Murder at Rough Point

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “I’m so sorry.” I groped for something useful to say. “You could always return to the sort of sculptures people liked.”

  “Move backward, to what now feels hollow and pointless?”

  “Oh.” My own spirits sagged. My father had had days like this, I suddenly remembered, when he’d felt devoid of both talent and a future as an artist. I hadn’t been able to be of much comfort to him then, and I doubted my ability to counteract Sir Randall’s downheartedness now. So I merely said, “Then you should continue with what you love, for yourself, and the critics and everyone else be damned.” I said this last word in a whisper, and hoped Sir Randall would take no offense.

  “Good heavens, my girl, you are Arthur Cross’s daughter, aren’t you?” A chuckle became a guffaw, a sound that carried the first authentic enjoyment I had heard from his lips. “Yes, yes, that’s exactly what I should do. Good heavens.” He slapped his thighs and came to his feet. “I believe I’m going to have a sherry, and then take a stroll down to that Cliff Walk of yours. Would you care to join me in either?”

  “As a matter of fact . . .” I had been about to accept his offer of a stroll, when a streak of brown and white outside the front windows caught my eye. Rising ire pushed me out of my seat. “I’ll have to join you in a bit, Sir Randall. There is something I must attend to first.”

  “Is something wrong, Miss Cross?”

  “Indeed there is.”

  * * *

  “Patch, come here this instant!”

  With energetic leaps, that brown and white blur I’d glimpsed from the library darted past me a third time. I stood with my hands on my hips and arranged my features into my most disapproving expression, until my itinerant pup grew tired of trying to coax an obviously stubborn human to play. He bounded over to me on the gravel drive and jumped several feet in the air before returning to all fours and nudging my hand with his snout.

  I refused to give in. “No, I will not pet you! You’re supposed to be home. How did you get here?” Though his soft brown eyes showed no trace of guilt and beamed only love up at me, the answer was obvious. “You followed me when I returned here with Mrs. Wharton, didn’t you, you sneak? And then you hid so I couldn’t bring you straight home.”

  My accusations only prompted Patch to sit and lift a front paw, a trick Katie had spent hours teaching him. When I didn’t lean to “shake his hand,” he waved the appendage and tilted his head, ears flopping to one side, as if to make his message clearer to this rather dimwitted human before him.

  I sank to a crouch. “You’re a very bad boy, you know that.” But while my words chastised, my tone did not, and soon Patch rolled onto his back and presented his belly to be scratched. I obliged. As with orphaned babies and young women in crises, it appeared dogs were yet another weakness of mine. And how does one remain angry with an exuberant, silky-furred creature with great floppy ears and a warm, soulful gaze that proclaimed you the most important being in all the world?

  “I’m beginning to think you’re part fox terrier.” I increased the speed of my ministrations until Patch’s eyes rolled backward in bliss. “You’re certainly as clever, determined, and naughty as one.” To his dismay I stopped petting him and pushed to my feet. “But what to do with you?”

  With a quick roll he achieved a four-footed stance and gave a breathy little woof.

  “The house is full of people, I’ll have you know, and I am hardly in a position to ask them to tolerate an unexpected visitor.”

  His tail wagged furiously.

  “I suppose I might ask the staff if they’d mind looking after you while I’m busy. If you promise to behave.”

  As if comprehending my meaning, he stilled his tail and primly sat.

  I pursed my lips as I regarded him. “Come along. We’ll telephone home to let them know you’re safe and then I’ll make arrangements for you to be fed, not that you deserve it, you minx.”

  In a moment he was up and vaulting across the lawns, first in the wrong direction, then doubling back and dashing out ahead of me when he understood my direction to be the kitchen wing. But I found myself lagging behind. Faintly, for Niccolo Lionetti’s room lay on the other side of the house, delicate notes sang their way through the open windows. I felt as though gossamer, fragrant petals rained down around me, encompassing my being and blotting out everything but the wondrous melody—Vivaldi, I thought it must be—rendered by the Italian’s skillful hands. I marveled at the sheer beauty of it, despaired of ever being able to describe it in words, and found myself wishing the sound would never cease.

