Murder at the Breakers (3 page)

“His heart,” Adelaide whispered in my ear, and I remembered hearing, probably from Gertrude last summer, that Rupert Halstock was more than thirty years older than his new wife. “His doctor has strictly forbidden him his port, cigars, and poring over stocks and dividends for more than two hours a day. Believe you me, Emma, it’s been no picnic policing his daily activities. But well worth it. The dear man is growing as sturdy as a goat.”

The man she pointed out stood in a group of older gentlemen before the open piazza doors that overlooked the rear gardens. Beyond the straggly whiskers sprouting beneath his chin, I hardly detected anything “goat-like” about Rupert Halstock. Far from the picture of returning health, his pallor alarmed me and left me shuddering at how he must have looked while in the throes of his disease. I shuddered, too, to envision the vivacious Adelaide with this much older man.

The group shifted and Alvin Goddard, Uncle Cornelius’s financial secretary, honed in on me with a predatory smile. With his sloping shoulders and grizzled hair, he resembled Uncle Cornelius in a superficial way, but where Cornelius Vanderbilt wore his heart, conscience, and intentions on his sleeve, Alvin Goddard was more reticent, at times secretive. I thought of poor Theodore Mason, an out-of-work butler because of this man’s accusations—accusations I couldn’t bring myself to believe. My own smile threatened to slip as he came toward me, his hand extended.

“Miss Vanderbilt, it was my understanding we were supposed to be seated next to each other at the dinner table. What happened?”

Yes, I had managed to circumvent Aunt Alice’s seating plan by following the younger Vanderbilts to the lower end of the table. But I smiled and let Alvin Goddard raise my hand to his lips. “It’s Miss Cross and you know it, sir.”

“Miss Vanderbilt-Cross,” he said with emphasis. “You should be proud of your heritage, of being the Commodore’s great-great-granddaughter. Shouldn’t she, Mrs. Halstock?”

“Oh, indeed she should, Mr. Goddard.”

“Is that what I am?” Gently extracting my hand from his when it seemed he would never release it, I did my best imitation of one of Adelaide’s curl-tossing shrugs. “I never can remember how many greats there are between my illustrious ancestor and myself. I do, however, remember exactly how much inheritance passed down the line from him to me. None.”

And Alvin Goddard would do well to remember that. He was decades older than me, shared none of my interests, and I had no intention of encouraging him. I kept hoping he’d realize that with me he might have a Vanderbilt, but not a penny of the Vanderbilt fortune, and he’d move on to greener pastures. But perhaps he believed marrying me would cement his place in Uncle Cornelius’s employ. After all, it was because of me that Brady had been offered a place in the family business, albeit his duties were mostly clerical.

I sighed. How much longer would Brady hold his position?

I had yet to meet Adelaide’s husband, who just then cupped a hand to his ear and yelled to his companions to speak louder. But Aunt Alice caught my eye from nearby and beckoned me to her.

“Excuse me one moment, Adelaide.”

She squeezed my wrist before she let me go. “Come by Redwing Cottage tomorrow for luncheon and we’ll talk then.”

When I reached Aunt Alice, she drew me to her side. “Emmaline, dear, might I ask a favor of you?”

“Of course. Anything.” I expected her to partner me for the next set with either Mr. Goddard or someone’s younger son. Aunt Alice was always on the lookout for a potential husband for me. Not a great magnate or his primary heir, mind you, for I could never aim so high, but someone with a modest trust fund and a respectable family. Never mind that I wasn’t in the market for a husband.

But that wasn’t what she had in mind. “Neily met a girl in Paris last year, Grace Wilson, and she’s here tonight. Over that way—no, don’t look yet! All right, now.”

I followed her gaze to the dance floor where Neily spun a young redhead about in his arms. She wore rose taffeta in the latest Parisian fashion that slimmed and elongated an already flawless figure. Her features were striking and she danced with skill, but she might have been any one of dozens of beautiful young debutantes here tonight. It was Neily’s over-the-moon expression that provided me with instant information and explained Aunt Alice’s scowl.

“Her father made his fortune blockade running during the Civil War,” she whispered as though imparting the blackest of sins. “Now she’s set her cap for Neily and I won’t have it.” Her voice turned as hard as a steel rail. “I don’t care how much money her family has, she is altogether fast, that girl, and a fortune hunter. Not to mention that she is years older than my son.”

Not to mention, also, that her brother had married Carrie Astor, whose mother was among Aunt Alice’s most vehement social rivals.

I didn’t like the turn in the conversation, but against my better judgment, I asked, “What do you want me to do?”

