Aunt Alva tapped her forefinger against her chin. Then she said, “I want the house searched, Grafton.” With a brisk nod he started to turn away. “Grafton!”
He turned back.
“I want the house searched by you alone. Tell no one what you’re doing. Go through each room, including the attic, until you find my daughter. Then bring her here to me.”
His expression never changed. “Yes, ma’am.”
“When I get my hands on that girl . . .”
“Aunt Alva!”
As if she’d forgotten my presence, she jumped at the sound of my voice, then scowled. I pushed on anyway.
“Don’t you think perhaps a lighter touch with Consuelo might be in order? It’s been a horrendous day and she was already upset before it even began.”
“Do not presume to tell me how to raise my daughter.” She seemed to bring me into focus as if through the crosshairs on a rifle. “Did you manage to convince her to marry the Duke?”
I stared down at my feet. “I believe I did, though I’m not proud of it.”
“Good.” Her smile held relief but little warmth. “Now if we can just clean up this mess before he arrives. If we’re lucky, he’ll never hear of it.”
My mouth dropped open. “Is that what you’re worried about? Need I remind you a woman is dead? Another is in grave danger of spending the rest of her life in prison. And at the moment your daughter is nowhere to be found.”
“Oh, Emmaline.” She waved a hand in the air, a dismissive gesture that so infuriated me my pulse pounded and spots danced before my eyes. “Consuelo is playing a little game for attention. All right, I’ll give her some attention. I suppose you’re right in that I should look upon her antics with a bit of tolerance and show her that Mama is not the ogre she likes to believe I am.” Here the light in her eyes became fierce, searing in its intensity. “But as for what happened here today, it has nothing to do with me, and nothing to do with my daughter.”
“It happened on your property.”
“An unhappy coincidence. I’m sorry a woman died, Emmaline, truly I am, but it’s simply not my business. Nor yours, if you’re wise.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Grafton said an hour later, “but Miss Consuelo does not appear to be anywhere in the house.”
“Nor in the stables or the gardens or anywhere else I can think of,” I added as I strode into Aunt Alva’s private sitting room on the second floor. “I even checked the Cliff Walk.”
“She’d never go there,” Aunt Alva said absently, as if other thoughts held her attention. “She’s terrified of heights.” She stood up from her writing desk, where she’d been writing some sort of list, and went to gaze out the window at the rear of the property. The tops of meticulously pruned trees swayed beyond the open casement, and a raucous squawking of seagulls carried on the breeze. “What is that child up to?”
“Aunt Alva,” I said to her back, “I think it’s time to resum-mon the police.”
She whirled. “Are you mad?” Her gaze flicked to the butler, still hovering a few feet from the escritoire. “That will be all, thank you, Grafton. Say nothing to anyone and should you discover my daughter . . .”
“I’ll escort her to you, madam.”
Aunt Alva followed him as far as the door, which she shut firmly behind him before turning back to me. “You are not to speak of calling the police, Emmaline.”
“But if Consuelo is missing—”
“Oh, she is not missing. The very idea. If she’s gone, it’s because she stole the opportunity of today’s distraction to slip out without my noticing.”
“I hardly think Consuelo would be so scheming. It’s not like her—”
“She’s gone to one of her friends’ homes, I’m sure of it. Why, she’s probably sipping tea this very moment with May Goelet or Carrie Astor or . . . let’s see . . . are the Oelrichses in town this summer?”
“And if she’s not with May or Carrie or Blanche,” I persisted. “What then?”
Aunt Alva’s dark eyes went wide. “Good grief, you don’t think she’s . . . she’s . . .”
“She’s what?”
“With Winthrop Rutherfurd? What if . . . what if they’ve eloped? Oh, dear gracious heavens, Emmaline, we’ve got to find them. We’ve got to stop them!”
She started for the door, but I stepped in front of her and gripped her shoulders. “Don’t you think you’re jumping to conclusions? We have no reason to believe . . .” I trailed off, releasing my hold on my aunt.
“What are you thinking?” she demanded. Suspicion narrowed her eyes. “Do you know something?”