  Patch barked to regain my attention and broke the spell. In the service wing, I found Mr. Dunn and explained the situation, whereupon he promised to inform the cook, the footman, and the maid that a bowl of scraps should be set out for him each day. I then used the telephone in the butler’s pantry to apprise Nanny of the situation. She tsked at the same time she chuckled. I could all but see her smile.

  After chastising Patch to explore the grounds but stay out of trouble, I made my way back across the house to the library. Several voices greeted me, Sir Randall’s among them.

  I also heard Josephine Marcus. “All this moping ill suits you, Randall, and will avail you nothing.”

  “But that is what I’m trying to tell you, Josephine. I’ve done with moping. I’ve gained a new perspective—”

  “Since luncheon?” A mocking burst of laughter followed. “Pray, tell us, what brought on this miracle?”

  “Josephine, do not belittle Randall’s change of heart. It is a good thing, a thing to be encouraged, no?” At the sound of the exotic voice I realized I had no longer heard Niccolo’s perfectly formed notes as I walked through the house. He was now in the library with Miss Marcus and Sir Randall, and seemed to be mediating an argument between the other two.

  I hesitated before joining them. What right did I have to intrude upon matters I knew little about and had no stake in? My job was to report on the creativity of the group, not compose a scathing gossip column.

  “One would almost believe you don’t wish to see me roused from my doldrums, Josephine.”

  Snide female laughter answered Sir Randall’s observation. “I wish to see you move on and stop whining. Either be successful or accept your failure.”

  “Josephina, that is most unkind—” Niccolo said, but even as I silently applauded him, Sir Randall interrupted.

  “I don’t need you to defend me, Niccolo.”

  I knew so little of these people. In all likelihood their contention was so deep-rooted, no one person could be held to blame, neither Josephine nor Sir Randall. Yet, perhaps because Sir Randall had identified me as my father’s daughter—yes, that still meant something to me—or perhaps because I understood what it was to aspire to greater things than people expected or wished to expect, I could not stand by and watch a man maligned for the ambitions of his heart.

  I swept into the room. “Sir Randall, I apologize for my sudden departure earlier. I hope we might further discuss your artwork. I’m fascinated by your ideas about form and your abstract interpretation of reality, and I’m very much hoping you’ll begin a new sculpture before you leave Rough Point. I would so enjoy the pleasure of familiarizing myself with your process.”

  With a thrust of my chin I dared Josephine Marcus to utter a contrary word. Her mouth had twitched as I spoke of form and interpretation, as if she found it ludicrous to attach such importance to Sir Randall’s work. My gaze shifted to Niccolo Lionetti. He looked relieved to see an end to the prickly conversation. I wondered why Sir Randall had not taken kindly to the musician’s attempt to mediate. Perhaps Sir Randall had merely been angry enough to lash out at anyone.

  Except me, apparently, for in a kindly voice he said, “My dear, I would be delighted to hear your opinion on my work. But I must first find my inspiration.”

  I smiled and nodded, and then in an attempt to diffuse the situation, I turned my attention to Niccolo. “Your playing is wonderful, signore. I don’
t know much about music other than that I enjoy it greatly. I do hope you’ll perform for us some evening.”

  “I would be honored, signorina. Perhaps tonight.”

  With a possessive gesture, Josephine slipped a hand into the crook of his arm. “You have been doubly treated, Miss Cross. The cello you heard Niccolo playing was made by Signore Domenico Montagnana. Do you know what that means?”

  Was there a challenge inherent in her question? A touch of condescension? I refused to react to either. And luckily for me, I had once attended a parlor concert at The Breakers that featured a Montagnana violin. “It means the cello in question is among the finest in the world, on a par with those made by Antonio Stradivari.”

  Her nostrils flared, a sure sign of disappointment that she had not bested me. Yet her hauteur persisted. “To put it in simplistic terms, yes. But it is so much more than a mere instrument. It is a mingling of souls, Miss Cross, that of its maker and of the musician.” A glowing passion ignited behind her eyes, an unfeigned fervor that took me aback. “But perhaps that is a bit too poetic for your reporter’s tastes.” She lifted an eyebrow, having clearly judged me unable to grasp such a concept.

