Murder at Beechwood (9 page)

I tried another tack. “And how are your brothers doing? Nate in particular seemed quite distraught.”

She turned to regard me so quickly that I flinched. “Nate and Lawrence are
not
my brothers, Miss Cross. Let us be quite clear about that.”

“I beg your pardon. I only meant—”

Her brow smoothed. “Yes, I understand. But remember, I have only been with the Monroes a few years. It's not as if the boys and I grew up all our lives together. We aren't as familiar as all that.”

“I see.”

“But as for your question, you are correct. Nate is despondent over his father, although, like his mother, he has not given up hope.”

“And Lawrence?”

She fought another smile and fingered the collar of her ivory tea gown, and a little shock went through me as I again recognized the lace that had first sent me on my quest to Beechwood. It edged the sailor-style collar and the cuffs of her dress. Though we stood beneath the shade of the pavilion roof, the gold threads woven into the pattern shimmered with light.

Her attention had wandered, and I roused her by gently repeating my inquiry.

“Lawrence is rather more stoic than his brother.” Her smile peeked out yet again, though only a quick appearance before she compressed her lips. “Don't misunderstand. He is horrified by what happened. He simply isn't one to express his feelings openly, and he understands that it does no one any good to wallow in misfortune.”

“I'm sure Lawrence must be doing all he can to help Nate through this difficult time.”

“He is trying to. He and Nate aren't always the closest of brothers.”

Much like Virgil and Wyatt, I thought. “Perhaps sibling closeness isn't fostered in the Monroe household. I believe Mr. Monroe and his brother sometimes had their differences. Some families seem to thrive on competition, especially among the male members. Would you say that's the case with the Monroes?”

“Now that you mention it, yes, Mr. Monroe did encourage a certain competition among the boys, though he targeted Nate most of all. ‘Be like your brother,' he would say. Or, ‘Why aren't you as good at everything as Lawrence?' ”

I made note of the word she had used:
targeted.
“So he favored Lawrence over Nate?”

“I wouldn't exactly say that either. He favored Lawrence when it suited his purpose to do so.”

“And when it didn't?” I pressed, though gently, so as not to let her realize I was doing so.

Here the resentment she had revealed to me at the ball returned to score her forehead and pinch her lips. “Then he would simply dismiss Lawrence, or belittle his requests. And mine, and his wife's—” She broke off suddenly, her eyes widening with an emotion I couldn't read. Fear? Not quite that, but anxiety of some kind, to be sure. She glanced over her shoulder at the card tables. “Listen to me,” she said with a soft, nervous laugh, “speaking ill of the deceased. Forgive me, Miss Cross. I suppose I'm not as composed as I might appear.”

“That's quite all right, Miss Gordon. In times like these, it helps to unburden oneself.”

“Thank you, Miss Cross. I—” She broke off once again, then pointed toward the cliffs. “Here they come now!”

“Who?” But I needn't have asked. Two figures in masculine clothing stepped through the gate in the hedge that separated the property from the Cliff Walk. Daphne raised her hand to wave, and one of the figures waved back and quickened his step.

“Come say hello, Miss Cross,” she said, before circling me and hastening down the veranda steps to the lawn. She began to run and then apparently remembered herself, for she lurched to a more sedate pace. Nonetheless, she continued as if on tightly wound coils that could bounce out of control at any moment.

Not about to miss an opportunity, I followed her more slowly so as not to attract undo attention from Eudora or the other ladies. Their voices droned on, indicating their focus was still on their card game.

Daphne reached Lawrence and for an instant I thought she was going to throw herself into his arms. They both stopped short with several feet between them, but even so I had the unshakable impression of their being wrapped in an invisible embrace. I saw it in the tilt of Lawrence's smile, in the rise and fall of Daphne's shoulders. Nate had fallen behind his brother and only now caught up, but when he should have stopped to greet Daphne he continued on. I bid him good afternoon as he passed me. He scowled and grunted in return.

