Murder at the Breakers

by Alyssa Maxwell

  I blinked. “Who is?”

  “We mustn’t let him take the train.”

  “Oh, uh . . .” I flicked a glance Aimes, half hoping for an explanation; he merely held his features politely steady. “No, sir, don’t you worry. We won’t let him take the train.”

  “Good . . . good.” Rupert reached out and touched a withered, fluttering finger to my cheek. “There’s a good girl. My Gloria’s going to take quite a shine to you. She’s upstairs in her sitting room. You go on up and introduce yourself.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Halstock. I will.”

  But first I watched the wealthy and powerful shipping magnate shuffle across the hall on the arm of his servant until they disappeared behind the crimson curtain. Only then did I turn to mount the staircase. Above me, at the half landing, Adelaide stood pale and trembling, one hand clutching the banister, the other poised at her throat.

  “Oh, God, Emma . . . what am I to do?”

  Chapter 5

  Upstairs, Adelaide led me across an open, rectangular hall into a room directly opposite the top landing. A fragrant, ocean-tinged breeze flowed through the open windows; the bright yellow walls, festive florals, delicate watercolors, and light, wicker furnishings marked this very much a lady’s day parlor. An embroidery frame sat tilted in front of an overstuffed chair, the needle stuck into the landscape design giving hint to what had occupied Adelaide before she’d heard the commotion in the hall below.

  Despite the cheerfulness of the scene, a heavy silence hung over us both. At first we stood, both obviously ill at ease and at a loss. Then Adelaide dragged her feet to a pretty little camelback sofa and patted the cushion beside her. When I settled next to her, she grasped my hands, her inner struggle evident in her tightening features.

  “Oh, Emma, he’d seemed so much better recently. I don’t know what could have caused this relapse.”

  “Maybe he’s just tired today,” I lamely offered, needing to say something.

  “Do you think it could be a result of the ball? The exertion and then . . . all that happened that night. It’s all Rupert could talk about yesterday. Oh, I never should have suggested we attend. It’s just that it had been so long since we’d socialized. . . .” She gave a little sniffle.

  “You mustn’t blame yourself, Adelaide. And, no, I don’t think the ball could have caused your husband to fall ill again. I know what happened was a terrible shock to everyone, but Mr. Halstock wasn’t directly involved. I doubt it caused him the kind of emotional pain that could make a person ill.”

  “You really believe it isn’t my fault?”

  “Be assured on that account.”

  She sank back against the cushions. “He doesn’t recognize me when he gets this way. That’s why I didn’t come down . . . in case you were wondering. It only would have upset him more.”

  “Oh . . . no, I wasn’t wondering about that.” And yet, it did seem strange that she hadn’t come rushing down at the first sign of her husband’s distress. Then again, he’d spoken of his first wife as though she were still alive. I could only imagine how distressing that was for Adelaide.

  “I’m sorry you had to witness that scene.”

  Here I felt a wave of remorse. “I shouldn’t have stopped by without sending ahead first. It’s just that you don’t have a telephone or I would have called.”

  “Rupert doesn’t like telephones.” Adelaide smiled fondly at what she must have considered her husband’s eccentricity.

  “I saw the Manuels as I arrived,” I said to take her mind off more gloomy matters. “You’re not returning to New York already, are you?”

  A light blush stained her cheeks, but she shook her head. “Manhattan in August? Goodness no. We’re just easing some of our clutter here, moving things from one house to the other.”

  “I see. Do you miss it, though? The city, I mean.”

  “I don’t know.” Turning her head to stare out the window at the swaying branches of a lush maple, she considered. “It’s exciting and Lord knows, there is no end of amusements in New York. But I must confess that Newport is home. It always will be, I suppose.”

  I grinned. “You can take the girl off the island . . .”

  “But you never take the island out of the girl. So very true.” Her smile faded. “But here I am running on about my own troubles, when you must be beside yourself about Brady. How is he, Emma? You know I don’t believe a word about his guilt.”

