Murder at Rough Point

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “I was so sure Cornelius would relent about that. Grace is a lovely girl and her father is as rich as Midas.” Father pursed his lips around a low whistle. “Poor Neily. I suppose you don’t cross a Vanderbilt, not even your own father, and expect to get away with it.”

  “Yes, well, I’m sure you can see this rules out The Breakers as any sort of haven for the time being.”

  “You’re right, of course, darling.” With an innocent expression, Mother capitulated much too easily. “We’ll stay. Won’t we, Arthur?”

  My father conceded with a nod. Then his gaze dropped to my hems. “Why are you wet? Surely you haven’t been traipsing outside in this weather?”

  “Goodness, Emma, your father is right. You look like you’ve gone wading at the beach.” Mother looked distinctly satisfied at having found a way to turn the questioning back around to me. Her eyebrows rose to meet the fringe of her curled bangs. “What have you been doing?”

  I could trust them with the truth, or I could make up an excuse. I hesitated for a split second before deciding on a partial truth. “Patch needed to go out, so I brought him into the service courtyard.”

  I left their room feeling unsettled and not a little skeptical. If I had learned anything from being a journalist, and from the events of the past two summers, it was that when backed into a corner people will say anything, true or not. I didn’t like myself one bit for mistrusting my parents or for lying to them, but my instincts told me they weren’t being entirely honest.

  In my room I searched about for a secure hiding place for my tea tin and settled on the bottom of my own valise, placed at the back of the wardrobe closet. As Mrs. Wharton and I had verified, no one from the house would have seen me retrieve the cigarette stub, and I therefore saw no good reason why anyone would search my room. I would pass this evidence to Jesse at the first opportunity.

  Quickly I changed my clothes for dry stockings and a fresh skirt and shirtwaist. With Aunt Sadie’s embroidered shawl tied around my shoulders to ward off the chill that pervaded the house, I returned downstairs with my damp things with the intention of hanging them in the cellar laundry room. My encounter with my parents continued to trouble me. Their unexpected arrival in Newport had raised my suspicions, and nothing in their behavior since justified lowering my guard. Was I being a disloyal daughter? Part of me believed so, saw myself as having become so jaded due to my recent experiences with crime and murder that I could no longer look upon the very people who raised me without assuming there must be some guilt. I wanted to escape such thinking, to return to the Emma who trusted unconditionally until proven wrong—as I had trusted Brady last summer, believing in his innocence even when evidence pointed to the contrary.

  But if I believed my parents were guilty, what exactly had I thought they’d done? Murdered Sir Randall and Claude Baptiste? No, I could honestly state that I didn’t believe that. Perhaps some of my old self remained after all. Still, that nagging sensation wouldn’t quite leave me.

  As I passed the doorway to Uncle Frederick’s office, I detoured in, albeit partially against my will. Father said he had been attempting to wire Brady when the operator interrupted with Nanny’s call. It would be simple enough to verify that—if I could get through to town.

  I set my damp clothing down and picked up the telephone. I heard nothing at first and, disappointed, was about to give up, but after tapping repeatedly at the switch hook I heard a voice.

  “Operator. How may I direct your call?”

  “Gayla, is that you?”

  “Is this Emma?” asked the familiar voice on the other end. My old schoolmate launched into numerous inquiries, as she was apt to do. “How is everything? Is your uncle Cornelius still feeling poorly? Have you heard from your cousin since he eloped? What a pickle that was. Oh, I heard Ocean Avenue is flooded. Oh, dear, are you calling for help? Is anyone hurt . . . ?”

  In a town as tightly knit as Newport, rumor and gossip spread like wildfire, so I wasn’t at all surprised that our main operator knew the intimate details of my relatives’ lives. I knew her to be a good-natured young woman at heart, and I appreciated her concern, truly I did, but Gayla was wasting precious time. The line could go dead again at any moment. Her chatter did reassure me on one matter, however. Word of the two deaths at Rough Point had not yet gotten around town, or Gayla would have insisted I tell her everything I knew.

