Murder at Beechwood (7 page)

Finally, the doctor offered to escort them to Derrick's room. I started forward, but Lavinia noticed me then and held up the flat of her palm. I stopped short as if she'd pushed me. “My son's health is a private matter, Miss Cross.”

“I'm concerned about him, too, Mrs. Andrews.”

Her eyebrow rose in a show of disdain. “I suggest you return to your home. I'll have someone deliver a message to you once we are more certain of Derrick's condition. Unless you have a telephone?” Her expression said she didn't think someone like me would possess such a luxury.

I didn't bother to correct her. She had placed pointed emphasis on
my son,
in effect staking her claim and negating any hold I might have believed I had on Derrick. Her attitude toward me stung, but in a way I could hardly blame her. Her only son lay in a hospital bed in serious condition. Why should she worry about the feelings of a young woman she scarcely knew? Yet Derrick and I had a history of facing danger together, and I wasn't about to go anywhere until I knew he would be all right. Resolutely I chose a chair in the lobby and settled in. Mrs. Andrews and her daughter regarded me with no small degree of exasperation before apparently dismissing me and following the doctor up the stairs.

Time passed, and I began to wonder if I should call for a hansom to take me home. At the sound of heels clicking on the steps I jumped up from my seat. Judith Kingsley approached, her expression grim.

My heart sank even as I clung to hope. “Will he be all right?”

“The doctor said we won't know for another day or two. He swallowed quite a lot of water and is heavily sedated. They'll need to observe him for the next forty-eight hours, perhaps longer. I suggest you go home, Miss Cross, and leave Derrick to Mother and me.”

That was all. She offered no further reassurances, no thanks for my concerns, not even a softening of her haughty expression.

“Mrs. Kingsley, your brother and I are friends—”

“Only friends?” she interrupted. She raised her eyebrow at me, and if I hadn't known she was Lavinia Andrews's daughter previously, there would have been no doubt now.

“Truthfully, yes. And as his friend, I feel I have a right to—”

“Miss Cross . . .” She moved closer and dropped her voice to a murmur. “My mother would like you to know this: You gave up any right to be my brother's acquaintance, much less friend, when you took a prostitute into your home. Oh, yes,” she added at my look of surprise, “we know all about that. Did you think you could keep such a secret in a town like this?”

“I took in a young woman in need of shelter and a fresh start,” I said stiffly.

“Call it what you will. You are not the kind of person our family wishes to see fraternizing with my brother. Now, if you'll excuse me . . .” With that she turned on her heel and began the ascent to the second floor.

Outside, I stared unseeing into the road in front of the hospital. My temples throbbed and like an insidious fever my anger ran alternately hot and cold inside me. The sound of my name snapped me from my daze.

“Emma, over here!” Neily waved me over to his curricle. Grace squeezed over to make room for me on the leather seat. I climbed up and settled in with a sigh.

Grace reached for my hand. “Is Mr. Andrews going to be all right?”

“I don't know. They're going to observe him for the next few days.”

Neily leaned around Grace. “Your friend, Detective Whyte, wants to see you, Emma. He called over to Beechwood after you left. That's why we're here. We'll take you over to the station.”

“Why me?” I had no desire to discuss theories with Jesse, not just then. I wanted only to go home, receive a hug and a cup of tea from Nanny, and hold little Robbie. I sighed again. Robbie. I shouldn't have allowed Katie to name him. We had no claim on the child, no lasting ties.

Just as I had no true ties to Derrick . . .

“The detective has been interviewing everyone who was involved in the accident,” Grace explained.

I shook away a sudden urge to cry and focused on the matter at hand. “Yes, but I wasn't . . .”

“You
were
watching through binoculars,” Grace reminded me. “Several people remembered that. Someone must have mentioned it to him.”

We arrived at the police station to find a dozen or so of Mrs. Astor's guests milling in the lobby and the large open office beyond. How strange, the sight of so many fashionably dressed people in that harsh, utilitarian place, with its electric lights, bare walls, and dull wood floor. I saw no sign of Mrs. Astor herself. I did see Eudora Monroe and her brother-in-law, Wyatt, sitting near Jesse's desk. Jesse, however, was nowhere in sight.

Leaving Grace and Neily talking to a group in the lobby, I made my way into the main room and over to Jesse's desk. “Mrs. Monroe, are you all right?”

Her pale face supplied the answer, but she drew herself up and met my gaze. “My sons are being questioned, Miss Cross. Both of them. They wouldn't let me be there.”

Judging by his absence, I guessed Jesse was one of the officers questioning the boys. “Don't worry, Mrs. Monroe. They're in good hands, I can promise you. Where is Daphne?”

