Murder at the Breakers

by Alyssa Maxwell

  But she wasn’t listening to me. She was retreating into the house, closing the door, and saying, “Yah, I will tell him.”

  I didn’t wonder what Aunt Sadie would do now, but I tended not to use strong language, even when there was no one around to hear. Without having formed a plan, I climbed back into my carriage and headed back into town. By the time I reached Spring Street, I knew where my next destination would be: Lakeview Avenue, in the hopes I would be able to identify Jack Parson’s rented house. He was next on my list, and I had questions for him, the first being whether or not a certain pocket watch belonged to him.

  I made the mistake of turning my rig onto Spring Street to cut across town. When I reached the corner of Spring and Church streets, the roadway jammed as Trinity Church let out. Fine carriages vied for space with single riders and pedestrians attempting to cross. With an impatient scowl I settled in to wait until two familiar faces near the corner caught my attention.

  Adelaide saw me the same time I spotted her and we each raised a hand to wave. She stood at her husband’s side, one arm hooked through his. Rupert Halstock appeared distracted by the surrounding crowd, his lined features pulled into an expression of childlike confusion. The manservant I’d encountered at their home flanked Mr. Halstock’s other side, and with one arm extended, the valet made sweeping gestures in front of his employer to keep people from treading too close.

  Adelaide turned to them and spoke some words. Her husband seemed not to hear her, but the servant nodded and stepped protectively closer to the ailing gentleman at his side. The next thing I knew, Adelaide was holding her skirts clear of the dusty street and making her way in and out of the slow-moving vehicles . . . to mine.

  “Good morning, Emma, how fortunate to run into you like this.” She stretched a gloved hand toward me, and what could I do but grasp it and help her up onto the seat next to me? “You don’t mind driving me home, do you?”

  “Good morning, Adelaide. Er . . .” I yearned to make my excuses. Drat this mire of Sunday traffic, or I’d have been halfway to Jack Parson’s house by now. At my hesitation a desperate plea filled Adelaide’s eyes, and I knew she had made no light request. “What about Mr. Halstock?” I asked.

  Her gaze skittered to the sidewalk, where a gleaming brougham inched to a halt in front of her husband and his valet. A footman hopped down from the back to open the door. “Please, Emma, just drive on. He won’t miss me.”

  Within minutes the way began to clear and Barney was able to achieve a steady walk. As we drove in silence for another minute I felt the tension drain from Adelaide’s posture. “Is he worse?” I asked softly.

  “He’s taken to accusing me of taking things. Stealing things from the house.” She faced straight ahead, the brim of her silk hat hiding her face, but I heard the tears tightening her throat.

  “What kinds of things? Is it that he’s misplacing them and blaming you?”

  “It’s mostly the things we moved down to our New York house. Rupert seems to have forgotten, and so he accuses me of stealing paintings and statues and such. Oh, Emma, it’s become so wearying. So distressful. The doctor says he’s better of late, but I’m afraid I don’t much see it.” She pulled a lace handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at her eyes.

  “I’m so sorry, Adelaide. I wish there was something I could do to help.” I held the reins with one hand and patted her wrist.

  “Oh, but there is.” She lowered her hanky and turned toward me, her eyes surprisingly bright and clear. “You can cheer me up. That’s why I hailed you. Just talk to me, Emma. I’ve so few friends. . . .”

  “What do you mean?” I maneuvered Barney around a mud puddle as I turned toward Bellevue Avenue. “You were always so popular in our schooldays.”

  “Oh, but I no longer associate with many of our old school friends. My marriage has moved me above them, Emma, yet so many of the wives of Rupert’s peers refuse to accept me. Your aunt Alice Vanderbilt included.”

  “Oh . . .” What could I say? While Adelaide judged me worthy of her association because of my Vanderbilt relatives, many of those same relatives judged her beneath their notice. It didn’t surprise me. It took more than a rich husband to gain acceptance into Aunt Alice’s social circle. As she always said, breeding was what mattered, while money was merely window dressing. Which, I suppose, is why they accepted poor, penny-pinching me into their club.

