Murder at Chateau sur Mer

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “Mr. Dobbs hit you with a shovel?” Hannah ran a hand over Brady’s coat front. “Why would he do such a thing?”

  “Because I wouldn’t tolerate him putting his hands on Emma.”

  Derrick lurched toward me. “On Emma? That man put his hands on you? That’s the last thing he’ll ever do.” He started to move past me.

  I seized him by the sleeve. He tried to pull away but I stepped into his path. “It’s over, Derrick, and I’m fine. He frightened me and he hurt Brady, but it won’t do any good for you to go attacking him.”

  “A sound thrashing is what he needs.” Despite his words, Derrick’s posture eased and I released him.

  “I agree, but not here and not now. And not by you.” I turned to Brady and Hannah. “How did you two get here?”

  “We rode the trolley from the hospital,” Hannah said.

  Only now that I’d calmed did I notice her nurse’s uniform and the crisp white kerchief holding her blond curls away from her face. “The hospital sends you to places like the Blue Moon?”

  “No. I come on my own time.” Dimples flashed in her plump, rosy cheeks. “Although with the hospital’s sanction.”

  “We can discuss whatever we wish once we’re gone from here.” Brady unclasped his middle in order to use both arms to herd us back toward the street. “There’s no telling when Dobbs might take it into his head to come after us.”

  “Thank goodness for his friend,” I said. “That’s twice now that man has defused his friend’s anger.” A vague sensation had me looking over my shoulder toward the wharf as I walked. “I should have thanked him.”

  “Never mind.” Derrick linked my arm through his and hurried me along. On our way up to Spring Street, Brady and I described in greater detail what occurred on the wharf. Derrick turned ruddy with ire and his eyes blazed, but he said little. Hannah expressed her dismay with gasps of outrage.

  “Never mind that for now,” I said when we reached the trolley stop. “Did you have a chance to speak to Mr. Ellsworth?”

  Derrick nodded. “He was meeting with Stanford Whittaker at the burned-out hull of his shop, but I had a few minutes alone with him first. I asked him if he knew of any threats made against him or his manager, and whether the exact source of the fire had been discovered. He cited a gas leak and denied all knowledge of threats.”

  “Did you believe him?” I asked.

  “I saw no reason not to.”

  “I asked Madam Heidi the same question, and she denied it as well. But Derrick, her eye had been blackened. She wouldn’t tell me who did it, nor much of anything else, but I know she’s hiding the truth because she’s frightened. What’s more, I believe it was Anthony Dobbs who hit her. He denies it, of course.”

  “Is that what you were saying to him when he grabbed you, Em?”

  I nodded in reply to Brady’s question. “More and more, events seem to have Anthony Dobbs written all over them. Once a bully, always a bully, and extortion is nothing new to him either. Perhaps Mr. Ellsworth denied being threatened out of fear, just like Madam Heidi.” I turned back to Derrick. “Did he say why he was meeting with Mr. Whittaker?”

  “To discuss rebuilding.”

  “A gas leak in a cigar shop seems so unlikely.”

  Derrick shrugged. “Ellsworth said the fire brigade discovered a faulty gas jet.”

  “In a shop that handled easily inflammable goods, wouldn’t the fittings have been inspected fairly often?” My question met with more shrugs and shakes of the head. I turned to Hannah. “Have you heard anything from the women at the Blue Moon about threats or demands for money?”

  “Nothing, but when I’m there I keep the conversation focused on their health.”

  A notion prompted me to ask, “Did you know Lilah Buford?”

  “I did, but not well. She hadn’t been there as long as the others.”

  “Did you know she was with child? And for that matter, did she?”

  Hannah hesitated, then nodded. “We both suspected she was. The signs were there, but not enough time had passed for me to be able to confirm it for her.” She ducked her head and said more quietly, “The coroner did that.”

  “Hannah, did she give you any indication who the father might have been?”

  “I never asked. You must understand, Emma, I don’t attempt to discuss personal matters. I can’t, or I might alienate the very women I’m there to help.”

  “But Lilah might have known,” I said, “and she might have told the man in question.”

  “And he might not have taken the news happily,” Derrick added, prompting me to shake my head sadly.

