Murder at the Breakers

by Alyssa Maxwell

  I huffed in denial, but he kept talking.

  “I was at the jailhouse that first day because upon arriving in town I’d heard there’d been a death the night before. Any reporter worth his ink would inquire about that.”

  “But you followed me out of the jailhouse and around town, until I spotted you on Spring Street.”

  “I confess I did. But it had nothing to do with your brother.”

  I shook my head. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Miss Cross, I’m not here to investigate your brother or you, or the death of Alvin Goddard.”

  I quirked an eyebrow at him. “And you’re not here to research an article about America’s wealthy industrialists either, are you, Mr. Anderson?”

  “No, I’m not.” He drew a breath, looked out over the silver-tipped waves, then back at me. “Since we literally keep running into each other, maybe you and I can find a way to work together.”

  “Maybe,” I agreed, “assuming you can find a way to tell me one thing that’s true.”

  “Touché.” He laughed softly, his eyes crinkling pleasantly at the corners. “All right, then. I’m not here on behalf of the Sun. I took on this assignment privately.”

  “And what assignment would that be?” I couldn’t help smiling. I wasn’t sure why, but I was suddenly enjoying the little game we seemed to be playing. That is, until Derrick Anderson spoke his next words.

  “I’m investigating Adelaide Halstock.”

  “Adelaide?” I sat up straighter, all amusement gone from my thoughts. “Why on earth?”

  But even as I asked the question, Adelaide’s mysterious errand on the Point formed images in my mind. I sank back against the squabs.

  “There is someone, whose identity I can’t divulge, who mistrusts your old friend’s intentions when it comes to her husband. That’s why I followed her to the Point tonight. It isn’t the first time she’s slipped out of that mausoleum she shares with Rupert Halstock, only to return home in the wee hours of the morning.”

  “You think she’s having an affair?” The question came out more like a statement and I immediately regretted my words. I believed exactly that, but who was I to judge Adelaide? It certainly wasn’t my business to see her punished for what might be the desperate actions of a young woman who found herself trapped in a loveless marriage to an aged, ailing husband.

  “It goes beyond questions of fidelity, Miss Cross, and involves more than wounded family pride. I can’t tell you much else, but your old friend might be in the middle of something that promises to barrel out of her control.”

  “My old friend . . .” My mouth dropped open. “That’s why you’ve followed me, because I’m Adelaide’s friend. But how did you know that?”

  He smiled that enigmatic, infuriating smile of his. “I’m an investigative reporter, Miss Cross.”

  I remembered the kiss Adelaide had blown over her shoulder after leaving the saltbox, prompting me to ask a bit too eagerly, “So did you see who it was Adelaide came to visit?”

  “Unfortunately, no. The individual was obviously already inside before she or I arrived. I’d hoped he might exit after her, but then I heard your shout.”

  “Yes . . . I’m sorry about that.”

  “Sorry I was there to ward off your attacker? I’m not.” His voice deepened with quiet conviction, melding like a caress with the breeze and raising goose bumps across my back. A nervous sensation fluttered in my stomach.

  Needing to escape his scrutiny, I stared out over the water. I cleared my throat. Shoved my hands in the pockets of my corduroy jacket. When I glanced back at him it was to catch the ghost of his smile just before it vanished.

  “What can you tell me about Mrs. Halstock?” he asked.

  The sudden shift back to Adelaide came as a welcome distraction. “Not much.” At his skeptical expression, my chin came up defensively. “It’s true we’ve known each other all our lives, but we were never particularly close. We’re only now just reacquainting ourselves, perhaps as better friends; but if she’s having an affair, she hasn’t told me anything about it. I was surprised to see her tonight. You can believe it or not, Mr. Anderson, but that is the truth.”

  “Oh, I’ll take you at your word, Miss Cross. Something tells me nothing but the truth ever leaves those pretty lips of yours.” He paused and a blush climbed up my neck—partly from unexpected pleasure that he should mention my lips, partly with shock that he should do so . . . and partly with a smidgeon of guilt because, truthfully, I wasn’t above a little white lie if I deemed one necessary.