  I called her name to silence her, even as part of me yearned to tell her I’d made a mistake and hang up. “Gayla, I understand my father tried to wire Brady in New York a little while ago.”

  I held my breath, waiting for her to verify that my father had, indeed, tried to place a call to the Western Union office in town.

  “How is Brady faring in the big city?” she asked instead.

  “He’s fine, Gayla. The point is, Nanny interrupted the call, and then the line went dead. Is it possible for him to try again now?” An ember of guilt seared beneath my breastbone. This constituted deceit on my part, even if ultimately my hunch proved correct.

  “Yes, when Mrs. O’Neal came on the line wanting to speak to you over at Rough Point, it sounded important enough to break in on your father. I’ve been a bit worried, I don’t mind telling you. That place is too isolated for my comfort, stuck out there on that promontory and all exposed to the worst of the weather. Funny, though, you must have misunderstood what your father said. You can’t send a wire from Lo—”

  Scratchy static replaced Gayla’s voice, followed once more by dead air. From where? I practically screamed the question into the ineffectual gadget. Good grief, a little rain and suddenly we were thrust back decades in time. What had she been about to say? Lo—with the o pronounced with an au sound. What logically came after that?

  I seized on a possibility. Long Wharf? Had my father been placing a call down to the wharf to book passage on a steamer?

  My hands trembled slightly as I replaced the receiver onto the switch hook. I stood motionless for several seconds, lost somewhere between having my suspicions confirmed and disbelieving my father would have lied to me. My mother too, for she went along with this story of wishing to move over to The Breakers.

  So I had caught them in the act of attempting to flee Aquidneck Island. The question remained as to their motive. To avoid endangering more of their friends, as they claimed? To remove themselves from danger? If so, how cowardly of them. Or had they wished to escape becoming suspects themselves?

  These were questions I couldn’t answer, nor did I believe I’d gain any satisfaction from confronting them. If they had lied once they’d lie again. I raised my hands and let my forehead sink into them. What was I going to do?

  Another question I couldn’t answer.

  * * *

  After leaving my rain-dampened outfit with Irene, I found myself walking aimlessly back into the main portion of the house. Thoughts and suspicions clashed in my mind, as turbulent as the weather outside. Those shadows that so disturbed my cousin Consuelo descended heavily over me, making me shiver from both the chill and the foreboding I couldn’t shake.

  I didn’t know where to go, whom to talk to. If I could have gotten through on the telephone, I would have called Jesse. With the storm showing little sign of abating, who knew how soon he would return to Rough Point, or what he might reveal when he arrived.

  In any case, I needed time to calm down and think over what I had learned—possibly learned. Perhaps Gayla hadn’t been about to say “Long Wharf.” Perhaps my father had first telephoned a friend in town. Goodness knew my parents still had countless acquaintances despite their lengthy absence.

  Passing through the Stair Hall on my way to the drawing room, I nearly collided with Niccolo, who came charging blindly out of the billiard room. I jumped out of the way, receding into the alcove beneath the half landing. He continued into the Great Hall, where his footsteps bombarded the marble floor and echoed against the ceiling two stories high. A moment later Miss Marcus exited the billiard room in a flurry of ski
rts and the clatter of her high-heeled mules. Her bosom straining to escape her bodice, she looked furious and augmented that impression by shouting Niccolo’s name with a demand he return. It was a demand he evidently ignored, for he could not but have heard her. Even Mrs. Harris in the kitchen would have heard her command. Like Niccolo, Miss Marcus didn’t see me as she breezed by and followed his path into the Great Hall.

  I hesitated for several seconds before I, too, crossed the Great Hall, but at a slower pace than my predecessors and with lighter footfalls. Though a fire cracked in the drawing room hearth, I found the room empty, and a glance out the French doors confirmed they hadn’t gone out onto the covered veranda. The library?

