Murder at the Breakers (8 page)

“My earring. And, yes,” I lied with a stab of guilt, “I found it on the seat of my buggy.”

“I’m happy to hear it. Fancy driving yourself around as you do, though,” she said half fondly, half in censure. “I’m not sure it’s at all proper, dear.”

The last thing I wanted was to remind her that neither my annuity from Aunt Sadie nor my wages from the Newport
Observer
allowed me to hire a driver. If I’d mentioned anything of the sort, she’d have hired me a fellow by sundown, and my illustrious relatives did enough for me already.

I told her the simple truth. “I enjoy driving myself, Aunt Alice. I like the independence.”

She cast me a shrewd look. “You see, right there. That’s why you have no serious suitors. If you’d just let me throw you a coming-out party—”

I help up a hand. “Thank you, Aunt Alice, truly. But again, I like my independence.”

“Really, Emmaline, you can’t stay single forever.”

Couldn’t I? Aunt Sadie had, with nary a regret. Aloud, I said, “Well, after the other night, I believe we’ve all had enough of coming-out parties for a good long time.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” She sighed. “Poor Gertrude.”

Poor Gertrude? What about poor Mr. Goddard? His death might have cast a shadow over the evening, perhaps even over the summer Season, but Gertrude would live on to marry—gloriously, I was sure—have children, and grow old. Mr. Goddard, on the other hand . . .

Wanting to divert Aunt Alice from thoughts of marriage, I almost mentioned that Jesse Whyte would be coming out to inspect the dent in the door frame of the balcony, but I thought better of it. The less my Vanderbilt relatives knew of my involvement in the murder investigation, the better. They’d never approve, and with a telephone call or two they would see to it I didn’t learn another thing about that awful night.

At that moment Gladys looked up, waved, and called out a hello. I waved back, at the same time casually asking, “By the way, is Neily at home?”

“I haven’t seen him since yesterday afternoon.” Aunt Alice scowled in that way she had, a gesture that could send servants scurrying and lesser mortals cowering in corners.

“Didn’t he have dinner with you at the country club?”

“No, though he was supposed to. We spent the afternoon at the Casino. Neily played several rounds of tennis with John Astor, and then the two of them left, supposedly to freshen up and join us for dinner. John arrived later with his wife, but that was the last we saw of Neily.”

“Aren’t you worried?”

“He’ll turn up. He always does.” She smiled as, below, Gladys coaxed her little dog to dance several jerky steps on its hind legs. “Do you want to leave a message for him?”

“No, it’s nothing.” But my mind began working at a furious pace. Had harm come to my cousin? Or was this an act of rebellion, Neily’s way of telling his family he didn’t appreciate their attempts to control his life? Or was he hiding somewhere, for reasons that went beyond a young man’s bid for freedom? “I was just wondering how he’s been since . . . the other night.”

Aunt Alice nodded but, apparently having no insight to offer me, looked out toward the ocean once more. I would have to track Neily down later.

My thoughts then drifted to Mr. Derrick Anderson. The fluttering that arose in my stomach I ignored, or attributed to hunger, but I wondered about the coincidence that had brought the man to Redwing Cottage today. His excuse of writing an article about America’s wealthiest industrialists didn’t ring true, not after he had asked questions about Brady yesterday and then followed me along Spring Street.

Had he heard about Rupert Halstock’s illness . . . his confusion? The incapacitation of a businessman like Rupert Halstock could send speculation skyrocketing and stocks plummeting. Perhaps Mr. Anderson was here to do an exposé on the next American industrial crisis.

And Mr. Halstock was hardly in a position to defend his business acumen. Why, the poor man couldn’t even keep his wives straight; he’d spoken of his first wife as if she were still alive and of Adelaide as though he hardly knew her. Wishful thinking brought on by his malady?

“Aunt Alice,” I said, “were you acquainted with the first Mrs. Halstock?”

“Gloria? A good, steady woman she was, never given to dramatics of any sort. I liked her very much.” The emphasis she placed on
her
made me suspect Aunt Alice didn’t think very highly of Adelaide. “A pity they never had children.”

“Didn’t they?”

“No, poor Gloria couldn’t carry to term. So tragic. I suppose that’s why Rupert chose such a young woman the second time around.” The lift of an eyebrow confirmed my suspicion about Aunt Alice’s sentiments toward Adelaide.

“He does have family, though, doesn’t he? While I was there he mentioned a sister.”

“That would be Mrs. Rockport. Suzanne. She was always devoted to Rupert. But she won’t set foot in the house now that—” She broke off and began playing with the scalloped lace cuff of her sleeve.

