The Case of the Troubled Tycoon: A Gilded Age Historical Cozy Mystery (Shipwreck Point Mysteries Book 5)

by Elise M Stone

  “I call Miss Susanna Baumann.”

  The plump young woman grasped the top of the chair in front of her, then froze in place.

  “Miss Baumann?” the judge prompted.

  A hint of a whimper escaped her lips before she clapped a hand over her mouth.

  Jasper Crane picked up the clerk of the court with his eye and tipped his head toward the reluctant witness. The clerk stood and trooped down the center aisle to where Susanna Baumann sat. She pushed herself up from her chair, sidled to the end of the row, then denied Zimmerman’s proffered arm’s support. She lifted her head, thrust her chin out, and resolutely marched down the aisle beside the man. They parted ways once they were through the bar, he returning to his station in front of the bench, and she heading toward the witness stand.

  After the preliminaries were dispensed with, Titus asked Miss Baumann, “Is this your parasol?”

  “Not anymore.” The right side of her mouth quirked up in an attempt at a smile.

  The lawyer smiled back at her, confident she wouldn’t be smiling for much longer. “Let me rephrase that. Did this parasol previously belong to you?”

  “It did.”

  “And did you bring it to Mrs. Murphy to donate to the church rummage sale?”

  “I did.”

  “Can you tell me why you donated such an expensive item?”

  “I’d bought a new one.”

  She thought she had him with that answer, but the counter to her response was simple enough. “And was the reason you bought a new parasol because this one was stained with blood?”

  “Objection! Counsel is leading the witness,” Garner said.

  “I believe it is obvious to the court that Miss Baumann is reluctant to answer questions completely. Permission to treat the witness as hostile?”

  “Permission granted,” Crane said.

  “Miss Baumann, did you buy a new parasol and subsequently donate this one to the church rummage sale because it was stained with blood?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Louder for the clerk, Miss Baumann,” Titus said.

  “Yes!” she snarled.

  “Is it true the bloodstain occurred when you stabbed Warren Chapman with it?”

  “Yes.” She heaved a sigh. “Yes, I killed him. The man was evil. He preyed on people who didn’t understand investing; he took their money and wouldn’t give it back. Rich people like him think they can do as they please while working men sit back and take it.”

  She fixed Titus with a stare full of hate. “Well, I’m not one to sit back and take anything. I went to him and demanded he give Mr. Peck his stock certificates or return Philo’s money. It wasn’t fair to treat him the way he did.

  “He just smirked at me, tried to tell me that Philo understood it was a short sale, whatever that is. Robbery is what I call it.

  “I was so angry with him, I started to use the parasol like a sword, the way Mr. Rowland taught us. I caught him by surprise and hooked the handle behind his knees. He fell on the floor. Before he could get up, I thrust the point of the ferrule into his neck.”

  She wheezed as she gasped for air. After gulping in a breath, she finished her story. “I grabbed those stock certificates and took them back to Philo. It’s not my fault they’re practically worthless now.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Elisabeth, Titus, Owen, and Arthur Muir stood together on the sidewalk outside the courthouse. The early May mid-afternoon was as warm and sunny as their dispositions.

  “I don’t know how you do it, Strong, but your reputation as a defense attorney is well earned,” Muir said. “How in the world did you ever figure out that Susanna Baumann was the murderer?”

  “That,” said Titus, “was not entirely my doing.”

  Elisabeth blushed at his warm regard.

  “Ah, so it is Miss Wade I have to thank.”

  “Not exclusively,” she said. “The three of us work as a team, each with our part to play.”

  “I have a feeling the explanation might take more than a minute.” Their client looked thoughtful. “I don’t know how the rest of you feel, but I could certainly use a good meal after a week of jailhouse food. Not that I’d call it food, exactly. Would you all like to join me for a late dinner at Mario’s? My treat, of course.”

  She looked to Titus for an answer, hoping he’d agree. It had been so long since she’d enjoyed the epicurean delights of a fine restaurant, her mouth was already watering at the prospect.