“No, but I might.”
Hurrying down the corridor, I returned to Consuelo’s bedroom. Nothing seemed disturbed since I’d been there earlier, no signs of sudden flight. I went into the dressing room. Again, nothing seemed rummaged through, no drawers gaped half open, and upon opening the wardrobe, I saw that all looked as neat as a pin. There were no signs that Consuelo had run upstairs during the chaos of the murder and packed a bag.
I went back out to the main room and yes, even her diary sat where she had left it that morning, when I’d interrupted her writing. Why would she have left it behind? Two possibilities presented themselves to me. Either someone had snatched her from the property against her will, or she had left on her own but impulsively, perhaps even blindly. Had she been desperate enough to do so?
I snatched the tome from the bedside table, but then I hesitated. Did I have the right, under any circumstances, to read my cousin’s private thoughts? Was I once again betraying her confidence? Oh, but if I could forestall her making a grievous mistake. . .
Knowing I might be partially responsible if Consuelo had done anything drastic, I flipped the book open to the last place she had penned her innermost thoughts, the page marked with a satin ribbon, and read:
Mama refuses to take me seriously. This horrible house is more important to her than I am. I won’t be sad to leave it, or her, but despite what I told Emma earlier, I tremble at the thought of how Mama has planned out my life for me. I feel so alone, so desperate. I feel as though I’m screaming and no one hears me—
Here a blotchy stain blurred the words. My own eyes stung. Had I believed my meddling had helped earlier today? Had I thought I’d helped my cousin face her future with a bit more courage? I’d only fooled myself into thinking so because I couldn’t bear the truth—the truth Consuelo felt she could impart to no one but the cool, white pages of her journal. Apparently, I’d placed a sorry second when it came to confidantes. But there was more, and I read on.
My cousin Emma tells me I am strong and intelligent, and that I shall prevail. I’m not quite sure how, but she tells me also that I must let people know that I am a force to be reckoned with. That I must soldier on, map my battleground and discover a way to be happy. I think what that all means is I must now take matters into my own hands. Go where I want. Take what I want. Live how I want. I believe she is right. I—
“Well, Emmaline?”
Startled, I snapped the diary closed and looked up to see Aunt Alva poised in the doorway. “What?” I said stupidly, trying to blink away the guilt I was sure blazed in my eyes. Good heavens, not only had I not made things better with my interference, I’d made them much, much worse. If Consuelo had run off somewhere, it was only because of what I’d said to her and my foolish notions of courage.
Could she have run off to elope with Winthrop Rutherfurd?
“Did she leave us any hints in that ridiculous book of hers?”
“I . . . ah . . . no.” It wasn’t a lie. Consuelo hadn’t left so much as an inkling of where she might have gone, or with whom. But as the seconds ticked past, I became more and more convinced that she had, indeed, gone.
And then I realized why her bedroom felt so completely empty.
Muffy was gone. Perhaps Consuelo had been in too much of a rush to grab her diary, but she would never abandon her cat. . . .
“You have to find her, Emma
line. That’s all there is to it.”
“Aunt Alva, surely this is a matter for the police—”
“If you say that one more time, Emmaline, I swear I’ll scream. The police cannot be involved. Can you imagine the scandal? And with the Duke due to arrive within the next two weeks?” Her fist flew to press her chest just below her collarbone. Her breath rasped in and panted out in such rapid succession I became alarmed and went to her.
“You’ll faint if you don’t calm down.”
She grasped my wrist and squeezed like an iron vise, until I began to fear the bones would snap. “She is with one of her friends, Emmaline. She must be. And you must find her. Don’t go telling me you can’t. You were the one who discovered who murdered my brother-in-law’s financial secretary. Surely you can discover the whereabouts of one silly girl.”
Her intensity frightened me. And she was hurting me. “Yes, all right. I’ll find her, Aunt Alva. Just let me go before you break my wrist, please.”
“Oh.” She looked down, saw how her fingers were trembling because of how tightly she held me, and immediately let go. “Sorry. I think you should try Ochre Court first; she’s very probably with May Goelet. Or . . . Let’s see, where else would she go?”
