Murder at the Breakers

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “I . . . um . . .” Footsteps sounded on the stairs. I glanced out to sea and pointed. “Oh, look, those two yachts appear to be racing.”

  “Yes, that’s good.” He turned to face the ocean. “My money’s on the sail with the red crest. How about you, Emmaline?”

  “Hello, you two. Gambling again, eh, Neily? You know you shouldn’t corrupt our cousin.”

  I relaxed immediately. It wasn’t Aunt Alice or Uncle Cornelius, but Gertrude and her good friend Esther Hunt. Esther’s father had designed The Breakers, as well as many of Newport’s other summer cottages, and it was partly because of that, because her father had in essence “worked” for the Vanderbilts, that Aunt Alice didn’t approve of the girls’ friendship. Poor Richard Hunt passed away last spring, and not even the whispers attributing his demise to Aunt Alice’s excessive demands on his creative genius had convinced her to soften her attitude toward his daughter.

  But Gertrude was twenty now and eager to assert her independence before she became some man’s wife. And, unlike Neily, she felt no compulsion to hide the friendship she had no intention of abandoning.

  “Oh, Emmaline, I’m so sorry.” Gertrude’s smile faded and her green eyes became all the more vivid by the heavy brows gathering above them. “I shouldn’t be making jokes, not with Brady . . .” She sent me an apologetic and equally sympathetic look. “How is he?”

  “He’s all right. Holding up as best as can be expected.”

  “I think he’s innocent,” Esther Hunt announced, as if making a statement to be recorded in the newspapers.

  I smiled and thanked them both, and to change the subject asked if they enjoyed their shopping. They immediately launched into a summary of the treasures they’d discovered in town. I listened indulgently, enjoying their enthusiasm and the short respite from what had come to occupy my every waking moment, and most of my dreams as well.

  I liked Esther; something in her bearing never failed to put me at ease. Pretty in an unassuming way with her blue eyes and golden brown hair, she had a breezy, natural way about her, a propensity to laugh, and a constant readiness to speak her mind. She’d coaxed Gertrude out of her natural shyness so that, at least when they were together, the awkwardness drained from my cousin’s long limbs and left a willowy confidence in its place. Esther taught Gertrude to enjoy her life and value her own opinions. Aunt Alice, of course, disapproved of all that. But I knew Esther was good for Gertrude, who hailed from a home where self-expression was never encouraged.

  “Phew. It’s warm today.” Gertrude slid the pin from her wide flowered hat and freed the dark curls that had been tucked up beneath the brim. She tossed her head back and gave it a shake, then rubbed a hand across her nape. “The footmen are bringing our packages up now. Care to see them, Emmaline?”

  Before I could answer, Esther perched beside my feet at the end of my chaise. “We saw your old chum Mrs. Halstock while we were in town.”

  “Shopping?” I asked casually, hoping Adelaide hadn’t mentioned to them that she’d seen me on my way to The Breakers.

  “No, her carriage was stuck behind a bakery wagon and a draft cart that had had a bit of a collision.” Gertrude dragged a cushioned, wrought-iron chair closer to my chaise. “My, the things that came out of her mouth. I suspect she thought no one could hear.”

  “Practically worthy of a dockworker.” Esther chuckled. “She cut off quick enough when I called to her from the sidewalk. A bit high-strung, that one.”

  “I’ll say.” Gertrude leaned back and loosened the high collar of her walking dress. “We tried to be civil and ask after her husband, and she just brushed us off and ordered her driver to move on the moment the way was clear.”

  “Adelaide always was caught up in her own little world,” I said. “Probably wanted to do her errands and get home before Mr. Halstock missed her.” I swung my legs to the side of the lounge and came to my feet, realizing with relief that it didn’t matter now if Adelaide had mentioned my visit here; I’d already been found out. Now I hoped to leave and escape questions. “Well, if you’ll all excuse me . . .”

  “Won’t you stay to tea? Mother and Gladys should be home soon.” Gertrude’s brows converged above her nose again. “What brought you over today?”

  “Oh, I . . . I was hoping your father might have heard something new about the case,” I improvised. “Something the police might not share with me.”