  “We’re learning nothing.” I glanced up the street, searching for the trolley. “It’s horribly frustrating.”

  “I didn’t say I learned nothing,” Derrick said. “Ellsworth seemed willing enough to speak with me at first, but as soon as Whittaker arrived he practically pushed me into the street.”

  “So it’s possible he’s hiding something, too.” Brady thought a moment. Then his sandy blond eyebrows rose. “I wonder how much insurance Ellsworth had on the place.”

  * * *

  While Brady and Hannah continued on to the hospital, Derrick and I exited the trolley on Mary Street and walked up to the firehouse, situated on the narrow corner where the road merged onto Touro Street. The engine bay stood open, and inside a pair of firemen were busy washing down the steam engine. I hailed one of them.

  “Mr. Dwyer, may we speak with you a moment?”

  From the shadowy interior, the man squinted into the bright sunlight outside. “Is that Emma Cross? Yes, come in.” He tossed the wet rag he held into a bucket of sudsy water at his feet. “How are you? And how is Mrs. O’Neal?”

  Mr. Dwyer was another longtime Point resident whom I had known all my life. About Jesse’s age, he sported the physique of a sportsman with his broad shoulders and trim torso. He towered over me, was even taller than Derrick, but his eyes were kindly and he was known for his gentle ways with children and animals.

  “Nanny is fine, thank you for asking. Shall I send her your regards?”

  “Do, indeed.” He eyed Derrick, and I hastened to make the introductions. The Andrews name didn’t seem at all familiar to Mr. Dwyer; he merely shook Derrick’s hand and asked what he could do for us.

  “We witnessed the fire at Ellsworth Cigars the other night.”

  “Ah, terrible thing, that. I knew the manager. Bertrand Styles. Good man. Honest and good at his job. Very dedicated. Such a shame. His wife is distraught.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that.” I waited a respectful moment before continuing. “We’ve been told the fire started as a result of a faulty gas fitting. Is that true?”

  Mr. Dwyer tilted his head and regarded me. Without suspicion or judgment he asked, “Are you here as a reporter?”

  “I would like to be able to follow up,” I said evasively. Mr. Dwyer didn’t need to know that the Observer no longer employed me. Besides, with any luck I might be writing for the New York Herald soon enough. “But I’m also concerned that such a thing could happen. My own Gull Manor is fitted out for gas, of course, and I foresee no conversion to electricity in the near future. I’d like to be aware of the danger signs.”

  He nodded his understanding. “Smelling gas is an immediate warning, as I’m sure you know. But you should have the system inspected regularly, at least once a year.”

  “Was the shop inspected regularly?” Derrick asked.

  “It was, although not by the city. Not in recent times, anyway.”

  I frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Mr. Ellsworth typically hired city inspectors, but lately he went with a private company. More’s the pity. Someone missed something, is all I can say.”

  Derrick and I exchanged a glance, and I asked, “Did he give any reason for the change?”

  Mr. Dwyer shrugged. “Not that I know of. But in my experience folks hire private inspectors for either of two reasons. It costs less, or . . . He em
phasized that last word and held up a forefinger. “They’re paying extra for shoddy work to be passed off as acceptable. Not that I’m saying that’s what happened in this case,” he added quickly. “Could be Mr. Ellsworth knew someone he thought he could trust to do the job.”

  As Mr. Dwyer himself had indicated, his speculation was merely that, nothing conclusive. Still, Brady’s question about how much Mr. Ellsworth had insured his building for lingered in my mind.

  We chatted for a few more minutes, but I had the information I’d come for. Derrick and I walked up to Washington Square and found a vacant bench beneath a poplar tree in the park at the east end of the square, near the Colony House. Two elderly men occupied a bench on the other side of the fountain, and off to our right a woman sat alone, a bag on her lap, tossing bread crumbs to an assortment of birds warbling at her feet. Derrick and I remained silent for a time, lost in our own thoughts. My gaze drifted to the bronze statue, high on its granite plinth, facing Long Wharf and the harbor. The monument to Commodore Oliver Hazard Perry depicted him commanding his men during the battle of Lake Erie during the War of 1812. He was a Navy hero, born in Rhode Island, who had chosen Newport as his home, and Newporters hailed him as one of their own.

