The Case of the Troubled Tycoon: A Gilded Age Historical Cozy Mystery (Shipwreck Point Mysteries Book 5)

by Elise M Stone

  Despite the size of his paunch, he agilely darted across the dining room, where he held a brief conversation with the couple, pointed toward Titus and Elisabeth, and got the desired response, if the nods of the table’s current occupants were any indication. Peck hurried back and between rapid breaths told them, “They said they’d be happy to have you.”

  Once they were settled with their menus, Elisabeth said, “Thank you for letting us join you. I’ve been looking forward to a shore dinner ever since Susanna Baumann mentioned Peck’s name.”

  “Were you enjoying the garden club tour?” Agnes Yates asked.

  Elisabeth laughed, then covered her mouth with her hand. “I know I was enjoying it. I can’t say the same of Titus.”

  Owen laughed heartily. “What we men do for our ladies. At least Agnes didn’t even ask me if I wanted to attend that.”

  “I might have, had I thought you would deign to accompany me.” She bent her head closer to Elisabeth’s and whispered, “What’s this about Susanna and Philo?”

  Elisabeth leaned in and answered, “Susanna told us they’re engaged.”

  “Engaged? No. I didn’t think Philo would ever marry.”

  “Nor did I,” Elisabeth said, “since he must be approaching forty if he hasn’t reached it yet. But perhaps all it took was the right woman.”

  Agnes raised her eyebrows, and Elisabeth could tell what she was thinking. Out of all the single women in Whitby, what had attracted the man, who had seemed a confirmed bachelor, to a plump woman with an attitude of entitlement? Elisabeth, not wanting to say the words out loud, shrugged in response.

  Which was a good thing, because Philo Peck had come back to their table, ready to take their orders.

  “We’ll both have the shore dinner,” Titus said. He hadn’t even picked up the menu, much less opened it. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

  “News spreads fast.” Although the words might have been a complaint, the smile he wore showed he was pleased with the situation.

  “Whitby is a small town,” Elisabeth said. “I doubt anyone has a secret ten people don’t already know.”

  “What prompted you to finally take a wife?” Agnes asked.

  “I thought it was about time, and for once, my finances agreed with me. While the restaurant has barely been scraping by, Warren Chapman recommended I invest in some copper stock he knew about when he and the missus had dinner here a month ago. He told me the price of copper was the lowest it would be in the next decade, and I should buy as much as I could before it went up. He was right. I’ve already made a tidy sum from my investment. He’s also convinced me to participate in a venture that could be even more profitable. Just before the wedding, I’ll sell some to defray expenses, and at the rate things are going, still have plenty to think about building one of those fancy cottages up north.”

  “Well, that was an auspicious development,” Titus said. “Congratulations, both on your investment and on your upcoming nuptials.”

  “Yes, congratulations,” Owen said.

  A flush was spreading from the restaurant owner’s neck up into his cheeks. “I’d better give your order to the cook or you’ll never have your supper.” Philo Peck hurried off.

  “Don’t wait for us to be served our meals,” Elisabeth said, “or your food will get cold.” It looked like half of a swordfish steak was on Owen’s plate, along with potatoes garnished with parsley and green beans with butter and almonds. Agnes had chicken in some kind of cream sauce with the same vegetables.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?” Agnes asked.

  “Of course not,” Titus said. The couple hadn’t taken more than a couple of bites before he asked, “When are you two tying the knot?”

  Owen started choking and grabbed his napkin to cover his mouth before he sprayed them with his half-chewed food. Recovered, he picked up his wine glass and took a swallow. Then with a cunning smile he asked, “When are you?”

  Elisabeth felt the skin at the base of her neck tingling. The sensation spread to her cheeks and down her arms to the tips of her fingers. She forgot to breathe for a moment.

  Carelessly, Titus responded, “Oh, I’ve already been married. I’m not eager to do it again.”

