Murder at Chateau sur Mer

by Alyssa Maxwell

“It was much more complicated than that. Such things always are.”

  I conceded the point with a nod. “That aside, one might argue that George Wetmore has been particularly vocal about the Dingley Act, one of its staunchest supporters.”

  “The vote, I understand, is a month away. I don’t see how Stanford Whittaker or anyone could hope to influence the outcome at this late date. And,” he added, “in such a way as I think you are suggesting.” He studied me a moment, and I could all but see the speculative wheels turning in his mind. “You are suggesting, my dear Emma, that Mr. Whittaker and his cohorts conspired to set George Wetmore up as a murderer by planting a deceased woman of the evening at the foot of his stairs, yes?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Is it?” He frowned, not in derision, but in his attempt to see the logic of my theory, or so it appeared to me. “A lot of work would have gone into the simple act of discrediting a senator.”

  “A senator with an unblemished record? One who is highly esteemed in his hometown, his state, and in the nation’s capital? With no transgressions in his past to resurrect, what choice is there but to resort to invention?”

  “Perhaps, but Lilah was with child, Emma. Surely such a plan leaves too much up to luck and timing.”

  I sat back rather suddenly, prompting Patch to his feet. He nuzzled my hand with his nose, his way of asking me if anything was wrong. I scratched behind his ears. “That might merely have been a coincidence and nothing to do with the plot against Mr. Wetmore.”

  Usually at this point in the conversation Jesse would shake his head, tsk, and tell me I was stretching the facts to suit a scenario assembled by my imagination. At least, up until last autumn that would have been the case. Now he nodded decisively and came to his feet. I stood as well. Patch leaped out from between my faded, slightly threadbare sofa and the table that sported more than a few dings and chips.

  “It bears looking into,” he said. “You’re right that the most obvious solution isn’t always the correct one. I must be going.”

  “Jesse, wait.” I came around the table and stood before him. “There is something else I think you should be aware of.”

  Before I could continue he laughed softly. “Do you mean the fact that Mrs. Wetmore has asked you to intervene? To investigate, perhaps?”

  “How did you know?”

  “My dear Emma, you and she were holed up in her parlor this morning for how long? And when you came out, you barely spoke a word, but instead sat ruminating beside me as I drove you home.”

  He knew me all too well. “I haven’t agreed to her request. I told her I must think on it first.”

  “And have you? Thought on it and decided, that is?”

  “Yes, I have.” I hadn’t known I’d reached a decision until that very instant, but it seemed as inevitable as the tides that lapped the edges of my property. No longer did I consider the task purely for the benefit of the Wetmores. But as Mrs. Wetmore had urged, Lilah Buford—and now her child—deserved the truth. I felt I owed it to them both, or how could I possibly pretend to carry on with Great Aunt Sadie’s legacy? I owed it to Sadie’s memory, too, for all she had taught me about the value of independence and for the home she had given me. I didn’t explain all of this to Jesse. I merely said, “I have to help her. I must find the truth of what happened to Lilah Buford.”

  “I knew you would. I’d admonish you to stay out of it, but I know you won’t. Be cautious, then, and keep me informed.” He held me in his gaze another moment, and then he left.

  Chapter 4

  Despite my brave words to Jesse, I didn’t contact Mrs. Wetmore for the rest of that day. There might be more to learn from the coroner, who had not finished his examination of the body. I saw no point in rushing headlong into inquiries before all the facts of Lilah’s death were known.

  At about midmorning the next day, a caller arrived on my doorstep. I heard the carriage coming up the drive and looked out the parlor window at a sleek victoria carriage with brass fittings and pulled by a handsome pair of grays. The oiled canvas top obscured the passenger, but the driver’s top hat and tails told me this was no ordinary visitor. I assumed it must be Mrs. Wetmore coming for her answer, and hurried to greet her at the front door.

  A high-heeled, patent leather boot emerged onto the footboard, and an ivory-gloved hand reached for the driver’s as he helped her down. A wide silk hat covered my visitor’s head, but as she turned to descend to the ground it was not auburn hair, but raven curls that gleamed blue-black in the sunlight, framing Lavinia Andrews’s beautiful face. I drew a little gasp.