  “That’s very generous of you,” Titus said.

  From the way he said it, he was about to add a but, and she drooped with disappointment. Fortunately, Owen jumped in.

  “It would be an insult to turn down your offer. Besides, I hear they’ve got a new chef.”

  “It’s settled, then,” Muir said.

  Without waiting, Owen Campbell had gone out to the street and flagged down two hansom cabs.

  “Will you share a cab with me, Miss Wade?” Arthur Muir asked.

  “I’d be happy to,” she answered, although it would have been nice to be alone with Titus for a few minutes. She and Mr. Muir spoke very little on the short ride to the restaurant, although he sat much too close to her, and several times “accidentally” brushed his hand against hers. At least their client hadn’t pressed her for the solution to the case on the way there. She much preferred that Titus do the talking on that subject.

  When they walked in the door, Elisabeth was taken aback by the brightness of white linen and the glitter of lamplight off fine china and crystal. “What happened to the checked tablecloths?”

  “And the straw baskets filled with bread?” Titus added.

  Arthur Muir laughed. “I think they found out their patrons were reluctant to pay premium prices for a rustic atmosphere. Don’t worry, the food is still excellent.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Owen said.

  Once they were seated, their orders taken, and a bottle of chianti to share on the table, Titus said, “I suppose we’ve held you in suspense long enough.”

  “More than long enough,” Muir replied. “How did you figure it out?”

  “As I said earlier, it was Elisabeth who put the clues together. To be truthful, she was the only one who recognized all the pieces that were clues.”

  Muir turned toward her expectantly.

  “I think the truth of it was that I couldn’t see how the pieces fit together based on the assumptions we were making. Mr. Strong seemed to be focused on the yacht club and who would be elected commodore. While winning that honor would enhance the prestige of the man who was elected, it didn’t make sense as a motive for murder.” She paused to take a sip of the rich red wine.

  “To be honest,” Titus said, “I thought the cuckoo clock the more likely motive. But that made you the murderer, which wouldn’t suit my defense of you at all.”

  The waiter brought their appetizers, clams and mussels in broth with garlic for Elisabeth and Titus, Burrata, a cheese, with tomatoes, basil, and olive oil for Muir, and prawns for Owen. For a few minutes, they were too busy eating to continue talking. But Elisabeth, fully aware of the number of courses to follow, put down her fork after consuming less than half of her portion.

  “So, to get back to my deductions,” she said, “there was one thing that kept bothering me.”

  “What was that?” Muir stopped eating to ask.

  “The conflicting information regarding Mr. Chapman’s finances. To all appearances, he was very well off. Even Philo Peck said he’d benefitted from Chapman’s advice on copper stocks.

  “On the other hand, Alain DeGarmo, a local artist, said that Chapman had backed out of the purchase of one of his paintings because he didn’t have the money. Then Mrs. Chapman admitted she’d sold the cuckoo clock to your wife to cover household expenses. It was clear things were not as Mr. Chapman would have had us believe.”

  “All right. I admit that we of the upper class often have hidden financial setbacks. But from what I understood, Chapm
an had weathered things like this before. The stocks would very likely rebound.”

  Titus interjected, “Said like a true member of the upper class. You never believe things might not turn around to your advantage. It’s different for those of us who grew up in less secure circumstances. Like Philo Peck. He had no idea what a short sale was when he turned his money over to Chapman. He didn’t know that he might have to come up with significantly more funds should his investment not go the way Chapman told him it would.”

  “But Peck didn’t kill Chapman.” Muir’s gaze clouded as he stared off into the distance. He gave a shake of his head and then fixed his attention on Titus.

  “No, he didn’t,” Elisabeth agreed. “That was where the clue that the police didn’t think was a clue fit in.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Muir said.

  “There was a flower on the floor under Chapman’s body,” Titus explained. “A rhododendron blossom, to be exact. Since the police assumed it wasn’t important, that it had just been in a vase on Chapman’s desk that had gotten knocked over in his struggle with his killer, and certainly not a piece of evidence, they ignored it. I took it back to my office and showed it to Elisabeth.”