  Perhaps I sank to a new low, but asking questions of any of these people—including my own parents—had yet to yield forthright answers. The only person I felt I could trust was Mrs. Wharton, and for all I knew I could be entirely wrong about her. After all, she did harbor her own resentment toward Claude Baptiste due to his ending their collaboration on their play. But whereas Miss Marcus’s disappointment over the role of Carmen stemmed from desperation over a fading career, Mrs. Wharton’s career as a writer was only just beginning. It made no sense for her to have become enraged enough to kill the Frenchman.

  In one matter I had no doubts. Miss Marcus and Niccolo Lionetti were somehow involved with each other, whether as intimates, coconspirators, or merely friends, I could not say, but now they appeared incensed with each other and I wanted to know why. In light of events and my unspoken promise to be Jesse’s eyes and ears in his absence, I felt it my duty to learn more.

  I turned to proceed into the library but a gasp escaped my lips. The sight of Teddy Wharton sitting with his back to me in one of the wing chairs stopped me in my tracks. I hadn’t noticed him upon entering the room and now I saw my subterfuge foiled. Except . . . as I slowly came around his chair I realized his eyes were closed, his head propped against the carved frame, and his mouth slightly parted. Without wasting another moment I tiptoed past him, ready to pretend to be in search of a book as I neared the library doors.

  To my bewilderment, no voices emanated from the library either. After seeing Niccolo and Miss Marcus in such a state only moments ago, I could not believe they had fallen into so abrupt a silence. I peeked in to discover the room vacant, the lights doused, the fireplace cold.

  Then movement caught my eye. Another set of French doors led out to the covered piazza, often used for outdoor dining and evening entertainments in the summer months. The pair stood with their backs to me, as if Niccolo had turned away from Miss Marcus and started to walk off. She stood poised with her hands on her hips, and the jerky movements of her shoulders suggested she was speaking sharply to him. Surrounding them on three sides beyond the piazza, the storm seethed, sending gusts beneath the roof to ruffle Niccolo’s hair and Miss Marcus’s skirts.

  Two dead men and a host of mysteries hovering over this baffling group of friends sent me into the library. Thanks to the lack of hearth fire or lamplight, the shadows would cloak me should one of my quarry happen to glance inside. I positioned myself to the right of the doors and leaned toward the closer of the two just enough to press my ear to the miniscule gap between the door and the lintel. This seemed to have become quite a habit of late, me listening in with my ear pressed to doors. I refused to allow a nagging sense of shame to deter me.

  Their words were muffled and garbled by wind and rain, but Niccolo apparently turned, perhaps moved closer to Miss Marcus, and raised his voice. I heard him well enough now, the words crystal clear despite his accent. “Perhaps you wish I died rather than Randall or Claude. That would make you happy, yes, Josephine?”

  I dared to peer with one eye through the closest pane of glass. Miss Marcus had raised both hands in a gesture that seemed to beseech him to be quiet. His features contorted in anger, and once again he ignored her command.

  “I have been more than patient while you play me for a fool. Do you enjoy laughing at me, Josephine?”

  Voices in the drawing room startled me out of my concentration. I backed away from the doors and snatched a book off a shelf—any book—ready to pretend this was my reason for entering the library. Suddenly one of the French doors opened. I retreated into the gloom of the closest corner and pressed myself to the bookcases behind me. I held the book I’d seized in front of me like a shield. Niccolo stomped past without seeing me, partly due to the shadows and partly to his never raising his eyes from the floor. A glimpse of his profile made me wince and shrink deeper against the shelves. Miss Marcus followed him inside and shut the door behind her hard enough to rattle the glass. With tangled wisps of hair floating about her face and her dress windblown into wrinkles, she looked almost slovenly. She, too, crossed the library into the drawing room without seeing me.

  I breathed a sigh of relief, until I heard Miss Marcus’s voice and the sound of her skirts rustling against the brocade upholstery of a drawing room chair.

  “I’m sorry about Niccolo,” she said to whomever else occupied the room. “He has the manners of a goat sometimes.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t mean any insult. He is terribly upset. We all are.” I recognized my mother’s voice. Was Father there as well? Would I have to hide in the library all afternoon? I glanced outside, weighing the prospect of exiting through the piazza and making my way around to the service entrance. The continuing downpour quickly dissuaded me of that option.