  Derrick Andrews’s mother. What on earth? I hadn’t heard from him for several weeks, and as far as I knew he was still in Italy. My heart thrust up into my throat. Had he met with some ill fortune? An accident?

  But no, as Mrs. Andrews approached me she smiled and held out a hand. “Miss Cross, I do hope my sudden arrival is not excessively ill timed. Have you a few moments?”

  “Mrs. Andrews.” Stupefaction held its grip on my tongue, but as she reached my doorstep I revived sufficiently to shake her hand and invite her inside. “How long have you been back in the country?”

  “Not long.” She preceded me into the parlor and stopped on the well-used hearth rug. “I see nothing has changed.” She whirled about to face me, pulling off her gloves and smiling. “I am glad nothing has changed, Miss Cross. This house became most dear to me last summer, you know.”

  Mrs. Andrews and her daughter had been my guests at Gull Manor a year ago, when circumstances forced them to abandon their luxurious steamer yacht anchored in the harbor. At the time, I thought she and I had finally come to terms, whereas previously she had resented my place in her son’s affections and had taken no pains to hide the fact. She once had done everything in her power to discourage any possibility of an attachment between us. That was, until the events of last summer, when she had warmed toward me, or so I had believed. Our last words before the Andrews family left Newport for Italy had dissuaded me of the notion that Lavinia Andrews would ever truly accept me. She had reached into her purse and drew out money, in order to pay me—pay me—for my hospitality.

  Even now, the memory had the power to make me wrinkle my nose in distaste.

  I asked Katie to bring in tea and bade Mrs. Andrews to make herself comfortable. Despite her claim that she was glad nothing had changed, she noticeably hesitated before choosing a spot on my tired old camelback sofa. I sat beside her at her prompting, and we spent the next quarter hour catching up and sharing all the news of mutual acquaintances. She brought tidings about people who had become dear to me last summer, tidings that touched my heart and squeezed tears into my eyes, though I blinked them away before they could fall. I resisted the urge to ask about Derrick. I trusted that she would bring him up when she was good and ready and not a moment before.

  Our tea and cakes arrived and the next several moments were spent in pouring and passing the cream and sugar. Then, quite abruptly, she said, “What do you hear from Derrick?”

  My spoon went still in my cup. “I, uh, haven’t. Not in several weeks, ma’am. I received a letter from Italy at the beginning of last month.”

  “Yes, well. He’s back. We arrived together in New York, but he went straight up to Providence to see his father. I, on the other hand, came here.” Her gaze met my quizzical one. “To see you, Miss Cross.”

  “You came to Newport to see me?” I had been reduced to inane repetition.

  “Indeed, yes. She held her cup and saucer with one hand while pressing her other to my wrist. “Miss Cross, I came to clear the air between us. You and I have a history of being at odds.”

  To put it mildly.

  “This past year has taught me much,” she went on, “as you might well imagine. I have learned the value of being more accepting. I have also come to see my children’s happiness as the most important thing in the world.”

  She paused, and since she seemed to expect a reply, I said, “That i
s well, Mrs. Andrews. Every mother wants the best for her children.”

  Her gaze traveled over my features in a way that left me bewildered. “I do wish my son to be happy, Miss Cross, and it appears you are key to his happiness. I am here to give you my blessing. I will no longer stand in your way.”

  Did my mouth hang open? I fear it must have. She had shocked me thoroughly, but she had also arrived on my doorstep under a false assumption. “Mrs. Andrews, have you spoken to Derrick on this matter?”

  “No, indeed not.” She raised her teacup to her lips, sipped, and then set it back in its saucer with a clink. “I would not be so indelicate as to broach the subject with him. But I know my son’s mind, Miss Cross. I know where his sentiments have lain this past year. Do know that you may feel free to accept Derrick, and that I am ready to welcome you into the family.”

  As I said, a false assumption. While it was true Derrick had once asked me to marry him—a hasty, impulsive proposal—when last we parted we had agreed to begin anew once we found ourselves together again. Even that simple understanding had become vastly complicated, however, for much had changed over the ensuing year. I had changed.