“Keep an eye on them for me, and don’t let them sneak off alone.”

Aunt Alice flounced away and I blew out a breath.

“Evening, Em.”

I very nearly gasped, thinking the greeting from behind me came from Brady. But as I whirled to see a more youthful face than my brother’s, I remembered that my youngest male Vanderbilt cousin liked to use my pet name as well. “Hello, Reggie. You weren’t at dinner.”

“Had other things to do.”

I wondered what that meant, but let it go. “I’m glad to see your parents let you attend tonight.”

“I’m sixteen now, after all.” He smoothed strands of dark hair off his brow in a gesture surely meant to look suave. Reginald was a younger version of Neily and promised to be handsome someday. Their dashing looks must have skipped a generation because they certainly hadn’t gotten them from either of their stocky, ordinary-looking parents.

“Yes, and good heavens,” I replied, raising my chin. “I have to look up to meet your eye now, don’t I? I don’t remember having to do that back in the spring.”

He grinned and held out a hand. “Dance, Em?”

I laughed. “Why not?”

From the dance floor I could keep a closer eye on Neily and Grace Wilson, and I had nearly an hour before I needed to make sure Uncle Cornelius didn’t venture upstairs. Reggie proved a more skilled dancer than I would have guessed, displaying none of the awkwardness one would expect of a sixteen-year-old. As I drew a breath I noticed something else unexpected.

“Reggie, have you been drinking? And I don’t mean champagne punch.”

He gave a cavalier shrug. “It’s a party, Em.”

“And while your father’s head is turned, you raid his liquor cabinet. Reggie, trust me, it isn’t a good idea.”

“What can happen?”

I could point to a host of things that could go wrong and make Reggie’s life difficult at best, tragic at worst. At the same time I wondered at which end of the spectrum my brother’s intrigue lay tonight.

“So tell me,” Reggie said, breaking in on my sober thoughts, “how’s Katie?”

Something in his voice nearly caused me to trip over my own feet. Holding Reggie’s hand, my other hand resting on his shoulder, I went utterly still and studied his smooth features—the gentle bow of his lips, the dark brows arched over darker eyes that held . . . a touch of challenge and a hint of irony that had no rightful place in the visage of a sixteen-year-old boy.

I stepped back. “Reggie . . .” I found I couldn’t say it. Could barely think it.

Katie . . . Had I been grossly unfair to Neily? Could the boy before me be so much less a child than I could have imagined? My temples began to throb. At that moment, the music ended and the couples on the dance floor drifted apart for a breath of air, a sip of champagne, and the requisite reshuffling of partners before the orchestra took up a new number.

When I glanced back at Reggie, that disquieting look had vanished and he was once again the mischievous boy who sneaked sips of whisky when no one was looking. “Nice dancing with you, Em. See you later.”

In the next half hour I danced, chatted, kept a watchful eye on Neily and Grace, and pondered all that Katie Dillon had inferred to me last spring, and all she hadn’t. What I knew for certain was that the man who had briefly fathered a child on her hadn’t given her a choice in the matter. Good gracious, Reggie? Had Neily let me believe it had been him in order to shield his younger brother’s indiscretion?

No. Everything in me shouted that it wasn’t possible. Maybe Reggie had only asked after a girl who used to work for his family, and maybe that look in his eye had merely meant he’d eavesdropped and heard the matter discussed.

But the gnawing in my belly persisted . . . and grew as midnight approached. At twenty minutes to twelve, liveried footmen and hired waiters began moving like a silent army through the Great Hall, wielding trays filled with glasses of Uncle Cornelius’s finest champagne. In the confusion, I lost sight of Neily. I spotted Grace’s rich, bejeweled coif across the room, but only briefly. Then she, too, disappeared from view, though she might merely have been obscured by the crowd. If the two were up to something, Aunt Alice would have to catch them at it herself. I had more pressing concerns.

Aunt Alice herself fueled my unease when she appeared at my shoulder. “We’re nearly ready to toast Gertrude and I can’t find Cornelius anywhere. Did you see which way he went?”

Oh, no. I’d been so concerned with Neily, Reggie, and Katie, I’d let Uncle Cornelius slip away. With less than twenty minutes now before midnight, surely he’d return any moment. But if he didn’t . . .

Brady might just then be making his way up one of the service staircases. Should I try to warn him that Uncle Cornelius was nowhere to be found? But how could I do that when I had no idea which room marked Brady’s destination? I thought back to what he’d told me that morning. He wished to return something he’d taken . . . borrowed . . . stolen . . . something to do with railroad business. Then it had to have come from either of two places: Uncle Cornelius’s office, or his bedroom, both on the second floor.

