Murder at Marble House (A Gilded Newport Mystery)

by Alyssa Maxwell

  I unfolded the fabric and held it up for him. He squinted and pursed his lips. “No, not one of our tea roses. Even faded I can see the color is off. There is something roselike about it . . . but this is nothing I’ve cultivated for Mrs. Vanderbilt. It looks more like a wildflower to me.”

  “A wildflower? Are you sure?”

  He shrugged. “There is nothing on the estate with these petals.”

  I almost questioned him about his certainty, but held my tongue. Aunt Alva wouldn’t employ a head gardener who didn’t know his cultivated flora like the back of his hand.

  “Where did you come upon this?” he asked.

  I met his gaze. “In the pavilion.”

  The word, once synonymous with carefree afternoon entertainments, had taken on sinister connotations for all of us, and I saw it in the creasing of his brow. Before he could reply, however, a whistled tune drifted from the gardens behind me. Jamie Reilly approached us gripping a sack overflowing with cuttings and twigs. “The east beds are all tidy now, sir,” he said to Mr. Delgado. Then, “Good day to you, Miss Cross.” He dropped his sack to the ground at his feet, removed his cap, wiped a sleeve across his perspiring brow, and set his cap back on his head. “Bit of a hot one, this.”

  “It’s good you came along, Jamie.” The note of affection in Mr. Delgado’s voice was unmistakable, and I inwardly smiled at this evidence the two were getting on well. I’d helped Jamie secure the position as a favor to my maid, Katie, and looked forward to telling her of our success. “Senhorita Cross has discovered some curious flower petals. Perhaps you know what they are.”

  I held my handkerchief out to Jamie. “Do you have any idea where something like this would grow, and at this time of year?”

  With a slight frown he peered at my find. “Looks like a sort of wildflower . . .”

  “As I thought,” Mr. Delgado said.

  Jamie stroked a finger over one of the petals, imprinting a trail of familiarity across my palm even through the handkerchief. I didn’t mind, in fact, quite the opposite. He’d never have dared touch something lying in Aunt Alva’s or Consuelo’s hand, and I was happily reminded that despite my grandiose connections, I was not someone to fear; I was simply Emma Cross, free to associate with whom I chose.

  This passed through my mind in an instant, during which Jamie made his assessment. “For all these seem delicate wee mites, there’s a hardiness to ’em and no mistake. I think it’d be a clinging sort of plant, probably along the cliffs.”

  “Along the cliffs . . . of course.” I gazed out across the rear lawns to where they ended at the hedge bordering the Cliff Walk. I thought about the variety of ocean-hardy wildflowers that adorned the cliffs in a mosaic of color, even this late in the summer. “But how on earth could a flower clinging to the cliffs have crossed the border hedge and then traveled so far across the lawn?” Suddenly the petals’ potential as a clue faded to nothing, for who would have been climbing cliffs before stealing into the pavilion to murder Madame Devereaux? I blew out a breath and spoke my final thought out loud. “It makes no sense at all.”

  “Terribly sorry not to be more help, Miss Cross.” Jamie seemed to misread my look of dismay as disappointment in him. “Is it very important?”

  “I’m sorry, too, senhorita, but perhaps you’ll need someone smarter than this old man and that young Irishman”—Mr. Delgado cast Jamie a leathery grin—“to answer your questions.” He tapped his forehead. “We know our gardens. But I’m afraid that is all.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Delgado, Jamie,” I said a bit absently. I regarded the petals in my hand another moment before tucking them back away in my purse. We bid each other good day, and as I turned away to let them resume their work, I happened to glance up at the house. A willowy figure stood framed in an upper window, a high-coifed, slender silhouette I immediately identified as Lady Amelia’s. She caught my gaze and very obviously flinched as if she had been caught observing us on the sly. She recovered quickly enough and waved, then turned back into the room. Had she merely been bored and looking for distraction, or had she been watching me for another reason?

  I let myself into the house through one of the terrace doors. A maid dusting the painting frames in the main floor gallery greeted me cheerfully. A footman carrying silver polish and rags asked if he could do anything for me. Replying no, I asked him if his mistress was at home.