  Gertrude and Esther exchanged a glance; then Gertrude shot a glare at Neily, who stood with his back to us, pretending to watch the progression of the yachts sailing past the property. “Father doesn’t talk about it,” Gertrude finally said. I thought she was about to add more, but she pressed her lips together, emphasizing her slight underbite.

  “Has Officer Whyte been out again?” I asked.

  Again, looks were exchanged.

  “What is it you all don’t want to tell me?”

  Neily turned around but looked somewhere over my head rather than at me. “He came early this morning to measure something in Father’s room. But he said he didn’t think it had anything to do with the crime. And he said the less mentioned about it to you, the better.”

  My jaw fell, though I couldn’t have said which bit of information dismayed me more. How could Jesse dismiss the dent in the door frame as irrelevant to Brady’s case? And why would he deem the matter none of my business?

  Those questions accompanied me down the stairs and out to the drive, where my carriage waited. Parker, the entryway footman, followed me outside to help me up, but I paused, suddenly realizing I hadn’t heard a peep from Reggie the entire time I’d been there.

  “I thought Master Reggie was home, Parker, but I didn’t see him. Would you happen to know where he is?”

  “I believe he strolled out that way about an hour ago, Miss Emmaline.” He gestured down the service driveway, where the roof of the old playhouse poked through a gap in the trees.

  “I won’t be leaving just yet, then. I’d like to go say hello.”

  “As you wish, miss.”

  I followed the driveway that veered to the right away from the front of the house. About halfway down, a quaint, shingle-style cottage sat nestled in oak and red maple trees. I climbed the steps onto the covered front porch, for some reason averting my gaze from the four childlike figures carved into the posts, and knocked on the door. No one answered, so I opened the door and walked in.

  “Reggie?” I called softly. The parlor area was empty, but a dark blue necktie lay tossed over the back of the little settee. A telltale shuffle drew my attention to the kitchen area.

  My cousin sat hunched over the oaken kitchen table. He clutched a glass in one hand, and the distinctive color of the contents left little question as to what he was presently imbibing, even if the label of the bottle near his elbow hadn’t proclaimed the contents to be some of his father’s Tennessee bourbon.

  For a moment Reggie didn’t move, his profile sharp, almost gaunt against the brightness of the window behind him. He looked decades older than his sixteen years; it was like glimpsing a future fraught with troubles, disappointments, and defeats. My heart squeezed, and for an instant I actually grieved for the lost potential of the Commodore’s great grandson.

  Then I snapped myself back to the present. Reggie was behaving like so many wealthy young men his age—rebellious and spoiled, cavalier and self-absorbed. Surely he’d grow out of it in time.

  But when he turned toward me and I looked into those bleary eyes, sunken in shadows and surrounded by bloated skin, I did something I probably shouldn’t have. I shook my head sadly. “Oh, Reggie. You’ve got to stop this. At least don’t sneak off to drink alone.”

  “No? Then tell me, Em, who should I drink with?” He laughed, an unpleasant sound.

  I pulled out a chair and sat across from him. “You shouldn’t drink at all at your age. Can you tell me why you do?”

  “Why are you here, Em?”

  I blew out a breath and crossed my arms on the table
top. “I was wondering . . . Were you here when Officer Whyte came this morning.”

  He nodded. “I saw him.”

  “Did you hear him talk about the case against Brady?”

  “Sure.” He smiled and a knowing gleam entered his eyes. “I hear a lot of things I’m not supposed to. People around here seem to think I never pay attention.”

  I let that pass. “He mentioned me, didn’t he?”

  “He told Father you needed to let the police handle the investigation, and that we should discourage you from asking questions.”

  “And what did your father say?”

  “Oh, he agreed. He wants the police to finish up, and Brady to be indicted and moved up to Providence.”

  My blood ran cold. “He said that?”

  “Well, not in so many words. I mean, he didn’t mention Brady by name. He said ‘the guilty party.’ ” Reggie ran his finger around the rim of his glass. Then he picked the glass up and tossed back the remaining contents. His lips pinched tight as a shudder ran across his shoulders, but he picked up the bottle and splashed in another two or three fingers’ worth.