I didn’t envy Adelaide having to contend with both her husband’s ailment and a disapproving in-law. “But if he cares for the second Mrs. Halstock, if she makes him happy, isn’t that all that matters?”

“Oh, I suppose. She does seem devoted. She hardly lets him out of her sight.”

And yet something in her tone implied this wasn’t a good thing. “He’s been ill, so of course Adelaide is sticking close by him.”

“Hmm . . .” Aunt Alice lush eyebrows converged. “Even before that, though . . .”

I didn’t ask her to finish her cynical thought, but resolved instead to keep a protective watch on my old friend and her ailing husband. I wasn’t about to allow any reporter from Providence to make their life together any more difficult than it already was.

Besides, at the moment I had my own family difficulties to contend with. I still needed to talk to Mr. Mason and Neily. I had Nanny working on finding Mason’s whereabouts, but how would I find my cousin if he didn’t wish to be found? Then I remembered what Neily had done when he set out looking for Brady on that first rainy morning. I’d have to search out Neily’s haunts.

I
spent the remainder of the afternoon hurrying from place to place: the Newport Casino, the Yacht Club, the restaurants along Bellevue Avenue, the shops along Spring Street. I even strolled the waterfront in hopes I might spot him leaping onto or off of one of Newport’s countless summer pleasure craft. Not only did I find no sign of Neily, but could glean no information about him from any mutual acquaintances. But I was not without luck, for I ran into someone of nearly equal importance, quite by coincidence.

Having given up, I circled back to Molly’s Dress Shop to apologize for my hasty dash through her store the day before, and to see what new trimmings I could have Nanny add to old gowns. As the bell above the door jangled, Molly looked up from her cutting table. Her customer glanced around, too, and I recognized the stunning redhead Aunt Alice had pointed out to me at the ball.

Molly set down her shears and crossed to me. “Emma, you’re back. Or are you running through again?”

“No, and sorry about that, Molly, but you saved me from a reporter I suspect would have hounded me with questions about Brady.”

At that Grace Wilson pricked her ears and studied me more intently.

Molly grasped my hands. “How is he? No one I’ve talked to believes a word about the charges against him. You can tell him that as sure as the sky is blue.”

“Thanks, Molly. Oh, but don’t let me keep you from your customer.” I peered over her shoulder. Miss Wilson’s striking red hair and green eyes were set off to perfection by a walking ensemble of lime green silk with a smart peplum jacket that frothed with lace at the collar and cuffs. A matching purse and parasol completed the impeccably tailored outfit. Hardly able to take my eyes off her myself, I understood why Neily was so taken with her—if indeed what Adelaide had told me proved correct.

I schooled my features to show a proper degree of recognition. “You look so familiar. Have we met?”

“I don’t . . .” She paused, her expression a blank. Then her eyebrows rose. “Weren’t you at The Breakers, at Miss Vanderbilt’s coming-out ball?”

I experienced a moment of doubt. Had she realized I’d been spying on her and Neily that night? There was nothing for it but to play my hand. “Why, yes. I’m Emma Cross.” I strode toward her, a hand extended. “I’m a cousin of the Vanderbilts, on my father’s side.”

We chatted for the next few minutes while she purchased several yards of a breathtaking poppy blue silk. Then, while she and Molly discussed the pattern for the dress Miss Wilson wanted, I picked out some pleated chiffon Nanny could use to brighten up an evening gown of mine. I purchased an extra yard of the fabric for a day dress of Nanny’s that could use a lift as well. I made sure I lingered long enough to exit the shop at the same time as Miss Wilson.

“Good afternoon, Molly, and thanks,” I called to the proprietress, tucking my little bundle beneath my arm. Then, holding the door for Miss Wilson, I suggested refreshments at the tea shop across the street. “Unless you’re in a hurry to be off. I wouldn’t dream of detaining you.”

She studied me an instant, the faintest of blushes tinting her cheeks. “No, I’m in no hurry.”

I was glad she agreed for two reasons. I hoped I’d learn some new information from her, true. But as we stepped into the tearoom, furnished in lightly painted woods and decorated with bright, floral chintzes, the warm scents of freshly baked rolls and tea biscuits curled beneath my nose, and my stomach rumbled. It was nearly four o’clock and I’d never eaten lunch. We sat facing each other across a little marble-topped table near the window overlooking the street.

We engaged in the usual small talk during which I learned she was in town with her mother, renting a Bellevue Avenue house a few doors down from Adelaide’s, and that their father was expected to join them later that week. She listened with interest as I explained my connection to the Vanderbilts. Over a treacle bun and peppermint tea, I decided to come to the point.

“I remember you danced with Neily at the ball,” I said lightly. “He’s quite a fine dancer, isn’t he?”

