“You are delusional, Mr. Dobbs. Now please move aside.” I took a step, but was again forced to halt when he stood his ground. I began to consider how loud I’d need to scream to be heard by the workers on the wharf or passersby on the street.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, as if only just realizing the oddity of finding me on Carrington’s Wharf.
“That is none of your business.”
The heavy steps of feet clad in work boots sounded behind me. “Tony, what are you doing?”
Relief pooled in the pit of my stomach, until it occurred to me this new individual might pose further complications, rather than assistance.
Dobbs glanced beyond my shoulder to the person standing behind me. “Just saying hello to an old friend. Isn’t that right, Miss Cross?”
I peered around, and felt a vague sense of recognition. The workman was no one from within my circle of acquaintances, that much was certain, yet something in his face seemed familiar. Quickly I studied the mouth, and the nose that ended with a bit of a hook, as if it had met with the blunt end of a fist on more than one occasion. His eyes, blue, were surrounded by crow’s-feet that were not the result of age, for his robust figure spoke of a man in his twenties, but of much time spent in sun and wind. He regarded me almost as curiously as I regarded him.
Then he gazed past me. “Say good-bye to the lady and let’s get back to work.”
Dobbs stepped around me, nearly bumping my shoulder in the narrow passage and causing me to recoil. He noticed and smirked out of the side of his mouth, and kept going. I hurried to Thames Street, and to Barney, waiting patiently at the roadside.
Chapter 6
The next morning saw me once more at Chateau sur Mer. Another carriage, a dapper little spider phaeton pulled by a sleek black horse, stood parked beneath the porte cochere. I parked behind it. Before I’d alighted from my own gig, the front door opened and a man came striding out. He set his hat on his head as he walked, but even that couldn’t hide his scowl. Then he swung his ivory inlaid walking stick in a tight arc and hit it sharply against the ground.
He saw me and stopped, the scowl intensifying as it seemed to find a target on which to focus all its enmity: me.
My hail of “Good morning” didn’t ease Harry Lehr’s expression in the slightest. Though his feet had been taking him toward his own carriage, he changed course until he stood in front of me. “You warned her, didn’t you?”
I shook my head in bafflement. “Warned whom of what?” But the answer came to me even before he huffed out a breath.
“Meddling little busybody. I came here to pay my respects to Miss Wetmore, and she barely blinked an eye before bidding me good morning and dismissing me. Made up some flimsy excuse about supervising the monthly silver inventory, but I could see she must have been on the lookout for me. What did you tell her?”
“I told her nothing, Mr. Lehr.” An admonishment bubbled for release: that he should come here so soon after the family’s terrible shock. Though no one yet knew the true details, word had leaked out about the police and ambulance coming to Chateau sur Mer three nights ago. In a town as small as Newport, it was bound to happen. The newspapers reported that a guest had fallen down the stairs and broken her neck, but remained vague as to the identity of that guest. My co-reporter at the Observer surmised, indelicately, that she had been a spinster friend of one of the Wetmore sisters.
I held my tongue. Either Harry Lehr didn’t read the newspapers, or personal tragedy meant little to him in the course of his fortune hunting.
“If you told her nothing, what are you doing here now?”
“It is none of your business, but . . .” I thought quickly. “I am assisting Mrs. Wetmore in recording the history of various items in the house. Now, if you will excuse me.”
He raised his walking stick out sideways to bar my way. The confrontation brought back the still-fresh memory of my encounter with Anthony Dobbs outside the Blue Moon yesterday. Yet here, one sharp cry from me would bring a footman or two, and perhaps a groom, hurrying out to see what the matter was.
Oddly though, Mr. Lehr didn’t frighten me. I couldn’t have said why not, but I simply felt annoyed rather than threatened. Reaching out, I laid my fingers on his walking stick and lowered it. He didn’t resist my efforts, and then I simply bid him good day and brushed past him.