“Nate seems upset,” I said when I joined the other two. I searched Lawrence's face for signs he and his brother had argued. Where his mother's eyes were midnight dark, his were a lighter brown with golden flecks that presently flared. Anger? I couldn't be sure.

“I had agreed to walk the cliffs with him, searching for any evidence of my father. Nate is hoping . . .” He swallowed. “We didn't find anything.”

“I told Miss Cross Nate is having trouble accepting what has happened,” Daphne said, her voice a soft caress that had an immediate effect on Lawrence. His eyes cleared of their turbulent emotion, leaving him as serene as I'd first found Daphne.

“This must all seem rather bizarre to you, Miss Cross,” he said. “Bridge games, being out walking—our family never did do things in the usual way. I hope you won't judge us too harshly, but as long as the police insist we remain in Newport—until Father's death is resolved—we must get on as best we can. For a Monroe, that means staying occupied.”

“I explained that to Miss Cross as well,” Daphne said. “She's been wonderfully accommodating.”

I waved away her praise, and asked Lawrence, “How is your uncle? Is he here?”

Lawrence shook his head. “Since the sloop is no longer habitable, he has been staying here, but I haven't seen him yet today. It's not like him to sleep in.”

“He must have gone into town,” Daphne said. “Probably to supervise the inspection of the sloop. You know how he is about that boat. Heaven forbid someone touches something in the wrong way . . .” She rolled her eyes.

Lawrence voiced his agreement. To me it sounded as if Wyatt Monroe was more concerned about his boat than his brother. But then, so far the entire family seemed less than disturbed by Virgil Monroe's drowning.

Had anyone cared about the man while he lived?

 

I knew I'd earned my keep about an hour later when Mrs. Astor caught my gaze and gave me a nod. Acknowledging me with even that small gesture meant she apparently approved of how I had engaged Daphne and Lawrence in strolling about the gardens and, later, enjoying an impromptu picnic on the lawn in the growing shadow of the house. One of the worst fates in the eyes of a woman like Caroline Astor was to have any of her guests at loose ends.

The bridge game ended. Mrs. Monroe came to her feet and with the back of her hand pressed to her forehead declared herself worn out. Instinct sent me to my feet as well. I could follow her into the house, offer to escort her up to her room to see to her comfort, and attempt to strike up a conversation. Yet as I climbed the loggia steps I saw very real smudges of weariness beneath her eyes. If I had any doubts, they ended when she swayed and Grace's mother moved swiftly beside her and slipped an arm about Eudora's waist. Even if I had offered my assistance, I could not in good conscience have probed the woman with questions about her husband, not then. I would have to return to Beechwood another time.

Carrie decided to stay on, but Grace and I left soon after. If I had lost an opportunity with Eudora Monroe, I gained one now in being alone with Grace.

“This afternoon was not what I expected,” I said as the carriage swung out onto Bellevue Avenue.

I didn't need to explain. Grace nodded. “The Monroes are a complex family. Had my father been lost, you would have found all of us in blackest black and weeping on each other's shoulders. But then, my father and Virgil Monroe are two very different men.”

I reached under my chin to untie my hat ribbon, removed the simple straw and silk-lined boater, and leaned my slightly aching head back against the velvet squabs. I thought about my own parents and my sense of their having both abandoned and betrayed me by moving to Paris and selling the house I grew up in. Yet in my heart I knew if anything happened to them, I would react with anything but indifference. “It's sad to think his family might not have held him in the highest regard. Perhaps they simply register their grief differently than most people.”

“He was a difficult man to like,” she replied candidly. She pulled her lace gloves from her fingers, and I caught myself examining the pattern, half expecting to see the gold-threaded design brought back from Brussels by Virgil Monroe. It was not the same, of course, and I shook my head at my fancies.

“Daphne told me he often belittled the family's requests,” I said. “If that's true, it seems rather cruel of him.”

“Daphne has good reason to say that. It's not commonly known, but she and Lawrence wish to marry.”

“I hadn't known that, but it doesn't surprise me after seeing them together. I take it Mr. Monroe disapproved?”

