Murder at Chateau sur Mer

by Alyssa Maxwell

  * * *

  When Jesse and I parted outside the police station, I made the short walk over to Washington Square, and to a small office on the north side. A clerk occupied a stool before a high desk by the front window, his shoulders hunched as he bent low over his work. A blueprint crackled beneath his forearms as he busily took measurements using a compass and made notations in a ledger beside his elbow. He hadn’t noticed me entering.

  “Excuse me.”

  He looked up with a start. “Oh, do forgive me, miss. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “That’s quite all right. Is Mr. Whittaker in?”

  Although Stanford Whittaker’s architectural firm was headquartered in New York, where he employed numerous workers, he also kept this small office for his Newport projects. I was glad of that. I wished to speak with him, but I didn’t wish to do so at his home in his wife’s hearing. The woman suffered enough indignities simply being his wife. I had no desire to add to Bessie Whittaker’s burdens.

  “I’m afraid he isn’t here presently, miss, but if you care to wait, I expect him back shortly.” The clerk gestured to a seat on the opposite wall.

  “Thank you, I believe I will.” I made myself as comfortable as possible in the straight-backed wooden chair. The clerk went back to his blueprint, while I gazed out the window. This angle afforded me a good view of the square.

  Two trolleys rolled past, and from one of them alighted a man in a checked town suit and a derby. A fringe of red hair stuck out from beneath the brim of the hat, and Mr. Whittaker paused as he pulled his watch from his vest pocket and glanced at the time. The watch still in hand, he waited for a carriage to rumble by and resumed walking toward his office.

  I made a mistake then by standing up and moving toward the door. Through the window overlooking the street our gazes met. Mr. Whittaker stopped short, and even through the dusty glass between us I saw his displeasure. He made a show of checking his watch again. As if he suddenly remembered he needed to be somewhere else, he pivoted and set off up the square, toward the Colony House.

  To the apparent astonishment of the clerk, I bolted outside. “Mr. Whittaker! Mr. Whittaker!”

  He neither turned around nor broke his stride. I followed at nearly a run, drawing curious stares from pedestrians. I finally caught up to him outside the National Exchange Bank of Newport, a two-story Federal-style building on the corner of Meeting Street.

  I panted to catch my breath. “Mr. Whittaker, a word if you please.”

  He eyed the building’s doorway as if contemplating fleeing inside. It would have made a good escape, for if I’d followed him in and demanded his attention, I’d find myself summarily escorted outside.

  With a sigh he slowly turned around to face me. He did not, however, tip his hat. “Miss Cross, is there something I can do for you?”

  “I had hoped to speak with you quietly in your office, sir, rather than on a busy, crowded street.”

  “Is that so?” He smiled suddenly, his eyes lighting with interest. “Perhaps we might arrange to meet somewhere later, then. I believe I could clear my schedule sometime tonight.” His gaze shimmied slowly down my length, returning to a point well below my chin, where it lingered for several interminable seconds.

  “Now will have to do,” I said curtly. “It’s about Lilah Buford. How well do you know her?”

  He drew himself up. “I fail to see what business it is of yours.”

  “I’m afraid it’s very much my business. She is missing, and I have been hired to discover what happened to her.”

  “Hired by whom?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “What’s it got to do with me?”

  I reverted to the lie I’d attempted to tell Madam Heidi, not that she had been fooled. “Miss Buford has been missing since the evening following the polo match with the Meadowview Club. You remember that day, don’t you, Mr. Whittaker?”

  I scrutinized every nuance of his expression as he took in my words. A scowl drew his fiery eyebrows together. His lips pinched so tightly they disappeared beneath his mustache. Did he know where Lilah had disappeared to? Did he know she was found at the bottom of the staircase at Chateau sur Mer?

  Raising an arm without quite touching me, he ushered me around the corner onto Meeting Street. There were fewer pedestrians here—fewer people to overhear our conversation.

  “Of course I remember that day,” he said in a hissing whisper. “What exactly are you getting at, Miss Cross?”

  “Lilah turned up at the polo match and raised something of a spectacle. You saw her.”