I might have gone running up the grand staircase to search for Brady, but the second-floor rooms all opened onto a gallery that looked down over the Great Hall. I couldn’t risk being seen and followed, especially by a family member.

Aunt Alice gave me the perfect excuse to leave the Great Hall and devise a plan. “Emmaline, be an angel and check the billiard room. Tell that husband of mine if he doesn’t come at once he’ll spoil Gertrude’s night.”

I set off at nearly a run, my haste raising numerous eyebrows. Several men occupied the billiard room, but Uncle Cornelius wasn’t one of them. Instead of seeking him elsewhere on the first floor, I slipped quickly out through the double doors onto the rear piazza and then down the steps onto the lawn. The day’s rain had left the grass sodden, and moisture instantly soaked through my embroidered dancing slippers. They’d be ruined, but I hadn’t time to lament the fact. Toes squelching, I circled the side of the house, looking up as I neared the front. The second story was dark except . . . there! A beam of light passed across the windows of Uncle Cornelius’s bedroom. Brady must be inside.

I was about to hoist my skirts, scamper around to the front door, steal inside and up the service stairs when the light suddenly went out. I waited, staring into the darkness, my ears pricked. “Brady,” I whispered—stupidly, for at that distance and through the closed balcony door he could not have heard me. A minute or two passed. I decided my best course was indeed to run inside, but just then a sharp thwack from above rooted me to the spot. Two or three more clunks followed. Moments later, the balcony door swung open and sounds of a scuffle burst from inside the room.

“What? You!” a man’s voice exclaimed.

“Brady?” I cried out hoarsely, too frightened now for discretion.

There came a grunt, more scuffling, another thwack—louder and sharper now, like a gunshot piercing the quiet—and then the thud of something or someone hitting the stone balustrade. My heart pounding, I scrambled backward to get a better view, and as I looked up again, a dark silhouette tumbled over the railing and plummeted to the ground at my feet.

I
cried out, then pressed both hands to my mouth. My heart pummeled inside my chest, and I stood motionless, breathless, staring down at the black heap before me, my brain thrashing to make sense of what had just happened.

With trembling fingers I lifted my hems from the wet ground and tiptoed closer, afraid to look, unable to turn away. The night closed around me like a fist, blocking out the house, the lawns, the nearby drive crowded with sleek horses and posh carriages. The music and lively hum of voices drifting from the piazza doorway faded. The crickets were silenced. I heard only the distant rumble of the ocean striking the cliffs at the base of the property.

A haze swam before my eyes, and through it I could make out scant details about the figure sprawled facedown on the ground: the formal tailcoat and tapering black trousers, the buffed dress shoes, the dark but graying hair. A notion rose like bile to choke me.

“Uncle Cornelius? Oh, God. Oh, no . . .”

My hands fisted in my hair. Then, needing to be sure, I leaned down closer, reached out, and laid my fingertips on one shoulder. I gave a shake, waited . . . and hoped for some response. When none came, I sucked in a breath and with both hands pushed to roll the figure over. The eyes that gazed unseeingly, grotesquely up into mine sent me scrambling backward, puddles splashing up onto my legs, my heart crashing against my stays.

The face staring up at the sky was not Uncle Cornelius’s. “Mr. Goddard!”

Relief that my relative had been spared mingled with my horror. I don’t know how many seconds passed while I simply stood and stared, dumbfounded. Then my feet were in motion, bringing me around to the front door. The footman manning the vestibule eyed me with alarm, but I rushed past him. In the wide entryway of the Great Hall I stopped, halted by the insanely normal scene that greeted me. The music had ceased and the guests stood several deep in a circle spanning the entire room. I began threading my way through with entreaties of
please,
and
step aside,
and
let me pass.

Then I drew up short. At the center of a circle, Uncle Cornelius stood with a beaming Aunt Alice beside him. At his other side stood Gertrude, hunching slightly in her frilly white dress, looking awkward at finding herself the recipient of all that attention. Reggie and Alfred were there as well, hovering behind their sister. As the room blurred slightly around me, glasses of champagne were held high and Uncle Cornelius spoke words my mind could not then decipher. A resounding chorus filled the hall and thundered in my ears, drowning out my racing thoughts.

I needed to find help, but I also needed to avoid panicking the guests. There were so many of them, nearly three hundred . . . fear could cause a stampede. Who would help me—help Mr. Goddard? Though in truth my instincts told me the man was beyond earthly aid.

