Murder at the Breakers (7 page)

He thought for a moment, teeth working at a corner of his lips. “Tell me this. How would someone manage to bring a weapon into the house and then sneak it back out?”

“Easy,” I replied with a snap of my fingers. “Every guest that night brought a valise at the very least. Some of the ladies brought small trunks carrying their dancing slippers, ribbons, extra petticoats, hair accessories . . . you name it. They all wished to be flawless for the ball, and wrinkles from riding in a coach would not have been acceptable. As the guests arrived they were ushered directly upstairs with their valets and maids to perfect their appearance before being announced in the ballroom. So you see, anyone might have secreted a weapon in their baggage and gotten it out of the house in the same manner.”

“All right. All right, I’ll go look at this dent of yours.” He blew out a lengthy breath that told me he’d decided to humor me, though he still had his reservations. “But I’ll have to use the candelabrum’s measurements. The real thing has been entered into evidence and can’t be removed from the station yet.”

I rewarded him with my brightest, widest smile and came to my feet. “Thank you. In the meantime—”

“In the meantime, Emma, you should return to your normal routine. If anything else occurs to you, by all means bring it to my attention. Until then, visit friends, help plan the Vanderbilts’ next soirée, write your articles. I’ll take care of Brady.”

That was advice I didn’t plan to follow, but he did remind me of another stop I needed to make. After collecting Nanny and bidding Brady good-bye until tomorrow, I drove the rig to lower Thames Street, stopping in front of the offices of the Newport
Observer.
I had three typewritten pages in the portfolio I’d brought from home. It was time to see which ones I’d end up delivering.

“These are fine work, Emma, just fine.” Mr. Millford, owner and editor-in-chief of the
Observer,
held two of the articles, one in each hand, and scanned them for a second time. “Yes, indeed, fine work,” he repeated, but in a tone that sent my hopes drifting downward like leaves falling from a tree. He sealed my fate by placing one of the articles back in my hand. “I’ll take the article on the ball, and, of course, your write-up on Mrs. Astor’s new rose garden. It’ll make a nice addition to the Fancies and Fashions page.”

“But, Mr. Millford . . .” I rattled the paper he’d handed back to me. “This is an exact account of what happened the night of Alvin Goddard’s death. I was an eyewitness.” I didn’t add that my article gave a fair description of the facts without condemning my brother. That much was obvious. “I’d have had it for you yesterday, but . . .”

“Yes, Emma, I know you had enough on your mind yesterday. And this is a
fine
account.” I wished he’d stop using that word. “But the article on Goddard’s death has already been written up and approved for Sunday’s edition.”

“But . . . written up by whom?” My back went ramrod straight and my chin shot up. The image of the man I’d seen in the police station yesterday sprang to mind. A reporter, hired without my knowing about it? Not that Mr. Millford needed my approval for new employees. But . . .

“Ed.”

Flames might have shot out of my mouth, I was so instantly angry. Ed Billings. I might have known. Ed covered all the significant news stories, not because he was an ace reporter, but because he was a man. And I was a woman, which relegated me to parties and fashion and wedding announcements. I gritted my teeth.

“Ed wasn’t there that night. I was.” Fury added a tremor to my voice. “I’d have had the story to you yesterday, but . . . well . . . I had one or two other concerns, as you can well imagine. Can’t you un-approve his article and approve mine?”

My employer was already shaking his head. “First off, you’re too close to the incident. You know you are, Emma, and it’s likely to compromise your objectivity. Second, why would you want to dirty your hands in such sordid details? Why, your account of who attended the ball and what all the ladies wore is charming. First-rate. Just what our female subscribers love to read when they sit down to their afternoon tea.” He tapped the article with the backs of his fingers. “You’re darned good at what you do, Emma. Don’t try to change.”

My article stuffed back inside my portfolio, I dragged myself outside. Nanny sighed the moment she glimpsed my expression.

“He didn’t take it, eh?”

I climbed up beside her. “Ed beat me to it.”

“Well, you had a lot on your mind yesterday.” She patted my arm.

