Agatha Wagstaff now had no heirs.
CHAPTER
60
Monday was usually Mickey’s day off, a welcome respite following the hectic weekends. After the Vickerses’ clambake Saturday night and the wedding at the Eisenhower House yesterday, he wished he could sleep until noon. But he had set his alarm for 7:00, determined to catch up with his bookkeeping.
Though the business was doing amazingly well and he could easily afford an accountant to do the work for him, Mickey didn’t trust anyone with his financials. He knew how easy it was to lie and cheat.
Mickey rolled over in bed, pleased with how far he had come. The boy raised by middle-class parents in Newport’s Fifth Ward had made it much further, on the economic scale at least, than his parents ever had. When his mother had wrung her hands in despair over his grades at Rogers High School, Mickey had ignored her pleas. He didn’t want to go to college anyway. Those were four wasted years as far as Mickey was concerned. He wanted to get out in the world and make money.
It hadn’t turned out to be as easy as he had thought it would be, though. The world hadn’t exactly welcomed him with open arms. Mickey quickly discovered how hard it was to make a buck, especially with no college degree. But he was stubborn and full of pride. He wouldn’t admit that his parents had been right. He was going to show them and everyone else that Mickey Hager was somebody to be reckoned with.
And he had. His house was bigger, his cars were newer, his bank accounts were fatter than his parents’ had ever been. Seasons Clambakes was making money hand over fist, and the deluxe catering business that had spun off was thriving as well. Mickey thought with satisfaction of the job that was coming up on Wednesday, the formal charity affair at The Elms. Everyone who was anyone in Newport would be there to see what his company could do. After that shindig, Mickey was certain the sky would be the limit for his catering business.
His hand fumbled for the remote control on the nightstand. Mickey pointed and clicked at the plasma TV built into the wall across from his bed. The tape of Madeleine Sloane’s face appeared, large and clear, and spoke from the big screen. “If the police had found my mother early on, there might have been more clues for them to work with to find the real killer. But I’ll tell you one thing. My father didn’t kill my mother. I’m sure he didn’t.”
Mickey listened as the KTA cohosts speculated on possible connections between the deaths of the society mother and daughter. What did it matter, all this time later, who killed Charlotte Sloane? All Mickey knew was that it was a blessing Charlotte had disappeared right after she caught him ripping off the country club, before she had a chance to blow the whistle on his scheme. The money that he had embezzled from those pompous snobs had been the seed money for Seasons Clambakes.
CHAPTER
61
Grace watched on a monitor as Caridad Vega delivered the national weather report from the studio in New York. In the downtime in Newport, Constance’s hair and makeup were retouched and Harry played a quick makeshift stickball game with crew members. Batting a rubber ball with a truncated boom mike pole relieved some of the tension. The first hour of the summer vacation show had been anything but light and carefree.
“We’ve had enough blood and guts in the last hour,” Linus called across the lawn. “Now we’ll leave ’em on a happier note.”
The cohosts got into position again, taking off the sunglasses they had donned during the break. The floor manager signaled to begin, and Harry did the honors, teasing to the segment that would appear after the commercial break.
“Coming up, a tour of The Breakers. We’ll show you the opulence and the glory of Newport’s most famous Gilded Age mansion.”
The camera followed Constance and Professor Cox as they strolled through the lofty arches of the Great Hall. The Vanderbilts’ oak leaf and acorn motif appeared again and again on the plaques of rare Italian marble. A freestanding bronze candelabra hung from the breathtakingly high ceiling, a ceiling painted to represent the view an open courtyard would have afforded—a blue sky. At the back of the room, glass walls opened out to a mosaic-roofed loggia pulling the eye onward to the ocean.