Her eyes closed and a little groan escaped her. With one arm clamped around her middle, she made her way back to the chaise and sank onto the cushions. For a moment I feared she’d be ill.
“Aunt Alva?” I knelt beside her and reached up to put an arm around her shoulders.
“Oh, Emmaline, if she’s eloped with Winthrop Rutherfurd it’ll be the end of the world.”
“That’s a rather extreme outlook, don’t you think?”
“After all the care I took in raising her,” she lamented as if I hadn’t spoken. “All the planning I’ve done. She’s meant for better things than being the wife of some obscure New York fop.”
“The Rutherfurds are hardly obscure.”
Her eyes opened and she treated me to one of her quelling glares. “That’s not the point.”
“No, I suppose not.” I stood. “I’ll call on the Astors and the Goelets on my way home. I’ll check with cousin Gertrude, too.”
“Home? Emmaline, there isn’t time to go home. You must find her immediately and—”
“If I’ve learned anything, it’s never to underestimate the power of the servants’ rumor mill. I would never have discovered who killed Alvin Goddard if it hadn’t been for Nanny’s help. She has ways of sweeping hidden little details out into the open. We need her in this, Aunt Alva.”
“She’ll be discreet?”
I wanted to shake sense into the woman. What was more important, her daughter’s life or some silly reputation?
But I knew the answer. In Alva Vanderbilt’s world, a woman’s reputation was everything, every bit a commodity as the empires their men controlled. Oh, there were limits for every woman from every rung of society, but for most of us it was nearly impossible to imagine how much harm even a breath of scandal could do to a young woman like Consuelo. In my aunt’s eyes, her daughter would be better off dead than with a tarnished reputation.
That made me immeasurably sad.
It was on the ride home that a thought struck me. That last conversation with Aunt Alva kept playing over in my mind, until I suddenly stopped my aging hack short.
“Barney,” I said out loud for no other reason than that sometimes voicing a thought helped me judge its validity, “you don’t suppose . . . No, never mind.” I shook my head and was about to cluck my tongue to the horse. His ears twitched in my direction for the signal to resume our trek home. But I hesitated, my mouth slightly open.
“Would Aunt Alva stoop so low?” I whispered to the gathering afternoon shadows.
Was it possible she knew exactly where Consuelo was, and Aunt Alva’s distress was nothing more than a ruse to distract . . . me? Beneath the trees in the quiet of Bellevue Avenue, near the bend where that grand street turned onto Ocean Avenue, I began ticking off the facts one by one, to the rhythm of the ocean waves at nearby Bailey’s Beach.
Four suffragettes currently inhabited Marble House; five if you counted Aunt Alva.
Consuelo faced an unwanted marriage and virtually choked on the irony that her mother’s bullheaded independence would never extend to her daughter.
Aunt Alva had orchestrated today’s so-called entertainment with Madame Devereaux in an effort to persuade Consuelo to cooperate. But in this instance, it was the medium herself who balked at cooperating. Who had outright told Consuelo she’d never be happy if she married him.
Madame Devereaux was dead, and Consuelo was missing. The two incidents couldn’t be a coincidence, and the sudden, sickening question was, would Aunt Alva resort to murder and then kidnap her own daughter to avoid letting Consuelo’s future slip through her fingers? And setting me on Consuelo’s trail? Well, wouldn’t that distract me from discovering the truth?
“Oh, Barney, tell me this can’t be true. Tell me I’m jumping to conclusions.”
But that loyal old soul simply gave his head an impatient shake to let me know he was tired, hungry, and wanted a brisk brushing down. I clucked to set him back in motion. I needed Nanny and Brady to help me sort out my suspicions and approach the matter with a clear perspective. Furthermore, I needed Nanny to work her magic among her well-placed connections in Newport. If so much as a breath of a hint existed as to where Consuelo might be hiding—or was hidden against her will—Nanny would get wind of it, eventually.
Chapter 6
“What do you think?” I asked my little family back at home once I’d filled them in on the details of that harrowing morning.