“It wouldn’t have made a difference if I’d been quicker. I’d still have been patted on the head and put in my place.” I flapped the reins. “Giddup, Barney. Let’s go home.”

“Don’t be discouraged, sweetie. You helped Brady today. Jesse will be going back to The Breakers to look at that dent.”

“Yes, but will he go with an open mind?”

I dropped Nanny at home, changed into a fresh day gown, and climbed back into the buggy. I’d forgotten all about an invitation for luncheon yesterday; understandable, of course, but an oversight all the same. Adelaide didn’t have a telephone as her husband didn’t believe in them. I decided to drive over there, apologize, and see if she was free today. Just as Nanny had her connections among Newport’s servants, so did Adelaide have her close ties with Newport’s wealthiest summer citizens. I hoped she might have heard, oh, anything, some wisp of rumor or scandal that might help Brady’s case.

The Halstocks’ summer home, Redwing Cottage, faced Bellevue Avenue on the ocean side of the street. The house was in the Queen Anne style with a wraparound veranda, turret, oriel windows, and copious amounts of gingerbread dripping from the eaves. Despite the quaint design, the house was no cottage, but a three-story mansion not far from The Breakers, with a similar cliff-top ocean view.

When I turned onto the circular drive, I had to stop Barney a dozen yards shy of the entryway. A freight wagon stood in front of the house, and two men I recognized were just then loading a crate into the bed.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Manuel and Mr. Manuel,” I hailed as I climbed to the ground. The brothers set down the crate.

“Well, if it isn’t Miss Cross.” They settled their burden in the wagon and Edwin, the elder and taller of the two, tipped his hat at me. Like Jesse Whyte, the Manuel family had lived near us on the Point. The brothers, along with members of their extended family, ran the island’s main moving company. “Here to visit Miss Peabody?”

“It’s Mrs. Halstock now and, yes, if she’s home.”

“It’s hard to get used to that,” Elton, the shorter and stockier brother, said with a laugh. He gestured for me to go inside. “But she’s here.”

I lingered, considering the contents of the wagon. There were a number of crates, assorted furnishings, and, leaning against the side of the wagon, several flattish items draped in cloth and secured with twine that must have been paintings. “The Halstocks aren’t moving out, are they?”

Edwin shrugged. “We’re paid to move it, not to know why.”

I bid them a pleasant afternoon and wandered inside. When no footman or maid met me, I simply called out, “Adelaide?”

My voice echoed through the central foyer, bouncing against the high, carved ceiling and reverberating down the mahogany-paneled walls. A broad archway opened to my left, and through it I glimpsed the curve of a grand piano. Straight ahead, another doorway framed a dining room dominated by a marble-topped table surrounded by a dozen or so shield-back chairs. To my right, a wide staircase marched away to the upper story, the wide half landing bathed in a rainbow of light from a stained-glass window.

As I wondered which way to turn, the red velvet curtains draping an alcove just beyond the bottom of the stairs fluttered. An elderly man shuffled out, his shoulders hunched, head down, his balding pate aimed toward me. He was dressed in country attire of linen trousers, striped frockcoat, and a loosely tied ascot. The clothes hung limply on his frame as though fashioned for a much larger man.

I took a step toward him. “Excuse me?”

With a gasp, he drew back, one frail hand arcing to his chest, palm pressing his heart. For a moment all he did was stare across the way at me as if attempting to make sense of an apparition that had appeared out of thin air. Though I recognized him from two nights ago, the change in him took me aback.

“Mr. Halstock. Good afternoon, sir. I’m Emmaline Cross. I hope I’m not intruding, but I’ve come to visit your wife. She and I were good friends as children.” Well, that might have been overstating the case. Adelaide and I had been friends in the way children are when they live near each other, attend the same schools and church, and know all the same people. We had always been convenient friends, if not especially close ones.

His brow rumpled, bringing attention to discolorations in his skin, those tiny brown spots that come with age, as well as a mottled hue that suggested shock or surprise or unease. “Adelaide . . . ?” He lifted the hand from his heart and raised it to his temple. “The young one . . . She’s upstairs, I think . . .”