  “I believe Mrs. Vanderbilt is resting in her room, Miss Cross.”

  As with Mr. Delgado, I acknowledged his answer absently and kept going. My feet took me, as if of their own accord, up the stairs, not to Alva’s bedroom but to Consuelo’s.

  My gaze swept my cousin’s bedroom—the shelves of costly European dolls, the heavily gilded furniture, the priceless art gracing the walls. A vase of fresh flowers caught my attention, but nothing in the mixed bouquet resembled my petals, nor appeared cultivated anywhere but in the estate’s gardens.

  I ventured farther in and sat on the bed, in almost the exact spot where Consuelo and I had shared our last confidences. Wave after wave of remorse washed through me. Why had I listened to Aunt Alva and gone against my better judgment? More importantly, if I hadn’t, would Consuelo be here now, confiding in me, trusting me, as she had always done?

  I glanced around again and suddenly realized what it was about this room Consuelo hated so vehemently. The dolls’ vacant eyes watched me impassively, yet behind their dull expressions I sensed Aunt Alva’s unyielding decrees. Her dictates were everywhere, from the paintings that reflected no young girl’s fancies to the incomparable workmanship of the furnishings that made one afraid to touch or sit or even breathe in the wrong direction.

  This room symbolized Consuelo’s very existence in a way I’d never quite understood before, and now I realized part of my lack of comprehension had been due, quite honestly, to envy.

  In my eyes she’d always had everything. Beauty. Intelligence. Privilege. Boundless resources. Had I believed those to be the ingredients of a happy, carefree life? On any ordinary day I’d have said no and meant it. But in my heart of hearts . . . I wasn’t so sure. I couldn’t but admit part of me had always been jealous of Consuelo in a way I hadn’t envied my other Vanderbilt cousins. I thought briefly of Gertrude, Cornelius and Alice’s elder daughter, just a year younger than I. She had been born to the same advantages as Consuelo, but possessed none of Consuelo’s beauty, nor the inherent grace admired by everyone who knew her.

  Consuelo had been blessed in every way a person could be, or so it had seemed from my skewed perspective.

  I dropped my purse onto the bed beside me and lowered my face to my hands. But I just as quickly raised my chin and squared my shoulders. Had I wronged Consuelo? Advised her improperly out of my own petty jealousy? I swallowed painfully, knowing I deserved no bouts of self-pity. If I were guilty, then I had no choice but to own up to my fault and do everything I possibly could to make amends. I had to find Consuelo. And I had to support her as she wished to be supported, her mother’s wishes be damned.

  Even if I made a lifelong enemy in the process.

  With that resolve urging me on, I left Consuelo’s room. I needed to go back into town, and I hoped I might borrow one of Aunt Alva’s smaller rigs to spare Barney the exertion. I didn’t get as far as the staircase, however, when humming through an open bedroom door sent me to the threshold.

  Hope Stanford sat at the dressing table with a leather-covered jewelry box open before her. Lifting a garnet brooch, she held it up against her summery white blouse with its wide, leg-of-mutton sleeves. After a moment’s consideration she set the brooch beside the box and selected a pearl earring, which she held to her lobe in a gesture at odds with her no-nonsense manner and tight, unforgiving coif.

  I knocked softly on the open door; her humming broke off and she looked up. “Oh, good afternoon, Miss Cross.” She smiled self-consciously and returned the earring to the box. “I was just going through some of my jewelry. Most of it was my mother’s, and I’m thinking
of selling some, actually. A woman only needs so many baubles, after all.”

  I grinned and stepped into the room. “Aunt Alva wouldn’t agree.”

  “No, I suppose she wouldn’t. But she has had to endure some . . . let us say . . . wearisome influences in her life. Yet her heart is in the right place. She understands a woman needs independence, and that we should be taken seriously and have the same rights as our husbands.”

  “Does she believe that? I wonder.” I perched on the chaise at the foot of the bed. “What about her own daughter?”

