“She must have heard what a tender heart you have, my dear.”
I wondered about that. Mrs. Wetmore was known in Newport and throughout the state for her philanthropic efforts. She even supported St. Nicholas Orphanage in Providence, as did I. But she was not known as a woman who simply doled out money to all who asked. She expected something in return for her generosity, namely, that the recipients of her benevolence use the opportunity to better their circumstances. It was a philosophy to which I myself subscribed. It wasn’t enough to simply feed someone, although at first basic sustenance might mean the difference between life and death. But after that, a person must learn to feed themselves if they are to achieve any dignity and fulfillment in this world.
I yearned to follow the trespasser and question her. She might have scoffed at me, but more often than not I have found troubled individuals willing to speak of their adversity. A way to lift part of the weight from their shoulders, at least temporarily, I supposed. But if Mrs. Wetmore was known for her philanthropy, I, too, was known in Newport for taking in young women in need of a haven. My home, Gull Manor, had become a stopover for any honest soul—or even not so honest—looking to escape regrettable circumstances and start afresh. The tradition had started with my great aunt Sadie, who had left Gull Manor to me in her will, and at the same time imparted to me the responsibility of helping my less fortunate sisters.
Sighing, I retrieved my pen and tablet from my purse. Yes, I took strays into my home, and with the help of my housekeeper, Nanny, I fed them, taught them skills such as reading, writing, mathematics, sewing, and cooking, and once they healed from whatever wounds had sent them to me, I gave them what cash I could spare and wished them Godspeed. I could do none of those things without an income of my own. My article for the Newport Observer beckoned.
Before I could take up position along the sidelines again, my half brother Brady stopped me. Having not seen him for several weeks, I tossed my arms around him. Like George Wetmore, he, too, had eschewed the traditional morning coat and top hat, and instead looked quite the sporting gentleman. A straw boater topped his sandy blond hair, and he wore tan linen slacks and a striped suit coat and waistcoat, perfectly tailored and crisply new. Working in Manhattan for my Vanderbilt relatives had given Brady new confidence to go along with his greater salary.
“What was that about?” he asked in an undertone. His eyes gleamed with interest. Leave it to my older brother to never miss a thing.
“I’m not quite sure.” I told him the plain facts as I’d observed them, including Mr. Wetmore’s claim that the woman had asked for money. She had made no such request in my hearing. And then I remembered the name I’d overheard. “Does the name Lilah mean anything to you?”
A slight flush bloomed on Brady’s cheeks. “I, uh . . . Lilah, you say?”
I lowered my voice another notch. “Is she George Wetmore’s mistress?”
“Good grief, no.”
I leaned closer and peered up at him beneath the brim of his boater. “Don’t toy with me, Brady. Who is she?”
“Well, Em, as you know, any number of women might be named Lilah. Just because I might happen to know one doesn’t mean I know them all.”
“Brady, please.” Despite the polite word I used, I spoke through gritted teeth and with an implied threat he couldn’t ignore. Brady might be several years my senior, but somewhere along the way I had taken up a parental role and helped keep my brother out of trouble more times than I cared to remember. That had changed the nature of our relationship forever and given me an upper hand I wasn’t afraid to wield under the right circumstances.
His eyes narrowed. “How did you come by that name?”
Although I was growing annoyed enough to whack him with my notepad, I nevertheless replied, “I overheard it a few minutes ago. I don’t believe the speaker meant to utter it. Rather, the shock of seeing the woman yanked it from him.”
“Really. Who was this? Surely not Wetmore.”
“No. I didn’t see directly nor could I hear well enough to identify him, but either Stanford Whittaker, Robert Clarkson, or Harry Lehr.”
“Humph. Doesn’t surprise me one bit that it would be one of them.” He glanced from side to side, and then over his shoulder to ensure no one would overhear him. With his hand cupping his mouth, he leaned close to my ear. “She works at the Blue Moon Tavern.”
