Murder at the Breakers (16 page)

Every instinct and every notion of propriety ever instilled in me roared out a warning. I knew nothing about this man, had no reason to trust him. And I knew what happened to young women who put their faith in dashing, charming gentlemen. Yet for reasons I still can’t explain, I placed my hand in his and gave a firm shake.

It was all I could do the next day not to drive straight over to The Breakers and confront Neily about being on the Point the previous night. Adelaide as well. Between the two of them, I would certainly be able to identify the fourth person in the blue saltbox. But besides not wanting to reveal my having followed Neily, I realized questioning either one of them could potentially put them in danger—and me in even greater danger than I already was. If that fourth person had been my attacker, it might also mean he murdered Alvin Goddard. Better to let my assailant believe he’d frightened me away from investigating any further, while at the same time leaving Neily and Adelaide ignorant of any information that could make them targets as well.

Of course, I hadn’t been frightened off, and another possibility existed. Considering that a carriage had entered the Point behind me, it was possible my attacker hadn’t emerged from the house at all, but from one of the side streets. And if the individual took the trouble of following me and running me down with a knife, it must mean I was getting closer—uncomfortably close—to the truth.

Besides the names I’d read in Stevenson’s ledger, I’d learned something else the day I went into town with Aunt Alice and Gladys. Theodore Mason had lied about his whereabouts the night of the murder. He told me he never left his room but had sat reading
Great Expectations
until turning in. His landlady had a different story: Mr. Mason had indeed gone out that night.

At midmorning, then, I stood in front of Jack Parsons’s front door. From somewhere in the house drifted a deep drone of voices, far off and indistinct, but suggesting Jack was at home. I clanked the knocker until it raised resounding echoes in the hallway inside. A moment later the door opened and Theodore Mason peered out at me with fatigue-ridden eyes.

Surprise instantly replaced his tired look. “Good morning, Miss Emma.”

“Good morning, Mr. Mason.” I started to step over the threshold, but he blocked my way.

“Er, I’m afraid this isn’t the best time, Miss Emma. Mr. Parsons is otherwise engaged.” He moved as if to close the door.

“That’s quite all right, Mr. Mason.” I held my ground and smiled. “It’s you I’ve come to see.”

“Me?”

“Indeed. May I step inside for a moment, or would you rather I ask my question here on the stoop, where the gardener might overhear?” Fortunately for me, the gardener at that moment walked around the corner of the house, hedge clippers in hand.

“It’s really not a good time, Miss Emma.” But he widened the door all the same.

He led me into the small receiving parlor at the front of the house. The voices I’d heard persisted, and I thought I detected a note of hostility, though I still couldn’t make out the words. Mr. Mason closed the door behind us, enveloping us in silence. He took several paces into the center of the room before pivoting soldier-style to regard me.

I saw no reason to vacillate. “You lied to me the other day. You were not in your boardinghouse room reading the night Alvin Goddard died.”

His shoulders sagged as the breath breezed out of him. “No, I wasn’t, at least not all night. I did go out for a short time.”

“How short?”

“I don’t know . . . not long.”

“Where did you go?”

He scowled at the floor, only just managing to smooth his brow before looking back up at me. “Nowhere in particular. For a walk. As people will do of an evening, Miss Cross.”

I tilted my chin at him. “Then why lie about it?”

“Why?” He held up his arms. “Why lie when someone practically accuses you of murder?”

“I did no such thing, Mr. Mason. I only asked you some questions.”

“Yes, about a murder. One I did not commit.”

“Neither did my brother. But someone did, and we’ll never get at the truth if people persist in lying about that night. So I’ll ask you again. Where did you go, and can anyone verify your story?”

He stared at me a good long moment, his eyes burning with indecision. His nose became pinched, and his brows cinched tightly enough to appear painful. Finally, he sighed. “Yes, someone can verify where I went that night. That is, I visited someone, but . . . I cannot tell you whom.”

“Why on earth not?”