  “Mrs. Andrews,” I began, “I appreciate your visit. Truly. But—”

  “Don’t say anything, Miss Cross.” She set her cup and saucer on the sofa table and came to her feet. “I suppose you think me a meddling old busybody, with nothing better to do than live vicariously through my son.” She laughed lightly as she slipped her elegant hands back into her gloves. “And perhaps you are correct. But rest assured, henceforth my meddling will be put toward a good cause—the very best of causes. Now, when you are ready, and I hope it will be soon, you may depend on me to assist in any way I can.”

  I stood as well. “Assist?”

  She laughed again. “In the wedding preparations, my dear girl. There is much planning to be done. Flowers, menus, your trousseau . . . I expect Derrick to race down to Newport just as soon as he is able. If his father thinks to delay him in Providence, I will send for him myself.”

  “Please don’t, Mrs. Andrews. There is no reason for Derrick to race anywhere.”

  “Nonsense. These matters mustn’t be allowed to linger indefinitely, and it has already been too long.”

  I saw that I must take a more direct approach to make the woman understand. “Yes, ma’am, but you see, I haven’t accepted Derrick. There is no understanding between us.”

  “My dear girl, play coy for now if it pleases you, but we both know you can do no better. Alice Vanderbilt herself could not hope to make a more advantageous match for you.” She stepped closer and raised a gloved hand to my cheek, touching it for an instant. “Well, I am off, but we shall see each other soon, rest assured.”

  She left me with the disheveled sensation of having opened my door to a whirlwind that blew in, swirled wildly about my parlor, and blew out just as suddenly. I waited in the doorway long enough to be certain her carriage turned onto Ocean Avenue. Then, bemused, I returned to the parlor and sank onto the sofa.

  Katie Dylan strode into the room and began collecting the tea things. “Has your guest gone already, miss?”

  “Yes, she’s gone. My goodness, Katie, what an odd visit that was.”

  “Aye, miss? And why is that?” My maid’s soft brogue helped calm my nerves, as it often did.

  “Mrs. Andrews is assuming that her son and I are destined to walk down the aisle together, and soon.”

  “And are ye not, miss?” Though she ducked her head as she hoisted the tray, she could not quite hide her smile.

  “Not to my knowledge, no. I haven’t seen Mr. Andrews in over a year.”

  She blew at a coppery spiral that had escaped her linen cap. “But he did ask ye, didn’t he, miss?”

  I sighed. “I suppose. But not in the way he should have. He asked in haste. We barely knew each other, and after all this time apart we’ll barely know each other again.”

  “If he comes courting, will you turn him away then?”

  I saw that Katie had missed Mrs. Andrews’s cake plate. I stood to retrieve it and placed it with the other china on the tray she held. “I don’t know that I wish to be courted, Katie. Not just now. But no, I’d never turn Mr. Andrews away from Gull Manor. He’s done us too many good services to deserve that.”

  She turned away and headed into the hall. She murmured her last comment under her breath but I heard it nonetheless. “If a man like Mr. Andrews wished to court me, I’d certainly have no objection. Then again, that Detective Whyte is awfully nice, too.”

  It was true what people said about house staff. They never missed a thing.

  * * *

  Nanny found me a little while later brooding out past the kitchen garden. I’d visited the barn to water and feed my carriage horse, an aging roan gelding named Barney who knew how to convey my gig at one speed only: slow. I had walked him outside and set him on his lead, and I watched him pensively as he ambled about the yard and nibbled at grass, brome, and tasty tufts of swine cress. Beyond the small peninsula that marked the perimeter of my property, the Atlantic Ocean rolled gently, a leisurely tide that promised there were no storms approaching.

  Nanny shuffled across the yard and came to stand beside me. “Was that Mrs. Andrews here?”

  She roused me from my thoughts, and one look at her renewed my recent worries that dear Nanny was getting on in years and must not overexert herself, especially not on my account. Though she had come to Gull Manor to serve as my housekeeper, the truth was I had wanted her here because I had leaned on her ample shoulder all my life and couldn’t imagine getting on without her support.