  Agnes gave her a sympathetic look, and Elisabeth blinked rapidly so the tears that had suddenly welled up in her eyes wouldn’t spill onto her cheeks. You knew what your relationship was. You’re not a schoolgirl anymore with a crush on every handsome man you meet. But it wasn’t every handsome man. It was this one.

  Owen’s mouth dropped open for a second as he stared at Titus. He glanced at her before returning his frowning gaze to the lawyer.

  Elisabeth dipped her head and focused on the hands folded in her lap. Even so, she could feel Titus’s eyes on her as he suddenly realized what he’d said.

  “Well, not right away,” he stammered. But it was too late.

  She carefully avoided looking at him, afraid she’d lose what little composure she had left. She was glad when their dinners arrived, and she could focus on cracking claws and dipping lobster and corn in the bowl of melted butter that accompanied the meal.

  CHAPTER 7

  Elisabeth had been very quiet today. They’d barely said five words to one another, and that had been the content of the invoice she was to type and mail to Arthur Muir for his attendance at the Yacht Club meeting. He knew he’d been foolish with his cavalier statement about marriage, but there was no way to take it back. He didn’t want to raise false hopes by attempting an explanation, and so he’d said nothing. Which was exactly what she had responded with.

  He’d never told her about Victoria’s betrayal last summer in Newport. He’d been mortified at the whole situation, and angry as well. While the anger had left him long ago, the shame lingered.

  He’d told himself over and over that Elisabeth was very different from his former wife. Still he doubted her. Or maybe it wasn’t Elisabeth he doubted, but himself.

  He watched her as she poured fresh coffee from the pot on the parlor stove in the corner of his office. He wished she’d sit opposite him and they would have one of their chats. Talking with her was always the most pleasant part of his day. But, just as she had earlier on this Monday morning, she placed his cup in front of him, then asked in a flat tone, “Will there be anything else?”

  He shook his head, and she headed toward the outer office, carrying her coffee with her. He was about to call her back to try to mend things between them, but before she’d taken two steps, he heard the sound of the hall door opening, followed by a familiar voice calling out, “Hello? Is anyone here?”

  She turned toward him, her eyebrows raised to expose eyes that asked a silent question.

  In a loud voice, Titus said, “Tell Mr. Muir he may come in.”

  The tycoon charged into his office, waving an envelope. “You have to do something about this.”

  “Please sit down, Mr. Muir, while my secretary fetches you a cup of coffee, and we’ll discuss the matter calmly in a minute. Elisabeth?”

  She placed her cup on the corner of his desk, poured coffee for their client, then ducked out to her desk and returned carrying her stenographer’s pad and a pencil.

  He was still staring at her cup. At least it looked like she intended to take her accustomed place beside him rather than sitting farther away. Once she was seated, he finally asked his client, “Now, what has you so upset this morning?”

  “This.” Muir tapped the envelope in front of him on the massive desk. “Chapman has had his attorneys send me this letter demanding the return of the cuckoo clock.”

  “May I see it?” Titus asked. Muir passed the envelope across to him, and Titus removed the letter inside it.

  His throat tightened when he saw the letterhead. Parkman and Thornton, Attorneys and Counselors at Law. His former law firm. He quickly glanced down at the signature. And signed by his former father-in-law, Gideon Thornton. He was certain Chapman had engaged him just so his message would receive the r
eaction Titus was struggling with.

  “I think he’s being a tad hasty since you agreed to return the clock to him if he could prove it was the one he owned.” Titus reread the letter. There was nothing about the bill of sale. But that suggested another course of action, something he’d forgotten to consider in the heat of the moment on Friday. “I don’t suppose you know if your wife had a receipt for her purchase of the clock?”

  The distinguished tycoon didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice held a note of sadness. “I wouldn’t have thought to ask for one when she presented me with the gift. And I haven’t had the heart to go through her things, although her maid has suggested it several times, thinking much could be given to the poor.”

  “When did she pass?” Titus asked gently.

  “In October.” Muir’s voice broke.