  His hand moved, the forefinger lightly tapping the brim of my boyish cap. The backs of his knuckles grazed my cheek. My lower lip trembled in response, but other than that I held myself immobile. What would he do next? My pulse raced as I waited.

  “It’s your turn.” He returned his hand to the back of the seat, and the smudge of dirt across his knuckles made me realize the point of his gesture—to remove said dirt from my cheek, a reminder of my attack. “What brought you to the Point tonight?” he asked.

  I worked through a sense of schoolgirl-like disappointment. “I was following my cousin.”

  “Cornelius the third?”

  “Yes . . . we call him Neily.”

  “I thought that’s who arrived right before Mrs. Halstock left the house.” He studied me a moment. “This has to do with your half brother, Stuart Gale?”

  “Brady,” I corrected him, but didn’t answer the question. After all, I didn’t know what he might do with the information.

  “Who else is on your list of suspects for the murder of Alvin Goddard?”

  The question startled me. “How do you know I have a list—”

  “Miss Cross, there is always more than one suspect. Besides, from what I’ve heard around town, you have a good relationship with your Vanderbilt cousins, especially Neily. You can’t want him to be Alvin Goddard’s murderer any more than you want your brother to be guilty.”

  “That may be so,” I conceded, “but I’m not about to shed guilt on anyone until I have proof.”

  “Until,” he repeated, smiling again, “not if. I like your spirit, Miss Cross.”

  The heat of another blush surged into my cheeks. I diverted his attention from it with a suggestion. “I suppose we could try asking Neily who else was there tonight . . .” I trailed off, already realizing the flaw in that plan.

  “But then he’d know you were following him.” Mr. Anderson frowned. “Then again, maybe he was on to you.”

  I shook my head vigorously. “It can’t have been Neily who attacked me, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “You sure about that?”

  No. I wasn’t sure about anything—not even about the possibility that as I’d followed Neily to the Point, someone else had followed me. Nor was I sure about how much I should be trusting Derrick Anderson.

  “All right, we’ll leave that for now,” he said when I didn’t reply. “I have a proposition for you, Miss Cross.”

  I studied him through narrowed eyes. “What sort of proposition?”

  “You don’t have to look so cynical.” His hand moved toward my face again, then stopped suddenly as if he thought twice about touching me. “What I propose is that we work together from now on. Pool our resources. Share information.”

  I sat back and studied the play of moonlight on his even, yet somehow rugged features. “Why would you want to do that? You yourself said I was Adelaide’s friend. How do you know I’m not involved in whatever it is you’re investigating?”

  “Because I saw your reaction when Mrs. Halstock exited the house, and I believe you were utterly taken aback. I realized then you were no confidante of hers.”

  My mouth fell open. “Where were you?”

  “A few feet away, just on the other side of the garden wall of the house to your right. I could see over well enough, while the lilac bushes provided ample camouflage.”

  “And you watched me . . .”

  “Wa
tching them—your cousin, his sweetheart, and Mrs. Halstock. Yes.” He shrugged, a careless gesture that should have infuriated me, yet somehow didn’t. “Sorry,” he added.

  I blew out a breath, trying to sound exasperated, but the truth was I realized his proposition might turn out to be a godsend—if I could trust him. “All right. What do you have in mind?”

  He hesitated just long enough for the silence to become heavy with unspoken innuendoes, and for my cheeks to blaze again; thank goodness the breeze had blown a cloud across the moon. “First we need to find out who owns that house on the Point,” he said. “We’ll proceed from there.”

  He stuck out his hand. “Partners . . . Emma?”

  Every instinct and every notion of propriety ever instilled in me roared out a warning. I knew nothing about this man, had no reason to trust him. And I knew what happened to young women who put their faith in dashing, charming gentlemen. Yet for reasons I still can’t explain, I placed my hand in his and gave a firm shake.