  I shouldn’t have said it, not to a virtual stranger, but I couldn’t help myself. Maybe I’d simply grown tired of the Vanderbilt edict that family business never be discussed with outsiders. I wondered what Hope Stanford knew, if anything, about Consuelo’s absence. Aunt Alva had probably told her guests Consuelo was visiting a friend in town.

  Mrs. Stanford swiveled about on her tufted stool to face me. “That is a bit different, isn’t it? Her daughter is very young. She needs a mother’s guidance.”

  “She won’t always be young, Mrs. Stanford. But she’ll always have to live with the decisions her mother makes for her now.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true.” Mrs. Stanford tapped her chin. “But she’d also have to live with any disastrous decisions she might make if left to her own devices.”

  Her reply held a certain sense, I had to admit. I folded my hands in my lap and leaned toward her. “So at what point should a woman be allowed her autonomy?”

  “Oh, my dear, that is different for every woman, depending on her circumstances. Take you, for example. Any fool can see you are entirely capable of taking care of yourself. Were I your mother, I would certainly grant you a good measure of independence. Why . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Nothing. It’s just that I’ve never had a daughter. Two sons, but no daughters. It’s a shame, really, when I think of what I might have taught her. How she might have continued my efforts on behalf of women once I’m gone.” Her eyes had taken on a dreamy quality, but now her gaze sharpened on me. “Because, mark my words, it’s going to take many more years, decades perhaps, for women’s independence to be fully realized. Now, the temperance movement, on the other hand, will know success much sooner. We’re quite close to . . .”

  She rambled on about senators, congressmen, and potential bills waiting to be drafted, but I paid scant attention. Time was wasting, and the sooner I returned to town the sooner I could show Jesse the petals I’d found. I hoped he’d send them to a botanist to identify, and I hoped they would turn out to be more traceable than simply something blown in off the cliffs. It wasn’t until Mrs. Stanford mentioned her husband’s name that I snapped out of my reverie.

  “Mr. Stanford,” I repeated, blinking.

  “Why, yes, dear. As I was saying, when we arrived in town—”

  “Is he still in town?”

  She flinched at my interruption. “Yes, he decided to stay with a bachelor friend while I visited with Mrs. Vanderbilt. We never expected my stay here to extend beyond a couple of nights, but, well, with all that’s happened, the police prefer I don’t leave Newport yet in case they have more questions, and I simply don’t have the heart to leave your aunt all alone until things settle down.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” I murmured. Last night those men on Rose Island had said, “Hurry it up, dammit. Stanford’s waiting.” I’d discounted the possibility of there being any connection to Mrs. Stanford, but . . .

  “Does your husband support the temperance movement?” I asked, once more interrupting whatever she’d been saying.

  Her brows drew together. “Of course he does. That’s why we originally came to Newport. He’s been conferring with your town officials to shut down these ungodly taverns and usher in more wholesome means of entertainment. The imbibing of spirits only ever leads to . . .”

  I blocked her out again. Why would a temperance supporter put in with molasses smugglers? Perhaps Derrick had been mistaken in his assumptions.

  But what if he wasn’t?

  I came to my feet, once again making Mrs. Stanford flinch at my abruptness. “I have to go,” I said. “Good day, Mrs. Stanford.”

  She didn’t wish me a good day in turn. She only frowned at me as I hurried out of the room.

  “I thought we agreed this was none of your business, Emma.” Derrick’s voice carried through the lobby of the Atlantic House Hotel; several guests, a porter, and the clerk at the check-in desk sent us inquiring looks.

  Derrick seized my elbow and drew me into a corner half-hidden by an overgrown potted palm. “You promised, Emma.”

  “Did I?” I gazed up into his eyes—at this moment dark and fiery—and almost forgot why I’d come to see him. I’d made a quick stop at the police station to hand Jesse the evidence I’d found. He’d been skeptical but promised to have an expert examine the petals. Then I’d rushed here and found Derrick in, but not necessarily in the most receptive state once he heard my request. Or was he still fuming over my suggestion that morning that he might use Consuelo’s disappearance to sell newspapers for his father?

  “Derrick, don’t you see that my cousin’s disappearance and those smugglers might be connected after all? Those men mentioned someone called Stanford, and a woman by the name of Hope Stanford is staying with Aunt Alva. She was there when the medium died and Consuelo disappeared.”