  Teddy Wharton must have been startled awake, for I heard his voice after a throaty snort. “What? What is it? Has something happened?”

  “Nothing, Teddy,” his wife said with a note of impatience.

  After a hesitation he asked, “Did you leave me alone in here? We’re not supposed to be alone.”

  “No, of course not,” Mrs. Wharton lied smoothly. “Go back to sleep.”

  “On the contrary, I wish we would all wake up.” Miss Marcus let out a dramatic sigh. “I wish nothing more than to open my eyes and find myself transported back to Paris. I wish I’d never set foot on American soil, let alone come to Newport. Surely this is all nothing but a nightmare.”

  Chapter 11

  I stood pressed into the corner of the library for another ten minutes. I know that because the bronze figurine mantel clock ticked away each eternal second with maddening precision. The voices in the other room droned on. They spoke of Sir Randall and Monsieur Baptiste, of the likelihood of having to remain at Rough Point indefinitely, or whether Jesse and his men would complete their investigation quickly. Then silence fell. Perhaps they were wondering if one among them in that very room had committed murder. I could only imagine the suspicions springing to life as these friends regarded one another. My father, absent previously, arrived and he added his opinions to theirs. I stiffened at his mention of my name. Had anyone seen me lately, he inquired. My mother expressed concern, but Mrs. Wharton reassured her.

  “I saw her only a little while ago. I believe she’s spending time with that adorable dog of hers.”

  Another lie. She seemed to do it both readily and well. Before I could contemplate the significance of that, Father spoke again.

  “She already spent time with that animal this morning. She told us she took him outside. Silly thing to do in this weather. Isn’t that what the maid is for?” He paused, and when no one commented he added in a rumbling monotone, “Seems just another ploy to avoid her mother and me.”

  “Arthur, really,” Mother scolded. I mentally visualized the disapproving glare she no doubt sent him from beneath her lashes, and the blush of embarrassment that stained her complexion to hear my father air family matters in front of others. “It’s obvious she loves that dog. Besides, he wasn’t supposed to be here, and I’m sure Emma doesn’t wish to overburden our tiny staff.”

  “Yes, that’s very true,” Mrs. Wharton said eagerly. “Your daughter is a most considerate young woman. I like and admire her very much. You’ve done a splendid job raising her.”

  Again, Mr
s. Wharton came to my rescue and deflected questions away from my evidence-hunting activities that morning. I silently applauded her. Whoever dropped that cigarette stub had been careless, and I didn’t wish to inspire our culprit into being more careful.

  “Such a fuss some people make over animals.” Miss Marcus sounded bored as well as drained. Her confrontation with Niccolo must have depleted her energy. “I’ll never understand why any sane person would invite a beast to share their home. Barns and the wilderness are for animals. That and coat collars.”

  I believe gasps followed her pronouncement, followed by protests, but the blood roared so loudly in my ears I couldn’t be sure. My pulse points throbbed, and I wanted nothing so much as to charge out of my corner and give the woman a thorough scolding. Only knowing I would receive one in return for eavesdropping held me in place. But I vowed never to leave Patch alone with that woman. Coat collars, indeed.

  “Emma?”

  At the sound of my name, I gasped and dropped the book I held. It landed on the carpet with a heavy thud, the cover flipping open and the pages riffling. My heart pounded and I was about to stammer out an excuse when I both recognized the voice and saw the speaker step into the library.

  “You may come out now,” Mrs. Wharton calmly said, her hands clasped at her waist. “The others have left the drawing room.”

  Slowly I vacated my corner, only now realizing I’d pressed so hard against the shelves I’d likely left indentations on my back. “How did you know I was here?”

  She grinned. “I followed you from the Stair Hall. I was on the half landing when Niccolo burst out of the billiard room, followed by Josephine. I saw you hasten after them, and I thought perhaps you might need . . .” She shrugged, her grin widening. “I don’t know. Reinforcements? I surmised that you intended spying on them.”