Through the open balcony door, the sounds of commotion drifted from below. The shrieks of whistles and the deep-toned barking of orders told me more policemen were securing the area and inspecting the body. Officer Jesse Whyte approached my brother. “Good evening, Brady.”
Running a hand up the back of his tousled blond hair, Brady gave a nod and a low groan that resulted in Officer Whyte wrinkling his short, thin nose and pulling back. “Been nipping a bit tonight, eh, Brady?”
“No . . . I haven’t been, actually. . . .”
“Uh-huh.”
This was not Brady’s first encounter with Jesse Whyte; far from it. Nor mine, for that matter. A lean man in his early thirties with large ears and deceptively youthful features, Jesse lived in the same house he’d grown up, a white clapboard colonial just down the street from our own family home on the Point section of Newport. We were old neighbors, old family friends.
As a cop on a beat, Jesse had apprehended Brady on countless occasions over the years, though only rarely had charges been brought. Typically, Jesse would bed Brady down for the night in an unlocked cell to let him sleep it off, and call me in the morning.
Now a plainclothes detective, his taut expression overrode the initial relief I’d felt when he strode through the bedroom door. “You want to tell me what happened, then, Brady?”
My brother’s pale eyebrows drew together. He squinted, suggesting unconsciousness had left his brain fuzzy. I thought of the empty bottle of bourbon, but when Brady’s gaze swerved to mine, his eyes were sharp. I shrugged and shook my head slightly to indicate that I hadn’t told the police officers anything—yet.
When he hesitated in answering, Jesse’s partner held up the documents we’d found littering the floor. “We take it these aren’t yours, are they, Mr. Gale?”
“What the blazes are those?” Standing several feet away, Uncle Cornelius craned his neck to see. “Is that my seal at the top of the page? Those should be locked up in my safe, damn it!”
Brady’s face turned ruddy. “I’ve never seen them before.”
My pulse lurched at the bald-faced lie.
“What the hell were you doing in my bedroom, Brady? How’d you get those documents?”
I flinched at Uncle Cornelius’s booming voice; everyone flinched, actually.
“We’ll ask the questions.” The second officer was a humorless bully of a man named Anthony Dobbs who’d once given Brady a black eye. He angled a warning look at Uncle Cornelius, who simply glared back, thoroughly unintimidated.
Uncle Cornelius murmured some words to his younger brother, William, who left the room, I assumed, to answer any questions that might arise downstairs and keep the guests calm. My uncle settled into a wing chair by the fireplace and pinned a stern gaze on Brady. Neily moved to lean in the balcony doorway, his shoulder even with a dent in the door frame that momentarily captured my attention. The house was brand new and perfect in every way. . . .
Jesse, meanwhile, walked unhurriedly to the dressing table, dragged the cane bottomed armchair across the rug, and set it in front of Brady’s. He sat with the same leisurely manner, taking a moment to unbutton his coat and settle comfortably before leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Brady, were you stealing those documents from Mr. Vanderbilt’s safe?”
“No!” Staring down at his feet, Brady shrugged. “That is, I did, but that was the day before yesterday, Jesse. I had a change of heart about using them. I was about to replace them in the safe when—”
“When Alvin Goddard caught you!” With a sneer, Officer Dobbs made a notation in a notepad he’d produced from an inner pocket of his tweed coat.
Uncle Cornelius jumped to his feet and seemed about to storm across the room. Neily stepped into his path. “I’ll explain in due course, Father, but let the officers finish their questioning.”
Uncle Cornelius fumed, but retreated to his wing chair.
Jesse continued with the interrogation. “Did Alvin Goddard confront you?”
“No, I never saw him. I was moving toward the safe, and then . . .” His eyes closing, Brady shook his head. “Then I woke up . . . and Neily and Em were leaning over me.”
“That’s all you remember?”
“That’s what happened.”
“And you never saw anyone else in this room?”
“Think, Brady,” I piped up from across the broad mahogany bedstead. “Did you hear anything at all?”
“I . . .” Brady pressed the heels of his hands to his temples. “Wait!” His hands fell away. “I did hear something. I remember now. I was making for the safe when I heard a creaking behind me, like a light footstep. I started to turn . . . and then my head felt like it was going to explode.”