  “I saw her, and I heard her insisting she speak with Mrs. Wetmore, of all people. Then I saw her being escorted from the grounds by a pair of policemen. Again, what’s it got to do with me?”

  I regarded him in silence a moment, considering. Then I decided I had little to lose. “You don’t like the Wetmores very much, do you, Mr. Whittaker? Mr. Wetmore in particular.”

  “Ah, yes. You were eavesdropping that day, weren’t you?”

  I didn’t look away. “It’s my job. And if you don’t wish to be overheard do not conduct sensitive conversations in public places. I can hardly be blamed. But as for Mr. Wetmore . . .”

  He made a grinding noise in his throat. “It’s no secret that I don’t agree with the man’s politics. It doesn’t matter who knows it. Men like Wetmore will ruin the country.”

  “Your grudge sounded more personal than that.”

  He scrutinized me, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “You said you wanted to talk about Lilah Buford. Why are we suddenly discussing George Wetmore?”

  I had to think fast to avoid revealing the truth. “Lilah’s insistence on speaking with Mrs. Wetmore is highly unusual, and so far it’s the only lead we—I—have.”

  “Maybe the Wetmores are hiding her in their basement.”

  “Don’t be absurd.” I decided to come as close to the truth as I dared. “It’s highly possible that in Lilah’s line of work, she overheard something to do with the Wetmores. Some threat,” I added, watching him closely for the slightest reaction. “And perhaps someone decided to silence her.”

  “Are you saying someone might have—good heavens—murdered her?” His voice rose, attracting the attention of two pedestrians on the other side of the street. I hushed him and moved along, out of their hearing range.

  “I don’t yet know.”

  “Aren’t the police searching for her?”

  The question seemed both sincere and spontaneous. Did he really believe her to be missing? Continuing my ruse, I smirked. “Mr. Whittaker, how many city resources do you think will be spent finding a woman of Miss Buford’s standing?”

  “Humph. ‘Good riddance’ is what I expect they’d say.”

  “And what do you say, Mr. Whittaker?”

  “If you must know, Miss Cross, I hope Lilah returns soon. She’s a . . . oh, how shall I put it to your delicate, feminine ears?” He gave a snide laugh. “She’s a most talented young lady, and her services shall be greatly missed. Greatly missed indeed.”

  His lack of empathy for the fate of another human being was despicable. Loathing filled me until I could hardly bear to look at his smug face. I decided to wipe some of his arrogance away. “I have it on good authority that you aren’t a kind man, Mr. Whittaker. That you find enjoyment in . . . oh, how shall I put it? In mistreating women. In hurting them. Did you hurt Lilah Buford, Mr. Whittaker?”

  His aplomb did indeed fall away, and a tinge of uncertainty, perhaps even fear, entered his eyes. “The last time I saw Lilah—was with her, I mean—she was fine. Perfectly fine. Anything that happened between us happened with her consent.”

  “As if a woman in Miss Buford’s line of work has a choice.”

  “It’s her choice how she lives her life, isn’t it? No one forced her. I certainly didn’t force her to be what she is.”

  What she is. He spoke of her in the present tense. I had waited for a slip. According to Jesse, al
most all murderers will slip up at some point, usually in the course of conversation, and speak of their victims in past tense. A simple human tendency. Then again, some were more clever than that.

  “Are we done here, Miss Cross?”

  “You haven’t answered my question. Did you hurt Lilah Buford?”

  “If you mean am I responsible for her disappearance, the answer is no.”

  I shook my head at him. “I’m told she often sports bruises, and that you are a frequent patron of hers.”

  He had the shameless audacity to shrug. “All a game, Miss Cross. One you could never understand.”

  No. Neither would I wish to. A knot the size of a fist lodged in my gullet, threatening me with nausea. I’d have liked nothing better than to never speak with this man again, or lay eyes on him. “I have one more question for you, Mr. Whittaker. How did you spend the evening following the polo match?”

  “Not that I’m under any obligation to tell you anything, but as it happens, I was at home that evening. All evening. We had guests. You may verify it with my wife if you like.” He said this last in a spiteful, defiant tone.

