The Case of the Troubled Tycoon: A Gilded Age Historical Cozy Mystery (Shipwreck Point Mysteries Book 5)
Page 1
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Thank You!
Series by Elise M. Stone
About the Author
THE CASE OF THE TROUBLED TYCOON
A Gilded Age Historical Cozy Mystery
Elise M. Stone
This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, and incidents in this novel are either the products of the imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or people, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The Case of the Troubled Tycoon
Copyright © 2021 Elise M. Stone
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise—without permission in writing from the copyright owner, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
Published by Civano Press
Tucson, AZ
Copyright © 2021 Elise M. Stone
All rights reserved.
CHAPTER 1
Titus Strong, criminal defense attorney, divorced not only from his wife but also from his prestigious law practice and the city of Boston, sat in a hansom cab traveling down Mayfield Road in search of a client. Ironically, after his commitment to defend only those who couldn’t afford a lawyer, this client was a member of the upper class, one of those who summered in this small seaside town, and lived in the city for the rest of the year. But he had to pay his bills, and so had agreed to attend a meeting and find out if he and his prospect could come to a mutually agreeable arrangement.
His driver brought the hansom cab to a stop under the port-cochère of the largest home Titus had ever seen in Whitby, commonly referred to as Shipwreck Point. After handing the man his fee through the trap, he exited and climbed the brick steps to the entrance. Gaslights on either side provided plenty of light on this cool April evening.
A butler promptly opened the front door for him. As he stepped inside, his eyes were drawn upward to the ornate ceiling three stories above, then slowly panned the mahogany balconies on the second and third floors. Here on the main level a sofa on one wall was upholstered in red velvet, and an oriental rug covered the center of the gleaming parquet floor.
“The gentlemen are meeting in the drawing room.”
The butler’s voice brought him back to reality, and Titus followed him through the hall to a room no less impressive than the entrance.
Almost immediately, Arthur Muir, owner of Muir Manufacturing Company, which was the primary producer and importer of bicycles in the United States, broke away from a group of men clustered near the fireplace and strode toward him, a grin expanding to fill the space between the white of his beard and his equally snowy mustache. His trim physique, likely the result of pedaling one of his own machines, handsomely filled out his well-tailored suit. “Titus, I’m so glad you came.”
Taking on his gentleman façade, the lawyer returned the smile as he replied, “And how could I not when invited by one of the most successful businessmen in Massachusetts?”
“I’m sure you have your pick of invitations on a Friday evening, and it is an honor for you to have accepted mine.” The expected mutual stroking accomplished, his host waved for Titus to follow him to where the others waited with a variety of expressions on their faces.
Titus, an outsider, was loved by some of Whitby’s residents and resented by others. He supposed most of the men in this room belonged to the latter group, since he primarily defended the poor and unfortunate of the community.
“Do you know Mr. Dietrich?” Muir gestured toward a balding man whose remaining hair, unlike that of most of the other attendees, was still a dark brown.
Titus extended his hand to the owner of the Whitby Gas Company. “Of course. How are you, Franz?”
Dietrich shook Titus’s hand vigorously. “As well as can be expected. I didn’t know you were interested in yachting.”
“Those of us who can’t afford to own yachts can nevertheless have an interest in the sport.”
“Especially if it’s a financial interest,” said a middle-aged man opposite them. His brown hair was parted in the center, and while he sported a generous mustache, his chin was clean-shaven.
Although Muir had inquired as to whether he’d be interested in drawing up the papers to formalize the organization of the Whitby Yacht Club, Titus bristled at the insinuation that he was only here for the money, especially since they hadn’t discussed a fee.
The gentleman who had made the remark appeared to be the youngest in attendance, other than Titus himself. Muir introduced him. “Warren Chapman, Mr. Strong.”
“I’ve heard so much about you,” Titus said truthfully. Who had not heard about the stock speculator who was said to have made and lost fortunes in a single day? “I’ve also heard you intend to compete for the America’s Cup.”
Chapman looked gratified, and with an air of false modesty said, “Some day, Mr. Strong. Some day.”
Titus fingered the small stack of business cards he’d put in his pocket. He’d been hoping to pass out a few, perhaps gain a new client or two, but he and Chapman had got off on the wrong foot, and he hated to risk the temporary truce they’d come to.
That left just one gentleman who had not been introduced, and Muir rectified that immediately. “Mr. Strong, I’d like you to meet Paul Brueghel, owner of Brueghel’s Books.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you. I’ve spent many an hour browsing in one of your stores.”
“Not just browsing, I hope,” Brueghel replied, his gray eyes twinkling.