  “Thank you, Adelaide.” I meant it. Her words warmed me and very nearly sent a tear trickling from the corner of my eye. I quickly blinked it away and seized the opportunity she’d provided me with. “Since you brought it up . . . I’ve been wondering, Adelaide, if you might have heard any rumors or indication that someone wished harm on Alvin Goddard.”

  “Me?” Her eyes filled with surprise; her hand rose to her bosom.

  “Yes, someone he might have been doing business with. Surely a woman in your social position hears all sorts of things.”

  “Well, that is true.” She plucked at the corner of an embroidered sofa pillow. “But Mr. Goddard worked solely for your uncle. Most of his business dealings were through Mr. Vanderbilt.” She tapped a finger against her chin. “Of course, there is . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I really don’t like to say. And it’s more of a personal matter than business.” She twisted the ring on her middle finger, a diamond the size of a marble.

  “I promise anything you tell me will stay between us.” I didn’t stop to ponder the truth of that statement, but encouraged her with a pat to her forearm.

  “Well . . . it has to do with your cousin Neily. And that woman.”

  “You mean Grace Wilson?”

  “The very same. Did you know your aunt and uncle gravely disapprove of their association?”

  “Aunt Alice did mention something about it, yes. But exactly what are you suggesting? What did Neily and Grace Wilson have to do with Mr. Goddard?”

  Adelaide shot a sideways glance at the doorway and lowered her voice. “I overheard Rupert and Cornelius talking one night a couple of months ago. They were in Rupert’s smoking room in our Fifth Avenue house, and while, of course, I’d never dream of eavesdropping, I happened to be walking by and . . .”

  Her hesitation spurred my impatience, as well as a sudden memory: During the ball, I’d lost track of Neily. Even after Alvin Goddard fell and I went looking for help, Neily was nowhere to be seen in the ballroom. Why hadn’t he been in the center of the room with his family, toasting his sister? Then, as everyone had paraded into the dining room, Neily had come up behind me, from which direction I couldn’t say. Where had he been . . . ?

  “Please, go on,” I urged her. “This is important. What did your husband and my uncle say about Neily?”

  “Well, they were discussing how Neily had met Miss Wilson in Paris last year, and how he seemed to be utterly infatuated with her. Your aunt is certain the woman is a fortune seeker, so your uncle gave Alvin Goddard the task of having Neily followed, to determine just how involved the two of them had become.”

  I frowned. “But that doesn’t make sense. Mr. Goddard was my uncle’s financial secretary. Why would he be charged with a task like that?”

  Adelaide laid a hand against my cheek. “Oh, my dear Emma, how naïve you are despite your illustrious connections. Mr. Goddard was a wizard at financial matters. Do you believe his talents were merely due to his business acumen? Or simple luck?” She shook her head, a knowing gleam entering her eyes. “Such men must be versed in all manner of espionage.”

  “Espionage! Adelaide, you must be reading detective novels.”

  “Not at all. A man like Mr. Goddard must know what is going to happen in financial matters well before they happen, in order to circumvent disasters before they take hold. Such a man has connections everywhere, even in the darkest corners where most people wouldn’t dare tread.”

  “Are you saying . . .” I paused, thinking about the man who had subtly and unsucces
sfully attempted to court me, and the distaste I’d felt in response. “. . . that Alvin Goddard was dishonest?”

  Adelaide smiled sweetly and shook her head. “Emma, darling, in our world, the distinction between an honest businessman and a dishonest one is exceedingly scant, and rarely discussed.”

  “In your world, maybe,” I murmured. But this revelation certainly put an entirely new spin on events. If Alvin Goddard had been less than forthright in his dealings, he might have angered any number of businessmen, both associates and rivals.

  Where did that leave Uncle Cornelius? We had been discussing Neily, though, and for now I returned our focus to that subject. “So Mr. Goddard used his resources to spy on Neily?”

  “That’s what I gathered.”

  “I wonder if Neily knew? And if he did . . .”

  “He’d have been furious, no doubt.” Adelaide raised a perfect, golden eyebrow. “Not to mention eager to prevent Mr. Goddard from revealing his findings to his parents.”

  “But to suggest he might have . . .” A chill washed through me, and even as I denied the possibility of Neily having killed anyone, I asked myself again: Where had he disappeared to during the ball?