  I threw his defiance back in his face. “Did you know about Lilah’s pregnancy?”

  The color drained from his face.

  “Is the child yours, do you think?”

  “I . . . that is . . .” He compressed his lips and scowled. “She certainly never told me . . .”

  “Perhaps she did, perhaps she didn’t, Mr. Whittaker.” I let that hang in the air a moment. “You don’t seem to be denying it, which means you believe it’s possible Lilah’s child could be yours.”

  “I . . . well . . . the child could be mine, or it could be anyone’s. Either way, she shouldn’t have let it happen. Women in her position are supposed to know . . . you know . . . how to take care of these things. What’s she going to do about it?”

  Beyond a doubt I had caught him off guard. Unsettled him. And that made his bafflement all the more believable. Had he sneered and made some unpleasant comment, I’d have suspected him of murdering Lilah because of the baby and using the opportunity to smear George Wetmore’s name.

  I, too, was left unsettled by his last question, for whatever Lilah might have done, whatever decision she might have made concerning the child or whether or not to inform the father, would go forever unanswered. Sadness welled up inside me, leaving me too drained to fashion a reply to his question.

  “Good day to you, Mr. Whittaker,” I merely said, and turned away.

  * * *

  My day wasn’t over yet. Impulse, more than anything else, sent me back to Carrington’s Wharf. I hadn’t promised Jesse I wouldn’t return there, and neither had he asked me not to. An oversight on his part? Or had he simply given up trying to protect me? I hoped it was the latter—except for a tiny voice inside me that wondered if I had lost a portion of his regard.

  At any rate, the Blue Moon was not my destination this time. In a moment of surprise last time, I had let an opportunity slip away, and now I intended to remedy that. Once I parked my carriage on Thames Street and secured Barney’s feed bag, I passed by the alleyway and strode directly onto the main area of the wharf. The wide cobbled area teamed with activity as men in shirtsleeves worked to unload a freight steamer piled high with lumber.

  My quarry labored near the door of the Lyman Fuel Company’s main warehouse, busily shoveling coal from a wheeled coal bin that ran on tracks from inside the building, into the back of a delivery wagon. Sweat dripped from Anthony Dobbs’s face and soaked his shirt through. Two other men, roughly clad, toiled along with him. I recognized the young man who had called Mr. Dobbs away when he had detained me in the alleyway.

  With a deep breath I continued toward them, aware of gawking eyes and the murmured comments directed at me. My head high, I avoided the stares. The young man from yesterday noticed me before Anthony Dobbs did.

  He removed his cap and wiped his sleeve across his brow. “Ma’am. Can we do something for you?”

  Mr. Dobbs stilled his shovel and looked up. An ugly sneer twisted his upper lip. “Maybe she’s lost. Are you lost, ma’am?”

  “No,” I said more steadily than I felt. “I wish to speak with you, Mr. Dobbs. Privately, if you would.”

  Several men close by smirked. Dobbs leered. “Can’t imagine what the very proper Miss Emmaline Cross would want with the likes of me.”

  Laughter and snippets of speculation carried in the breeze. I refused to be cowed. I held up an arm to gesture toward the street. “If you would, please.”

  Still sporting an insolent grin, he set his shovel down and sauntered after me. I stopped and turned, but he spoke before I could. “You’ve got a nerve, don’t you? Think I owe you any favors?”

  “Mr. Dobbs, you would have been hanged without my efforts to clear you of murder. I do not see why you continue to bear a grudge for circumstances you brought upon yourself by your own actions.”

  His hands fisted at his sides, and for several tense moments I believed that, had I been a man and we were not in full view of dockworkers and pedestrians, he would have leveled me with a blow. Perhaps, if not for our audience, he would have done so anyway.

  The best way to proceed, I deduced, was to forge ahead with my questions. “Did you know Lilah Buford?”

  “The whore that died the other night? Of course I did. Not that I could afford her.”