I walked closer to him. “Sir, I think you had better sit down.” He stiffened at my approach, but let me grasp his arm lightly and lead him to a brocade side chair set against the wall. “Is there someone I can call? Your valet?”

Nodding, he stared down at his knees. “Suzanne. You can call Suzanne. She’ll come.”

“Who’s Suzanne?” I crouched lower to hear his feeble whisper. “A maid? Your housekeeper?”

“Mr. Halstock is referring to Mrs. Rockport, his sister in Providence.”

I straightened as a second man stepped out from the alcove, this one in the formalwear of a butler or valet. In contrast to his employer, he stood straight and tall, and walked with confidence. His keen blue eyes angled from me to the man sitting beside me.

“Are you all right, sir? You should have waited for me,” he gently admonished. “I’d only gone into the kitchen to check on your lunch. I did say I’d be back momentarily.”

“Yes, yes . . . I came out for something. . . . Can’t remember what it was.” A whine entered Rupert Halstock’s unsteady voice. He began looking about him in obvious distress.

“It’s all right, sir. Why don’t we return to the morning room now. You’ll have your lunch, and then you’ll remember what it was you wanted.”

“A capital idea, that.” Mr. Halstock leaned heavily on my arm as he struggled to his feet. His manservant came to his other side, but the old gentleman refused any help but mine. I might have found that amusing if it hadn’t occurred to me that Rupert Halstock wasn’t nearly as old as he appeared. In fact, he and Uncle Cornelius were close in age, but where the heartiness had yet to abandon the latter, the former seemed prematurely poised just this side of the grave.

He managed to straighten just as faltering footsteps echoed in the vestibule.

“Careful now, don’t bang it into the corner. . . .”

The Manuel brothers made their way into the hall half carrying, half dragging a crate that stood nearly as tall as a man. “We’re ready to pack the spinet and take it out, Mr. Halstock,” Edwin said. “The rest is loaded.”

“Take the spinet? The hell you will.” The sudden strength in Rupert’s voice surprised me. His fingers trembled violently around my forearm. “It belongs to my wife, a wedding present from me! She plays it every evening after supper. Do you think I’d let you take Gloria’s beloved spinet? Get out! Get out of my house this instant! Aimes, show these insolent fools to the door!”

The brothers exchanged astonished looks, then looked to the servant for help. Aimes shook his head slightly and made a subtle gesture with his fingers that sent them backing out of the hall and out of the house.

“They’re gone, Mr. Halstock. Why don’t we go have that lunch now, sir?” The servant held out the crook of his arm.

Rupert Halstock nodded and docilely leaned on the other man’s sturdy forearm. Before they could take a step, the elder man turned back to me. His frown returned. “He’s taking the train, miss.”

I blinked. “Who is?”

“We mustn’t let him take the train.”

“Oh, uh . . .” I flicked a glance Aimes, half hoping for an explanation; he merely held his features politely steady. “No, sir, don’t you worry. We won’t let him take the train.”

“Good . . . good.” Rupert reached out and touched a withered, fluttering finger to my cheek. “There’s a good girl. My Gloria’s going to take quite a shine to you. She’s upstairs in her sitting room. You go on up and introduce yourself.”

“Thank you, Mr. Halstock. I will.”

But first I watched the wealthy and powerful shipping magnate shuffle across the hall on the arm of his servant until they disappeared behind the crimson curtain. Only then did I turn to mount the staircase. Above me, at the half landing, Adelaide stood pale and trembling, one hand clutching the banister, the other poised at her throat.

“Oh, God, Emma . . . what am I to do?”

U
pstairs, Adelaide led me across an open, rectangular hall into a room directly opposite the top landing. A fragrant, ocean-tinged breeze flowed through the open windows; the bright yellow walls, festive florals, delicate watercolors, and light, wicker furnishings marked this very much a lady’s day parlor. An embroidery frame sat tilted in front of an overstuffed chair, the needle stuck into the landscape design giving hint to what had occupied Adelaide before she’d heard the commotion in the hall below.