  Perhaps she was correct—perhaps my musical sensibilities had yet to develop sufficiently for me to fully appreciate the communion of musician and instrument, but that was something I hoped to remedy, at least in part, during the course of the retreat. “I am grateful for the opportunity to expand my tastes, Miss Marcus.” I turned to the young man. “Do you own the cello, signore?”

  “Mio Dio.” He pressed a long-fingered hand to his breastbone. “The instrument belongs to my patron—”

  “Who shall remain nameless, Miss Cross.” Miss Marcus tightened her hold on Niccolo’s arm and pressed closer to his side. “At the gentleman’s insistence. You understand.”

  Her inference, of course, seemed to be that she knew the identity of this patron, but that I was not worthy enough to be trusted with the information. “I understand the need for discretion, Miss Marcus. My article is to be a cultural piece, not an exposé.”

  Color suffused Sir Randall’s face as he eyed Miss Marcus and Niccolo. I thought of Sir Randall and Mrs. Wharton talking together earlier in the office, and how Teddy Wharton had stormed in to break up their tête-à-tête. I could not but conclude jealousy had been a factor. Was the same dynamic at work here? Did envy run rampant among this group?

  Good heavens, I began to believe myself inadequate to the task of deciphering these people’s social entanglements. Once again I resolved to focus on their art and nothing more.

  “Sir Randall, would you like to take that walk now?”

  He surprised me with a shake of his head. “If you wouldn’t mind, Miss Cross, I’d prefer to walk alone for now.”

  I said nothing, merely stepped aside so he could pass. He was halfway across the drawing room when Josephine called out to him.

  “Perhaps you’d like Niccolo and me to accompany you.” A little sneer curved her rouged lips. Niccolo, perhaps unconsciously, raised a hand and pressed it to hers. A caution?

  An awkward moment ensued while Sir Randall regarded the pair with ill-concealed distaste. Then he continued on his way. The terrace doors closed quietly behind him. I watched him descend the patio steps outside and disappear until he reached the rocky upswell in the lawn. He halted abruptly and leaned low. Had he tripped? My body tensed in preparation of hurrying outside to offer assistance. But no, swirls of brown and white leaped into view and flashed in the sun. Patch had apparently introduced himself to Sir Randall. Judging by how the pair continued toward the Cliff Walk together, Patch’s overtures of friendship had been readily accepted.

  I smiled. If anyone could lift a person out of his doldrums, as Sir Randall had put it, my boisterous pup certainly could.

  A whisper behind me doused my smile. Miss Marcus was leaning to speak into the young Italian’s ear. I was reminded of naughty schoolchildren telling secrets in class and felt little compunction about interrupting.

  “Why are you unkind to him?”

  She looked baffled for a moment, while Niccolo assumed an expression fast becoming familiar, one of innocence mingled with slightly perplexed incomprehension, as if he didn’t quite understand English in all its nuances—which I was fairly certain he did.

  Miss Marcus’s frown cleared. She made a two-fingered gesture, prompting Niccolo to reach into his inner coat pocket. He slid out a silver case and flicked it open. Miss Marcus plucked a pre-rolled cigarette from a nearly full row. Was she trying to shock me? Respectable women didn’t smoke, at least not openly, but I had seen it before.

  Niccolo took one for himself and scraped a wooden match against the striker on the side of the case to light both. I was never fond of tobacco smoke, and the clouds swirling about their heads quickly set my nose itching. My gaze went instinctively and pointedly to the piazza outside the library’s French windows, but the other two failed to take the hint.

  Miss Marcus puffed several times, most of the smoke thankfully drifting out the open windows behind her. “You misunderstand, Miss Cross. I don’t mean to be unkind to Randall, but to encourage him.” She puffed again, sending out fluffy white clouds while Niccolo exhaled long streams of gray through his nose. A pair of dragons, literally and figuratively.

  “If you’ll pardon me for saying so,” I persisted, perhaps unwisely, “he was feeling encouraged until you said those things to him.”