“No, not just browsing,” Titus admitted. “I had to add a wall of shelves to my library in Boston to hold all the volumes I was enticed to buy.”
The bookseller smiled warmly at that confession.
“Since we’re all here, shall we get started?” Muir asked. He led the way to a cluster of furniture in front of the fireplace. As if on cue, the butler appeared with a tray holding a decanter filled with what Titus assumed was brandy, judging by its accompaniment of a half dozen snifters.
Titus chose a chair at the end of the group, an armchair in one of those ornate French styles, Louis something-or-other, he supposed, with gilt woodwork and upholstered in a silk fabric patterned in white and rose. Interestingly enough, Muir took the chair opposite him, while the others shared
the settee in between.
“I call this meeting on the feasibility of founding a yacht club in the town of Whitby to order,” Muir announced. “Since it’s only a preliminary discussion, I think that’s about as formal as I’ll be tonight. Is that all right with everyone?”
Heads nodded around the half-circle.
“Good. Now, we all agree that the yachtsmen of Boston should have their own club rather than belonging to that outpost built by the New York Yacht Club in Vineyard Haven.” His face scrunched up as if he’d swallowed a mouthful of alum. “Since all of us—and many others—already own cottages in Whitby, it seems logical that we should base the yacht club here. The question is what kind of support can we get from the town should we decide to go ahead. Mr. Strong? Would you care to speak to that?”
Surprised, since he was a relative newcomer, Titus did his best to muster his thoughts into some sort of order. “I certainly can’t see any objections. Having a yacht club would be a plum for the town. I assume there’d be a regatta?”
“More than one, I’d say,” Chapman volunteered. “There’s no reason we couldn’t have several, assuming we could persuade some of the more prosperous businesses and their owners to donate prize money.”
Dietrich spoke next. “I think the hotels would be willing to contribute if we publicize the events and bring them extra patrons. I know for a fact Mr. Payne approves.”
Ah. That answered a question that had immediately come to Titus’s mind. The approval of the chairman of the board of selectmen was a critical factor. If he approved, there was little more that needed to be done to get the ball rolling.
“What about a dock and a clubhouse?” Chapman asked.
Muir had done his homework. “I’m thinking we could approach Goodwin about that,” he said, naming the owner of the steamship company that ran ferries between Boston and Whitby. “I’m sure he’ll have full boats on regatta weekends.”
“Will you speak to him?” Brueghel asked, “or should I?”
“Why don’t you sound him out? Then invite him to the next meeting, and I’ll make my pitch there.”
“So there’s going to be another meeting?” Titus asked. It was one thing for him to give up an evening to find out what this idea was all about. It was another to take advantage of his good nature on a recurring basis. “Will you expect me to be there in my official capacity as an attorney?”
Muir, Chapman, and Brueghel, the Boston contingent, caught one another’s eye and came to a silent agreement. Titus noticed they’d left out the local representative. He wondered how Dietrich felt about that. Muir spoke for the group. “Yes, and we’re willing to pay you for your services. I believe we’ll need legal documents to establish the club, and official membership requirements and such.”
“And a commodore,” Chapman said. “We should have a procedure for electing a commodore for the club. I’d be happy to serve in that capacity.”
Muir’s features hardened. “I think it’s premature for us to decide on who will be commodore at this time. But for the record, I’d also have an interest in the position.”
“Here, here,” Dietrich interjected. “Shouldn’t the commodore of the Whitby Yacht Club be a citizen of Whitby?” He stressed the name of the town both times he said it.
“And I assume you’ll be happy to take the position,” Chapman said with a sneer. “Most of the members will be from Boston, I’m sure, and it makes more sense to have that fact represented.”
“Gentlemen,” Titus said before the arguments could get heated, “let’s focus on first things first. Let’s establish the charter for the club, along with the other details concerning membership and officers. I’ll do some research on the documents of other clubs and bring a proposal to the next meeting. I’d also hope to have several more gentlemen attending to get a representative selection of the prospective membership.”
“That sounds reasonable to me,” Muir said. “Shall we agree to meet again in two weeks? In the meantime, we can approach others who might join us and see if they’d be willing to be part of this venture.”
“That’s a good idea,” Dietrich said. “I’ll spread the word locally.”
“As I will in Boston,” Chapman said, a frown creasing his forehead.
“Good,” Muir said. He seemed anxious to get this meeting over with before internal dispute scuttled the plan.
CHAPTER 2
Thinking of his finances, Titus lagged behind as the others left, hoping to get a commitment from Arthur Muir to pay him for his time. The tycoon had made his fortune largely by controlling several key patents related to his business. There were rumors he’d acquired them in a not quite honest fashion. Titus wouldn’t put it past the man to attempt to con him out of his fee.