Despite the cheerfulness of the scene, a heavy silence hung over us both. At first we stood, both obviously ill at ease and at a loss. Then Adelaide dragged her feet to a pretty little camelback sofa and patted the cushion beside her. When I settled next to her, she grasped my hands, her inner struggle evident in her tightening features.

“Oh, Emma, he’d seemed so much better recently. I don’t know what could have caused this relapse.”

“Maybe he’s just tired today,” I lamely offered, needing to say something.

“Do you think it could be a result of the ball? The exertion and then . . . all that happened that night. It’s all Rupert could talk about yesterday. Oh, I never should have suggested we attend. It’s just that it had been so long since we’d socialized. . . .” She gave a little sniffle.

“You mustn’t blame yourself, Adelaide. And, no, I don’t think the ball could have caused your husband to fall ill again. I know what happened was a terrible shock to everyone, but Mr. Halstock wasn’t directly involved. I doubt it caused him the kind of emotional pain that could make a person ill.”

“You really believe it isn’t my fault?”

“Be assured on that account.”

She sank back against the cushions. “He doesn’t recognize me when he gets this way. That’s why I didn’t come down . . . in case you were wondering. It only would have upset him more.”

“Oh . . . no, I wasn’t wondering about that.” And yet, it did seem strange that she hadn’t come rushing down at the first sign of her husband’s distress. Then again, he’d spoken of his first wife as though she were still alive. I could only imagine how distressing that was for Adelaide.

“I’m sorry you had to witness that scene.”

Here I felt a wave of remorse. “I shouldn’t have stopped by without sending ahead first. It’s just that you don’t have a telephone or I would have called.”

“Rupert doesn’t like telephones.” Adelaide smiled fondly at what she must have considered her husband’s eccentricity.

“I saw the Manuels as I arrived,” I said to take her mind off more gloomy matters. “You’re not returning to New York already, are you?”

A light blush stained her cheeks, but she shook her head. “Manhattan in August? Goodness no. We’re just easing some of our clutter here, moving things from one house to the other.”

“I see. Do you miss it, though? The city, I mean.”

“I don’t know.” Turning her head to stare out the window at the swaying branches of a lush maple, she considered. “It’s exciting and Lord knows, there is no end of amusements in New York. But I must confess that Newport is home. It always will be, I suppose.”

I grinned. “You can take the girl off the island . . .”

“But you never take the island out of the girl. So very true.” Her smile faded. “But here I am running on about my own troubles, when you must be beside yourself about Brady. How is he, Emma? You know I don’t believe a word about his guilt.”

“Thank you, Adelaide.” I meant it. Her words warmed me and very nearly sent a tear trickling from the corner of my eye. I quickly blinked it away and seized the opportunity she’d provided me with. “Since you brought it up . . . I’ve been wondering, Adelaide, if you might have heard any rumors or indication that someone wished harm on Alvin Goddard.”

“Me?” Her eyes filled with surprise; her hand rose to her bosom.

“Yes, someone he might have been doing business with. Surely a woman in your social position hears all sorts of things.”

“Well, that is true.” She plucked at the corner of an embroidered sofa pillow. “But Mr. Goddard worked solely for your uncle. Most of his business dealings were through Mr. Vanderbilt.” She tapped a finger against her chin. “Of course, there is . . .”

“Yes?”

“I really don’t like to say. And it’s more of a personal matter than business.” She twisted the ring on her middle finger, a diamond the size of a marble.

“I promise anything you tell me will stay between us.” I didn’t stop to ponder the truth of that statement, but encouraged her with a pat to her forearm.

“Well . . . it has to do with your cousin Neily. And that woman.”

“You mean Grace Wilson?”

“The very same. Did you know your aunt and uncle gravely disapprove of their association?”

“Aunt Alice did mention something about it, yes. But exactly what are you suggesting? What did Neily and Grace Wilson have to do with Mr. Goddard?”

Adelaide shot a sideways glance at the doorway and lowered her voice. “I overheard Rupert and Cornelius talking one night a couple of months ago. They were in Rupert’s smoking room in our Fifth Avenue house, and while, of course, I’d never dream of eavesdropping, I happened to be walking by and . . .”