“‘Disapproved' is an understatement. From what I understand he downright refused to allow it and ordered them to never speak of it again.”

“But why? Was it because she spent the last several years in their household, almost like a sibling?” Before Grace answered I remembered what Daphne had said. “I mistakenly referred to Lawrence and Nate as her brothers, and she nearly bit my head off.”

“Yes, I imagine such a reference would be a sore point for her. But from what I've heard—and mind you this came from my mother's personal maid, who had it from Mrs. Monroe's maid—Virgil didn't deem Daphne's inheritance significant enough for his son.”

“Won't she inherit her father's fortune?”

“She will, indeed. But after her parents died without male heirs, their lumber companies were sold off. I believe your uncle Cornelius bought one of them, to supply his railroads with ties.”

“Did he?” I hadn't known that, but it made sense since Uncle Cornelius never let an opportunity pass him by.

“Daphne's inheritance is a fixed amount,” Grace went on, “without company stocks or prospects of increasing in any substantial way. Apparently Virgil wished to expand his own interests with his sons' marriages in order to create a family dynasty. Much like your own relatives established through the generations.”

True, I was no stranger to the ambitions of parents. Consuelo hadn't wanted to marry the Duke of Marlborough, but she hadn't been able to withstand the pressure from her mother, who was intent on elevating her branch of the family to European nobility. There was another example much closer to home these days—sitting right beside me, in fact. Neily's parents didn't deem Grace, or her family, good enough for their son. They wanted someone with an older pedigree, without the slight taint of scandal fueled by rumors that Grace's father had profiteered during the Civil War.

“This explains the grievances Daphne expressed at the ball,” I said. “I know how she felt about Virgil's interference, but what about Lawrence?”

“I'm afraid we've exhausted the extent of my knowledge.” Grace gazed out the window into the lengthening shadows. We had just passed the gated entrance to Rough Point and were turning onto Ocean Avenue. Light traffic passed us in the opposite direction; a carriage ahead of us turned into Bailey's Beach, where late-day swimmers splashed about in the shallows or sipped cool drinks beneath the awnings near the pavilion. “I'm afraid I'm not a confidant of either Daphne or Lawrence.” She sat back and turned to me again, her eyes narrowing. “You don't think Lawrence . . . ?”

I shook my head quickly. “No, please understand that I tend to think aloud. It's my way of organizing the nonsense floating around in my brain. I certainly don't mean to accuse anyone of anything, especially a young man who just lost his father.”

“A possibly angry young man,” Grace whispered. I could practically see the churning of her thoughts, because the look on her face was an all-too-familiar one. Surely it was the same look of concentration I assumed when I was piecing together evidence.

It was one thing for me to play investigator. It was quite another for the daughter of a member of the Four Hundred. Grace had been sheltered and pampered her entire life, and to someone like her, Virgil Monroe's death might seem a great, mysterious adventure. I knew better. I had learned all too well how quickly an ordinary situation could turn lethal. I had experience in fighting back—in fighting for my life. Grace did not.

“A lot of young men become angry with their fathers at one time or another. Take Neily, for example.” I didn't finish, but let the obvious hang in the air between us. Grace's next words surprised me.

“Speaking of Neily . . . I telephoned him from Beechwood before we left. I . . . ah . . .” She looked away, nipped at her bottom lip, and played with the tasseled cords of her purse. “Would you mind terribly if he were to meet us at Gull Manor when we arrived?”

I placed a hand over hers. “Not at all.”

“It's become difficult finding time together, you see. His parents have been keeping a close eye on him, and when he
has
come to see me they've had terrible rows about it. It could place you in an arduous position, so I really shouldn't ask—”

“Grace, truly, it's all right. While I have no desire to argue with my relatives, neither will I stand down from something I believe to be right. Besides, with a brother like mine, I've had to stand up to Uncle Cornelius and Aunt Alice more times than I can count. I'm happy to report that so far there have been no permanent rifts.”