  “I’d bought a book on the language of flowers recently,” Elisabeth said. “When I looked up rhododendron in it, the words danger and beware were next to the flower’s name.”

  “At that point,” Owen said, “we all believed the—what did you call it?”

  “A tussie-mussie,” Elisabeth said.

  “The tussie-mussie had to be a warning. But who had sent it?”

  “There were petals from other flowers that had been in the vase strewn on the floor as well. When Mr. Strong told me what colors they were, I pictured them in the posy. I was immediately struck with how poorly the hues went together. It appears they were chosen more for their meaning than for their harmonious appearance. And I remembered from the class Melissa Chapman gave to several of us the one person who had no sense of color.”

  “Susanna Baumann?” Muir asked.

  Elisabeth nodded. “Poor Susanna. She’d already seen one betrothal broken. When Mr. Peck announced a postponement in their wedding because of the loss of his copper stock due to not being able to cover the margin, all she saw was herself as an old maid. Rather than lose another lover, she decided to confront Warren Chapman herself. But there were a couple of things that appeared to make it impossible for her to have done it.”

  “What were those?” Muir asked.

  “First of all, I myself saw her get onto the ferry to Boston the night Warren Chapman was murdered. Several of the ladies were going in then so they could be at the doors of Holmes Department Store the minute it opened the following day. If she was in Boston, she couldn’t possibly have also been in Whitby at the same time.”

  Owen picked up the tale. “I stopped by the Baumann house yesterday and talked to a couple of the servants. It turns out Susanna Baumann got off the ferry at the last minute, claiming she had a headache. Since her mother suffers from migraines, she was all too sympathetic to her excuse. But Miss Baumann didn’t stay at home long before going out again.”

  The conversation paused as the waiter came to remove their empty plates. After clearing them to a tray on a small service table, he started to refill their wine glasses, but ran out halfway round the table. “Another bottle of chianti?”

  “Yes, please,” Muir said, and the waiter hurried off to fetch it. “You said there were two things, Miss Wade.”

  “I did. The second was a question of whether Susanna could physically commit the crime. I’ve known her all my life, and she’s more likely to beg off confrontations with feeling faint and debilitating headaches than stab someone with a parasol. But I had also seen a notice in the Whitby Weekly about a women’s self-defense class given by Mr. Rowland.”

  “The bank manager?” Muir asked incredulously. “I wouldn’t imagine he’d have those kinds of skills.”

  “He does,” Owen Campbell said. “When Elisabeth told me about the class, I made an appointment with George Rowland to ask him about it. Not only did Susanna Baumann attend, one of the lessons focused on how an umbrella—or a parasol—could be used as a weapon in much the same way as a sword.”

  At that point, the waiter returned with the wine and the soup course, a vegetable minestrone.

  “And so all the pieces finally came together. How does one find such a clever secretary?” Muir asked Titus. “I could use one with her unusual abilities myself.”

  “I’m afraid she’s one of a kind,” Titus said with a smile, “and I don’t intend on losing her to you.”

  She was flattered at his kind words. “Yes, but it takes your skills to present the evidence in court so a judge will hear it. Even Jasper Crane, who warned you about surprises.”

  “As it turned out, it appears you just have to have the right surprises,” Titus said.

  “There’s just one more thing,” Owen Campbell said.

  “What’s that?” Titus asked.

  “Whatever happened to the cuckoo clock?”

  Arthur Muir cleared his throat and stared down at the tablecloth for a moment. “I’m afraid I have it.”

  “What?” Titus said.

  “I’m sorry, Strong. I should have told you.” He paused while the waiter refilled their glasses. Muir took a deep draught of his. “When I returned from Chapman’s house, the cuckoo clock was hanging on the wall in my library. I could only assume that Duncan had put it there, and therefore was the most likely to have murdered Chapman. I went to confront him about it, but he’d already disappeared.”

  “Which is why you felt obligated to confess to the murder,” Titus said.