Her hesitation spurred my impatience, as well as a sudden memory: During the ball, I’d lost track of Neily. Even after Alvin Goddard fell and I went looking for help, Neily was nowhere to be seen in the ballroom. Why hadn’t he been in the center of the room with his family, toasting his sister? Then, as everyone had paraded into the dining room, Neily had come up behind me, from which direction I couldn’t say. Where had he been . . . ?

“Please, go on,” I urged her. “This is important. What did your husband and my uncle say about Neily?”

“Well, they were discussing how Neily had met Miss Wilson in Paris last year, and how he seemed to be utterly infatuated with her. Your aunt is certain the woman is a fortune seeker, so your uncle gave Alvin Goddard the task of having Neily followed, to determine just how involved the two of them had become.”

I frowned. “But that doesn’t make sense. Mr. Goddard was my uncle’s financial secretary. Why would he be charged with a task like that?”

Adelaide laid a hand against my cheek. “Oh, my dear Emma, how naïve you are despite your illustrious connections. Mr. Goddard was a wizard at financial matters. Do you believe his talents were merely due to his business acumen? Or simple luck?” She shook her head, a knowing gleam entering her eyes. “Such men must be versed in all manner of espionage.”

“Espionage! Adelaide, you must be reading detective novels.”

“Not at all. A man like Mr. Goddard must know what is going to happen in financial matters well before they happen, in order to circumvent disasters before they take hold. Such a man has connections everywhere, even in the darkest corners where most people wouldn’t dare tread.”

“Are you saying . . .” I paused, thinking about the man who had subtly and unsuccessfully attempted to court me, and the distaste I’d felt in response. “. . . that Alvin Goddard was dishonest?”

Adelaide smiled sweetly and shook her head. “Emma, darling, in our world, the distinction between an honest businessman and a dishonest one is exceedingly scant, and rarely discussed.”

“In
your
world, maybe,” I murmured. But this revelation certainly put an entirely new spin on events. If Alvin Goddard had been less than forthright in his dealings, he might have angered any number of businessmen, both associates and rivals.

Where did that leave Uncle Cornelius? We had been discussing Neily, though, and for now I returned our focus to that subject. “So Mr. Goddard used his resources to spy on Neily?”

“That’s what I gathered.”

“I wonder if Neily knew? And if he did . . .”

“He’d have been furious, no doubt.” Adelaide raised a perfect, golden eyebrow. “Not to mention eager to prevent Mr. Goddard from revealing his findings to his parents.”

“But to suggest he might have . . .” A chill washed through me, and even as I denied the possibility of Neily having killed anyone, I asked myself again: Where had he disappeared to during the ball?

“Emma, do forgive my manners. I’ll ring to have some lunch brought up.”

The thought of food only tightened the knots already forming in my stomach. My thoughts raced and the faces of potential suspects flashed dizzily in my mind. Theodore Mason . . . Neily . . . Brady . . . and everyone with whom Alvin Goddard had ever conducted business with, for, or against. Except, of course, it had to have been someone in Newport who had access to The Breakers two nights ago.

I came to my feet. “I’m sorry, Adelaide, but not today. You’ve given me lots to think about. And there’s something I need to do.”

I was going to confront Neily, simply tell him what I’d learned and ask him point-blank if he’d known Alvin Goddard had had him followed. And then I was going to ask him where he’d been when Mr. Goddard died. I didn’t believe Neily was guilty, but the questions needed to be asked, and I believed that after nearly a lifetime of knowing him I’d be able to sense if he was lying.

I turned my buggy onto Bellevue Avenue, but came to an immediate stop. Between the two entrances of the Halstocks’ circular drive stood a man with his feet braced well apart and his square chin raised so he could see over the shrubbery-lined iron fence that bordered the property. The sight of that strong profile sent my pulse for a lurch. I eased Barney forward until the carriage came even with the individual. He turned around to face me.

“Good afternoon.”

“Who are you?” I demanded.

He was tall and well-formed, broad at the shoulders, with a torso that narrowed to a trim waist and hips. His hair was a trifle on the longish side, midnight dark, and curling slightly at the ends. His equally dark eyes bored into me. “I’m sorry?”