I gasped, but only slightly. In fact, it was more of an I thought so gasp than one of surprise, because if she wasn’t someone’s mistress, this explanation suited equally well. The Blue Moon held a notorious reputation in town, and the appellation of tavern was understood to be a polite euphemism for the truth. “Why on earth would she want to speak with Mrs. Wetmore?”
“Mrs. Wetmore?” Brady removed his boater and raked his fingers through his hair. “Good grief, Em, tell me they didn’t speak to each other.” Again he glanced behind him. He knew as well as I what kind of scandal would ensue should anyone learn a prostitute had asked for Mrs. Wetmore by name, as if they shared a prior acquaintance.
I shook my head. “No, I stopped Mrs. Wetmore from following her husband. I’m not even sure why I did it.”
“I’ll tell you why. You’re too decent to let someone walk unknowingly into her own ruination. Not to mention her husband’s.”
“I think you’re exaggerating the danger, Brady.”
“Perhaps, but only a bit. You and I both know it.”
“Well, disaster averted, I hope.” A sharp thwack and cheering from the field reminded me of my obligations. Still, I lingered as I regarded my brother. “How was Uncle Cornelius when you last saw him?”
A shadow fell across his usually jovial face. He shook his head. “Not well, I’m afraid. Still bedridden, for the most part.”
“And his speech?”
“Little improved. I believe his mind is as sharp as ever, Em, but it’s as if he’s trapped inside his own body.”
“Oh, Brady, how dreadful. Cornelius Vanderbilt was the strongest man I’ve ever known, and to think of him as helpless and dependent . . .” A weight pressed against my breastbone. “I saw Neily a little while ago. Apparently they still blame him.”
Brady set his boater back on his head. “Yes, I’m afraid so, at least where Alice and Gertrude are concerned. And the old man won’t hear Neily’s name mentioned. He makes that more than evident even without the power of speech. I might risk my employment by standing up for him, but Em, I can’t just sit by and see Neily demonized for marrying a woman he cares so deeply about. Luckily, Alfred and even William see my side of it, even though outwardly they feel obligated to show Neily the cold shoulder.”
By Alfred, Brady referred to Neily’s younger brother, who had taken over for his father at the New York Central. William Vanderbilt was Cornelius’s brother. I understood why they must appear to stand with the family in this matter—unless and until Cornelius and Alice relented—but I was glad for Neily’s sake that he did have allies, even covert ones.
I returned to our earlier subject. “Tell me more about the Blue Moon.”
“Good grief, Em, I’m not going to talk about that place with you.”
“You may spare me the baser details, thank you. I merely want to know who is in charge should I need to speak with anyone.”
“Absolutely not.”
“It could be important if Mrs. Wetmore is harassed again. I’ll . . . pass the information on to Jesse.” I improvised that last assurance, knowing I’d gain more insight from Brady if he believed I’d let our mutual friend, Detective Jesse Whyte of the Newport Police Department, conduct any necessary interviews.
“Well . . . all right.” Brady went on to convey the details I sought, and ended with a protestation that he had only come by the information through hearsay.
“Of course,” I readily agreed. “How else? I’d better get back to work.” I leaned in to kiss Brady on the cheek, then laughed as I remembered a happier detail. “Say hello to Hannah for me, if I don’t see you
again before the match ends. And come by the house for supper as soon as you’re able—both of you. Nanny has been wanting to cook for you.”
* * *
I awoke with a gasp, a ringing in my ears, and a warm weight pinning my legs to the bed. It took several moments before my sleep-befuddled mind identified both the ringing and weight, the former being the telephone in the alcove downstairs, and the latter my dog, who had crawled up from the foot of the bed to nudge me from sleep.
“Woof.”
Blinking in the darkness, I eased Patch, part spaniel and part mystery, off me and flipped back the covers. The telephone jangled relentlessly. I gazed at the gap I always left in the curtains to allow the dawn’s first rays to awaken me, but no sun peeked in from the seaward horizon. What time could it be? Patch must have wondered too, for he tilted his head as he peered at me, his brown ear twitching forward while the white one simply hung.