They and the audience at home toured the Music Room, the Morning Room, the Billiard Room, the Breakfast Room, and spent extra time in the Dining Room, the most imposing and richly embellished room in the house. Two stories high, with a dozen enormous red-and-cream-rose alabaster columns. The vaulted ceiling was carved, painted, and gilded, rising in stages to an elaborately framed oil-on-canvas painting of Aurora, goddess of dawn, on the ceiling. Two towering Baccarat chandeliers, each composed of thousands of crystal balls and beads, hung above the sixteenth-century-style oak and lemonwood table.
“This table could be extended to seat thirty-four guests,” Gordon said.
“My goodness,” said Constance, looking up and around.
“What a domestic staff they needed to run this place. I can’t imagine having to clean those chandeliers alone.”
“Shall we go upstairs and see the bedrooms?” Gordon offered.
“Yes. Let’s.”
A broad grand staircase with an ornately detailed bronze and wrought-iron railing swept up to the second floor. As cohost and professor climbed the red-carpeted marble steps, Constance asked, “How did they heat this place? It must have cost a fortune.”
The professor smiled, pleased to display his knowledge. “Well, since the Vanderbilts were primarily here during the summer season, that helped. But an enormous heating plant beneath the caretaker’s cottage was joined to the basement of the house by a tunnel. Several hundred tons of coal could be stored at once in the underground boiler room.”
CHAPTER
62
His head throbbed with a pain worse than any he had ever felt. Sam used every bit of strength he had to open his eyelids. But after all the effort, there was only blackness. Was he blind?
The floor beneath his body was cool and damp, and the smell was musty. His reeling brain tried, in vain, to bring order to the chaotic input from his senses. Where was he? What had happened?
No answers came to him as he slipped back into unconsciousness.
CHAPTER
63
Elsa switched off the television set and pulled her silk robe closer around her body. Watching the news had been a mistake. It just made her feel worse.
Skipping her morning walk had also been a mistake. She should have gotten out and walked along the seaside, looking for her glorious birds. The combination of ocean air, exercise, and her feathered darlings always made her feel better.
But there was no way she was going to leave this house this morning, not when Oliver had finally come to her bed.
He slept upstairs now, finally, after a night of thrashing and sighing and choked weeping over his daughter’s death. It was not the way she would have wanted things, but Elsa would take Oliver any way she could get him. If he had to come to her for comfort in his anguish, it was still better than not having him come to her at all.
She went to the kitchen, sliced an orange in half, twisted it over the juicer, and poured the nectar into a small glass. While the oatmeal cooked on the stovetop, Elsa washed some fat blueberries and chopped some walnuts to sprinkle on top. A good nutritious breakfast would make her broken lover feel better.
That was her job now. To help Oliver through this horrible loss. To make him whole again. To make Oliver see that life was still worth living.
With her.
Balancing the breakfast tray on her hip, Elsa opened the door to her bedroom, trying not to make any noise. But inside, there was no one to rouse. Her bed was empty, a mess of crumbled sheets.
She could hear water running in the bathroom. Elsa knocked softly on the closed door. “Oliver, dear, I’ve made you some breakfast.”
He emerged, eyes bloodshot, hair disheveled. Her tortured prince, embattled by his raging demons.
“I couldn’t eat a thing.”
“You must, dearest,” Elsa urged.
“The days ahead won’t be easy. You have to keep up your strength.”
“What strength, Elsa?” Oliver sighed. “I have no strength left, no reason to go on now.”
Elsa winced within, stung by the slight to her. But eventually and ever so slowly, time would heal this wound.
“Parents lose children and carry on, Oliver,” she said softly.
He turned on her and fairly spat with contempt. “Spoken as only someone who has never had children could.”
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All in all, Linus was pleased with their first broadcast. They had survived Sam’s no-show, and thanks to that other intern’s quick thinking, they’d been able to sub in Professor Cox to talk about Madeleine’s last night. He prayed the audience wasn’t any the wiser.
Linus still seethed at the thought of Sam, though. That damn kid, if he showed up, could kiss his career with KEY News goodbye. To think that, just last night, he had been ready to give Sam the staff job.
