Murder at the Breakers

by Alyssa Maxwell

  Barney achieved a brisk trot along Ocean Avenue, and when we reached the end of my drive I practically jumped down from the buggy before it had rolled to a stop. I raced inside and headed straight for the telephone.

  “Gayla,” I brusquely greeted the operator when she came on the line, “connect me with the Atlantic House Hotel. Please.”

  “Sounds like an emergency,” she said with no particular urgency. I distinctly heard the sound of chewing over the wire. “Everything all right, Emma?”

  “Yes, Gayla, everything’s fine.”

  “Ooh, are you booking a room for your parents? Are they in town?”

  “No, Gayla, they’re not. Please, I just need you to—”

  “Don’t get your knickers in a knot, dearie. The Atlantic House coming right up.”

  The concierge picked up after a few crackles and shouted in my ear. “Atlantic House Hotel. How may I help you?”

  I whisked the ear trumpet away from my head before speaking much more quietly than he had and hoping he got the message that one didn’t need to shout for one’s voice to carry over the distance. “Is Mr. Derrick Anderson in, please?”

  More crackles and pops, a buzzing sound, and then the concierge came back on the line. “Mr. Anderson does not appear to be in the hotel at present, ma’am. I don’t see his key here.” I once more had to jerk my head away from the earpiece. “May I take a message?”

  “Um . . . yes. When he comes in, please tell him . . .” I paused, wondering how best to phrase the message without creating a scandal. For all I knew, Gayla and a dozen other people between here and town might be listening in. “Please tell him the, ah, luncheon is being held on the Point today, at the blue saltbox.”

  The concierge repeated the message back, his puzzlement evident in his tone. He certainly wasn’t going to get an explanation from me. We disconnected and I cranked the call box again. “Gayla, it’s Emma again. Would you please connect me to the police station?”

  “Checking on Brady, are you?”

  “Yes, Gayla. Just seeing if I can visit today.”

  “Well, if you do, tell him I send my best.”

  I tapped my foot in impatience. “I will, Gayla. Thanks.”

  “Hold on while I connect you.”

  “Newport police,” a gruff voice answered next.

  “Hello, this is Emma Cross. May I speak to Officer Whyte?”

  “He’s not here. You wanna leave a message?”

  Before I could reply, footsteps thumped down the staircase over my head. I peeked around the alcove to see Nanny descend into the hallway. When she caught sight of me, an animated expression claimed her features and she began waving both hands at me.

  “Is there a message?” the officer on the line repeated tersely.

  “Emma!” Nanny’s whisper carried through the hallway. “I’ve been waiting for you.” I held a finger to my lips, but that didn’t deter her. “I’ve got news you’ll want to hear. You won’t believe it.”

  “Miss?” the officer barked in my ear.

  “Er, no. No message, thank you.”

  The line clicked off, leaving a buzzing in my ear. I replaced the trumpet in its cradle as Nanny reached me. She grasped my elbow and spun me about to face her.

  “Nanny, what on earth is wrong?”

  “Come into the parlor.” She seized my hand to pull me across the hall and through the doorway into the front parlor. Once there, she practically tossed me onto the sofa and then plunked down beside me, her hefty frame sending up a hiss from the down-stuffed cushions. “I found something out today and you need to hear it.”

  She was frightening me, but I said, “Go on.”

  “You know my friend Ruth, who works for Mrs. Astor . . .”

  When Nanny paused, I nodded to indicate that yes, I knew Ruth. She was the housekeeper at the Beechwood estate.

  “Well, Ruth was talking to Connie Lewis . . .”

  When she paused again, I supplied, “Mrs. Stuyvesant Fish’s head maid, right?”

  “That’s right. Well, Connie heard from Edith Wetmore’s under butler that—”

  “Nanny, please!”

  “I’m getting to it,” she said with wounded dignity. “I just wanted to relay my sources so you knew there was some credibility to the story.”

  I bit back a sigh. “Sorry. Please go on.”

  “The Wetmores’ under butler has a brother who works for Mrs. Arnold Rockport in Providence. . . .”

  “Rockport . . . Why do I know that name?” A memory nudged. I’d heard the name recently, I was sure of it.