Mr. Callajheue, the butler, opened the door when I knocked. He admitted me immediately and without question, even though I had no appointment to visit Mrs. Wetmore. Upon stepping into the cool, shady interior of the Stair Hall, I dismissed Mr. Lehr from my mind. With no conversation after a perfunctory greeting and inquiry after my general well-being, the butler escorted me up the main double staircase—the side opposite the one on which Lilah had been found dead. At the top, we traversed the gallery that looked down into the Tapestry Hall on the first floor. We passed several closed doors, turned a corner into a smaller hall on which several more doors opened, and stopped outside one of them. The butler knocked, and I was admitted into a sitting room that made me feel as though I’d suddenly been transported to a vibrant, exotic world. From the richly woven carpet to the lush silk draperies and upholsteries to the unique treasures that decorated the room, I might have been standing in a home in faraway Istanbul. French doors, open to the breeze, looked out onto a square terrace above the original entrance. The front lawn and driveway stretched away below us to Bellevue Avenue.
Mrs. Wetmore sat near an unlit marble fireplace. Her loose-fitting morning dress bore many of the colors found in the room; I wondered if she always dressed to match whatever room she would be using at any particular time. It wouldn’t have surprised me one bit. Most society women changed their attire upward of nine times each day to suit their various activities.
She looked up from what appeared to be an appointment book open in her lap. “Miss Cross, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Her words, I immediately realized, were for the butler’s benefit, for she knew quite well what business had brought me here. Obviously, our arrangement had not been made common knowledge. She smiled up at me. “Might I offer you some tea and refreshment?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Wetmore. I shan’t keep you long.” At that, she signaled to the butler, who backed out of the room and closed the door. Mrs. Wetmore bade me sit near her.
“Mrs. Wetmore, I came to ask if you’ve been completely honest with me.”
Her gaze, lingering on the flower arrangement that occupied the hearth in lieu of coal or firewood, darted to mine. “Whatever do you mean, Miss Cross?”
“It is my understanding that Lilah Buford wished to warn you and Mr. Wetmore of some threat against your husband.”
Her hand clutched the sofa arm beside her. The other rose to the lace neckline of her gown. “A threat? Of what sort?”
“That I haven’t yet learned. But the first question is why she would specifically want to speak with you, as opposed to your husband.”
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Are you certain, Mrs. Wetmore? Can you think of no occasion when you and Lilah Buford met?”
“Met? A . . . woman of that . . . that . . . sort?” She looked scandalized. “Don’t misunderstand, Miss Cross. I sympathize with such women and through my philanthropic works I seek to improve their circumstances—as do you, from what I understand.”
I nodded.
“But meet her? My goodness, no. Besides, since my husband’s senatorial duties take us to Washington much of the year, most of my charitable activities in Newport have been from afar. Miss Cross, I do not understand you. I asked you to discover the truth of Lilah Buford’s death and how she came to be lying at the foot of our staircase. But here you are, accusing me of . . . I am sure I do not know what.” Her voice rose as she spoke, ending in a high-pitched crescendo.
“I’m not accusing you of anything, Mrs. Wetmore,” I replied calmly. “I’m merely attempting to trace whatever link existed between Lilah Buford and this house.”
&nb
sp; “Oh, this is all too distressing. We sent our boys away. They’re with William Vanderbilt and his two sons aboard his yacht. It was the only way we could protect them. Our daughters, on the other hand, refused to—”
A knock sounded at the door, and Maude Wetmore, the younger of the two Wetmore daughters, stepped in. “Mother, I thought I heard you cry out a moment ago.” Her gaze shifted to me and lingered warily. “Is everything all right?”
Mrs. Wetmore let out a telling sigh, but said, “Everything is fine, Maude, dear. You remember Miss Cross?”
“Of course. How could I forget?” The young woman’s chin jutted slightly as she took my measure, as both she and her sister had done the morning Lilah Buford was found. The gesture spoke of strength of will combined with a fair dose of stubbornness, and I didn’t doubt Maude Wetmore, only a year my senior, could make a formidable foe. Harry Lehr wished to marry her? He could not fully understand what that would mean. “I hope you are not upsetting my mother about what occurred here the other day.”