  “Do you believe a family can fall so entirely,” I murmured out loud, my gaze still pinned on the statue, “as to never rise again?”

  Beside me, his shoulder nearly touching mine, Derrick tilted his head in my direction. “I’m not sure I know what you mean, but yes, once-proud families do sometimes fall into obscurity. War, bad harvests, poor investments, disease—there are so many circumstances that can change the fortunes of a family. Disinheritance,” he added in an undertone.

  I slipped my hand into his, just for a moment, before sliding it back to my lap. “That won’t happen in your case. If anything, you’ll achieve greater things on your own than your father can imagine. You only need time.” I sighed, looking up at the statue again. “I was thinking of Madam Heidi.”

  “What about her?”

  “Don’t you know? She styles herself Heidi Perry, and claims to be Commodore Perry’s descendant.” I gestured to the bronze figure standing so proudly, his right hand raised toward the sky.

  Derrick laughed softly. “I see.”

  “I know it’s unbelievable, but it’s possible, isn’t it? Take me, for instance. My great-great-grandmother was Phoebe Vanderbilt Cross, daughter of the first Cornelius Vanderbilt himself, yet I’m no one other than a poor relation.”

  “I’d hardly call you no one, Miss Cross.”

  “But don’t you see how easily a woman in my circumstances can fall into dire straits? If not for my great aunt Sadie’s generosity in taking me under her wing and leaving me her home and assets, I might—”

  “No.” He silenced me with a fierce look. “Not you. You’d have found another way.”

  I couldn’t fault him for wanting to believe that. But a man couldn’t possibly understand how limited a woman’s choices were. I let it go.

  “So far, we have a number of suspects and motives but no clear lead.” I raised my face to the salty breeze that traveled up Long Wharf to wash over Washington Square. “Stanford Whittaker resented Mr. Wetmore because of the Dingley Act, frequented the Blue Moon to be with Lilah, and is known to be abusive.”

  Derrick nodded. “And his friends who visited the Blue Moon with him? Robert Clarkson and Harry Lehr?”

  “Robert Clarkson was also unhappy about the Dingley Act, but that alone creates a rather weak link to the crime. The same for Harry Lehr. He would like nothing better than to marry Maude Wetmore for her money, but there is no shortage of marriageable heiresses. He can always find another. It doesn’t seem reason enough to commit murder and attempt to frame George Wetmore for it.”

  “James Bennett and Dominic Ellsworth,” Derrick said, prompting me to consider again.

  “Despite Mr. Bennett’s protests that he’ll expand his Casino with or without the city’s approval, the fact remains that Mr. Wetmore has been vocal in persuading the city council against granting the permits. This is also a financial loss for Stanford Whittaker, whose company would have been awarded the contract for the design and construction of the new buildings. But I couldn’t help believing Mr. Bennett when he said he hoped we’d find justice for Lilah.” I didn’t add that I also wanted him to be innocent so I could be employed by the Herald.

  “Dominic?” Derrick pressed.

  “There is nothing against him except for having been at Carrington’s Wharf the night Lilah died.”

  “Ah, yes. In all the excitement earlier, I’d forgotten. I also asked him what he and Bennett were doing at the wharf that night. I used the excuse we devised, of Lilah being missing. I asked him if he might have seen anything.”

  “And?”

  “And . . . he denied being there. Flat out denied it, and said whoever thought he saw him and Bennett was mistaken. Just as Bennett tried to deny it when we asked him the other day.”

  “They need to get their stories straight.”

  “What about Brady’s theory that Dominic Ellsworth might have had his own building burned down in order to collect the insurance?”

  Derrick said nothing, instead staring across the way, where a squirrel attempted to intrude upon the feeding birds and steal their breadcrumbs. The woman on the bench tried to wave him away, but the squirrel would dart off, then slink back and pounce when he saw his chance, resulting in a ruckus of outraged squawking.