“You heard me,” I snapped at him from my perch. I studied him a moment, intrigued by his handsome features, his masculine air. “Who are you and why have you been following me?”

He removed his hat and bobbed an elegant little bow. “I wasn’t aware that I had been. I’m merely a summer tourist enjoying the sight of Newport’s cottages, as they call them.”

“No, you aren’t. I saw you at the police station yesterday, heard you asking questions, and when I left, you followed me to Spring Street.” At my angry tone, Barney stamped and twitched. I adjusted the reins and leaned down closer to the man, then wished I hadn’t when he flashed me a smile—a charming one that made my breath hitch. With an effort, I held on to my frown. “Are you a reporter? A detective? An opportunist? What?”

His smile never slipping, he bobbed his head again. “All right, you have me. You guessed right the first time. I’m Derrick Anderson, reporter with the Providence
Sun.
”

“And?”

“And I’m here doing an article on America’s wealthy industrialists and most powerful men. Rupert Halstock is one of those men. So you see, I wasn’t following you. Merely seeing the man’s house for myself.”

“What about yesterday? Do you deny following me from the police station?”

A twinge of fear had me bracing when he moved toward me, but he kept going until he stood beside Barney’s head. Reaching up, he scratched behind Barney’s ears, just where the gelding liked to be rubbed. “I’ll admit I was rather curious about you yesterday. If you’ll remember correctly, it was you who stopped to listen to my conversation with Officer Whyte. Don’t deny it; I caught you staring.”

“I . . .” Oh, dear, that was right. I did, and he had. But . . . “You were asking questions about my brother’s case.”

A mistake. His eyes flashed at the information I’d just given him; until that moment, he hadn’t known my identity.

“You’re Emmaline Cross, then.”

“It’s Emma,” I said automatically, impulsively. Another mistake, but somehow the man had undermined my composure.

“Glad to make your acquaintance, Emma. You can call me Derrick.”

“Certainly not. And you may call me Miss Cross.” I lifted the reins to move on, but Mr. Anderson held on to Barney’s harness.

“I don’t suppose you’d answer a couple of questions about the Halstocks? For my article. It’s obvious you’re a friend of theirs.”

“I’m a friend of Mrs. Halstock’s.” I considered a sharp flap of the reins against this man’s knuckles and moving on, but a protective instinct toward my childhood friend raised my curiosity and prompted me to ask, “What kinds of questions?”

“Well, for instance, it’s common knowledge Rupert Halstock hasn’t been well in recent months. How is that affecting Halstock Industries? And how is his young wife coping with the stress of his illness?”

I hesitated, pondering Mr. Derrick Anderson of the Providence
Sun
. He had the cockiness one would expect of a reporter. Yet, there was a deeper confidence that bordered on cavalier, along with an elegance that simply didn’t fit. His manner left me unsettled, suspicious. And not a little fascinated.

I raised my nose in the air. “Please unhand my horse, Mr. Anderson. I must be moving on.”

With a chuckle that angered me for no good reason, he stepped back onto the sidewalk. “Have a pleasant afternoon, Miss Cross.”

“Good day to you, sir.”

I was still thinking about Mr. Anderson when I arrived at The Breakers a few minutes later. Uncle Cornelius, I was told, was in his office with his lawyer, newly arrived from New York. Bateman escorted me upstairs to the loggia, where I found Aunt Alice tucked against the pillows of a chaise lounge, staring out at the bright blue vista of sky and sea beyond the property. Below her on the wide sweep of the rear lawns, her youngest daughter, Gladys, frolicked with her governess and a furry, caramel-colored dog that resembled a tiny fox. Its piercing yips blended jarringly with Gladys’s and the governess’s shrieks of laughter as they ran about in circles and took turns tossing a ball to the animal.

Aunt Alice snapped from her reverie at the sound of my step. She smiled, seeming happy to see me, and invited me to pull up a chair close beside her. “Good of you to call, Emmaline. I’m sorry we weren’t at home yesterday. You understand. Did you find your . . . What was it you were looking for?”