“He’s lying.” Officer Dobbs scowled as he scribbled in his notepad.
Jesse ignored the comment. “You’re saying someone attacked you, Brady?”
“I think so, yes.”
Dobbs let out a huff. Jesse, however, leaned closer to Brady, reached out, and ran his fingers over the back of Brady’s head. He winced at the same time Brady did. “Size of a walnut,” Jesse murmured. “Hurt?”
“Hell yes.” Brady lifted his own hand to his head as Jesse pulled away.
“Can you remember anything else that might help identify your attacker?”
Brady hesitated, then shook his head. “Damn, but I wish I could.”
With both hands I clutched the bed’s curving footboard. “But obviously there was someone else in this room. A third person who knocked Brady out.”
“Why do you say that, Miss Cross?” Officer Dobbs rounded on me, his pad and pencil held aloft. “The other person might merely have been Alvin Goddard, catching your brother red-handed. The two struggled. Your brother threw Goddard over the balcony. Drunk as he obviously was, he stumbled back inside, hit his head, and passed out.”
“Over the balcony?” Brady sprang up from his chair, sending the piece tumbling over backward. “I may be a thief, a cheat, and a drunkard, but I’m no murderer!”
It took some minutes and a substantial dose of cognac to calm Brady down. Through Neily’s and my combined efforts, we resettled him in his chair and persuaded him to repeat, calmly, the events as he remembered them.
Jesse turned to Uncle Cornelius. “Sir, why would Alvin Goddard have entered your bedroom tonight?”
Uncle Cornelius stared at the other man as if he didn’t understand the question. Then he dropped his face into his hands. “Dear God, he’s really gone, isn’t he?”
No one said anything. Neily shuffled his feet as if about to move to his father’s side, but then seemed to change his mind and stood staring down at the carpet. Officer Dobbs, meanwhile, inspected the fallen candelabrum for traces of blood, but declared the item perfectly clean except for the smudges left by Brady’s fingers.
After a moment, Uncle Cornelius pulled himself together with a lift of his shoulders. “I sent Alvin in. Before toasting my daughter, I conducted a bit of business in my office. I sent Alvin here afterward to return the paperwork to my safe.” His eyes narrowed on my brother. “What were you doing here, Brady? What papers did you steal?”
When Brady pulled a sheepish expression, Neily lifted his chin and spoke up. “He swiped the plans for the New Haven-Hartford-Providence line.” He gestured to the bed where Jesse had deposited the documents. “My guess is he copied them and wanted to return them before anyone noticed they were missing. Thing is, I’d already noticed. Sorry, Brady old boy, but your nasty little secret is out.”
Uncle Cornelius stood, his features blacker than I’d ever seen them. I cringed as he crossed the room, snatched up the documents and glowered at them, then snapped them down again. He lurched as if to hurl himself on Brady. Only Officer Dobbs’s quick reflexes stopped him, and for once I was glad for the boorish man’s presence. The policeman’s beefy hands closed around Uncle Cornelius’s upper arms from behind, or I believe my uncle might have gone for Brady’s throat.
“Damn it,
Brady, I gave you employment for Emmaline’s sake, so she wouldn’t have to worry about her elder brother. And this is how you repay me? Theft? Disloyalty? You’re a swine!” He struggled in the policeman’s grip. I cried out for him to be reasonable, but he seemed not to hear. “No one crosses me like this! No one! I want to know who you sold me out to!”
The blood drained from my face and I tightened my grip on the footboard for fear my legs would collapse beneath me. Officer Dobbs noticed my distress. “I think it’d be best if you left now, Miss Cross. And as for you, Mr. Vanderbilt,” he said with a warning tug on Uncle Cornelius’s arms, “I’ll let you go if you promise to calm down.”
I’d no intention of going anywhere, but even if I had, Jesse had other ideas. “Indeed, Mr. Vanderbilt, you’re not helping matters. But, Emma, don’t you go anywhere. According to what your cousin told me over the telephone, you were a witness to Mr. Goddard’s death. Is that true?”