  “What would you like to talk about?” I asked Adelaide brightly, hoping to raise her spirits.

  “Anything but illness. How is Brady’s case going? Are you still investigating?” She asked the latter question in an undertone brimming with eagerness and intrigue.

  I bristled. Did she think it was any easier for me to discuss my brother’s troubles than it was for her to discuss her husband’s illness? Good heavens, should Brady be convicted, he might very well face execution.

  But Adelaide never had been particularly good at empathy, at seeing past her own difficulties long enough to consider those of others. If I had to name a character flaw, that was hers, but if she had always been a bit self-absorbed, I’d never known her to be vindictive. In this instance, she was being curious, not hard-hearted, so I buried my anger and answered her matter-of-factly. “It’s not going at all well, I’m afraid. There are questions whose answers could prove Brady’s innocence, but the police don’t seem inclined to ask them.”

  “And so you are, aren’t you, Emma?”

  “I’m trying to, but sometimes it’s like banging my head against a wall.”

  She emitted a little chortle. “Do you have any other suspects?”

  Her enthusiasm raised my ire again. “This isn’t a detective novel, Adelaide.”

  “But surely you must suspect . . . someone,” she insisted, perhaps not noticing how my lips had thinned.

  “All right, yes. There are several people who I believe had motive and opportunity, but I won’t tell you who.” She looked about to object, so I added, “I won’t tell anyone until I have more proof. I wouldn’t want to accuse an innocent person. That would be as wrong and as damaging as the accusations against Brady.”

  “I suppose you’re right. And you must have a care, Emma.” Her sudden earnestness surprised me. “Not only for those who might be wrongly accused, but for yourself. You’re right—this isn’t a detective novel, and the guilty party won’t appreciate your snooping around in his business.”

  Those words sent a chill down my back, but I snapped my face toward hers and met her gaze head-on. “I’m not afraid of anyone, Adelaide. No one is going to stop me from uncovering the truth. Not the murderer, not the police, not Uncle Cornelius.”

  We passed the Newport Casino, and soon the storefronts gave way to summer-lush trees and the hedge-lined walls of Bellevue Avenue’s mansions. We were nearing my destination, and I longed to find a way to politely free myself of Adelaide’s company.

  Her long lashes narrowed around her lovely eyes. “You’re quite determined, aren’t you? You’re frightening me a little, Emma. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen this side of you before. It’s as if, by living in your aunt’s house and driving her rig, you’ve gained something of her stubbornness.”

  I couldn’t help grinning. “You might just be right about that. Whoever decided to frame my brother didn’t take the spirit of Aunt Sadie into account. She never backed down from anyone or anything in her life, and neither will I.”

  Chapter 8

  I might have a portion of Aunt Sadie’s spirit, but not her devil-may-care attitude when it came to polite society. She had never worried about whom she insulted or who disapproved of her “brazen ways.” But when Adelaide implored me to stay and have lunch with her, I couldn’t find it within me to say no. Especially not when she grasped my hand in both of hers, thanked me for being “such a dear,” and even apologized for not being as good a friend to me as she should have when we were younger.

  I truly couldn’t resist her entreaties when her husband arrived home with his valet, hob
bled past us grumbling about a missing Ming vase, made his way into the library, and slammed the door.

  Poor Adelaide, fate had granted her fondest wishes, but with a cruel twist. My old friend was hurting and feeling very much alone, and no amount of riches could offer the comfort she sought. Only her husband’s restored health and judgment could do that, or, in the interim, an hour or two of my company. And so I followed her up to her second-floor sitting room with its light wicker furnishings, pretty watercolor paintings, and expansive views onto the rear gardens and the glittering ocean beyond. She talked while I mostly listened, and we nibbled on crabmeat and watercress sandwiches, strawberries with heavenly Grand Marnier sauce, and airy almond puffs.

  Shadows fell across the east-facing gardens by the time I finally worked up the wherewithal to excuse myself, but I couldn’t help patting myself on the back for a deed well done. She walked me down to the front door, and there it occurred to me to ask a favor.

  “Adelaide, I have another stop to make before going home. It’s close by. Would it be all right if I left Barney and the carriage here for a little while?”