Another uncertainty pounded through me. Where was Brady? Did he have anything to do with Mr. Goddard’s fall?

Oh, God, what had Brady done?

The crowd broke apart. With Uncle Cornelius and Aunt Alice leading them, the party streamed past me toward the dining room. I found myself engulfed in a milling kaleidoscope of color and echoing voices. Dizziness threatened to overtake me, but I staggered forward, searching for a face I could trust. Neily . . . Adelaide . . . my father’s old friend, Jack Parsons . . . I saw none of them.

“Emmaline? Are you all right?”

From behind me, fingertips touched lightly on my shoulder. I turned around, relief sweeping through me. “Neily . . .”

“Good God, Emmaline! What happened to you?”

Only then did I realize how I must have looked, with my hair straggling from its pins, my gown soaked at the knees and hems, and the wild, desperate look in my eyes. I swayed, and my cousin’s arm swept around my shoulders. As fast as my legs would allow, he walked me into the nearby music room and on into the library. He sat me down on a sofa, moved away, and shortly returned to press a snifter to my lips.

I dutifully drank, then coughed and sputtered as the brandy lit my throat on fire. Neily crouched in front of me and took my hand.

“Em . . . tell me what happened.”

“I . . . outside . . . a man . . . Mr. Goddard . . .”

Ruddy color suffused his face and his hand tightened around mine. “That fiend! Why, when I get my hands on him, I’ll—”

“No, Neily,” I said quickly. “Mr. Goddard didn’t hurt me. He . . . oh, God.” I shook my head to clear it, to stop the roaring in my ears. “There’s been a . . . a horrible accident. I think . . . oh, Neily, I think there’s been a death at The Breakers.”

“Wait here,” Neily said after I hastily explained what I’d witnessed.

I jumped up from the settee. “No, I’m coming with you.”

He didn’t like it, but I refused to stay put. Quietly we stole out the piazza doors so none of the guests now supping in the dining room would see us and take it into their heads to follow. Outside, Neily held an oil lantern beside Mr. Goddard’s face.

“It’s Goddard, all right,” he confirmed, though there hadn’t been a doubt in my mind. He pressed his fingertips to the man’s neck where the pulse should be, then held his hand in front of Mr. Goddard’s nose, feeling for a breath. With another sigh, Neily sat back on his heels, the tails of his evening coat hanging in the wet grass. “He’s a goner, I’m afraid. I think his neck broke in the fall. God . . . poor Alvin . . .” He glanced up at the balcony. “It may only be the second floor, but the ceilings in this house are so high the distance is certainly great enough to kill a person. But how the hell did he fall?”

I shook my head. My thumping pulse rapped out a possibility, but I wasn’t about to incriminate my brother until I learned more. All I knew was that I needed to find Brady; talk to Brady.

My cousin set the lantern down on the grass and came to his feet. From beneath him the light angled over his face to cast ghoulish shadows that emphasized his frown lines, the hollows of his eyes, the grim set of his mouth. “Tell me what happened. What were you doing out here?”

“I’d . . . just wandered outside for some air,” I lied, not meeting his eyes.

A
damn
slid past his lips. “The police have to be called.”

My stomach turned over, but I knew he was right.

In the next minutes Neily covered poor Mr. Goddard with a sheet, ordered a footman to keep watch, and discreetly used the telephone in the servants’ hallway to make the necessary call. With him occupied, I stole the opportunity to race upstairs to Uncle Cornelius’s bedroom.

“Brady,” I whispered into the darkness. “Brady, are you in here?”

Silence and the light creaking of the still-open balcony door greeted me, gave me chills. I waited another moment, my eyes straining to see into the shadows of the expansive bedroom. All lay silent, and I could make out no one hiding in any of the corners. But why would Brady still be here, if indeed he had been here at all? I’d been foolish not to hurry upstairs sooner instead of going outside with Neily to examine the body. Obviously, I hadn’t been thinking clearly.

I returned to the library, where I sat hugging an arm around my middle and, yes, sipping more brandy while I waited for Neily. Surrounded by the soothing influence of walnut paneling and Spanish leather, I found myself staring at the inscription carved above the marble fireplace:

Slowly, shock receded, leaving bleakness to settle over me. It’s true I hadn’t liked Alvin Goddard much, but now I could hardly remember the reasons. Uncle Cornelius had certainly trusted him, and even Brady had esteemed him as a sharp-witted wolf of a businessman who never missed a detail to his employer’s benefit. Yet, despite the claim inscribed in stone in front of me, Mr. Goddard certainly hadn’t prevailed tonight. A few hours ago he had kissed my hand and now
this
—it was simply too horrible to comprehend.