“Because . . . I can’t. I promised. It’s a matter of . . . well . . .” Again he pinned me with a gaze that blazed with uncertainty. “I promised and I can’t break that promise unless . . . it becomes a matter of life and death.”

“You do realize, Mr. Mason, that I might have to go to the police with the information I have . . . tell them you lied, that you were not at home that night. I don’t wish to, but you’re not giving me much choice.”

His inner debate cleared from his expression, leaving his face a blank. “You do what you must, Miss Emma. And I will do what I must, when and if I must.”

I wanted to shake him. But I had one last question. “Where were you last night?” I inquired in a deadly quiet voice.

He seemed to take the query in stride. “I was here.”

“Can Mr. Parsons corroborate that?”

A corner of his mouth quirked with irony. “Mr. Parsons wasn’t home last night.”

Damn. But why would I expect a man like Jack Parsons to be sitting at home on a summer evening in Newport? Of course he was out, at the Casino or the Newport Country Club—or any of a dozen other places where music, good food, and pleasant conversation could be found.

I drew myself up, readying to leave. “I’m sorry to have upset you, Mr. Mason.”

His long-suffering look unexpectedly melted into something resembling sympathy. “I hope you clear your brother, Miss Emma. I always did like Mr. Brady. I always did,” he repeated absently, more to himself.

He walked past me to open the door, and angry voices spilled into the room. Familiar voices, both of them.

“You said you would, Jack. You can’t back out now.”

“Are you crazy? If you know what’s good for you, you’ll change your ways and keep your mouth shut in the bargain.”

“It’s too late, and you’re gonna get me killed.”

“Don’t be melodramatic.”

Forcing my unhinged mouth to close, I strode into the hall, effectively silencing Jack and my young cousin Reggie. “What is going on here?”

Jack’s back was to me, but now he whirled about. The two of them stared at me like a pair of raccoons caught rummaging through the garbage. “Emma . . .” Jack said weakly and trailed off.

“What are you doing here, Em?” My young cousin shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and scowled. I’d thought Mr. Mason looked tired, but Reggie looked downright . . . damaged. Worn out, defeated, and much, much too cynical for a boy of sixteen. At the sight of him, all I wanted to do was wrap my arms around him, rock him back and forth, and assure him everything would be all right.

Not that I knew what that “everything” entailed. Not that my embraces or reassurances would make a difference. Reggie had set out on a road that threatened to consume him whole—the circles beneath his eyes and the untimely brackets around his mouth attested to that—and it broke my heart.

“Reggie,” I said gently, “what’s going on? What will get you killed?” I shot a glance at Jack and demanded, “Who is going to hurt my cousin, and why?”

“S
ee here, Emma, it’s not as bad as all that. Why don’t we all have a seat and discuss this calmly.” Jack gestured toward the room I’d just vacated, and the three of us went in while Mr. Mason stole the opportunity to disappear down the hallway.

I didn’t point out that they had hardly been discussing anything calmly moments ago. Still, I hoped I might learn something in the next few moments that would ease my rising concerns for Reggie.

“Would you like some tea, Emma?” Jack asked me once we’d settled ourselves in the rather uncomfortable chairs the receiving parlor had to offer.

Tempted to snap in reply, I gritted my teeth. “What I’d like is for one of you to come clean, and fast or . . . I’ll go straight to Uncle Cornelius.”

I doubt I’d have done any such thing, but the threat certainly had its effect on Reggie; his eyes bulged and his cheeks flushed. “It’s just the summer sporting scene, Em. Happens every Season. Being a girl, you wouldn’t understand.”

I opened my mouth to protest the nature of that statement when Jack held up a hand. “He’s talking about yacht races, Emma.”

Settling back in my chair, I pondered that for all of about three ticks of the mantel clock. “Dishonest ones, I presume.”

“I told him it was a bad idea—”

“Not at first you didn’t,” Reggie interrupted, sliding forward to perch at the end of his seat. “You were going to place hefty wagers . . . you promised.”