“She stayed behind at Beechwood. There was no reason for her to come. I put her to bed with a cool compress before we left. Her nerves are all a jumble. Mrs. Astor will look in on her.”

I touched her shoulder. “I'm sure she'll be fine. But how are you holding up, ma'am? Is there any word?”

“My husband has not been found, if that is what you're asking.”

I searched her face for signs of grief, for the threat of tears. As earlier, her eyes were dry. I remembered the lace-edged fan she had given me so blithely earlier in the day. I still had it. I opened my purse and drew it out.

“I should return this to you, Mrs. Monroe, especially now.”

She held up a hand, not to take the item but to shield herself from it. “No, Miss Cross, you keep it. Really.”

I was confused and flabbergasted. I flicked a glance at Wyatt Monroe, who had been watching our exchange in silence. He stared back at me, his nostrils flaring and his upper lip slightly curling. “How is Derrick?” he asked.

“He's been admitted to the hospital,” I said, unnerved by the bluntness of the question, and by his use of Derrick's given name with me. Did he know about our friendship? Had Derrick spoken of me to this man? “They need to observe him for signs of pneumonia.”

“Humph.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

“I'm sorry? Is that supposed to mean something?”

“Two men fell in, Miss Cross. Only one came out.”

“What are you implying?”

Before he could answer, the door to the police chief's private office opened, and the Monroe brothers walked out. Lawrence was scowling. His younger brother, Nate, had obviously been reduced to tears yet again. Their mother sprang out of her chair and rushed over to them.

Jesse stepped out of the office, saw me, and waved me over.

Wyatt came to his feet and brushed my arm to catch my attention. He was a tall man, athletic in build, the type who obviously spent more time in pursuit of outdoor activities than sitting in an office. If Virgil was the family's financial expert, Wyatt was the seasoned sportsman. “I am implying that Derrick Andrews is either one lucky bastard or a guilty one. He dove in after my brother. By the time I reached the side of the boat to pull them back in, only Derrick was there. My brother was nowhere to be seen. Now, why do you think that could be?” He tipped his head to me in dismissal. “Miss Cross.”

He walked away, leaving me shaking where I stood.

A
policeman in blue stood in the private office, but at a word from Jesse he nodded a greeting to me and left. Police Chief Rogers, a barrel-chested man with sharp features yet kindly eyes, rose from his seat behind the desk. “I'll leave you two alone.”

Jesse closed the door behind him. “The Life-Saving Service will continue the search, but at this point Virgil Monroe is presumed dead. And it's quite possible the storm isn't solely to blame.”

“Have you questioned his brother yet?”

It wasn't so much my question as my deadpan tone that seemed to take Jesse aback. “I've questioned all of the Monroes. Why?”

I didn't want to voice what Wyatt Monroe had just insinuated—that Derrick was responsible for Virgil falling overboard. I couldn't believe that. But what reason would Wyatt have to implicate Derrick? According to Grace, their two families were longtime friends. Derrick wouldn't have been part of the race crew otherwise.

Of course, that didn't mean Derrick and Wyatt hadn't argued recently, or that they hadn't harbored some secret resentment toward each other, giving Wyatt reason to accuse him.

“Emma, I called you in here because I've been told you were watching the race through binoculars.”

I blinked away my speculations. “Yes, that's true.”

“Did you see anything unusual occur between the men?”

I thought back. I'd been so focused on the effects of the wind and rain that, in truth, I'd hardly noticed the individual actions of those on board. “I remember the boom swinging wildly back and forth, and the men ducking out of the way. I was sure someone would be knocked over the side, but they all avoided being struck.”

Jesse grasped my arm and led me to a chair facing the desk. He perched himself on the edge of the desktop. “Did you notice who manned which position?”

“No, they were all scrambling, reaching to secure lines and tighten the sails. With the rain, I couldn't make out who was who.”

“So you couldn't say, for instance, if Derrick Andrews left his starboard position before he jumped in to allegedly save Mr. Monroe.”

I pinned Jesse with my gaze. “Wyatt told you he believes Derrick is responsible for Virgil being lost, didn't he?”

“He expressed that sentiment, yes.”

Spots of fury danced before my eyes. “Have you considered that he might be trying to shift attention away from himself? After all, who among those men knows more about sailing, and about that boat in particular? Wyatt Monroe is the sportsman of the family. I was told it was
his
sailboat they raced.”

“Paid for by Virgil,” he corrected. Jesse leaned back on his hands and regarded me for a long moment. “Lawrence Monroe told us the boat was handling oddly before the storm kicked up.”