  “As long as you like, dear friend. Shall I accompany you?”

  “No,” I said, perhaps a tad too quickly. I tried to cover by implying she surely had better things to do, but she saw through my ruse.

  “More detective work?” Her lips pursed and she set a hand on my shoulder. “You won’t do anything ill-advised, will you?”

  “I promise I won’t, Adelaide. Just a friendly chat with an old friend of the family.” I tried to convince myself as well as her, but secretly I wondered how Jack Parsons would react to my questions about the watch I’d discovered in Uncle Cornelius’s safe.

  But first, of course, I had to figure out which house on nearby Lakeview Avenue was his, and I’d realized this might be easier done on foot. I could walk slowly, watch the houses, double back if I needed to, without attracting undo attention.

  A sight that greeted me as I turned from Bellevue onto Lakeview prompted me to grasp my skirts and speed my steps. A man dressed in a plain but well-tailored black suit presently strode up a front walkway toward a large gabled, shingle-style house.

  “Mr. Mason!”

  He stopped and turned, his figure tall and straight, his silver hair impeccably groomed and only slightly thinning for a man of his years. “Miss Emmaline?” A frown deepened the lines scoring his forehead, and the glance he flicked toward the house’s paneled front door indicated a wish for escape.

  Civility, however, dictated he wait as I approached him. “What a surprise, Mr. Mason. Are you . . .” I paused and regarded the deep hunter green trim around the windows and outlining the steep gables of the house. Only one explanation could account for the man’s presence here. “Are you working here now?”

  “I am, Miss Emmaline. Mr. Parsons, with whom I believe you are well-acquainted, was good enough to offer me temporary employment for the length of his stay in town.”

  “This is Mr. Parsons’s house?” Could I be so lucky? I felt an inner burst of success.

  “Indeed, it is.” A look of pain entered his eyes, swiftly followed by a flicker of embarrassment. The circumstances under which he’d been dismissed from The Breakers hung in the awkward silence.

  With a mental shake, I remembered why I’d come. “I’m glad, Mr. Mason. I wonder . . . did the landlady from the Harbor Hill tell you that Mrs. O’Neal and I had come to visit you?”

  “Oh, I . . . I . . .” He ran a hand lightly over his neatly slicked hair. “I’m terribly sorry. I meant to send a thank-you note, but then this position came up and I hurried to accept. Mary—uh, Mrs. O’Neal’s—pot roast is unequalled.”

  “Indeed, it is. Is Mr. Parsons at home?”

  “Not presently, Miss Emmaline.”

  “Oh. Um . . . might I come in anyway? Just for a moment.”

  He surveyed me with puzzlement that bordered on suspicion, but he could hardly refuse my request—and we both knew it. “After you, miss.”

  He brought me to an informal parlor at the back of the house and offered me tea. I accepted, even though I’d consumed more than ample refreshments at Redwing Cottage. Anything to prolong my stay in the hopes Mr. Parsons would soon return.

  Mason returned with a pot of tea and a platter of fruit and biscuits. My stomach groaned rather than growled, but I dutifully plunked treats onto my plate and pretended to nibble. He seemed about to bow out of the room, but I gestured him to the chair on the other side of the sofa table.

  “Please stay, Mr. Mason. There’s something I’d like to ask you.”

  “It’s hardly proper, Miss Emmaline.”

  “Nevertheless. You know my brother has been accused of murdering Alvin Goddard the night of Miss Gertrude’s coming-out ball.”

  Nodding gravely, he perched somewhat stiffly on the edge of his chair. “You and Mr. Gale have my sympathies. I’m certain he’ll be exonerated.”

  “Thank you.” I knew I must proceed with caution, for my next question would all but accuse Mason of the crime. Vaguely I wondered if there was anyone else in the house—someone close enough to hear me should I need assistance. . . .

  “Mr. Mason, please understand that I’m only trying to get at all the facts. I’ve learned that it was Mr. Goddard who accused you of stealing from your employers.”