“That was before I realized what was going to happen,” Jack shot back.

“Which is what?” I tossed up my hands. “One of you had better explain—or else.”

The implied threat worked its magic. Jack let out a breath. “Reggie’s mixed up in a plan to fix next week’s unofficial tournament at the Yacht Club.”

“Shut up, Jack!”

Jack ignored Reggie and went on. “The trick is to get everyone betting heavily on the favorite, and then for said favorite to encounter a problem that prevents them from finishing the race. A snapped rigging, a broken rudder.”

This wasn’t exactly a new concept for me. I was Brady’s sister, after all. Newport in the summer was all about wagering—on anything and everything. Our wealthy vacationers thought up all sorts of imaginative means of making—and losing—great sums of money. This wouldn’t be the first time someone had tampered with the outcome.

“And you were in on this with him?” I asked in a calm voice that belied my rising anger.

“I pretended to be. Reggie came to me asking for a loan, a big one, and when I questioned him as to why, he let drop enough information for me to realize he was getting himself eyeballs deep in a huge mess.”

“You were all for it a few weeks ago,” Reggie said with a hiss. “You helped plan the thing.”

Jack shook his head. “Only to put myself in a position where I could stop you and stop the illegal betting. My advice to you, Reggie, is to step back, stay home, and pretend you know nothing.”

“Can you?” I asked my cousin. My stomach clenched. “Or are you in too deep?”

He shrugged, staring at the floor. “Don’t tell Father. It won’t help anything.” With that, Reggie sprang to his feet. “Without your money, Jack, I’m out of it whether I want to be or not. So go ahead and stop the tournament or whatever the hell you feel like doing. I’m going home.”

He strode out of the parlor. Jack and I stood as well, and I held out my hand to him. “Thank you for not letting him do this thing. For looking out for him. He’s . . .” I shook my head.

“As a family friend it was the least I could do.” Jack smiled his brilliant smile, showing nearly all of his even, white teeth. “It’s what your father would have done if he were here.”

“I don’t know about that. Do you realize neither Mother nor Dad is coming home to support Brady? They’re staying in Paris, Jack.”

His smile faded. “I’m sorry to hear that, Emma. I’m sure they’d come if they could. You know how the art world is . . . there’s never enough money for necessities, much less trips across the ocean.”

I nodded, swallowing against a growing lump in my throat. Brady, Reggie, Neily . . . I felt myself up against far more than I could handle, and for the first time I questioned my ability to go on fighting for my brother’s life. Nothing I’d done so far seemed to have helped, had brought me no closer to discovering who murdered Alvin Goddard. I was tired and frustrated and . . .

I wanted my parents. There, I said it. I wanted them here to help shoulder the burden. To talk to. To tell me everything would be all right . . .

Bitterness rose up so suddenly I nearly choked on it. How dared Mother and Dad leave this to me? Did they believe me to be strong enough for this? And even if I was, how could they possibly believe I should have to be?

If it had been me in Europe, I’d have sold my last belonging in order to book passage home to help my brother. That my parents hadn’t done so only reinforced what I’d known for a long time, since childhood, though I couldn’t have verbalized it then: On some deep, yet indecipherable level they simply didn’t grasp what it meant to be parents. And they never would. Life to them was a series of artistic adventures, an intellectual fairy world that might or might not include Brady and me at any particular time.

“I’m here, Emma.” Had Jack read my mind? Or did he simply understand my situation? After all, he’d been my father’s friend since their university days. He knew Arthur Cross better than anyone, and knew my mother, too. His arms went around me and he pressed my cheek to his shoulder. “Whenever you need anything, Emma, I’m here.”

“Thank you.” I stepped away to give myself a shake and gather my composure. My falling apart due to unfulfilled parental obligations wouldn’t help Brady. I needed to remain levelheaded and focused.

A new thought prompted me to ask, “Is Reggie walking home?”