  “You know good and well it was,” I teased in reply to her question. I took her plump hand in my own and regarded her soft blue eyes behind their half-moon spectacles. “And you might have come downstairs to greet her.”

  “She didn’t come to see me, sweetie, I know that for certain.” Holding my hand, she gave my arm a little swing, as she used to do when I was little. “What did she want?”

  “You weren’t listening from the top of the stairs?”

  Her chin went up, jiggling the slack skin beneath. “Certainly not.” Her expression turned sly. “I tried, but I couldn’t hear you well at all.”

  “She gave me her blessing to marry Derrick.”

  Nanny released my hand and grasped my shoulders. “Emma, that’s wonderful news. I never thought I’d see the day. I suppose you’ll be hearing from Derrick any day now.”

  I was shaking my head before she’d finished her comment. “Derrick and I agreed before he went away that we would begin anew. As I told his mother, there is no understanding between us.”

  She held me another moment, embraced me, and let me go. “You must do as your heart tells you, sweetie.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “How terribly sentimental and maudlin, especially coming from you, Nanny.”

  “I suppose. But I want my lamb to be happy.”

  I strolled toward Barney, who raised his head from a particularly lush tuft of weeds to greet me. I stroked his velvet nose and leaned my forehead against his warm cheek. “I am happy. And I’m luckier than most.” I turned so my cheek lay against Barney’s and I could peer across the way at Nanny. “I’m going to help Mrs. Wetmore.” I had told Nanny everything last night. She had merely listened and not offered advice.

  She crossed the distance to me. Her hand came down lightly on my shoulder, prompting me to raise my face from Barney’s. “I knew you would, Emma. I understand that you have to. You’ll do it for Lilah Buford, won’t you?”

  “You know me well.”

  “I used to change your diapers. Do you wish to talk about how you’re going to begin?”

  “I know how I must begin.” I squinted out over the water, glittering in the sun. “With a visit to the Blue Moon.”

  Nanny gasped. “Emma, you mustn’t.”

  “Where else will I learn anything about Lilah Buford?”

  “If you must go,
bring Jesse with you.”

  I shook my head. “I’d wager the quickest way to still those women’s tongues is to bring Jesse. Or any police officer. Or any man, for that matter. No, I must go alone.”

  “But . . . what if someone sees you?” Nanny looked crestfallen. “What if Mrs. Andrews finds out? Goodness, Emma, what if Alice Vanderbilt finds out?”

  I addressed her second two concerns first. “I am not beholden to Mrs. Andrews. And Aunt Alice has enough to occupy her thoughts, taking care of Uncle Cornelius. I cannot imagine anyone being so cruel as to increase her burdens by telling her tales about me. As for anyone seeing me . . .”

  I thought a moment. I’d once donned men’s clothing in order to follow someone through town at night. The work-pants and corduroy jacket had belonged to Aunt Sadie, who used to do her own repairs on Gull Manor and declared such activities impossible in skirts and petticoats. But I couldn’t possibly visit the Blue Moon at night, when the establishment would be at its busiest. Good gracious, no, the risk of discovery would be too great with so many people about. And wearing Aunt Sadie’s work clothes in broad daylight would do little to prevent me from being recognized.

  “There is nothing for it but to simply go in the daytime. If I arrive too early in the morning the place will be closed and the . . . uh . . . inhabitants likely asleep. I’ll go later today. I’ll drive to Thames Street and then simply walk straight to the Blue Moon. If I skulk and look over my shoulder, I’ll only attract attention. I could have any manner of business at the wharf itself. As long as no one sees me enter the Blue Moon, all will be well.”

  “Someone you know could very likely see you. Emma, you’re a grown woman and usually a sensible one, but I cannot allow you to do this.”

  I merely set my hands on my hips and tilted my head.

  “Emma, please . . . you cannot.”

  “Is it much more shocking than when we took in Stella, a known lady of the evening?”

  “Yes, it most certainly is. It’s one thing to have a woman like that here. And that raised eyebrows. It’s quite another for you to go there.”