shares in an existing New England line—”

“New Haven-Hartford-Providence,” I supplied.

He nodded. “He’s planning a buyout. Wants to expand into New England. There are a lot of original investors who don’t like the idea of Cornelius Vanderbilt controlling a railroad monopoly that encompasses the entire Northeast.”

“But what did you intend to do?”

“Head him off. Beat him at his own game. By bringing those plans to a few key investors, we could pool resources and stop the buyout before Cornelius accumulated the controlling shares.” He blew out a long sigh. “I’d have been paving my way to my own riches, Em.”