Saying nothing, Nanny pursed her lips and reached for the teapot. When I arrived some half hour ago, feeling and probably looking battered after my day at Marble House, she, Brady, and I had gathered around the morning-room table for sandwiches and a pot of strong Irish tea that Katie had brewed for us. And dare I confess each time Nanny poured a cup she also trickled in a tiny bit of the spirits, just to shore up the constitution.
Brady cradled his cup in his palms and leaned back in his chair. “Alva Vanderbilt is no murderer. The old girl doesn’t have it in her, Em. If I’m certain of anything, it’s that.”
“But that temper of hers,” I reminded him. “We’ve all seen it. Goodness, just about everyone has seen it at one time or another.
“All bluster,” he replied with a quirk of his lips.
“I think so, too,” Nanny said. “As far as murder goes. But as for her possibly using that poor woman’s death to hide her daughter away . . . well. Can’t say as I’d put it past her.”
“Then again . . .” I watched the thin stream of whiskey make its way into my tea before Nanny handed me the refilled cup. “Alva was with the rest of us the entire time. It was Consuelo who slipped away, supposedly to her room.”
“Alva might have had a servant do her dirty work,” Brady said, “to steal Consuelo away.”
I shook my head. “I doubt she’d trust any of them enough.”
Nanny’s eyebrows went up. “How about the butler?” “Grafton? Alva had him search the house for Consuelo—” I broke off, and the other two studied me with burgeoning “aha” expressions.
Brady nodded. “Bet he didn’t find a thing, did he?”
“No, he didn’t,” I conceded. “Or at least he said he didn’t.”
“Mm-hmm.” It was Nanny’s turn to nod knowingly. “But if Consuelo was there, my guess is she’s gone now to who only knows where.” She reached for the whiskey again. I shot her a glance. She returned it with an unapologetic narrowing of her eyes. “Are you going to play mother with me now, Emma?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” And really, it wasn’t Nanny fogging her mind I worried about. I’d never in my entire life seen her tipsy, except, of course, each Christmas Eve, but that was a mellow, contented form of tipsy where she sat in her favorite overstuffed chair and smilingly contemplated the Yule log. No, Nanny ofte
n suffered from dyspepsia and I feared the strong liquor might exacerbate her condition. She wasn’t a young woman. I didn’t want her doing anything that might shorten the time we had together. “Whether Alva is behind it or not,” I said, “you’re probably right that Consuelo is no longer at Marble House. But where would a girl like Consuelo Vanderbilt hide?”
“She’s much too beautiful to simply ‘blend in’ anywhere,” said Brady. “Or for that matter, to travel anywhere unless someone put a bag over her head. Even if she managed to cross the harbor without being noticed, somewhere along the line someone would recognize her. And then we’d hear about it.”
“So she’s most likely somewhere on the island.” The thought raised my hopes. If Consuelo was somewhere on Aquidneck Island, chances were I’d find her eventually. I leveled my gaze on Nanny. “Can you alert the network?”
She gave me one of her shrewd little grins.
“But . . .” I placed my hand over hers where it lay on the tablecloth. “We need the utmost discretion. You can only share this with friends you trust absolutely.”
“That does narrow down the field quite a bit,” she said with a sigh. “But I believe I might be able to tap into a few prudent, well-placed sources of information.”
“Good. Thank you, Nanny. Brady, if you think of anything that might help, or hear anything, you’ll let me know, yes?”
“Of course. And exactly what are you going to do, little sister?”
“I’ve got several important social calls to make. But first I’ve got an article to write and deliver. I’ll be hanged if I let Ed Billings steal a byline from me again.”
Oh, yes, I’d written up a brilliant article only two weeks ago after a body had literally fallen at my feet during my cousin Gertrude’s coming-out ball at The Breakers. Eagerly I’d brought my article to my employer at the Newport Observer, confident in having reported the facts exactly as they happened, without the taint of sensationalism. What did Mr. Millford do? He literally patted me on the head and advised me to stick with the society page. Then he proceeded to publish Ed Billings’s ridiculous ramblings about events he hadn’t witnessed.
Murder at Marble House Page 7