Feeling the sun’s rays strengthening, the executive producer twisted the cap on the bottled water and took a long swig. He wiped the beads of perspiration from his brow with his forearm and looked around the lawn.
There she was, gathering the cohosts’ completed scripts. Grace Callahan.
She was older than the others, more mature. That was a good thing. Grace thought on her feet. She didn’t crumble in a crisis. He should give her more to do and see if Grace had what it took to become a permanent part of the KTA staff.
CHAPTER
65
If that was what KEY News considered an eyewitness, then they were pretty hard up, thought Tommy. We’ve waited for an eyewitness who hasn’t shown up.
Officer James and Detective Manzorella had stood, out of camera range, through the entire broadcast, waiting to see if Professor Cox was the only guest to talk about seeing Madeleine Sloane on the night she died. As far as Tommy was concerned, the only redeeming feature of the two hours spent at The Breakers this morning was the chance to catch glimpses of Joss as she glided around doing errands.
“I can’t believe they can get away with that,” he said as they walked out through the iron gates. “They made it sound like they had somebody who had seen her murdered.”
“That’s the way they do it, Tommy. They make it sound like they have something bigger, more sensational than they actually do. They tease the audience to get ’em to watch.” Detective Manzorella slapped Tommy on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, kid. We’ll get our man, one way or another.”
CHAPTER
66
Rusty slept until noon, a deep, exhausted sleep. There wasn’t any reason to get up earlier. No one came in for tattoos in the morning anymore. Rusty had taken to opening the store on the floor below in the late afternoon and staying until midnight, accommodating the customers who came in after being emboldened by a few cocktails.
He pulled back the curtain, squinting at the bright sunlight that streamed into the small bedroom. It was going to be a scorcher.
His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t bothered having any supper the night before. Rusty pulled on a pair of shorts and slipped on his moccasins, not bothering with a fresh T-shirt. He would just go out, pick up a coffee and a newspaper, and come right back. He’d shower and dress for the day later.
The sidewalk was already growing hot. He could feel the warmth penetrating the soles of his moccasins as he walked up Broadway and ducked inside the deli. Rusty grabbed a copy of The Newport Daily News and waited his turn on line to order.
The front page of the paper blazed with the news of Madeleine Sloane’s death. The police still weren’t sure if it was a murder, a suicide, or an accident. As Rusty turned the pages, he caught his breath at a picture of Madeleine’s mother, Charlotte, dressed in an evening gown on the night she had last been seen alive.
Yes, Charlotte had been gorgeous that night, even in her distraught state. A damsel in distress, needing a knight to rescue her. The admiral’s car had acted as Rusty’s shining steed.
“What’ll it be, Rusty?”
“Coffee, with two sugars, Joey, and a buttered roll. You got any with poppy seeds left?” Rusty looked up from the paper and smiled at the familiar face behind the deli counter. But Joey wasn’t smiling back. He was staring at Rusty’s shirt.
Rusty looked down and saw the dried blood spattered against the white cotton.
“Occupational hazard.” He shrugged.
CHAPTER
67
After treating themselves to a lunch of juicy cheeseburgers and crispy fries at the Brick Alley Pub, Grace and B.J. crossed Thames Street and headed for their scheduled visit to Kyle Seaton’s scrimshaw shop on Bowen’s Wharf. The engraved sign over the shop indicated that Kyle had been doing business at this location for twenty-five years.
Inside the store, glass display cabinets contained pieces of scrimshaw in a wide array of shapes and functions. Walking stick and umbrella handles, letter openers, and cutlery joined cuff links, earrings, hair clips, and bracelets, all engraved and resting on folds of black velvet. Grace picked up a carved paperweight on the counter, thinking it might make a nice souvenir gift for her father. Turning it over, she whistled softly as she saw the price.
“That’s whale’s tooth, of course,” said the scrimshander, walking over to them. “And, as I’m sure you must know, the Endangered Species Act of 1973 makes it illegal to obtain the material now. So these antique pieces are quite valuable.”