She agreed and brought up a ball she’d attended at the Astors’ New York mansion last spring, an obvious attempt to change the subject. I didn’t let her. “Have you and Neily known each other long?”

“We met for the first time in Paris last summer,” she said somewhat defensively. “I haven’t seen your cousin much since.”

“No? I had the impression you were rather well acquainted.”

“Not at all. I can’t imagine what gave you that impression.”

“Seeing you together on the dance floor, I suppose. Horrible, what happened that night, wasn’t it?”

She blinked, obviously taken aback by my line of questioning—intentionally meant to trip her off her guard. She took momentary refuge in a sip of tea, then said, “Especially horrible for you, Miss Cross, having witnessed the incident. And with your brother the main suspect and the victim your suitor, well . . .”

“My suitor?” My turn to be taken aback, I pressed a palm to my breastbone. “Who on earth told you that?”

“I believe Mr. Vanderbilt mentioned it in passing that night.”

“Uncle Cornelius?”

She smiled, her even features taking on the feline grace of a Siamese cat. “Mr. Vanderbilt the younger.”

“Oh . . . Neily.” I waved my hand at the notion. “He knew better than that. If Mr. Goddard had any intentions toward me, I assure you they were completely one-sided.”

Miss Wilson nodded slowly, and I realized she had intentionally turned the tables on me, leaving me flustered and no longer in control of the conversation. She obviously hadn’t liked my inquiries about her and Neily.

Well, I’d just have to turn the tables again.

“I looked for Neily immediately after the incident, Miss Wilson. Oddly, I couldn’t find him anywhere in the ballroom, though the rest of the family and all the guests were toasting Gertrude. And no one has seen him since yesterday afternoon.”

Her eyes widened as I spoke; her back stiffened. “What are you saying?”

“Only that Neily’s whereabouts at the time of the murder, and now, are in question.”

“Surely you’re not accusing your own cousin?”

“I’m not accusing anyone. But my own brother has been charged with the crime, wrongly I’m convinced, so no question can go unasked.”

“Neily didn’t kill that man,” she blurted, then clamped her full, bow-shaped lips together.

“Of course not,” I agreed in a soothing tone. “But if the police should ask him where he was at the time—”

“He was with me.”

I feigned surprise while privately wondering if she was telling the truth. Either way, her claim spoke volumes about the nature of her and Neily’s relationship.

“We went below stairs together, to the butler’s office.” With a perfectly manicured hand she gripped the edge of the table and leaned closer toward me. “Look, Miss Cross, Neily and I just wanted a few minutes to ourselves, beyond the disapproving eye of his mother. The Vanderbilts don’t approve of me. They think I’m some kind of fortune hunter, which is ridiculous considering my father is richer than Midas. I couldn’t give a fig about Neily’s inheritance. His father can cut him off completely for all I care.”

She certainly seemed impassioned, and sincere, too. I played with my teaspoon, tapping it lightly against my cup. “Is he threatening to?”

“Cornelius? He’s dropped some hints to that effect. And he had that awful Mr. Goddard—”

Follow us.
She didn’t have to say it. What Adelaide had told me, then, was the truth.

Miss Wilson bit back her words and blushed furiously, her eyes fever bright in comparison. I took pity on her. “I believe you about your feelings toward my cousin. And I don’t for a minute believe that Neily had anything to do with Mr. Goddard’s death.” I reached across the table and patted her wrist. “He and I have always been good friends, and I want him to be happy. If you see him, will you please tell him to call me on the telephone or to come out to Gull Manor to see me as soon as possible? Oh, and that he should put in an appearance at home before they begin to worry.”

She nodded, as good as a verbal admission that she would, in fact, be seeing Neily in the near future. We left the teahouse and went our separate ways. I briefly considered following her, then discarded the idea. But I wondered, as I headed back to my buggy, if I believed my own assertion of Neily’s innocence.

“Good news,” Nanny said when I arrived home. She hadn’t waited for me to come in the house but had bundled out to meet me in the barn. I had unharnessed Barney and was using a hoof pick to dislodge chunks of dirt and pebbles from his hooves. Nanny sidled in front of the gelding and held up the carrot she’d brought with her. “I know where the Vanderbilts’ butler is.”

I released Barney’s left rear hoof and straightened. “That’s former butler, but that was quick.”

“I’ll have you know it took me all afternoon,” she replied with an indignant huff, but her eyes smiled at me from over Barney’s head. “Actually, Irene from over at the Astors’ place ran into Teddy Mason in front of the Brick Market two days ago. He’s taken a room in the Harbor Hill Boarding House. It’s on Broadway.”