  “Emma, do forgive my manners. I’ll ring to have some lunch brought up.”

  The thought of food only tightened the knots already forming in my stomach. My thoughts raced and the faces of potential suspects flashed dizzily in my mind. Theodore Mason . . . Neily . . . Brady . . . and everyone with whom Alvin Goddard had ever conducted business with, for, or against. Except, of course, it had to have been someone in Newport who had access to The Breakers two nights ago.

  I came to my feet. “I’m sorry, Adelaide, but not today. You’ve given me lots to think about. And there’s something I need to do.”

  I was going to confront Neily, simply tell him what I’d learned and ask him point-blank if he’d known Alvin Goddard had had him followed. And then I was going to ask him where he’d been when Mr. Goddard died. I didn’t believe Neily was guilty, but the questions needed to be asked, and I believed that after nearly a lifetime of knowing him I’d be able to sense if he was lying.

  I turned my buggy onto Bellevue Avenue, but came to an immediate stop. Between the two entrances of the Halstocks’ circular drive stood a man with his feet braced well apart and his square chin raised so he could see over the shrubbery-lined iron fence that bordered the property. The sight of that strong profile sent my pulse for a lurch. I eased Barney forward until the carriage came even with the individual. He turned around to face me.

  “Good afternoon.”

  “Who are you?” I demanded.

  He was tall and well-formed, broad at the shoulders, with a torso that narrowed to a trim waist and hips. His hair was a trifle on the longish side, midnight dark, and curling slightly at the ends. His equally dark eyes bored into me. “I’m sorry?”

  “You heard me,” I snapped at him from my perch. I studied him a moment, intrigued by his handsome features, his masculine air. “Who are you and why have you been following me?”

  He removed his hat and bobbed an elegant little bow. “I wasn’t aware that I had been. I’m merely a summer tourist enjoying the sight of Newport’s cottages, as they call them.”

  “No, you aren’t. I saw you at the police station yesterday, heard you asking questions, and when I left, you followed me to Spring Street.” At my angry tone, Barney stamped and twitched. I adjusted the reins and leaned down closer to the man, then wished I hadn’t when he flashed me a smile—a charming one that made my breath hitch. With an effort, I held on to my frown. “Are you a reporter? A detective? An opportunist? What?”

  His smile never slipping, he bobbed his head again. “All right, you have me. You guessed right the first time. I’m Derrick Anderson, reporter with the Providence Sun.”

  “And?”

  “And I’m here doing an article on America’s wealthy industrialists and most powerful men. Rupert Halstock is one of those men. So you see, I wasn’t following you. Merely seeing the man’s house for myself.”

  “What about yesterday? Do you deny following me from the police station?”

  A twinge of fear had me bracing when he moved toward me, but he kept going until he stood beside Barney’s head. Reaching up, he scratched behind Barney’s ears, just where the gelding liked to be rubbed. “I’ll admit I was rather curious about you yesterday. If you’ll remember correctly, it was you who stopped to listen to my conversation with Officer Whyte. Don’t deny it; I caught you staring.”

  “I . . .” Oh, dear, that was right. I did, and he had. But . . . “You were asking questions about my brother’s case.”

  A mistake. His eyes flashed at the information I’d just given him; until that moment, he hadn’t known my identity.

  “You’re Emmaline Cross, then.”

  “It’s Emma,” I said automatically, impulsively. Another mistake, but somehow the man had undermined my composure.

  “Glad to make your acquaintance, Emma. You can call me Derrick.”

  “Certainly not. And you may call me Miss Cross.” I lifted the reins to move on, but Mr. Anderson held on to Barney’s harness.

  “I don’t suppose you’d answer a couple of questions about the Halstocks? For my article. It’s obvious you’re a friend of theirs.”

  “I’m a friend of Mrs. Halstock’s.” I considered a sharp flap of the reins against this man’s knuckles and moving on, but a protective instinct toward my childhood friend raised my curiosity and prompted me to ask, “What kinds of questions?”