“It’s beautiful,” said Grace, gently putting the paperweight down. “So all these pieces are made of whale’s teeth?”
“Whale and elephant ivory mostly here. I do carry some walrus ivory as well, fashioned by the Eskimos. Nineteenth-century American whalers in the arctic took thousands of pounds of walrus ivory, and much of it made its way into the commercial trade in the form of the walking sticks and knife handles you see in the display case.”
Grace and B.J. looked in direction that Kyle indicated.
“It’s okay if I shoot all this stuff, right?” B.J. asked.
“Shoot away,” the proprietor agreed. “There are some cane handles and corkscrews made of boar tusks over there.” Kyle nodded at a case at the rear of the store. “I even have a couple of pieces of engraved hippo tusk. Hippo ivory is the hardest of all the ivories and the rarest. Because the tusk is so hard, it was used rarely for scrimshaw, except by the most determined artisans.”
“This is great,” said B.J., hoisting his camera up and looking through the eyepiece. “We’ll have plenty of video material for our taped piece tomorrow. It’ll lead to the live on-air segment with you and Constance and Harry, where you’ll give a demonstration of how the scrimshaw engraving is actually done.”
“And how long, exactly, do you allow for that, sir?” Kyle asked, looking over his reading glasses at B.J. “I forgot to ask you that when we spoke on the phone.”
“Two minutes, give or take a few seconds.”
Kyle looked at B.J. with disdain. “Out of the question. You understand that we will be able to do almost nothing in such a ridiculous time frame. Scrimshanding is an exacting, painstaking art.”
“Maybe I can get them to stretch it to three minutes. Will that help?” B.J. asked.
“Hardly.” Kyle sniffed.
“I have an idea,” Grace offered. The two men turned to her and waited.
“In the research I did, I read that there was a large market for fake scrimshaw,” she paused. “Fakeshaw, I think they called it. It’s really plastic scrimshaw. Plastic that looks like ivory.”
“I’m familiar with it.” Kyle frowned. “Worthless trash.”
“Well, like it or not, that’s the scrimshaw most people buy. The kind that they can pick up for ten or twenty dollars or so at a gift or souvenir shop.”
“And your point is?” Kyle looked at Grace as if she were a bug.
“How about if, in the live segment tomorrow, you demonstrated how to tell fakeshaw from the real thing?
That could be really interesting to our viewers. Everybody dreams about coming across a treasure at a garage sale or an auction. Show them how to check if that piece of scrimshaw they find in a box at a tag sale is the real thing.”
B.J. nodded with enthusiasm. “I like that idea. Let’s go with that.”
Kyle paled beneath his tan.
Before they left the shop, B.J. broached the subject. “Grace says you told her that you were at the party the night Charlotte Sloane disappeared.”
“Yes. I was.” Kyle looked almost defiant.
“And you were at the clambake the other night when Madeleine Sloane was killed,” B.J. led.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” snapped Kyle.
“Just an observation,” said B.J. “Do you have any thoughts about what happened to either, or both, women?”
“No, I don’t,” Kyle answered shortly. “But I am wondering what I’m going to do with the scrimshaw piece Madeleine had ordered for her father’s birthday.”
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68
Detective Manzorella tossed the lab report onto his desk.
The crack in Charlotte Sloane’s skull signaled that blunt-force trauma was the likely cause of death. Microscopic bits of her blood had been found on the iron fireplace shovel that had been buried in the tunnel along with Charlotte’s body. But no fingerprints had been found.
That wasn’t unexpected. On a hard, nonporous surface like iron, a fingerprint might not last fourteen days, let alone fourteen years. But on absorbent surfaces, like paper, decades-old fingerprints could be detected now.
The shovel was not going to lead to Charlotte’s killer. They may have the murder weapon, but there was still no conclusive evidence pointing to the murderer.
Hide Yourself Away Page 13