Jack seemed a little taken aback at my abrupt shift. “I presume so.”

“Then I need to go. Thanks for everything, Jack.”

Outside, I climbed into my buggy and steered Barney toward The Breakers. Sure enough, within a minute or two I came upon my cousin trudging along, his head down and his hands shoved into his coat pockets. I pulled alongside him. “Get in.”

He looked up at me but continued walking.

“I mean it, Reggie. Get in. I have more questions for you and if you won’t answer them now, I’ll be forced to follow you home and interrogate you there.”

He plowed to a halt. “When did you become such a tyrant?”

“I’m a Vanderbilt. Now climb up.” Once he had, I turned to face him rather than set Barney to a walk again. “You went to Jack for money.”

He frowned at me like I’d gone daft. “Didn’t we just establish that a few minutes ago? And it didn’t happen exactly the way he tells it, Emma. He was hot for the deal.”

“Yes, all right, but before you thought of asking Jack, did you maybe think of another way of getting the money?”

“Like what?”

I pursed my lips, then said, “You tell me.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I leaned closer and lowered my voice. “Reggie, did you steal the items that went missing from the house? The ones Mason was accused of taking? The ones he was fired for?”

“What?” His mouth dropped open and he fell back against the squabs as if I’d shoved him. “You’d accuse me of . . . No! Absolutely not. I like Mason. I wouldn’t . . . I can’t believe you’d even suggest such a thing.”

“Someone stole from the house, Reggie. Someone who obviously needed money.” I raised my eyebrows at him.

“Look. I wanted money, sure. I still do. I want my own money so I don’t have to rely on the paltry allowance Father gives me. But I didn’t need it enough to ruin Mason’s life.”

Anger fueled his protest, but it was the hurt gleam hovering behind the ire that won me over. “I believe you.”

He blew out a deep breath. His fingers trembled where they lay spread on his knees. “Thanks. I think.”

“Sorry.” I patted his shoulder. “But can I ask you one more question?”

“Can I stop you?”

I suppressed a smile, but it faded quickly enough anyway when I turned my thoughts to another serious matter. “It’s about Katie. Reggie, I need to know . . . did you . . . were you . . . um . . .” This turned out to be much harder to say than I’d realized.

“Are you talking about her being . . . in the family way?”

I expected him to protest as hotly as he’d done moments ago, and I braced myself to watch him closely, to detect whether he’d tell the truth or not. His quiet reply surprised me—shocked me. “No, it wasn’t me, Em. It maybe could have been, but it wasn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

He met my gaze. “Will you swear to secrecy?”

“Reggie . . .”

“Swear, Em, or I won’t tell you a thing.”

I didn’t like the terms, didn’t like promising to something before I knew what it entailed. Even so, I held up my hand. “I swear.”

He nodded. “You remember when we all came up in the spring to view the finished house? I brought Justin Reynolds with me—he was my roommate at school last term. Justin and I . . . well, Katie’s pretty, you know, and outgoing and all, and we . . . we thought she wanted . . .”

It didn’t take a genius to comprehend what two teenaged, youthfully arrogant boys believed Katie wanted, and the notion made me queasy. Reggie’s gaze darted away. He sucked his lips between his teeth, cracked a couple of knuckles. “You can’t tell anyone, Em. You swore.”

Part of me dearly wished I hadn’t. But I’d met Justin, the son of yet another powerful industrialist. The realistic part of me guessed that even if I went to the authorities and persuaded Katie to testify against him, Justin Reynolds wouldn’t receive more than a slap on the wrist. It would change nothing. Maybe if Katie’s baby had lived . . .

“What happened between them, Reggie?”

“Well, one night Justin arranged to meet Katie in the playhouse.” His eyes went fierce and his chin jerked to a defensive angle. “She went of her own free will, I swear it, Em.”

“She might have gone of her own free will, but that doesn’t mean she wanted what happened to her when she arrived.” My stomach threatened to turn over; bile rose in my throat. “You knew at the time this was happening?”