“I just told Father what happened,” Neily said as he strode into the room. “He and Uncle William are outside. They . . . they saw the body and now they’re waiting for the police. Mother and the guests don’t know anything yet.” He stood a moment on the balls of his feet, then seemed to reach a decision. “I’m going upstairs to have a look. Do you want to come with me?”

Avoiding his eye again, I stood.

“I suppose we shouldn’t disturb anything,” I whispered moments later as Neily pushed open the door to his father’s bedroom suite.

“No, the police will want to see the room exactly as it was at time of . . .” He left the sentence unfinished.

Would they find a clue linking Brady to the accident? A breeze blew in from the balcony, and a slight tinge of liquor wafted on the air—something I hadn’t noticed upon entering the room before. Still clutching my middle, I walked in a few strides and stared into the darkness while Neily turned up the gas and lit a sconce.

I blinked as the room burst into light, and gasped. On the floor, sticking out from the far corner of the bed, lay a pair of feet, toes pointing upward. A moment’s dread held me immobile. Then I hurried across the room. This time, I made no mistake in the individual’s identity. I’d have known him anywhere, in any position, in any state of consciousness.

“Brady!”

I was about to go to his side, but Neily grabbed my arm from behind. “Wait, Emmaline.”

“What do you mean, ‘wait’?” I struggled to break free, but he held me fast. “He could be—”

“He’s breathing. But look at him. Look at everything around him. The papers, the bottle, the fallen candelabrum . . .”

I stopped struggling and saw what Neily was trying to point out. Brady didn’t appear to have been attacked. He appeared to have fallen in a state of drunkenness and passed out. A bottle of Tennessee bourbon lay on its side just beyond his head. And those papers fanning away from beneath his hand . . . I could see the words
New Haven-Hartford-Providence
emblazoned across the top of the first page, and beneath them, figures, first in mileage, then in dollars.

“The stolen plans,” Neily said softly at my shoulder.

“What?”

“The railroad business,” he clarified. Then he pointed. In the corner of the room, the waist-high steel and brass safe my uncle always traveled with stood like a sentinel, its door appearing to be sealed tight.

I whirled to face Neily. “He was bringing them back. I swear it. He meant to make it right.”

“But Alvin caught him at it . . .”

“Don’t say it, Neily. Don’t even think it. Brady wouldn’t . . .”

His gaze swung sharply up from Brady’s prone form. “You knew about the documents?”

“No.” I shook my head briskly. “At least, not until this morning. And even then I didn’t know much. Brady came to see me, he said—”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He grabbed my shoulders, almost hurting me. “Emmaline, you promised to call me if you heard from him.”

Brady stirred and let out a groan. At the same time, I became aware of voices and footsteps coming up the stairs. Brady sat partway up and groaned again. Reaching out, he grabbed a fistful of coverlet and groped into a semi-upright sitting position, only to double over as a fit of coughing overtook him. Then, moaning, he pressed a hand to the back of his head. Uncle Cornelius, his brother William, and two policemen barreled into the room.

Red-faced and puffing, Uncle Cornelius drew up short. “What in hell is going on here?”

In the next minutes, Neily and I helped Brady up off the floor and into a chair. Cornelius and William stood by scowling while all the lights were lit. One of the officers gathered up the fallen papers and the other picked up the silver candelabrum that lay on the floor on its side, its two tapers having rolled beneath the bed. I noticed wax and scorch marks on the rug—thank goodness nothing had ignited. The main structure might be fireproof, but the furnishings were not.

Through the open balcony door, the sounds of commotion drifted from below. The shrieks of whistles and the deep-toned barking of orders told me more policemen were securing the area and inspecting the body. Officer Jesse Whyte approached my brother. “Good evening, Brady.”

Running a hand up the back of his tousled blond hair, Brady gave a nod and a low groan that resulted in Officer Whyte wrinkling his short, thin nose and pulling back. “Been nipping a bit tonight, eh, Brady?”

“No . . . I haven’t been, actually. . . .”

“Uh-huh.”

This was not Brady’s first encounter with Jesse Whyte; far from it. Nor mine, for that matter. A lean man in his early thirties with large ears and deceptively youthful features, Jesse lived in the same house he’d grown up, a white clapboard colonial just down the street from our own family home on the Point section of Newport. We were old neighbors, old family friends.

As a cop on a beat, Jesse had apprehended Brady on countless occasions over the years, though only rarely had charges been brought. Typically, Jesse would bed Brady down for the night in an unlocked cell to let him sleep it off, and call me in the morning.