  Nanny smiled. She was obviously enjoying this. “Probably because she’s Rupert Halstock’s sister.”

  “Suzanne!” I exclaimed. “His sister in Providence. The one who refuses to acknowledge Adelaide.”

  “That’s right. And the Wetmores’ under butler’s brother—he’s a footman in her home—overheard some very interesting news. Seems Suzanne Rockport is so worried about her brother’s health, she’s hired a private detective to investigate that friend of yours.”

  “Yes, I know Adelaide’s being investigated. Although I didn’t know it was Mr. Halstock’s sister who hired Der—er, the detective.”

  If I expected Nanny’s enthusiasm to wane, she proved me thoroughly wrong. She puffed up like a pheasant in springtime. “I’ll bet you didn’t know this: Mrs. Rockport suspects Adelaide of intentionally making her husband ill so she can inherit his money.”

  “What? No, Nanny, that’s not right. Mrs. Rockport suspects Adelaide of having an affair and wants to expose her to her husband. You know the Halstock family doesn’t approve of the marriage.”

  “But don’t you see, the affair itself might be what’s making Rupert Halstock so ill,” Nanny insisted. She used a forefinger to adjust her spectacles. “I’ll bet you anything she’s been leaving hints so he’d know and make himself sick with jealousy.”

  “That’s ridiculous. What kind of plan would that be? Why, if Rupert Halstock knew his wife was having an affair, he’d simply divorce her.” I didn’t add that Adelaide suspected him of wanting to do so before the affair ever started. Nanny opened her mouth to protest, but I didn’t give her a chance. “What’s more,” I said firmly, “I’ve been with Adelaide during one of her husband’s bad days. She was utterly distraught.”

  “Hmm, I’ll bet she was,” Nanny murmured under her breath.

  “And who can blame her for having an affair—if she even is,” I added. After all, as Derrick had pointed out, we still didn’t know for certain the nature of Adelaide’s connection to Jack. Perhaps she’d only gone to him for comfort or . . . who knew.

  Did I believe that? Not really. But I wasn’t about to add fruit to the servants’ gossip vine. I leaned to wrap a hand around Nanny’s wrist and gently said, “If she is having an affair, who are we to judge? She’s married to an old man, and no one in society, including his own family, will acknowledge her beyond the coldest of civilities.”

  Nanny’s jaw squared. “She made her bed . . .”

  With an earnest promise to Barney that when this was all over he’d enjoy a nice long vacation and a hefty sack of his favorite oats, I climbed back into my buggy. I’d left Nanny with explicit instructions on what to tell Derrick if he called, and to try the police station every ten minutes or so in hopes of reaching Jesse.

  I headed back to Lakeview Avenue, hoping to find Jack at home, hoping I was completely wrong in my assumptions. Yes, I knew Derrick had told me to stay away from Jack; but first of all, it was broad daylight and Mr. Mason along with the other domestic staff would be at the house. Secondly, it was possible that nothing more menacing than the recollection of a previous appointment had been what sent Jack racing helter-skelter from The Breakers. In the meantime, I hoped Derrick and Jesse would receive my messages.

  Turning from Ocean Avenue onto Bellevue, Nanny’s revelation about the Halstocks crept into my thoughts. I’d pooh-poohed the story, but now I wondered . . . Of course it came as no sur
prise that the family believed Adelaide might be cuckolding her husband; Derrick had confided as much. He had neglected to add, however, that the accusations didn’t stop there. Did Suzanne Rockport truly suspect Adelaide of intentionally making Rupert ill through infidelity? Was such a thing even possible?

  What motive could Adelaide have? If her affair—if it was an affair—came to light, I felt certain Rupert would manage to divorce her well before the stress sent him to meet his maker. And with Adelaide at fault, she’d receive next to nothing in the proceedings.

  No, it simply didn’t make sense.

  But it did bring me to another delay in pursuing Jack. If he did have something to hide, I needed to warn Adelaide.

  When her butler opened the door, I stormed in. “I need to see Mrs. Halstock immediately.”

  The man blinked and stuttered in response, but stopped when Adelaide’s face appeared in the curtained alcove that led to a more private region of the house.