  “And did your father agree with Officer Whyte that I should stop asking questions?”

  “What do you think? He doesn’t like it that you write that column for the newspaper. Says if it were anything else but the society page, he’d put his foot down and make you stop. A matter of respectability and family pride, he says. He thinks you need a husband, and quick. Mother agrees.”

  “And what do you think?” I asked in a low voice that trembled slightly with anger. His revelations didn’t surprise me much, but it unsettled me to know I was discussed when I wasn’t here.

  “I think you should do as you damn well please.” He raised his glass as if to toast me. My gaze drifted to the bottle, almost half-empty now. He held his booze rather well, I noted. Too well; it meant he drank often. He noticed me staring. “Want some?”

  “No, thanks.” Yet my eyes remained riveted to that bottle . . . a bottle identical to the one that had been found beside Brady after the murder. True enough, Uncle Cornelius always kept plenty on hand. But . . .

  “Reggie, when Alvin Goddard died . . . where were you? I mean, did you see or hear anything unusual?” I added quickly to avoid sounding like I was accusing him.

  But was I? Could Reggie have had time to push Alvin Goddard from the balcony and return downstairs in time for Gertrude’s toast? But then again, anyone might have gotten hold of that bottle and placed it near Brady. Well, anyone who knew where to look, that is.

  “Oh, I’d snuck off to the butler’s pantry for more of this,” Reggie said in reply to my question. He lifted the bottle and tilted it in my direction before setting it down again.

  “Did you go upstairs at all?”

  “I was up and down all night. You don’t think I could stand being in the middle of that crowd without a breather now and again, do you?”

  “I suppose not. And when you were upstairs, did you see anyone? Brady, for instance? Or Mr. Goddard?”

  “Is this more of your investigation, Em?”

  “Humor me.”

  “All right, I will, if for no the other reason than because Father wouldn’t. Yes, I saw Alvin. He was going into a meeting with Father and a few other men.”

  “Do you remember who the others were?”

  “Well . . . let’s see . . .” He drummed his fingertips on the table. “Uncle William was there, of course, and John Astor, William Wetmore, Stuyvesant Fish . . . um . . . I think old man Halstock . . . and . . . that friend of your father’s, the one Father used to call ‘that eager pup’—Parsons.”

  Jack Parsons. It was one name that kept coming up.

  He slanted an eyebrow at me. “Any more questions?”

  “Only this. Did you see any of those men enter Uncle Cornelius’s room that night?”

  “Sorry, Em. I wish I had. I wish I could get Brady off the hook. I like him, you know.” He leaned further over the table, bringing with him a sharp whiff of spirits. “He understands me.”

  Yes, all too well.

  “Don’t drink any more today, Reggie,” I said as matter-of-factly as I could. “Go back to the house. Gertrude and Esther are back, and your mother and Gladys should be home soon, too. They’ll wonder where you are and someone might come looking for you. You don’t want them to see you . . .” I trailed off and gestured at the bottle and once-more empty glass. As I did so, I thought of Brady and where he sat at that moment. And I thought of what often became of charming young men who turned to the bottle whenever life challenged them.

  Sunday dawned bright and clear, and just hot enough to make me uncomfortable beneath my layers of muslin and linen. Nanny, Katie, and I piled into the buggy and drove into town to attend church. Not where my Vanderbilt relatives and most of their acquaintances worshipped, at beautiful Trinity Church with its soaring white steeple, but at the much smaller and more modest St. Paul’s, where I had attended with Aunt Sadie during the last decade of her life; where she had played the organ almost every Sunday since before I was born.

  A small crowd nearly filled the sanctuary by the time we arrived; we found seats together near the back. I thought I’d find respite here, an hour or so of peace, but on the contrary. As the summer heat closed around me, augmented by so many tightly packed bodies, my mind drifted from the usual platitudes intoned from the altar.