  “Yes. He is my son, after all. Of course, I couldn’t let the clock be seen, so I removed it from the wall and hid it in the carriage house.” He smiled. “At least now that I know Mrs. Chapman sold it to my wife, I can put it back where it belongs.”

  CHAPTER 37

  The four of them exited the restaurant together, then paused on the sidewalk.

  “May I offer you a ride in my carriage?” Muir asked. “Before we ate, I put in a call to ask it be brought down from the cottage.”

  “I wouldn’t want to trouble you,” Campbell said. “The boardinghouse is close enough to walk to, and on such a fine day, I’d like to stretch my legs.” After they’d exchanged farewells, the detective took off, his long stride taking him a good distance away in no time.

  The bicycle tycoon turned his attention to Titus. “May I assume you also would prefer to walk to your townhouse?”

  Although the words were spoken to him, he noticed Muir eying Elisabeth, and remembered how he’d pounced on the opportunity to ride alone with her on the way here. A wave of vertigo passed over him at the thought of the widower pursuing the woman he cared so much about. He dared to look at her, hoping for a sign, but she’d become preoccupied with searching for something in her purse.

  The clip-clop of horses’ hooves announced the arrival of the carriage.

  His pulse raced as he realized he was facing a dilemma too aptly described as “speak now or forever hold your peace.” It was an easy decision. “You’re right about the walk, but I was hoping Elisabeth would accompany me on it.”

  Her head jerked up, the search of her purse forgotten. What were her eyes telling him?

  And suddenly, remembering the dinner invitation, he knew. “Elisabeth, would you like to join me on a stroll along the seashore?”

  Her features lightened, and a warm smile came to her lips. “I’d enjoy that very much, Titus.”

  Muir looked from one to the other, shrugged, then said, “I hope you enjoy your walk.” A footman held the door to his carriage open, and the businessman climbed inside.

  Titus offered Elisabeth his arm, which she took willingly, and they started out in the direction of the ocean. It was only once they’d crossed Mayfield Road that he spoke again. “Thank you for accepting my invitation.”

  “I wa
sn’t sure I should, but your company is certainly preferable to that of our client. At least I’m certain that your behavior will be honorable.”

  Horrified, he started to ask, “He didn’t…”

  She shook her head. “The ride from the courthouse to the restaurant was too short, but from his manner, the ride out to my bungalow would have been much too long. For me, anyway.”

  They’d reached the bathhouse and crossed through it to the boardwalk. Being a weekday afternoon, there were few people taking advantage of its view of the ocean. They turned north, enjoying a companionable silence. At least, he hoped Elisabeth was enjoying it. He was so afraid of opening his mouth and bumbling things, his stomach was in knots.

  Fortunately, she spoke first. “I always head for the beach when I need to sort things out. That’s what I did when I was trying to solve the murder of Warren Chapman. And, as you know, it worked out perfectly.”

  “That it did.” He wondered if the ocean would work its magic on him.

  “Come, let’s go down on the sand,” she said as they reached a set of steps.

  “All right.” She slid her fingers down his arm and grasped his hand in hers as they started to descend. Afraid she’d release it once they reached the beach, he tightened his grip. As it turned out, she seemed to have no inclination to let go.

  She tugged him toward the water when they got to the bottom of the stairs, breaking out in a trot toward the wavelets that tickled the shore.

  “Wait!” he cried. “Aren’t you afraid of ruining your shoes?”

  She grinned at him over her shoulder. “Not a bit.” Slipping her hand out of his, she bent down and removed her shoes, holding them in one hand as she sped toward the sea, laughing and tossing her head so her hair floated on the breeze.

  Not wanting to be left behind, Titus hopped first on one foot, then the other, removing his shoes and socks. He tied the laces together and stuffed the socks inside, then, gripping the shoelaces, ran to join her. Her childish joy was contagious, and he was soon stomping in the water beside her, his pant legs soaked, the hem of her skirt the same, despite the fact that she’d lifted it up.