  “I know what Mr. Dwyer said about using a private inspector,” I persisted. “But why would Mr. Ellsworth set fire to his own business? What could he possibly gain?” I paused, considering and not liking the possible conclusion I reached. “Unless he had something to hide in that shop. Or worse, his manager knew something, and Mr. Ellsworth had to silence him. Oh, Derrick, I don’t want that to be true. It’s too dreadful.”

  He touched my arm briefly. “What now?”

  “I want to return to the Casino tonight. Mr. Bennett said the last time Lilah went to the Casino, she spent her time observing a family. I’d like to know more about who these people are. Perhaps Mr. Bennett could point them out to us.”

  Derrick nodded his agreement. “And someone needs to have a talk with Mr. Ellsworth. In the meantime, I think we should tell Jesse everything that’s happened since we parted. He’ll need to know.” He stood and held out a hand to help me up.

  I couldn’t hide my grin. “You’re voluntarily suggesting we go speak with Jesse.”

  He led the way off the green and toward Marlborough Street. “Do stop smirking.”

  * * *

  That evening brought Derrick and me back to the Casino, although we weren’t alone. Jesse had arrived a half hour before us, dressed like any Newporter out for an evening’s entertainment. As Derrick and I entered the courtyard, I saw him along the promenade. Our gazes met for a brief instant before sliding away. We made no acknowledging signs.

  Such was not the case, however, with James Bennett. Speaking to guests on the restaurant veranda, he excused himself upon spotting us and stepped down to the green. The sigh with which he greeted us conveyed his sentiments better than any words could. But to be certain Derrick and I fully understood, he said, “Back to make trouble?”

  “You said you hoped for justice for Lilah,” I reminded him. Beside me, Derrick tensed. I placed my hand into the crook of his elbow and applied just enough pressure to prevent him from speaking out, as I knew he wished to do. “Has that changed?”

  “It hasn’t, Miss Cross. But I’m not going to allow you to chase off Casino guests, either.”

  Derrick let go a rumbling murmur which I couldn’t make out, but judging by how Mr. Bennett’s jaw squared, a threat to his person had been implied. “We have no intention of chasing off anyone,” I assured him. “And if you’ll agree to assist us, our business will be concluded sooner rather than later.”

  His eyebrows lowered like gathering storm clouds. “Assist you how?”

>   “The family that so interested Lilah. Will you point them out to us?”

  He sucked in his cheeks and his nose flared slightly. When no answer seemed forthcoming, Derrick intervened. “This family could prove important. The police initially called Lilah’s death an accident, but they’ve since reopened the case. You don’t want to be seen as hampering an investigation, do you?”

  “I can’t be hampering an investigation if the police haven’t approached me for information, now, can I?”

  Derrick smiled mildly. “And what if the police are here tonight, waiting for Miss Cross and me to discover the identity of this family—this family you seem so reluctant to identify?”

  “The police are here? Where?” Mr. Bennett scanned the well-dressed diners and the couples and small groups strolling the piazzas beneath glowing gas lanterns. From a distance, it was no easy task to pick out specific individuals amid the glitter of jewels and the sheen of fine silks. Elaborate hand fans and the shadows of beaver hats obscured faces, while the constant chatter prevented any one voice from being identified.

  “Here, milling about.” An odd sense of authority, and of confidence, filled me, and I felt somehow triumphant. “Watching and waiting.”

  Mr. Bennett hesitated for another moment. Then he gestured for us to follow him. “Come with me.”

  On the restaurant’s veranda, he spoke some words to the maître d’, who then sat us at a table near a corner. Mr. Bennett leaned over the small table and spoke in an undertone. “Three tables over, to the right. That’s the family.”

  Derrick and I glanced past Mr. Bennett’s shoulder. The table was larger than our own, big enough for several diners. A man and a woman about my parents’ age sat beside each other, and I assumed these to be the parents of the young man, about twenty years old, and the teenage girl who occupied the table with them. They were a handsome family, dressed in the very latest from Paris, but it was the fifth person at the table who most drew my regard. He was quite tall for an older man; even sitting, the others at the table had to look up at him when he spoke. He wore his silver hair slicked back against his head, and a white silk scarf draped loosely around his collar. I was certain an ebony cane with a silver handle rested somewhere against the table close to him.