He offered me that shrug of his and said, “Didn’t think it was any of my business. She never looked at me, only Justin. I was in my room at the time.”

“Poor Katie . . .”

“Look, Em.” Reggie’s sharpened tone cut through my thoughts. “You’ve been asking a lot of questions lately, and not just of me.”

As I briefly wondered how he knew that, he went on, “You should quit playing sleuth and prying into other people’s business. Running around poking your nose into things isn’t a child’s game. It won’t help Brady, and it could get you hurt, or worse.”

The words echoed through me, producing tremors that ran up and down my arms as I flapped Barney’s reins. Last night someone had breathed nearly those same words in my ear while pressing a knife to my throat. I glanced over at the boy at my side. Could Reggie have attacked me? Could he have run me off the road along Ocean Avenue? I’d suspected him before, true, but only because of his penchant for the same bourbon found next to Brady after the murder. Now I had a motive—Reggie’s involvement in illicit gambling, and the possibility that Alvin Goddard had found out.

A few minutes later we drove up The Breakers’ long drive and came to a stop. Reggie swung down and stood looking up at me.

“So are you going to tell Father?”

“I should,” I said woodenly, staring straight ahead. Relenting, I returned his gaze. “But if you promise me you’re out of this yachting scheme, I won’t.”

“Don’t have much choice now, do I?”

I studied his youthful face, already showing hints of a hardened lifestyle. Were those patrician, even features those of a murderer? I couldn’t bring myself to believe it. And yet, Reggie was no innocent.

“Don’t you know how easy it is to end up like Brady?” I asked him in a whisper. “Is that what you want? To be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and have no one believe in you because of wrongs you’ve committed in your past?”

With a grin as brilliant as pure sunlight, he reached up and clasped my hand. “You’d believe in me, Em. I know you would.”

I watched Reggie enter the house, but I didn’t leave The Breakers. Within all the turmoil of these past days, something tugged at me, a sentiment instilled in me long ago that connected me to this place, to the property if not the newly reconstructed house. I’d spent the larger share of my summers here as a child, playing with my cousins and feeling part of a large brood whose roots extended back well over a century. Though I often liked to pretend otherwise, a significant portion of who I am had formed on these lawns, in the shared laughter of my cousins, in the admonishments and, yes, the wisdom of their parents, and in the order and ritual of life on an estate of this magnitude.

I liked to pretend I was independent and self-sufficient and unconventional, but the truth—yes, the
truth
—was that I only possessed the strength to be those things because of this place and these people; because of the Vanderbilt steel running in my veins. I needed them, and I realized I wasn’t just fighting for Brady anymore. I was fighting for all of us. For Brady and Neily and Reggie and even Mason—for the entire family. A family that suddenly seemed to be slipping away, breaking apart.

I set off with long strides away from the house. I headed first toward the playhouse, empty now but ringing with memories. I stood on the porch for long minutes, remembering how Neily had always insisted he be in charge of our make-believe household because he was the oldest, and how Gertrude always shot him down, telling him in no uncertain terms that ridiculous notions of primogeniture had no place in our games.

My strides brought me next across the back gardens, my gaze sweeping the lawns as I remembered picnics, ballgames, kite flying. . . . Gladys always wanted to hold the string. Reggie always ran faster than any of us. Neily always maintained a slight reserve, in keeping with his position as his father’s heir, I suppose.

I was nearly running by the time I reached the base of the property. My hat flew off, the ribbons having pulled free, and I let it sail behind me to land somewhere in the grass. The ocean stretched out in front of and below me, an ever-moving carpet of deepest sapphire glittering with sunlight. I found the gate separating the property from the Cliff Walk unlocked, as it usually was during the day. I opened it and pushed through, considering the possibility that someone had done the reverse the night of Gertrude’s ball. Come through the gate and stolen into the house . . . someone who wasn’t Brady or Neily or Reggie or Mason.