  “As recently as that? Then I understand your reluctance. Do you think you might trust her maid to search for a bill of sale if you cannot?”

  Muir nodded.

  “And would you happen to have a photograph of the cuckoo clock?”

  “I believe I might. I’ll see to both items as soon as I return home and let you know. Speaking of which, why on earth do you not have a telephone? I could have called you about the letter instead of going to the bother of having my carriage prepared and traveling from one end of Whitby to the other. Or needing to make arrangements to inform you of the results of the search when it’s done.”

  Titus was about to tell the man he had no need of a telephone, but Muir had just pointed out a few of the reasons he did. He knew the police station and the fire department had recently had equipment installed, and those who came down from Boston for the summer, like Arthur Muir, would surely expect the instruments in their homes. And those whom they did business with. “I was going to arrange for the installation of telephones, not only here in the office, but in my townhouse as well, this week.”

  He glanced at Elisabeth, hoping she wouldn’t give him away. She’d paused in her note-taking to look at him, her head tilted, her lips fighting a smirk. He returned his focus to Muir, who, thankfully, was paying no attention to his secretary. Often a secretary was like a servant: totally necessary and ignored as much as the furnishings of a room—or a business.

  “Strong?” Muir must have noticed his distraction.

  “Sorry, Arthur. I do have a habit of woolgathering at times.”

  “Can I count on you to sort things out and respond to this letter? I’d confront Chapman myself, but I’m afraid I’d kill the arrogant clod.”

  “Of course I will,” Titus said. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow with what I find out. Be sure you let me know if you locate the clock’s bill of sale.”

  “Very good.” Arthur Muir rose to his feet and extended his hand. “As always, a pleasure doing business with you.”

  As soon as Elisabeth escorted Arthur Muir out of the office, her cheery smile deserted her face. She certainly didn’t feel like smiling. Sitting at her desk, she wondered what she’d do all day, especially since she and Titus weren’t speaking. She could take a trip to Nichols’s Stationery and buy a box of pins, but she didn’t need them yet, and it would be just an excuse to get out of the uncomfortable silence that yawned between her and Titus Strong.

  The sound of soft footsteps alerted her to his approach. From behind her, she heard him say, “Would you mind stepping down to Campbell’s office and seeing if he’s available for a conference?”

  Without answering, she stood and walked away from him, through the doorway, and down the hall. She knocked on Owen’s door, then entered without waiting for an answer.

  “Good morning, Elisabeth,” the rugged detective said. “What can I do for you?”

  “Mr. Strong would like to know if you’re available for a conference.” She heard the coolness in her tone, and wondered if Owen noticed it, too. Better icy words than those that melted into teardrops.

  “He still hasn’t apologized, has he?” The usually gruff man had allowed a hint of gentleness into his voice.

  She held herself stiffly as she said, “Mr. Strong has nothing to apologize for.”

  “I think he does. But that’s probably none of my affair.” Campbell got up from his chair and circled the desk. “I suppose I’d better see what he wants this time.”

  Shortly thereafter, the three of them were seated around the lawyer’s desk. Elisabeth had pointedly sat next to Campbell.

  “What do you know about cuckoo clocks?” Titus began.

  “Only that they’re a dratted nuisance when a man’s trying to get some sleep.”

  Titus quickly outlined the dispute between Muir and Chapman over the clock and how he had volunteered to resolve it. “I have a hard time believing that Mrs. Muir broke into Chapman’s cottage sometime in the fall to steal a cuckoo clock. So either Chapman is mistaken about its identity or someone else stole it and sold it off.

  “Again, I don’t think Mrs. Muir would have dealt directly with a thief, but there could have been an intermediary involved.”

  “And you’d like me to find that intermediary,” Owen said.

  Titus nodded. “It’s a distinctive clock, one that’s not liable to be forgotten by anyone who’s seen it. Or owned it, no matter how briefly. Would you be able to nose around and see if you can locate either the crook or the go-between?”