  “And what? You think this woman is involved in smuggling?”

  His mocking tone raised my hackles. “Don’t be silly. But her husband is also staying in Newport. The pair are supposedly in support of the temperance movement, but what if her husband secretly isn’t? What if—”

  “There you go, jumping to conclusions and stretching the facts again.” He crossed his arms in a defensive posture, yet his eyes never left mine as they narrowed pensively. I waited silently, letting him work through the same thoughts that had earlier occurred to me. “It would be a good cover, wouldn’t it? The husband of a temperance leader flooding the market with illegal rum . . .”

  I struggled to keep the triumph from my expression, though he quelled it quickly enough. “I still don’t see how it could have anything to do with your cousin.”

  “Well, the man’s wife is staying at Marble House. Maybe Consuelo heard something.”

  “That would mean Mrs. Stanford would have to be in on the crime. Could she be that accomplished an actress? I’ve heard of the woman’s antics in town. Do you know she took a sledgehammer to a bar top?”

  “I’ve heard the story,” I said, remembering hearing the details from the woman herself only two days ago. “But it’s not only the Stanfords who might be involved. There is also Winthrop Rutherfurd.”

  “Ah, yes. Winty.”

  “With his involvement we can’t rule out a connection to Consuelo.”

  I could see from the softening of Derrick’s jawline that I had him half-convinced of my suspicions. Please don’t judge me harshly, but I used that moment to press my advantage.

  “Derrick . . .” I laid my fingertips on his forearm, the summer-light weave of his coat sleeve softly nubby against my skin. “I’m sorry about this morning. I know you would never betray a confidence, mine or anyone else’s. I wasn’t thinking quite straight yet.”

  “I know.” He covered my hand with his own, sending a warm shiver up my arm. “I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have been angry after all you’d just been through. But it’s true, Emma. I will never attempt to benefit from anything you might confide in me, except to ensure nothing bad happens to you.”

  His voice had become a balmy rumble; this, and the sudden warmth in his gaze, instantly became too much for me. Too revealing and too open, as if it were my turn now to respond, to reveal something of myself.

  I wasn’t ready. Not after adamantly turning down Derrick’s proposal of marriage such a short time ago. Good grief, had it only been the morning of Madame Devereaux’s murder? It seemed as though eons had passed since then.
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  Had I made the right choice? My head and everything I wanted for myself said yes; but that look in Derrick’s eyes and the alarm building inside me suggested otherwise, and as the seconds passed I grew in greater and greater danger of falling prey to those suggestions.

  Then Derrick removed his hand. I dropped mine from his forearm. We stepped apart. He coughed, I chuckled. A horribly awkward moment passed.

  With a rueful quirk of his mouth, he said, “So, tell me about this latest plan you’ve cooked up.”

  Chapter 11

  Derrick and I waited until the next day to implement my plan. I didn’t relish the delay, but he insisted I go straight home after our brief encounter in the Atlantic House Hotel’s lobby. He said I’d likely collapse if I pushed myself any further that day, and though I loathed admitting it, he was likely right.

  That next morning I quickly donned the lime green walking outfit Gertrude had recently given me. With her usual lightning speed, Nanny had made the necessary alterations, along with adding creamy taffeta embroidered with green and pink flowers to the collar and cuffs, breathing new life into Gertrude’s castoff. I counted it among my most fashionable ensembles.

  Why did I find it necessary to wear my best that day? Even as I stood before my mirror adjusting the matching flowered hat with its dyed-green feathers, I all but choked on the hypocrisy of wanting to look pretty for Derrick.

  Downstairs, I practically inhaled a cup of strong coffee and the scrambled eggs Nanny insisted I eat. Then it was off to town. Rather than drive my rig, I hitched a ride with cousins Gertrude and Gladys, on their way to watch a tennis match at the Casino. They both approved Nanny’s alterations on my outfit.

  Derrick was waiting outside the Newport Observer when I arrived. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked in lieu of a proper greeting as he helped me down from my cousins’ carriage.