All at once, the portent of a ringing telephone in the dead of night gripped me with its urgency. Frantically I swept my feet over the floor beside my bed, searching until I found my slippers. No good could come from the summons of a telephone at such an hour, and my mind turned over several possibilities with lightning speed. Brady was in trouble. Uncle Cornelius had passed away. Some accident had befallen Neily. Ill news from my parents. But no, that last, I reasoned, would come by telegram and not over the telephone lines, as Mother and Father had returned to Paris in the spring.
I grabbed the shawl I had tossed over a chair last night and threw my door wide. Patch leaped down from the bed and was beside me in an instant, his furry tail arced and waving. His nails clicked on the oaken treads as he preceded me down the stairs. Finally, my shawl half falling from my shoulders, I squeezed past him into the alcove beneath the stairs and snatched up the ear trumpet. “Yes? This is Emma Cross.”
“Emma, it’s Jesse. How soon can you be dressed and ready to accompany me?”
“Accompany you where?”
“Chateau sur Mer.” It was all the explanation he offered. I knew better than to press him when he spoke in that concise, authoritative manner.
“I can be ready as soon as you get here. Are you still in town?”
“No. I’m at Chateau sur Mer with the Wetmores. Don’t worry, no one in the family has been harmed. I’ll start out now.”
He disconnected, and as I replaced the ear trumpet back onto its cradle, heavy thuds and creaking wood sounded from the staircase above my head.
“What was that?”
I left the alcove, nearly tripping over Patch in the process, and met Nanny at the bottom of the steps. She held her dressing gown closed over a faded nightgown, her hair in curling rags and covered by a kerchief. I had known Mary O’Neal all my life. She had been my nurse when I was a child, Brady’s too, and when I left my parents’ home in our harborside Point neighborhood to take up residence here at Gull Manor on Ocean Avenue, Nanny had come with me as my housekeeper. Grandmother seemed a more accurate term for the woman who had soothed me, scolded me when I needed it, taught me, encouraged me, and stayed steadily by me all these years. I kissed her cheek, velvety soft with age.
“It was Jesse,” I replied, feeling a sudden chill and hugging my shawl about me. “Something has happened at Chateau sur Mer. He needs me there.”
“You? Why?” She clucked. “Never mind. I’ve learned better than to ask. I’ll put the kettle on to boil and heat up some johnnycakes.”
“There may not be time. Jesse’s on his way now.”
“There’s time. You go get dressed.” She called to Patch. “Come on, boy. You’ll be needing a trip outside and then some breakfast, too.”
Some forty minutes later Jesse and I drove up the driveway of the Wetmore estate on Bellevue Avenue. A faint light shimmered on the horizon far out over the Atlantic. Standing beside another of those giant weeping beech trees whose branches undulated like seaweed on the tide, Chateau sur Mer possessed a solid dignity that spoke of tradition and distinction. If The Breakers and Marble House personified the extravagance and vanity of my Vanderbilt relatives, this Second Empire French chateau, built of granite blocks and sporting two towers and a steep mansard roof, just as surely exemplified the upright and dependable George Peabody Wetmore. Jesse had told me little in the carriage, except to confirm that the Wetmores were all still alive, and that an incident like those that had brought the two of us together last summer and autumn had once again occurred. I knew what that meant, and I shivered in the predawn chill.
Three other police wagons and an ambulance populated the lengthy circular driveway. Light spilled from every room on the ground floor, and a few of the second-story windows as well. Jesse maneuvered the carriage around to the side of the house, to the new entrance the Wetmores had built during their extensive renovations. We exited the carriage beneath a sheltering porte cochere.
Strained, bewildered voices reached my ears as soon as Jesse opened the front door. I needn’t take many steps beyond the vestibule to discover why.
Two policemen crouched at the bottom of one side of the double staircase. Between the two flights rose a tree of life mural painted on the soffit where the staircases merged at the half landing and continued as one to the second floor. After the darkness of the ride over, I blinked in the sudden glare of gas lighting.