  I clenched my teeth against the admonition that rose like bile inside me. I also stifled my surprise that he knew Lilah was dead, rather than merely missing. Word apparently spread among the wharves in ways that did not extend to Bellevue Avenue. “Did you see anything that night? Anyone unusual coming or going from the Blue Moon?”

  “It’s not like I’m here all night. I do have a place to live, hovel though it is.”

  I experienced a wave of disappointment. “So you saw nothing?”

  “Didn’t say that. I did see someone come to the Blue Moon early on that night, someone not usually seen in these parts.”

  He seemed to need coaxing at every turn. “And who might that have been?” I expected him to name Robert Clarkson, Stanford Whittaker, and Harry Lehr. He did not.

  “They might have been James Bennett and Dominic Ellsworth.”

  My eyebrows rose. These were names I hadn’t been expecting. “They both played polo earlier that day.”

  “I know. I was there. Saw you, too, during that ruckus with Lilah. Always got your nose in the thick of it, don’t you?”

  I let that pass and was about to ask another question, but Dobbs had more to add.

  “Lilah left the Blue Moon that night. All done up like a lady, or trying. She’d pretend to be respectable and pay her admittance into the Casino at night. Found herself a lot of swanky customers that way. Lilah wasn’t stupid. She knew how to make her way.”

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  “Nope.” He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. With mock deference, he asked, “May I go back to work now, Miss Cross?”

  Instead of replying, I tersely thanked him and went on my way. With my mind thoroughly occupied with what I had just learned, I turned half blindly onto Thames Street, navigating more by instinct of habit than sight. I didn’t at first see the figure standing beside Barney until, as I crossed the street, he hailed.

  “Emma.”

  Derrick. Caught off guard, I halted in my tracks and was very nearly struck by one of the Newport Observer’s own newsies, leaving the office on his bicycle with a pouch full of papers to deliver. The boy swerved just in time, called out for me to be more careful, and raced away down Thames Street.

  “Are you all right?” Derrick met me in the street. He hooked my arm over his and walked me to my gig. “I didn’t mean to startle you like that.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I had business in the area and thought I’d see if you were at the Observer’s office. And then I spotted old Barney here.”

  My heart thumped as he handed me u
p onto the carriage seat. As he stood looking up at me, I traced every line and plane and compared it to the memory I had carried since the last time I’d seen him more than a year ago. The same thick, dark hair, midnight eyes, and chiseled features filled my view and put a little jog in my pulse. He remained, as always, trim and tailored and so very masculine.

  That last thought nearly made me laugh out loud. Yes, Derrick Andrews had the power to knock the sense right out from beneath my hat.

  “How are you?” I asked him once I’d mastered my voice.

  “I’m fine, Emma, but I have so much to tell you. And you? Have you been well?”

  I nodded. “How is Judith?”

  “Thriving, as is Robbie. Italy agrees with them both.”

  “Oh.” I couldn’t hide my disappointment. I would sorely have liked to see little Robbie again. “Then I suppose they’ll be staying on there.”

  “They will. That’s all part of what I wish to tell you. But first, how is Nanny, and your cousins? And Brady?”

  I laughed. “Yes, we do have much to talk about. Will you drive out to Gull Manor with me now? We’ll give Nanny such a surprise.” I reached for the reins. “And—oh—your mother came to see me not long ago.”

  “I see you survived the onslaught. What did she have to say?”

  “Come home with me and I’ll tell you all about it. Will you?”

  “I was hoping you would ask.” He climbed up beside me.

  Nanny greeted Derrick with an unabashed display of joy, while Katie curtsied primly before serving tea, but didn’t leave the parlor without tossing me a significant and cunning look. Well, perhaps she knew something I didn’t. While thus far my reunion with Derrick had been cordial, even warmly affectionate, I sensed no overtures of deeper feelings. We were as two old friends catching up after a long separation.

  “He’s grown by leaps and bounds,” he said, speaking of Robbie, who had been a guest at Gull Manor for an all too brief time last summer. “Walking, even saying a few words.”

  “You don’t say. But he’s only a year old.”

  “A little over that. He’s sharp and clever. Smarter than me, I’ll wager.”