Yes, formidable. “It is not my wish to do so, Miss Wetmore, but this is an upsetting business, all the same.”
“Then perhaps you should go.”
“Maude!” Her mother’s tone scolded as if her daughter were a child and not a grown woman. “That is no way to treat a guest in our home.”
Miss Maude raised an eyebrow and looked anything but contrite. Again I thought of Harry Lehr and his scheme to marry this woman. She was no green girl and certainly no fool. No wonder she had sent him summarily packing this morning.
“Perhaps your daughter is right, ma’am.” Seeing no good arising from alienating any member of the Wetmore family, I came to my feet. “Should I learn anything new I’ll be sure to let you know. Good day to you both. I can see myself out.”
“Miss Cross.” Mrs. Wetmore jumped up from the settee and met me at the doorway. “Please don’t give up. Your question took me off guard, but I meant no offense. And my daughter, please forgive her. She is very protective of me. Do say you’ll continue.”
I met her gaze levelly. “Of course I will, Mrs. Wetmore.” I didn’t say my quest had become more about seeking justice for Lilah Buford than removing all potential tarnish from George Wetmore’s sterling character. She wouldn’t have understood how a woman like Lilah could claim an equal or even greater hold on my conscience than a senator. I merely accepted her thanks, her daughter’s somewhat contrite nod, and went on my way.
Later that day, after luncheon and a rest for Barney, I drove into town to see Jesse.
* * *
Jesse and I left the police station soon after I arrived. If we were to talk about the case, we must do so where no one would overhear us. We walked together up Marlborough Street, and at the corner, by the long, plain wooden Friends Meeting House, we headed north onto Farewell Street, away from town. The day was fair and warm again, with lovely breezes flowing in from the harbor.
“Chief Rogers has tied my hands once again, though it’s not his fault,” Jesse told me. “He’s merely following orders, as I’m expected to do.”
“Which is to do nothing about Lilah Buford’s death. Mrs. Wetmore predicted as much.” As I could have. This was not the first time Jesse Whyte had been forbidden to pursue possible suspects in a murder investigation. The last time had involved a death at The Breakers, the summer cottage of my relatives Cornelius and Alice Vanderbilt.
“And we must be seen as nothing more than two friends walking on a fine summer’s day.” Jesse laughed bitterly and swore softly. “This was not why I became a police officer.”
“No, you joined the police force because you have an unquenchable thirst for justice.”
He laughed in earnest this time. “Yes, very true. So then, what do you have to tell me?”
“Something that in all the excitement I’d forgotten to tell you sooner, something I overheard at the polo match.”
“If you mean about the men upset because of the Dingley Tariff Act—”
“No, something else.” A carriage rolled by, and though the driver could not have heard me, I nonetheless remained silent until it had passed. “Though it does involve one of those three men. Harry Lehr wishes to marry Maude Wet- more.”
“For her money, one would suppose.”
“Yes, he admitted as much. But unless he’s the worst kind of fool, he knows perfectly well that George Wetmore would never allow his daughter to marry a known fortune hunter like Lehr. Why, one of his friends said as much. And although he attempted to visit Maude today and was turned away, I’ve no doubt he’ll try again. It makes me think Lehr wouldn’t be unhappy to see George Wetmore placed permanently out of the way.”
“Then Lehr might be doubly happy to see Mr. Wetmore go. For Miss Wetmore’s sake and because of the Dingley Act.”
I shook my head. “I didn’t have the impression that Harry Lehr cared one way or the other about the tariff act. That seemed only to concern the other two, Robert Clarkson and Stanford Whittaker. Most especially Whittaker. I believe Harry Lehr’s sole objective is to win Maude’s hand and secure her fortune.”
The gates of the Common Burying Ground Cemetery came into view. Jesse and I both had ancestors buried there from as far back as the late seventeenth century. We stopped beside it and gazed through the wrought iron fence.