All eyes turned toward me.
“I . . . um . . . well . . .” Oh, how I suddenly wished I’d curbed my tongue when I sought help from Neily earlier, at least until I’d had the chance to talk to Brady. Was I about to implicate my brother? “It was dark and I couldn’t really see anything. . . .”
Officer Dobbs released Uncle Cornelius and took a stride closer to me, his bulk looming over me in a manner obviously meant to frighten. “Where were you when Mr. Goddard fell from the balcony?”
“Easy, Tony.” Jesse stood up from his chair and eased past his fellow policeman. “Emma, please just answer the question. Tell us exactly where you were and what you saw.”
His courteous manner won him a thin smile of gratitude, but it faded as I realized I had no choice but to reveal what I had witnessed. “I was outside the library.”
“Just below the balcony, then.”
I nodded in response to Officer Dobbs’s gruff observation. “Yes, I saw a light pass across the windows. . . .”
“Candlelight?” Jesse’s gaze flicked to the candelabrum he’d picked up from the floor and set on a side table.
“It must have been. It went out and a couple of moments later, the balcony door swung open.”
“What happened after that?”
Every instinct urged me to lie, to pretend I saw and heard nothing until poor Mr. Goddard hit the ground. I wanted to protect Brady, but if I lied and the truth came out, it might only make matters worse for him. I drew a breath. “I heard scuffling sounds, and someone said, ‘What? You.’ It was Mr. Goddard’s voice, I believe. And then he fell.” A shudder went through me at the memory.
“Did you see a second individual?”
“I couldn’t see anything beyond the balcony railing. It was too dark.”
“Were you alone at the time?”
“Yes.”
“What were you doing outside?”
I bristled at Officer Dobbs’s accusing tone, but Jesse gently patted my shoulder. “Just tell the truth.”
“I was . . .” I walked to the side of the bed, sank onto the edge, and let my head sag between my shoulders. The night had taken its toll on my nerves, my spirit, and my reserves of energy. I wished nothing more than to awaken from this horrendous dream, to run and tell dear Nanny O’Neal all about it, feel her supportive arm around my shoulders, and hear her calm, sweet voice suggest a cup of strong tea with a wee bit of brandy.
“It’s all right, Em,” Brady said very low, though the resignation in his voice announced that it was nowhere near to being all right. “You might as well go ahead and tell them.”
My head felt impossibly heavy as I raised my face and met Jesse’s sympathetic gaze. “I was outside trying to figure out which room Brady would enter, so I could warn him that I’d lost track of . . . of Uncle Cornelius.”
Dobbs narrowed his pouchy, bulldog eyes. “You mean your brother had persuaded you to help him.”
“Oh, Emmaline.” The admonishment rode the crest of a gusty sigh, and I felt the weight of Uncle Cornelius’s censure bearing down on my shoulders. “To become mixed up in your brother’s chicanery . . . I’d have expected better of you.”
“I’m sorry, Uncle,” I said quickly. “Brady assured me he wanted to make things right by returning what he’d taken. By helping him, I hoped to avoid trouble for everyone.”
That was partly true, though I admit my foremost concern had been Brady all along. I had always refused to give up on him, but now I was beginning to fear he’d betrayed me—tossed me in front of a proverbial speeding train.
“Let me get my facts straight.” Jesse moved away from me and began pacing back and forth across the priceless Persian rug. “Brady, yesterday you stole important documents from Mr. Vanderbilt—from the safe?”
Uncle Cornelius made an ominous rumbling sound as Brady nodded.
“You had the combination?”
Brady nodded again.
Jesse ticked that fact off on one finger and then held up a second. “Mr. Vanderbilt the younger,” he said with a nod at Neily, “discovered the theft and . . .”
“And I went searching for Brady this morning,” he supplied. “Including inquiring at Emmaline’s house. She claimed she didn’t know where Brady was at the time.”
I couldn’t look at him. “I’m sorry, Neily, but he is my brother.”
Jesse held up a third finger. “Brady told you what he’d done.”
“Not precisely. N-not specifically,” I stammered.
Jesse looked perplexed. “Can we safely assume he asked for your help in returning the documents tonight?”