“I think I know it. Two days ago,” I mused, more to myself. “That was the morning of the ball. If it weren’t already so late and if I hadn’t driven Barney to town twice today, I’d go there now.”

“You’ll go tomorrow, but not alone, young lady. I’m coming with you.”

My automatic protest died on my lips. “That might not be a bad idea. He knows you, and he might be more willing to talk to you than me. He’d probably worry that I’d run telling tales to Uncle Cornelius.”

“Finish up with Barney,” Nanny ordered me. “I’ve got a pot roast in the oven that should be done right about now, and we don’t want shoe leather for supper, do we?”

“I brought some pleated chiffon home from Molly’s,” I called to her retreating back. “Enough for both of us.”

“I hope it’s blue, to match my eyes,” she called back gaily.

Glad I’d chosen correctly, I smiled and began running the brush through Barney’s coat.

“Herr Mason? Yah, he took a room here. He’s very quiet and I almost never see him. But I think he’s not in at the moment.”

The Harbor Hill, situated on Broadway about a half mile beyond the west end of Washington Square, was a three-story Victorian that could have done well with a coat of fresh paint and some cheerful flowers in its gaping window boxes. But the landlady proved to be a pleasant woman with a light German accent and wisps of brown hair pulled up into a bun at the crown of her head. To add legitimacy to our visit, Nanny had wrapped up some of last night’s leftover pot roast and potatoes, along with a generous slice of peach pie. Nanny held out the linen-covered basket.

“May we leave these for him?”

“Oh, smells heavenly. I’m sure he’ll be delighted. Who shall I say called?”

“Mrs. Mary O’Neal,” Nanny replied, and then with a twinkle added, “we were old school chums, Mr. Mason and I, and sweethearts for a short while.”

“You never told me that,” I whispered as we walked back to the rig I’d parked at the curb.

“A girl can have her secrets, can’t she?”

I couldn’t argue with that.

We drove back into town to deliver another basket of leftovers, this time to Brady. We had to wait in the main station while an officer first rifled through the parcel—searching for files or crowbars, one supposes—and then brought the bundle back to Brady. His cell door was locked up tight when Nanny and I were finally allowed back there, and he was sitting hunched on his cot with the basket on his knees.

Looking decidedly glum, he placed it on the mattress beside him and came to his feet. “Thanks, ladies. Appreciate it.”

“Pot roast and potatoes with glazed carrots, Brady. Your favorites,” I said, trying to raise his enthusiasm.

He shrugged and nodded.

“Are you catching a cold?” Nanny pushed her half-moon spectacles higher on her nose and peered at him through the bars. “Open your mouth and say
‘ahhhh.’ ”

“I’m not ill, Nanny.”

“Then what’s wrong?” I felt immediately stupid; since we were standing in the city jail, the answer was obvious. Yet on my previous two visits, he hadn’t seemed nearly so . . . defeated.

He leaned his forehead against the bars. “I don’t think they’re going to let me out, Em.”

“Oh, Brady,” I said, incredulous. “Did you really think they were going to?”

“Yeah, actually, I did. I thought after a day or two Jesse would come let me out, tell me it was all a big mistake. But . . . they really believe I did it, don’t they?”

“Well, we don’t,” Nanny said with an imperious lift of her double chin.

“No, we don’t,” I seconded. “And I’ve convinced Jesse to return to The Breakers to inspect a dent in the door frame that might just prove the candelabrum wasn’t used against Mr. Goddard. In the meantime, can you think of anything else that might help your case? Anything to do with those railroad plans, maybe?”

“Such as what?” he asked warily.

“Such as whatever you’re hiding,” I snapped. His mouth thinned and he started to back away from the bars. I gentled my tone. “I’m sorry. I’m only trying to help. What about the investors? Who were you going to approach with the plans?”

“I’ve already given the police that information.”

“What?” My voice became sharp again, and with an effort I held on to the last of my patience. “Brady, the police think you’re guilty. Jesse wants to believe in you, but even he has his doubts based on the evidence. I am the only one fighting to exonerate you. So tell me, who did you approach with those plans?”

“No one who would have murdered Alvin Goddard.” Just as I despaired of ever getting a straight answer from my brother, the stubborn gleam in his eye faded. “Jack.”

I frowned. “Mr. Parsons?” My father’s handsome, dashing friend from his college days? When Brady nodded, my pulse rattled in my wrists. “He’s an investor?”

“Sure, along with every other speculator summering in Newport, most of whom were at the ball and easily could have followed me into Uncle Cornelius’s bedroom, knocked me out, and shoved Alvin off the balcony. There’s no reason to think Jack . . .”