“So what do we have so far?” Jesse’s question was a rhetorical one, for he held up a hand and used his fingers to count off each detail we had learned. “Harry Lehr wants Maude Wetmore’s fortune, but her father would never allow them to marry. Meanwhile, his two friends, Robert Clarkson and Stanford Whittaker, are incensed over Wetmore’s staunch support of the Dingley Tariff.”
“Not only that, but Mr. Whittaker has a penchant, apparently, for brutality against women. And it’s come to my attention that Lilah might have overheard Clarkson and Whittaker conspiring against Mr. Wetmore. Their identities can’t be confirmed, and it’s merely hearsay, but if Lilah overheard something and was discovered, it would certainly be a motive for murder, as well as for leaving her body at Chateau sur Mer.”
“Two birds with one stone, eh? Where did you discover this?”
“I did some checking in town yesterday,” I replied. “I also learned that Madam Heidi’s girls at the Blue Moon were none too pleased that Lilah had become a favorite among the customers. She took business away from the others. Which could also be a motive to be rid of her.”
Jesse pivoted to face me, his expression registering horror. “How the devil do you know all this?”
“I went there. Yesterday.”
“To the Blue Moon?”
“Yes.”
“You went inside?”
“Yes, and I asked them if George Wetmore had ever hired their services. They all denied it, but I still wonder if perhaps Lilah stole him away from one of the other girls, and that girl took her revenge on both of them.”
Jesse continued to gape at me. “You went inside and spoke to them?”
“They would not have spoken to you, would they? I went during the day, when the place was empty of customers. There was no danger.”
“Emma, the danger lay in your being there. In being seen there. Have you lost your mind?”
“You sound like Nanny.” I shook my head and emitted a laugh.
Jesse blew out a breath and turned back toward the cemetery. “Why must you always make me regret involving you in any case?”
His tone and his words stung, for I was being put in my place and all value of my visit to the Blue Moon stripped away. I stared at his rigid profile and wished I could make him understand that the same passion for the truth that drove him drove me as well. I’d thought he had come to terms with it, but apparently I had been wrong. Yes, I took risks, but so did he. He considered them worth it. Why couldn’t he accept that I considered them equally worth it, and that they were my risks to take?
I reached out and closed my hand around one of the iron bars of the fence. “We have the three men I overheard talking a
t the polo match, and the women who work at the Blue Moon. Not to mention that George Wetmore himself is not above suspicion.” I spoke as if the past several few moments hadn’t occurred. “If Lilah came that night to tell him about her pregnancy, he might have killed her to silence her. No matter your orders or how upstanding a man he may seem, he must be considered a suspect, at least for now.”
Gradually the ire drained from Jesse’s frame. He relaxed his stance and nodded. “Yes, Wetmore is a suspect. Anyone else?”
“You’ll think I’m daft.”
“I already do.” He softened the claim with a small smile.
“Mrs. Wetmore.”
With a tilt of his head, he turned to lean his shoulder against the fence. “Surely you don’t believe so.”
“It must be considered, for the same reasons her husband must be. Because of the child Lilah carried. Because it might have been Mr. Wetmore’s. Maybe it wasn’t George Wetmore who left his bed first that night. Maybe it was Mrs. Wetmore who went down to hear what Lilah Buford wished to tell her. Such news would have frightened and enraged her. Such news would have meant the destruction of her world, the life she and her family had been living. She might have killed to protect that world, Jesse.”
“Then why hire you to investigate? Wouldn’t it have been safer for her to allow the police to declare the matter an accident and close the case?”
“She loves her husband. This is just a possibility, mind you. But perhaps fearing he would be accused, whether officially or in the court of public opinion, she hired me to erase all guilt from his name, at the same time believing neither I nor anyone else would ever suspect her of committing the deed. This much is certain. There is some connection between Mrs. Wetmore and Lilah. Else why would Lilah have insisted she speak with Mrs. Wetmore?”
Murder at Chateau sur Mer Page 9