  She simpered and smoothed her skirts with little flicks of her hand. “I’m afraid you don’t understand our Randall. He isn’t like the rest of us. For one, he isn’t a professional, not in the sense I am, or Niccolo or your father. Our livelihood depends on our art, whereas Randall has a fortune and an estate back in England.”

  As Niccolo nodded his agreement, I shook my head. “I don’t understand what difference that makes to a person’s self-confidence.”

  “My dear, the rest of us understand the ups and downs of an artistic career.” To my vast irritation, she leaned forward and flicked the ash at the end of her cigarette into a lovely Capodimonte vase, carved with lifelike ribbons and flowers. Though not terribly invaluable—for Aunt Louise had emptied the house of its true treasures—it was a darling piece and certainly not intended for the use Miss Marcus currently assigned to it. “We grasp the ebb and flow of an artist’s popularity,” she said with a haughty sniff. “Randall doesn’t. His sculpture and his ego are intricately tied together.”

  “And a professional artist’s isn’t?” If anyone possessed an unduly large ego, I thought, it was the woman before me. Still, I couldn’t deny a growing interest in hearing more about the inner workings of an artist’s psyche. Such details would add substance to my article. First I pushed the porcelain vase out of reach and replaced it with a more suitable silent butler of etched silver with an ivory handle. Then I took a seat facing the pair.

  “Perhaps at first, when we are young and starting out,” she said after another contemplative waft of smoke. “But experience makes us wiser, Miss Cross. Randall began dabbling in the arts much later in life, and being a man used to having his way with a snap of his fingers—the European nobility is like that, you see—he simply isn’t equipped to accept those momentary lapses in public interest. Besides, his latest works have been rather hideous.” She turned to Niccolo for consensus, but the young man only shrugged and smiled apologetically at me.

  I raised a quizzical eyebrow. “And you feel disparaging him is an effective means of urging that acceptance?”

  Miss Marcus snuffed out her cigarette and came to her feet. I’d clearly gone too far, been too impertinent. “You know, you very much remind me of your father, Miss Cross. It must be the Vanderbilt in you.” She didn’t bother to elaborate on what traits she felt were characteristic of my father’s side of the family. She looked down at her companion. “Come.”

  As if she had snapped her fingers, he surged to his feet and together they went, where I didn’t know or care, for all that I
had been a great fan of the opera singer until approximately ten minutes ago. I probably wouldn’t be obtaining much more in the way of artistic insights from Miss Marcus, if she deigned to speak to me at all again. So be it. Sir Randall might be a member of the English nobility, a wealthy man used to having his way, but something in him—vulnerability, sadness, a sense of brokenness—aroused an instinct that made me rear my head. Call it a demand for fairness. Call it plain stubbornness. A Vanderbilt trait? Yes, and one that had served me well through the years.

  Even so, a small part of me wished this story had been given into the inept hands of my nemesis at the Observer, Ed Billings. Having to make heads or tails out of this situation would have served him right.

  In the meantime, I picked up the Capodimonte vase and brought it to the kitchen for a good soak.

  * * *

  With a knock, Mother opened my bedroom door and peeked in. “I thought I’d see if you needed any help, darling. What are you wearing?” Her eyes lighted on the individual who had arrived in my room about twenty minutes earlier. “Edith. I didn’t realize you were in here.” Mother’s expression begged for an explanation, though her breeding would not permit her to ask.

  I saw no reason to keep her in suspense. “Come in, Mother. Mrs. Wharton was just reading a passage in her manuscript to me as I dressed.”

  “I see.” Mother assessed the other woman, perched with her very upright posture at the edge of the bed. She attempted a smile. “I didn’t know the two of you were so well acquainted.”

  “We aren’t really,” Mrs. Wharton said, setting the pages of her manuscript aside. “Until this morning we had never spoken more than those few words of greeting when I met your daughter all those years ago. I had seen her at various functions here in Newport, of course, but never had reason to speak directly.” Her brow furrowed as she shifted her gaze to me. “Now that I think of it, it seems rather odd that a society reporter never found an opportunity to interview me. You weren’t avoiding me, Miss Cross, were you?”