  “Emma? I’m right here, dear. What is it?” She came toward me with both hands extended and gripped mine warmly, strongly.

  “We need to talk, Adelaide. I don’t have long, but—”

  She shushed me softly. “Come, we’ll talk inside.”

  Leading me back through the crimson velvet curtain, we entered a large, sunny room situated with an informal table and chairs, sideboard, and hutch. The morning room.

  The remnants of a solitary meal sat on the table beside a letter Adelaide had apparently been writing; a couple of platters occupied the sideboard. “Shall I ring for another plate?” she asked as she bade me take a seat. She moved to the corner and hovered beside the bell pull.

  I shook my head. “No, thank you, there isn’t time. I need to tell you something. Something that will no doubt shock you.”

  “My dear, what is it? My goodness, you’re in quite a state, aren’t you?” Sitting in the seat beside my own, she leaned to press her palm to my cheek. “You look pale. Are you ill?”

  “No, Adelaide, please listen. It’s about Jack.” I’d lowered my voice as I made that second statement. Her eyes widened and her hand fell to the table. “It’s all right,” I assured her quickly. “I’m not here to judge and I couldn’t give a fig what the Halstocks or anyone else thinks about you. But Jack . . . he’s . . . or . . . he might be . . .”

  Adelaide sat stiffly, her head making little side-to-side jerky motions, as if she already knew what I might say but didn’t wish to hear it. But she couldn’t know, could she? I’d shocked her badly by blurting Jack’s name, but I hadn’t time for niceties. I looked away to give her a moment to collect herself and my eyes fell on the half-written letter across the table. The stationary bore Adelaide’s initials across the top in bold, swooping letters. Something about the monogram seized my attention for a fraction of an instant, before I shook it away as irrelevant.

  Drawing a deep breath, I turned back to my friend and covered her hand with my own. “Adelaide, I have reason to believe Jack might be the man I’ve been looking for.” Good heavens, even now I found it almost impossible to speak the truth aloud. But what other choice did I have if I wanted to keep my friend safe? I steeled my resolve and gave her fingers a squeeze. “I think Jack Parsons might have murdered Alvin Goddard.”

  Her gasp pierced me through. She whisked her hand out from beneath mine and lurched to her feet. Her knees hit the back of her chair, sending it toppling with a bang that further rattled my nerves.

  She stared wildly back at me. “How can you say such a thing?”

  I came to my feet. “Adelaide, please listen to me. You know I’d never accuse an old family friend lightly. It’s not easy to explain, but I arrived at The Breakers today just as Jack sped away from the property and . . . do you remember the hidey hole Neily made in the playhouse floor, where we used to secret all manner of things?”

  Her expression clouded, became confused. “I don’t think I do. . . .”

  “Well, never mind. Just please promise me you’ll stay away from Jack for now, until I say otherwise. Promise me, Adelaide.”

  “Yes.” She nodded, that vague, confused look persisting, almost as if she’d gone into some kind of trance. One of shock, of course. “I’ll wait till I hear from you, but . . .” Her lovely eyes cleared. “Emma, I know you’re wrong.”

  “I hope so.” I turned and walked toward the doorway.

  She called me back. “Emma.”

  “Yes?”

  “I . . .” She looked down at the floor. “Please understand. Jack and I . . .”

  I returned to her long enough to set a hand on her shoulder. “I told you, I’m not here to judge.”

  Some three or four minutes later, I turned onto Jack’s rented property. Even before I approached the front door I could sense the emptiness of the house, the utter lack of life inside. An eerie sense of abandonment crept over me, sending goose bumps down my back.

  I tapped the knocker twice against its brass plate. Moments later the door opened and a maid leaned out. “Yes?”

  “I’m Emma Cross, here to see Mr. Parsons. Is he at home?”

  Her answer didn’t surprise me, however much I’d hoped for another. “No, ma’am. He left about ten minutes ago and I’m afraid I don’t know when he’s expected back.”

  Ten minutes. I wanted to berate myself for wasting precious time in coming after him.

  “Did you happen to notice if he was carrying . . .” How could I ask if I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for? “A package of any sort?”

  “A package? No, ma’am. Odd, though. He was carrying a valise but didn’t say if he’d be home tonight or not.”