It took several moments for my eyes to adjust, and for the full impact of the sight before me to register. When it did, it struck with the force of a pony-driven polo mallet. I now saw what the officers crouched over. Brown hair, curled into spirals, tumbled across a white, lifeless face, and a plum and rose gown lay tangled around legs thrust at odd angles, as if by a fall. Yes, certainly the result of a fall. But it was the neck and the position of the head that drew a gasp of dismay from me, along with a name:
“Lilah.”
Chapter 2
“You know her?” Only a hint of incredulity tinged Jesse’s question, for he had grown accustomed to my activities in recent years and little I did could surprise him. “Is she someone you helped? Took in at Gull Manor?”
I shook my head, staring down at the lifeless face. One of the policemen brought a lantern closer. Her eyes were blue—the blue of shallow ocean waves in high summer. Except for where an odd streak of amber spilled across the iris of the left eye. I wondered, had people often commented on it? Was it something Lilah ignored, or did she peer into the mirror and wish the minor flaw gone? There was so much we didn’t know about her, would never know.
“I never saw her before yesterday’s polo match.” I turned to gaze into Jesse’s face—youthful despite his thirty-odd years, fair and freckled in keeping with his Scots Irish heritage—but I did so more to avoid looking any longer at the tragedy sprawled before me.
He laid a hand on my shoulder. “She’s the one who attempted to push her way down to the privileged seating, isn’t she?”
“Yes. She was insisting she needed to speak to . . .” I trailed off, staring through the wide doorway into Chateau sur Mer’s Tapestry Hall. Voices continued to echo from a room somewhere across the way. I spoke lower. “She demanded to speak to Mrs. Wetmore, but the police officers hurried her away from the grounds and warned her not to come back.” I exhaled, long and hard. “What happened here?”
“That’s what I intend to find out. Come.”
I hesitated, prompting Jesse to halt and turn back to me. Over the past two years my friendship with him had strengthened, but we had also formed a partnership wherein Jesse often consulted with me on difficult cases. I had more than proved my ability to string together clues and deduce theories, possibilities, even conclusions. But always in the past Jesse resisted seeking my insight until a mystery became particularly perplexing. He rarely sought me out at the onset of a case.
“Why am I here?” I asked.
“Because Mrs. Wetmore asked for you.”
Without further ado he grasped my hand and led me through the Tapestry Hall, oddly named for it contained no such artwork. Three stories open
ed above us with rectangular galleries overlooking the hall, the underside of each repeating the tree of life motif begun on the staircase. High above my head, gas jets illuminated a stained glass ceiling as if lit by a sun that had yet to rise. A cold hearth gaped at us from within its carved mantel and decorative tiles. Gas chandeliers, reflected in numerous mirrors, brought out the shimmer of red silk wall coverings and heavily coffered wainscoting. Our footsteps seemed astonishingly loud on the herringbone parquet floor.
From here we passed into the library. Seated around a square table were Mr. and Mrs. Wetmore and their two adult daughters, Edith, named for their mother, and Maude. The dark woodwork continued here, now of burled walnut, with pilasters bisecting the walls every few feet. The overall effect was one of warmth, elegance, and stately endurance. George Wetmore was scowling at the policeman presently talking to him. The young officer and I were well acquainted, as we had grown up in the same neighborhood.
“At some point, sir,” Officer Scotty Binsford said in a respectful tone, “we’ll need to ask your sons whether they heard anything.”
Mrs. Wetmore reached over and pressed her hand to her husband’s wrist. “George, we mustn’t involve Billy and Rogers. They’re just children.”
“We most certainly will not, my dear.” Mr. Wetmore’s expression had eased slightly at his wife’s words. Now the full force of his scowl returned as he addressed Scotty. “It is bad enough, young man, that you insisted on questioning my daughters. They heard nothing, saw nothing, as they have told you more than once. We would greatly appreciate . . .”
Whatever he would have appreciated we were not to know, for as Jesse and I entered the room he fell silent. The four Wetmores turned haunted, stunned expressions up at us. Miss Maude, the younger sister, looked close to tears. The family resemblance between the three women was strong, though Edith, nearly thirty, favored her mother more closely, while Maude, at twenty-four, was fairer, her features more delicate.
Murder at Chateau sur Mer Page 3