  “Most likely it was taken to a pawn shop,” Owen said. “The thief gets his money right away, and the pawnshop owner makes a tidy profit when he sells it.”

  Elisabeth was surprised Titus hadn’t thought of that. Then again, as a child, he’d been too poor to have anything to pawn, while as an adult, he’d been too well off to need to either buy from or sell to a pawnbroker.

  “Is there a pawnshop in Whitby?” Titus asked.

  Owen looked at Elisabeth. “There is,” she said. “It’s off Mayfield near the grocery.”

  “I’ll check it out. I’d think any cuckoo clock would be too rare an item to be fenced here. It’s more likely the thief took it into Boston, where neither he nor the clock would be recognized. He’d also be able to get a better price there than in Whitby. Can you give me a more detailed description of what it looks like?”

  “I can, and I will. I’ve also asked Mr. Muir if he perhaps has a photograph with the clock in the background. He believes he may have one that was taken right after he hung it on the wall. Hopefully, he’ll find that today.”

  “So I’ll question the pawnshop owner here this afternoon,” Campbell said, “and travel into Boston tomorrow.”

  “I think that would work out,” Titus said. “Meanwhile, I’m going to have a talk with Warren Chapman about this letter. I’d also like to know if he can produce the original bill of sale.”

  Elisabeth waited a moment to see if he had anything for her to do on this case. She was used to being a part of most of their investigations, had even played a major role in the last one. When he didn’t speak of it on his own, she was forced to ask, “What should I do?”

  Titus smiled devilishly. “You can order telephones.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Muir had been right. He did need a telephone. Here he was sitting in a hansom cab and riding down almost the entire length of Mayfield Road without knowing whether Warren Chapman would receive him or not. Or even if he were at home. He’d always thought of a telephone as a needless expense, but at the moment he imagined it might save him enough in cab fares to pay for itself. As well as the wasted time, should he have to turn around and head directly back to his office.

  It wasn’t long before the hansom turned into the circular drive leading to the entrance to the Chapman cottage and came to a stop in front of the marble-columned porch. Titus lifted the trap and passed the driver the fare before opening the door to the cab.

  “Shall I wait, sir?”

  “No, thank you.” While he’d been willing to pay for the ride to his destination in the interest of saving time, afterwards he would take the trolley, which ran infrequent
ly this time of year. He mounted the steps to the porch and rapped on the front door.

  As expected, a butler answered.

  “Titus Strong to see Mr. Chapman.”

  “I’ll find out if he’s available.” The door closed in his face. Not an auspicious beginning to this meeting, should it take place. Fortunately, it was only a few minutes before the butler opened it again.

  “This way, sir.” He held the door wide so Titus could enter and waved at a doorway to the right of the hall.

  “Thank you.”

  Chapman sat at a large, ornate desk in what was obviously a library from the number of bookshelves that lined the walls. Behind him was a fireplace with two overstuffed chairs facing it. The businessman had a ledger in front of him and a stack of papers to one side. He held one of the pieces of paper as he made an entry in the account book, then pushed the receipt or invoice or whatever it was down on a metal spike to his left, where it joined approximately a dozen others.

  To his right was an oddly shaped instrument, all in black. A wooden box with a pair of bells on top sat beside it, and a wire trailed down and across the floor to a connection on the nearby wall. Titus realized that must be a telephone, more ornate than any he’d seen previously.

  “What do you think of my telephone?” Chapman asked.

  “I’m not entirely certain.” In truth, he was a little intimidated by the instrument.

  Chapman laughed. “You’ll have to get used to the modern age, Strong, if you don’t want to be outpaced by the younger fellows. But I’m sure you didn’t come here to discuss telephones.”

  “No.” Titus took a seat in a chair in front of the desk and tried to overlook his host’s lack of manners in not offering it to him, nor even greeting him when he entered. “Mr. Muir has shown me the letter he received from Parkman and Thornton. I hoped we might settle this matter more amicably.”

  “And so would I, but since Muir felt it necessary to engage your services, I thought it prudent that I also have representation.”