I looked down at my feet. “I didn’t know what he’d taken, but yes.”
A fourth finger sprang up. “We know Brady entered this room sometime before midnight. You were holding the candelabrum?” he asked Brady, who nodded. “And then Alvin Goddard entered the room. Standing below, Emma heard a commotion. Someone who she believes was Mr. Goddard said, ‘What? You.’ Which suggests he recognized whoever was in the room with him.” A fifth and final finger ticked off the last in the series of events. “And then Mr. Goddard fell or was pushed to his death.”
“Wait,” I protested. “What about Brady being attacked? Someone obviously knocked him out before Mr. Goddard even arrived.”
“Or as I already said . . .” Officer Dobbs’s thick lip curled in another of his nasty sneers. “Your brother had been drinking. Even so, he managed to overcome Goddard, who caught him in the act of replacing the documents and threatened to expose him to Mr. Vanderbilt. Mr. Gale pushed Goddard over the railing, staggered back into the room, and promptly passed out from booze and the exertion of the struggle. Probably hit his head on the bedpost as he went down.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Coming to my feet, I went to stand behind Brady and set my hands on his shoulders in as much of a show of solidarity as my flagging hopes could muster. “My brother wouldn’t harm a fly, much less another human being.”
Officer Dobbs snorted. “Does your brother not overimbibe on a regular basis, Miss Cross?”
I scowled and looked away from him.
“And does he as often as not get into brawls when he’s been drinking?” Dobbs persisted.
Again, I didn’t wish to answer the question, but I didn’t need to. The knowledge was written on the faces of all present, even Brady’s, I’m quite sure, though I couldn’t see his expression.
“You’ll all need to be available for questioning in the morning,” Dobbs said. “Mr. Vanderbilt, once the officers downstairs have finished their inspection of the crime scene and have a list of all present here tonight, you can let your guests leave.” Triumph gleamed in Dobbs’s beady eyes. “We have our culprit.”
“No!” I shouted.
“Sorry, Miss Cross. It’s time you accepted the fact that your brother has always been a good-for-nothing—”
Jesse cut off his partner with a wave. “That’s enough.” Then his voice gentled. “Brady, do you have anything more to add? Anything in your defense?”
“Only . . . that I
don’t think I killed anyone, Jesse. I honestly don’t.”
“I’m sorry, Brady. I truly am. But I don’t see that I have any other choice.”
With a resigned nod, Brady stood. The word no shot from my mouth countless more times, but no one listened, not even Brady.
Officer Dobbs produced a pair of handcuffs. “Stuart Braden Gale, you are under arrest for the murder of Alvin Goddard. . . .”
My brain formed denials until I realized I was actually shouting the words. The officers began walking Brady out of the room, and Neily’s arms came around me, holding me still when I might have gone hurtling after my brother.
In the doorway, Brady stopped and turned partly around. “It’ll be all right, Em. I’ve done some rotten things in my life, but I didn’t do this. At least . . .” He paused, his brow furrowing, teeth catching at his bottom lip. “I don’t think I did. . . .”
His uncertainty cut through my horror, tugging my heartstrings while at the same time jolting me back to practical matters. “Make sure he’s seen by a doctor,” I called out. “Do you hear me, Jesse? My brother received a wound to the head. He needs a doctor.”
Jesse nodded, and then they were gone.
My eyes sprang open and I bolted upright. Several seconds passed before I remembered I was home in bed, and that the incessant roaring in my ears was only the tide against the promontory. As I sat shivering and clutching the sheets, the night’s horrors paraded through my brain. A vague sensation nagged that a detail of the utmost importance had invaded my dream and thrust me from sleep.
Though I’d have preferred to retreat back into quieter dreams and forget all that had happened, I forced myself to review the night as though examining pictures in a catalogue. The images were jumbled, indistinct, so I climbed out of bed and made my way in the dark to my desk. By the struggling light of a cloud-choked moon, I found a clean sheet of paper, uncorked my ink, and began writing at a furious pace. The voices, the struggle, the body . . . Brady on the floor, the fallen candelabrum, the bourbon . . .
Murder at the Breakers Page 4