  It was all I could do the next day not to drive straight over to The Breakers and confront Neily about being on the Point the previous night. Adelaide as well. Between the two of them, I would certainly be able to identify the fourth person in the blue saltbox. But besides not wanting to reveal my having followed Neily, I realized questioning either one of them could potentially put them in danger—and me in even greater danger than I already was. If that fourth person had been my attacker, it might also mean he murdered Alvin Goddard. Better to let my assailant believe he’d frightened me away from investigating any further, while at the same time leaving Neily and Adelaide ignorant of any information that could make them targets as well.

  Of course, I hadn’t been frightened off, and another possibility existed. Considering that a carriage had entered the Point behind me, it was possible my attacker hadn’t emerged from the house at all, but from one of the side streets. And if the individual took the trouble of following me and running me down with a knife, it must mean I was getting closer—uncomfortably close—to the truth.

  Besides the names I’d read in Stevenson’s ledger, I’d learned something else the day I went into town with Aunt Alice and Gladys. Theodore Mason had lied about his whereabouts the night of the murder. He told me he never left his room but had sat reading Great Expectations until turning in. His landlady had a different story: Mr. Mason had indeed gone out that night.

  At midmorning, then, I stood in front of Jack Parsons’s front door. From somewhere in the house drifted a deep drone of voices, far off and indistinct, but suggesting Jack was at home. I clanked the knocker until it raised resounding echoes in the hallway inside. A moment later the door opened and Theodore Mason peered out at me with fatigue-ridden eyes.

  Surprise instantly replaced his tired look. “Good morning, Miss Emma.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Mason.” I started to step over the threshold, but he blocked my way.

  “Er, I’m afraid this isn’t the best time, Miss Emma. Mr. Parsons is otherwise engaged.” He moved as if to close the door.

  “That’s quite all right, Mr. Mason.” I held my ground and smiled. “It’s you I’ve come to see.”

  “Me?”

  “Indeed. May I step inside for a moment, or would you rather I ask my question here on the stoop, where the gardener might overhear?” Fortunately for me, the gardener at that moment walked around the corner of the house, hedge clippers in hand.

  “It’s really not a good time, Miss Emma.” But he widened the door all the same.

  He led me into the small receiving parlor at the front of the house. The voices I’d heard persisted, and I thought I detected a note of hostility, though I still couldn’t make out the words. Mr. Mason closed the door behind us, enveloping us in silence. He took several paces into the center of the room before pivoting soldier-style to regard me.

  I saw no reason to vacillate. “You lied to me the other day. You were not in your boardinghouse room reading the night Alvin Goddard died.”

  His shoulders sagged as the breath breezed out of him. “No, I wasn’t, at least not all night. I did go out for a short time.”

  “How short?”

  “I don’t know . . . not long.”

  “Where did you go?”

  He scowled at the floor, only just managing to smooth his brow before looking back up at me. “Nowhere in particular. For a walk. As people will do of an evening, Miss Cross.”

  I tilted my chin at him. “Then why lie about it?”

  “Why?” He held up his arms. “Why lie when someone practically accuses you of murder?”

  “I did no such thing, Mr. Mason. I only asked you some questions.”

  “Yes, about a murder. One I did not commit.”

  “Neither did my brother. But someone did, and we’ll never get at the truth if people persist in lying about that night. So I’ll ask you again. Where did you go, and can anyone verify your story?”

  He stared at me a good long moment, his eyes burning with indecision. His nose became pinched, and his brows cinched tightly enough to appear painful. Finally, he sighed. “Yes, someone can verify where I went that night. That is, I visited someone, but . . . I cannot tell you whom.”

  “Why on earth not?”

  “Because . . . I can’t. I promised. It’s a matter of . . . well . . .” Again he pinned me with a gaze that blazed with uncertainty. “I promised and I can’t break that promise unless . . . it becomes a matter of life and death.”

  “You do realize, Mr. Mason, that I might have to go to the police with the information I have . . . tell them you lied, that you were not at home that night. I don’t wish to, but you’re not giving me much choice.”