  I just managed not to gasp. He’d rushed home for something to put the murder weapon in.

  “Thank you.” I turned to go, but something occurred to me. “Excuse me another moment.” I gripped the edge of the door before she could close it. “But why are you opening the door? Isn’t Mr. Mason here?”

  “No, ma’am, he’s not here either. He left with Mr. Parsons.”

  Once more she started to close the door, and once more I stopped her. “Is there a telephone in the house?”

  “Why, yes, ma’am, two. One in the kitchen and one upstairs.”

  “May I use the one in the kitchen, please? It’s an emergency.”

  She hesitated only long enough to peruse me up and down, conclude that I appeared neither insane nor dangerous, and gestured me inside with a curtsy. “It’s this way, ma’am,” she said, leading me across the entry hall and down a corridor that led to the back of the house.

  Moments later, Gayla, disgruntled that I cut her pleasantries abruptly short, connected me with the police station. Upon being told yet again that Jesse wasn’t in, I gritted my teeth and admitted I no longer had any other choice.

  “May I speak to Officer Dobbs, then?”

  “Hold on.” I heard the rub of a palm being held to the mouthpiece and then a shout of, “Hey, Tony. There’s a dame here wants to talk to you.”

  “Yeah,” a gruff voice said next.

  I steeled myself to continue. Unlike Jesse Whyte, Officer Anthony Dobbs was no friend of mine or of Brady’s. I shuddered to count how many times Dobbs had taken discreet slaps and punches at my brother when Brady had been apprehended for drunken and disorderly conduct, and I couldn’t help but remember how eager Dobbs had been to condemn Brady for Alvin Goddard’s murder.

  But Anthony Dobbs knew who I was, and more importantly who my relatives were, and he didn’t dare snub me. Besides, I reminded myself, as hardheaded and arrogant as he might be, he had a reputation for being an honest if rough-hewn policeman.

  “Officer Dobbs,” I said decisively, “this is Emma Cross. I have good reason to believe Alvin Goddard’s murderer is on his way to the Point. He’s probably there already, as a matter of fact, and I need you and your men to apprehend him.”

  “Now, Miss Cross . . .” I heard a barely restrained chuckle. “You know good and well where Alvin Goddard’s murderer is, and it’s n
ot on the Point. He’s in a cell in this very building.”

  I tightened my grip on the ear trumpet and wrapped my other hand around the mouthpiece for good measure. “You listen to me, Tony Dobbs. You’ve had it in for my brother for years, but even a bully like you can’t want to send an innocent man to the gallows. Now, I have reason to believe Jack Parsons retrieved the murder weapon from The Breakers less than twenty minutes ago. He owns a small house on Third Street between Poplar and Walnut, a blue clapboard saltbox, and I believe that’s where he was headed. It’s where I’m headed now, and where I dearly hope you’ll be headed in the next few minutes.”

  His words of protest died as I closed the call.

  Vehicles clogged Third Street when I arrived, and a warning gripped my nape. Police mounts and wagons lined the street, forcing me to leave Barney and the buggy half in the middle of the road. I jumped down to the ground and proceeded on foot. That warning pinched at the sight of several officers striding in and out of Jack’s open front door.

  Good heavens, had they apprehended him so quickly? Had I been right?

  I was almost to the front step when a hand seized my arm from behind. “Emma. Don’t go in there.”

  I turned to see Derrick Anderson’s dark eyes filled with concern . . . and something more. “Did Jack put up a huge fuss? Did they have to restrain him?”

  That something more defined itself as regret and reluctance as Derrick slowly shook his head. “We all arrived too late. . . .”

  “So you got my message.”

  He nodded, but repeated, “Too late, I’m afraid.”

  “I don’t understand.” I tried to tug free. “I want to go inside, Derrick. I have a right to confront him after what he’s done. Brady . . . Mr. Goddard . . .”

  He wouldn’t release me, his hold stubbornly firm. Then he drew me closer. “He’s gone, Emma.” Seeing my puzzlement, he clarified his meaning. “He’d dead. When I arrived, the door was ajar and Jack Parsons lay dead on his parlor floor, a bullet through his chest.”