  A muscle in his cheek bounced. “He had little on which to base that accusation, miss, other than the circumstantial evidence that I had unlimited access to the entire house, whereas other staff does not.” He drew himself up as he spoke, his chin outthrust with wounded dignity.

  “Yet despite a lack of any truly damning evidence, you lost your position.”

  “Unfortunately, yes. It very much surprised me that Mr. Vanderbilt didn’t show more faith in me.”

  “You were happy in your position with the family, weren’t you?”

  “For a good many years, miss, as well you know. I watched the children grow into adults. I presided over every important family event as well as saw to their everyday needs. It saddened me to leave them.”

  “It must have angered you as well.”

  After a brief hesitation, he said, “I won’t deny that it did.”

  I sipped my tea, but from over the cup I scrutinized every muscle in his face. “Was your anger directed toward Mr. Goddard?”

  “Why, Emma, are you accusing my new butler of murder?”

  The voice made both Mr. Mason and me flinch. Jack Parsons stood in the doorway, a newspaper tucked beneath his arm, the grin spreading across his handsome face mocking us ever so slightly. His blond hair, disheveled by the wind, fell with roguish appeal across his brow. It never failed to surprise me that a man my father’s age could appear so hale, so full of youthful vigor. Jack Parsons was timeless, and sometimes I wondered what devil’s bargain he might have made to stay that way.

  After a beat he sauntered toward us and settled into the leather chair to my right, tossing his newspaper onto the table. At the same time, Mr. Mason jumped to his feet. Mr. Parson’s grin persisted. “Sit, Mason. Go ahead and answer Miss Cross’s question.”

  Mason once again settled uneasily onto the chair’s edge. His gaze veered from his new employer to practically impale me against the back of the velvet sofa. “Yes, I was angry at Mr. Goddard. One doesn’t simply walk into a head butler’s position, especially not in a household of such magnitude as the Vanderbilts’. It took years to work my way up—years of hard work, dedication, unerring loyalty. . . .” He broke off, clutching his hands together in his lap so hard they shook. A deep breath calmed him only marginally. “Because of Mr. Goddard, my future is no longer secure. Who wouldn’t be angry?”

  I had no answer for him. Any normal person in his circumstances would express similar emotions. But the question remained: Was I staring into the troubled eyes of a normal person, or of a murderer?

  “Your turn, Emma.” Mr. Parsons took no pains to hide his amusement. “Why don’t you ask Mason where he was on t
he night of the crime? Perhaps he has an alibi.”

  “Mr. Mason?” I said.

  “I was in my room at the Harbor Hill.”

  “Can any witnesses substantiate that claim?” This again came from Jack Parsons. I almost scowled at him but kept my attention on the butler instead. However entertaining this all might be to Mr. Parsons, it was deadly serious business to me, and to Mr. Mason, judging by his grim expression and trembling fingertips.

  “Unfortunately not.” He shook his head and added a shrug for good measure. “I spent the night alone. Reading.”

  “What book?” I asked automatically.

  Mr. Parsons chuckled his approval, no doubt of my quick thinking and clever attempt to trip the butler in his story.

  But Mr. Mason gave his answer readily enough. “Dickens. Great Expectations. It seemed both appropriate and ironic.”

  “David is a likable protagonist,” I said, watching him intently.

  “The main character is called Pip,” he corrected me. “You’re thinking of David Copperfield.”

  It proved nothing. I’d read Dickens in school; most people had. And as the Vanderbilts’ butler, Mason would have access to their extensive library over the years.

  Still, I found myself wanting to believe him. I remembered how kind he’d always been to my cousins and me, greeting our antics with a patient smile and keeping our confidences, even lending his services as butler when the bunch of us played at being adults in the playhouse.

  “Any other questions, miss?”

  “No, Mr. Mason. And thank you. I hope you understand.”

  He came to his feet. “I wish Mr. Gale all the best.”

  But not, his tone implied, at his own expense.

  Not quite able to look Mr. Parsons in the eye yet, I directed my gaze at the newspaper he’d dropped on the table. The headline emblazoned across the top of the page stole my breath:

  STUART BRADEN GALE IV ACCUSED OF COLD-BLOODED MURDER