  “Well, for instance, it’s common knowledge Rupert Halstock hasn’t been well in recent months. How is that affecting Halstock Industries? And how is his young wife coping with the stress of his illness?”

  I hesitated, pondering Mr. Derrick Anderson of the Providence Sun. He had the cockiness one would expect of a reporter. Yet, there was a deeper confidence that bordered on cavalier, along with an elegance that simply didn’t fit. His manner left me unsettled, suspicious. And not a little fascinated.

  I raised my nose in the air. “Please unhand my horse, Mr. Anderson. I must be moving on.”

  With a chuckle that angered me for no good reason, he stepped back onto the sidewalk. “Have a pleasant afternoon, Miss Cross.”

  “Good day to you, sir.”

  I was still thinking about Mr. Anderson when I arrived at The Breakers a few minutes later. Uncle Cornelius, I was told, was in his office with his lawyer, newly arrived from New York. Bateman escorted me upstairs to the loggia, where I found Aunt Alice tucked against the pillows of a chaise lounge, staring out at the bright blue vista of sky and sea beyond the property. Below her on the wide sweep of the rear lawns, her youngest daughter, Gladys, frolicked with her governess and a furry, caramel-colored dog that resembled a tiny fox. Its piercing yips blended jarringly with Gladys’s and the governess’s shrieks of laughter as they ran about in circles and took turns tossing a ball to the animal.

  Aunt Alice snapped from her reverie at the sound of my step. She smiled, seeming happy to see me, and invited me to pull up a chair close beside her. “Good of you to call, Emmaline. I’m sorry we weren’t at home yesterday. You understand. Did you find your . . . What was it you were looking for?”

  “My earring. And, yes,” I lied with a stab of guilt, “I found it on the seat of my buggy.”

  “I’m happy to hear it. Fancy driving yourself around as you do, though,” she said half fondly, half in censure. “I’m not sure it’s at all proper, dear.”

  The last thing I wanted was to remind her that neither my annuity from Aunt Sadie nor my wages from the Newport Observer allowed me to hire a driver. If I’d mentioned anything of the sort, she’d have hired me a fellow by sundown, and my illustrious relatives did enough for me already.

  I told her the simple truth. “I enjoy driving myself, Aunt Alice. I like the independence.”

  She cast me a shrewd look. “You see, right there. That’s why you have no serious sui
tors. If you’d just let me throw you a coming-out party—”

  I help up a hand. “Thank you, Aunt Alice, truly. But again, I like my independence.”

  “Really, Emmaline, you can’t stay single forever.”

  Couldn’t I? Aunt Sadie had, with nary a regret. Aloud, I said, “Well, after the other night, I believe we’ve all had enough of coming-out parties for a good long time.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” She sighed. “Poor Gertrude.”

  Poor Gertrude? What about poor Mr. Goddard? His death might have cast a shadow over the evening, perhaps even over the summer Season, but Gertrude would live on to marry—gloriously, I was sure—have children, and grow old. Mr. Goddard, on the other hand . . .

  Wanting to divert Aunt Alice from thoughts of marriage, I almost mentioned that Jesse Whyte would be coming out to inspect the dent in the door frame of the balcony, but I thought better of it. The less my Vanderbilt relatives knew of my involvement in the murder investigation, the better. They’d never approve, and with a telephone call or two they would see to it I didn’t learn another thing about that awful night.

  At that moment Gladys looked up, waved, and called out a hello. I waved back, at the same time casually asking, “By the way, is Neily at home?”

  “I haven’t seen him since yesterday afternoon.” Aunt Alice scowled in that way she had, a gesture that could send servants scurrying and lesser mortals cowering in corners.

  “Didn’t he have dinner with you at the country club?”

  “No, though he was supposed to. We spent the afternoon at the Casino. Neily played several rounds of tennis with John Astor, and then the two of them left, supposedly to freshen up and join us for dinner. John arrived later with his wife, but that was the last we saw of Neily.”

  “Aren’t you worried?”

  “He’ll turn up. He always does.” She smiled as, below, Gladys coaxed her little dog to dance several jerky steps on its hind legs. “Do you want to leave a message for him?”