Apparently, Warren Chapman also wanted to have a private conversation with their host. The lawyer hung back, far enough away so he wouldn’t appear to be intruding, close enough to hear what the two men, who had so recently been at odds, were going to discuss.
“We need to talk, Arthur.”
Muir raised his eyebrows as he pulled a watch from his vest pocket. He glanced down at the handsome timepiece, which was attached to a fob of woven gold links. A tiny gold bicycle hung from the end of the fob opposite the watch. “About what? It’s getting late.”
“The commodore position.”
From his behavior this evening, Titus should have known the man wouldn’t let go of the issue easily.
Muir’s mustache twitched and his blue eyes glinted steel. “I think we should leave that up to the membership to decide.”
“Use your head, man,” Chapman pressed. “Chances are people will be predisposed to vote according to geography. Those who live in Whitby will vote for their man, and those of us from Boston will favor a Boston candidate. You’ll have to agree we wouldn’t want a local yokel in charge of so important an organization as the yacht club. Particularly this yacht club, which will be holding regattas to qualify to sail in the America’s Cup Race if things go as we planned.”
Titus bristled at the man’s attitude. Although he himself had been born in South Boston, he was now firmly aligned with Shipwreck Point. Men like Ranson Payne, Edgar Garner, Wesley Wood, and even farmer Malachi Grayson were as astute as the wealthy of the Back Bay in their own way. And he wasn’t the only one who had made Whitby his adopted home. Owen Campbell, a former Pinkerton detective, and Richard Morris, the architect who had designed and built his townhouse, had become just as much residents of Whitby as those who had been born here.
“What are you proposing?” Muir’s voice dripped with suspicion.
“We should decide which of us will be commodore of the Whitby Yacht Club. On the other side, there’s Dietrich. I guarantee he’ll lobby among potential members to come to the next meeting so they can vote for him. If both of us are vying for the position, it will split the Boston vote in two.”
“You have a point,” Muir said as his visage turned pensive for a moment. Then a sardonic smile came to his lips. “I’m glad you’ve seen reason and are willing to drop out of the competition.”
“Drop out?” Chapman sputtered. “I said nothing about dropping out. If anyone drops out, it should be you. I sail every weekend, and I don’t mean just leaning back with a Manhattan as the crew does all the work. I’m at the wheel more often than not, raising the sails when needed, and I can plot a course with the best of them. When was the last time you were out on your yacht, much less sailing her yourself?”
“I’ll have you know I’m taking the Valiant out this weekend.” Muir’s face turned red.
Titus wondered if he should step in before the argument got too intense. Or possibly it was too late already. The two men had squared off, one as obstinate as the other, filling the air with anger. They stubbornly glared at one another.
In the silence, the tinkle of mechanical music drifted in from a nearby room.
While Muir retained his aspect, Chapman’s eyes went wide as he shifted his attention to the
sound. At the end of the tune, the bong of a deep bell sounded, followed by the high-pitched call of a cuckoo. It sounded ten times in succession, announcing the hour.
Chapman thawed from his frozen position and marched out into the hall. After a minute, Muir followed him, Titus close behind. The stock trader didn’t hesitate as to which room to enter.
In the parlor, Chapman stood in front of an ornate cuckoo clock. Carved oak leaves clustered on the roof, sides, and base, and a pair of colorful Bavarian folk dancers stood just outside openings that led to the interior of the clock. It had the traditional pinecone weights on chains hanging below and a door, now closed, where the cuckoo emerged to announce the hour.
Titus stepped up beside Arthur Muir, who had halted just behind Chapman. The younger man whirled to face them.
“My clock!”
“Your clock?” Muir responded, incredulous. “As far as I can tell, it’s mounted on my wall.”
“This clock has been hanging in my summer cottage for years. I noticed it was missing as soon as I arrived last week. Someone must have broken in and stolen it over the winter. I never took you for a thief, Muir, except where patents were concerned, but it appears a zebra doesn’t change its stripes.”
“How dare you! That clock was an anniversary present from my late wife. It was the last thing she gave me to remember her by. I can assure you, my wife was not a thief. You must be mistaken.”
“And I can assure you, I am not mistaken. I purchased that clock on a trip to the Black Forest years ago. I recognized it immediately when it played Muss I Denn. Very few cuckoo clocks play tunes, and fewer that specific tune. I would know it anywhere.”
Chapman took a step toward the clock, as if to remove it from the wall. Muir lunged forward and grabbed his arm, whereupon the man whirled and pulled his free arm back as if to punch his assailant.
Titus rushed to step between them. “Wait, gentlemen. Surely we can resolve this problem without fisticuffs.”