“He said the same thing earlier at Beechwood. It raises important questions about Wyatt's actions before the race.”

“Explain.”

“Don't forget, Wyatt should have inspected the vessel before the race.” I grasped for any fact that would remove suspicion from Derrick. “If anything had been tampered with, he should have noticed, shouldn't he? Unless he sabotaged the
Vigilant
himself.”

“And his motive for doing so?” Jesse posed the question with a lift of his chin.

In other circumstances I might have grinned as I rose to the challenge of his question. But not now, with so much at stake. “I heard Virgil and Wyatt arguing last night at the ball. One of them said, ‘You can lie all you want, but I know your secret. I promise you, you won't win this time.' ”

Jesse gave me a deferential nod. “I admire your recall abilities, but what were they arguing about? The race? Or something more serious? And who spoke?”

“They were hidden from me at the time and I don't know their voices well enough to distinguish one from the other, but I saw them immediately afterward and they both appeared furious. As to what ‘it' may be, I don't yet know. But Wyatt having a motive to murder his brother makes much more sense than assigning Derrick the blame.”

Where I expected concurrence, Jesse's expression turned so grave my stomach tightened in warning. “Actually, Wyatt supplied us with a possible motive. Did you know the two families' fortunes are somewhat linked?”

I hesitated, not at all liking this sudden turn. “Grace Wilson mentioned something to that effect, yes.”

“Wyatt claims Virgil had been doctoring his financial reports, misrepresenting the profit margins. His investors have taken a loss as a result, including the Andrews family.”

My twisting stomach now dropped to my feet. I didn't wish to hear another word, yet I knew I had no choice. “That's a serious charge. Can he prove it?”

“It has yet to be verified, but that's not all. Wyatt says Virgil was quietly buying out New England and upstate New York newspapers. Most of the transactions were conducted through one of his smaller subsidiary companies, essentially hiding his identity. These were mostly small publications, but he was in the process of buying controlling shares of the Providence
Sun
. A process halted by his untimely death, I might add.”

“Oh, Jesse . . .” My throat closed and I gasped for air. Jesse was on his feet and patting my back in an instant, though that only made me sputter more.

He went to the door and swung it open. “I need some water in here,
now.
”

I'd all but recovered before he pressed the cool glass to my lips, but I drank dutifully nonetheless. I wrapped my hands around the glass and Jesse backed away to resume his perch on the desk.

As soon as I could trust my voice, I said, “I don't care what motives he might have had. Derrick Andrews did not cause Virgil Monroe to fall overboard.”

“Can you be as certain he didn't seize the opportunity to jump in and hold the man under the water until he drowned?”

“Yes, I'm certain, dammit!”

My vehemence took even me aback. Jesse went quiet, his pensiveness weighting the air between us. My spine gone rigid, I stared back defiantly. Was Jesse
hoping
to prove Derrick guilty? He made no secret of his affections for me, and I didn't doubt he had guessed part of my hesitation in returning them stemmed from my own conflicted feelings for Derrick. Did he see this as a way to be rid of a rival?

“Jesse . . . surely you can't believe—”

“Right now,” he interrupted in the brisk tone of a policeman, “every man on the
Vigilant
is a potential suspect. The vessel is being examined for intentional damage, and the Yacht Club records will be checked to see when the boat was last inspected, by whom, and who had been aboard last before the race. We'll also verify each man's whereabouts the day before, as well as look into each one's relations with Virgil Monroe. That's where you come in, Emma, if you're willing to help.”

I relaxed in my seat. I should have known better than to believe a good man like Jesse would jump to conclusions no matter how personally convenient they might be. I smiled weakly. “What can I do?”

“Exactly what you're already doing in your search for the baby's mother. How is he, by the way?”

“He's doing just fine.” My smile grew. “Getting lots of attention.”

“Good. Keep asking questions. Mrs. Astor not only refused to speak with us today, she's put her foot down when it comes to allowing us access to Beechwood. She says the accident didn't occur on her property, so there's no reason for us to intrude on her or her guests' privacy. That's why we had everyone transported here for questioning.”

“The incident involved
her
guests.” I shook my head at the obstinacy of Mrs. Astor's set, their insistence that they should live by different rules than the rest of us. “I believe with Grace's help, I can return to Beechwood.” The weight of my purse in my lap reminded me of something that could prove important. I opened the clasp and drew out Eudora's fan. “I had already turned my focus to the Monroe family. Look at this.” I handed him the elegant piece. “See the lace? It matches the handkerchief Katie found with the baby. I believe it's possible Daphne Gordon is the mother.”

He frowned. “The Monroes' ward?”