  His inner debate cleared from his expression, leaving his face a blank. “You do what you must, Miss Emma. And I will do what I must, when and if I must.”

  I wanted to shake him. But I had one last question. “Where were you last night?” I inquired in a deadly quiet voice.

  He seemed to take the query in stride. “I was here.”

  “Can Mr. Parsons corroborate that?”

  A corner of his mouth quirked with irony. “Mr. Parsons wasn’t home last night.”

  Damn. But why would I expect a man like Jack Parsons to be sitting at home on a summer evening in Newport? Of course he was out, at the Casino or the Newport Country Club—or any of a dozen other places where music, good food, and pleasant conversation could be found.

  I drew myself up, readying to leave. “I’m sorry to have upset you, Mr. Mason.”

  His long-suffering look unexpectedly melted into something resembling sympathy. “I hope you clear your brother, Miss Emma. I always did like Mr. Brady. I always did,” he repeated absently, more to himself.

  He walked past me to open the door, and angry voices spilled into the room. Familiar voices, both of them.

  “You said you would, Jack. You can’t back out now.”

  “Are you crazy? If you know what’s good for you, you’ll change your ways and keep your mouth shut in the bargain.”

  “It’s too late, and you’re gonna get me killed.”

  “Don’t be melodramatic.”

  Forcing my unhinged mouth to close, I strode into the hall, effectively silencing Jack and my young cousin Reggie. “What is going on here?”

  Jack’s back was to me, but now he whirled about. The two of them stared at me like a pair of raccoons caught rummaging through the garbage. “Emma . . .” Jack said weakly and trailed off.

  “What are you doing here, Em?” My young cousin shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and scowled. I’d thought Mr. Mason looked tired, but Reggie looked downright . . . damaged. Worn out, defeated, and much, much too cynical for a boy of sixteen. At the sight of him, all I wanted to do was wrap my arms around him, rock him back and forth, and assure him everything would be all right.

  Not that I knew what that “everything” entailed. Not that my embraces or reassurances would make a difference. Reggie had set out on a roa
d that threatened to consume him whole—the circles beneath his eyes and the untimely brackets around his mouth attested to that—and it broke my heart.

  “Reggie,” I said gently, “what’s going on? What will get you killed?” I shot a glance at Jack and demanded, “Who is going to hurt my cousin, and why?”

  Chapter 13

  “See here, Emma, it’s not as bad as all that. Why don’t we all have a seat and discuss this calmly.” Jack gestured toward the room I’d just vacated, and the three of us went in while Mr. Mason stole the opportunity to disappear down the hallway.

  I didn’t point out that they had hardly been discussing anything calmly moments ago. Still, I hoped I might learn something in the next few moments that would ease my rising concerns for Reggie.

  “Would you like some tea, Emma?” Jack asked me once we’d settled ourselves in the rather uncomfortable chairs the receiving parlor had to offer.

  Tempted to snap in reply, I gritted my teeth. “What I’d like is for one of you to come clean, and fast or . . . I’ll go straight to Uncle Cornelius.”

  I doubt I’d have done any such thing, but the threat certainly had its effect on Reggie; his eyes bulged and his cheeks flushed. “It’s just the summer sporting scene, Em. Happens every Season. Being a girl, you wouldn’t understand.”

  I opened my mouth to protest the nature of that statement when Jack held up a hand. “He’s talking about yacht races, Emma.”

  Settling back in my chair, I pondered that for all of about three ticks of the mantel clock. “Dishonest ones, I presume.”

  “I told him it was a bad idea—”

  “Not at first you didn’t,” Reggie interrupted, sliding forward to perch at the end of his seat. “You were going to place hefty wagers . . . you promised.”

  “That was before I realized what was going to happen,” Jack shot back.

  “Which is what?” I tossed up my hands. “One of you had better explain—or else.”

  The implied threat worked its magic. Jack let out a breath. “Reggie’s mixed up in a plan to fix next week’s unofficial tournament at the Yacht Club.”