  Using my little hymnal to fan my face, I pondered what Aunt Sadie would have done if faced with my dilemmas. With her fiercely independent spirit and refusal to accept any terms but her own, how would she have set about vindicating Brady? So far I’d hit a dead end at every turn; Officer Whyte, Uncle Cornelius, Neily, and even Brady himself seemed intent on hiding the truth—or, at least, hiding it from me. Was each trying to protect me, or did each have a reason to prevent the truth from coming out?

  Yet, even I could hardly put stock into the list of suspects I’d compiled so far: Theodore Mason, Jack Parsons . . . and Neily? It all seemed absurd, beyond the scope of possibility.

  Or was it? Theodore Mason had been accused of theft by Alvin Goddard and sacked without a reference. Jack Parsons . . . I sighed. If he owned the watch I’d found in Uncle Cornelius’s safe, it could mean he was in financial straits. It was possible he owed Uncle Cornelius money—a great deal. People killed because of money all the time, didn’t they? And then there was Neily, carrying on a courtship with a woman his parents disapproved of. Mr. Goddard had been spying on him and reporting back to Uncle Cornelius. . . .

  Another name whispered through my mind, along with a remembered aroma so pungent my throat began to close. It was the sickly stink of bourbon, and the name . . . was Reggie. Again, it seemed impossible, but why? Because he was a boy? Because his father was the richest man in America? Those, I realized, were only the reasons he’d never likely be suspected . . . or charged. But something was clearly eating away at Reggie, something with the power to destroy him. Could that something have led him to commit murder?

  I went rigid, my hymnal slipping from my fingers and thwacking to the floor. Heads turned in my direction. I smiled my apologies even as my heart thrashed with a possibility I hadn’t considered previously. Uncle Cornelius seemed content to let Brady take the blame for Alvin Goddard’s murder.

  Was it because he believed one of his sons had killed the man?

  Neily, Reggie . . . and there was Alfred, too, although the middle Vanderbilt brother spent most of his time at Yale lately, and was never one to defy his parents. He wasn’t a drinker or a gambler or a ladies’ man, not someone with anything to hide. No, I couldn’t imagine Uncle Cornelius suspecting Alfred, but as for the other two . . . perhaps I wasn’t the only one with questions about my cousins. And if Uncle Cornelius believed one of them to be guilty, wouldn’t he use his considerable resources to prevent his own son from being accused, much less charged?

  It wouldn’t be the first time a man in his position interfered with the law.

 
; Nanny nudged my shoulder. “Almost time to go.”

  Indeed, the congregation was on its feet, singing the final hymn. I could barely remember the words, I was so impatient to be gone. The time for tact, politeness, and propriety had passed. It was time instead to confront my suspects with direct questions and let their replies bear witness to their guilt or innocence.

  Perhaps attending church reaped its benefits that morning, for the angels sent me a minor blessing. Upon stepping outside, we ran into one of Nanny’s countless acquaintances, elderly Mrs. Bronson who was only too happy to bring Nanny and Katie home. That left the next hours wide open for me. I headed back up to Broadway, to the Harbor Hill Boarding House.

  “I’d like to see Mr. Mason, please, if he’s in,” I boldly told the proprietress when she opened the door. Her eyes widened slightly, and no wonder; here I was, a lone young woman seeking a private audience with a man at his home. Most improper, but would that have stopped Aunt Sadie?

  I think not.

  “Ah, I remember you,” the landlady said in her breezy German accent. “You came the other day with the older lady. Pot roast and potatoes.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “I get your basket.” I tried to stop her, but she disappeared into the gloom of the house. A few moments later she returned and handed me the basket Nanny and I had left for Mr. Mason, now empty. “I’m sorry, but the gentleman is not here anymore.”

  The determination that had brought me here began to flag. “Mr. Mason moved out?”

  “Not exactly. He still pays for room—for his room,” she corrected herself, “but for now he lives elsewhere.”

  “Can you tell me where?”

  Her eyebrow rose, disappearing beneath wisps of brown hair. “He did not say. He checks for mail sometimes. I tell him you called . . . again, yah?”

  “No.” I blew out a breath. “No need to tell him I called. Thank you, and sorry to disturb you.”