“Merely a theory at this point, but one that needs investigating. Something is making Daphne terribly unhappy, and Eudora doesn't seem to want to let her speak of it. She pulled Daphne away from me at the ball last night. And that's not all.” I shifted forward on my seat. “When I asked Lawrence if Daphne was all right, he said I should ask his father that question.”

“Are you saying . . . ?”

“Like you, I don't wish to jump to conclusions. But yes, I'm saying it's possible Virgil Monroe fathered a child on Daphne Gordon. Which opens up new motives for someone wanting the man dead, doesn't it?”

Jesse raised a hand to his chin. “It most certainly does. But remember this, Emma. If Virgil Monroe and that child are connected, his may not be the only death involved. There was also the carriage driver.”

“Have you identified him?”

“No, and we haven't received any reports of missing persons. It's as if he appeared out of thin air and disappeared back into it.”

“An abandoned baby and two dead men,” I mused. “It couldn't be coincidence.”

“Not just
dead
men, Emma, but possibly two
murdered
men,” he corrected me. “Remember that. This is dangerous business and I don't want you doing more than asking general questions and reporting back to me. No overstepping your bounds like you did last summer. Understood?”

“Of course, Jesse.” I held his gaze without blinking. “I experienced enough excitement last summer to last a lifetime.”

 

“I need to use the typewriter, Ed. Now, please.”

“Why?” My fellow reporter at the Newport
Observer
glanced up at me from his seat behind the only desk in the office we shared, not that I used it very often. His eyebrows waggled dramatically. “Got a big tip on the latest fashions coming out of Paris?”

I didn't consider myself a violent person, but it was all I could do not to smack the stupid grin off Ed Billings's very average face. There was nothing remarkable about this man. He was of average height and build, with nondescript brown hair and eyes—eyes that looked upon the world with a startling lack of compassion or sense of fairness. Eyes that rarely displayed any emotion except a perverse kind of humor, typically derived at the expense of someone else.

Today that someone was me, but that was nothing new.

“You're not using the typewriter, Ed,” I pointed out. “If you would simply move your chair so I could get by . . .”

The typewriter sat on a small table behind the desk. Without waiting for Ed to decide whether he would be accommodating or not, I made my way past him, and if I pushed his chair, assisted by its castors, so close to the edge of the desk he was forced to suck in his overhanging belly, well, it couldn't be helped. Besides, I was exhausted, emotionally and physically, but I had no intention of returning home until I'd placed my article about today's distressing events into the hands of my employer, Mr. Millford.

I sat, removed the canvas cover from the machine, wriggled my fingers a few times to loosen them, and began tapping away. Soon enough I sensed Ed craning his neck to see over my shoulder.

“What's got you all fired up?”

“Someone died today, Ed. At Beechwood.”

He sprang up from his chair. “Why didn't someone tell me? Why didn't you telephone here, Emma?”

I didn't look up from my typing. “Why should I? I was there. I witnessed the events firsthand.”

“That's beside the point. This should be my story. I'm the
Observer
's hard news reporter.”

“No, you're not, at least not exclusively. Mr. Millford ran my story about the murder at Marble House last summer.” I glanced over my shoulder briefly. “Remember?”

I returned to my article, pressing the keys with a renewed vigor that almost drowned out Ed's next words.

“That little carrot he tossed you? That was nothing. That was to stop your whining. You shouldn't have read more into it, Emma. I thought you were smarter than that.”

My hands flew off the keyboard, throwing the room into sudden silence. I turned. Started to speak. Breathed in sharply. Burning waves engulfed my face—could he see it? His infuriating grin persisted, no longer merely mean-spirited but downright malevolent. Spiteful. He stood over me, leering, his very posture demeaning in a way that felt calculated. For the briefest moment the walls closed in and I almost feared him.

And then I remembered that Ed Billings was all bluster and no substance—just like his articles, where the sensational always took precedence over the facts.

I inhaled, much more calmly this time, and turned back around to face the typewriter. “If you'll excuse me, Ed, I have a story to finish before the presses stop for the night.”

“We'll see about this, Emma.”

“Mmm. Yes, all right.”

“I'm going to speak to Mr. Millford.”

He plodded loudly out of the office, but I'm sure he still heard my reply of, “You do that, Ed.”

When I could no longer hear his footsteps, my fingers stilled. The truth was, except for a few stories about minor thefts on the island, I hadn't delivered any hard news to Mr. Millford since the Marble House article last summer. Would he allow me to cover this story now? It was vital he did—vital to me, at least. I refused to let Ed Billings publicly accuse, try, and condemn people I cared about. Nor could I let him follow a trail that might lead to Robbie. Under no circumstances must that happen.