Murder at Chateau sur Mer

by Alyssa Maxwell

  I couldn’t help the skeptical slant of my lips. “I hope you’re right, Reggie, but you might employ a bit of prudence when making your wagers.”

  “Same old Em. We can’t all be as sensible as you.”

  “Yes, well, never mind. I’d like to ask another question about Lilah. When she came here to the Casino in the evenings, whom did she typically approach?”

  “She didn’t typically approach anyone,” Reggie replied with a shrug. “They approached her. Single fellows, mostly, though not always.”

  “And two nights ago? Did you see with whom she might have left?”

  Reggie absently ran a finger between his collar and his neck as he considered. “The evenings tend to be a little blurry, if you know what I mean. All I can say with certainty is that she didn’t leave with me.”

  “Well, if you remember anything about that day, or about the man Lilah was with, will you let me know, please?”

  “You can count on it, Em.”

  I didn’t hold out much hope. As Reggie had said, his memories of social gatherings were blurry more often than not. After taking our leave of my cousins, Derrick and I walked along the piazza. I found Robert Clarkson excusing himself from a group of people, and when he turned away from them I stepped into his path, forcing him to a sudden halt.

  “Andrews,” he said, speaking to Derrick while ignoring me. “Didn’t know you were back in the country.”

  “Only just arrived. Do you know Miss Cross?”

  The young Rhode Island senator turned his small, pale eyes in my direction and swept them over me once. “Miss Cross. I didn’t know the two of you were acquainted.”

  It was my turn to ignore him, or at least the comment. I slid Lilah’s picture from my handbag again. “Mr. Clarkson, this woman has gone missing. It is important that she be found.”

  He bent over the photograph, sighing as he did so. “She’s a child.”

  “Look closely, Mr. Clarkson.” I held the image closer beneath his nose. “She is no longer a child, but the resemblance is there. You know her, Mr. Clarkson. Her name is Lilah.”

  He stiffened, then raised his head. “Missing, you say? When?”

  “Sometime after the polo match. After she tried to make her way to the grandstand.” I raised one eyebrow and regarded him without blinking, waiting for his reaction. His complexion deepened. His chin jutted as he drew in a breath. “I know you saw her there,” I said. “You and your associates, Mr. Lehr and Mr. Whittaker, seemed to know her.”

  “What of it? Lilah is on intimate terms with any number of men in this town.”

  “Including yourself.” The words were hardly past my lips when Derrick’s hand came up to cup my elbow in a subtle caution. “Did you see her after the match, later that evening? Here?”

  “No, I did not. I was not here that night.”

  “Where were you?”

  He balked, his lips turning down as if he’d tasted something sour. “I see no reason why I should answer such a question, especially from the likes of you.”

  “And what does that—”

  Derrick moved forward, half shielding me with his body. “Now see here, Clarkson. There is no need for that. Miss Cross has this woman’s best interests at heart.”

  “I can hardly fathom why. What difference if Newport is short one whore?” With that he pivoted on his heel and strode past us.

  Derrick’s voice tickled my ear. “Maybe we should leave. I can’t see what you’re going to learn from any of these people.”

  I swallowed my disgust with Robert Clarkson and shook my head. “I did just learn something. When he spoke of Lilah being on intimate terms with any number of men, he said is, and not was. Stanford Whittaker used the present tense as well when I spoke with him. That may indicate they don’t know she is dead.”

  “Not exactly an exonerating detail. Either of them might deliberately have used the word to appear innocent.”

  “Mr. Clarkson just said it rather briskly, though, without thought. You’re right, however. We can’t discount him.” I gazed about me. Picking a random direction, I stopped several more young men who were not accompanying ladies. Some of them recognized Lilah, or at least knew of her by reputation. Others claimed no knowledge of her. None of them displayed any particular concern when I told them she had gone missing. “Perhaps you’re right,” I conceded to Derrick. “We seem to be learning nothing here.”

  “Let’s cross over and walk on the other side.” Offering his arm, Derrick guided me onto an open walkway. An elderly man approached us before we took very many steps.

  “I hear you’re looking for Lilah Buford?”

  His abruptness startled me and I didn’t immediately reply. Thank goodness I had Derrick with me.

  “That’s right. Do you know her?” he asked as I studied the gentleman. He stood tall and trim but for a slight paunch pressing against his evening coat. A white silk scarf draped around his collar, and he leaned on an ebony cane topped with a silver handle. He didn’t seem at all familiar—odd in a town where the wealthy came to see and be seen, and where it was my job to become familiar with all of them.

  “I know of her,” he said with an air of wounded dignity. “What has happened to her?”

  “That is what we are trying to find out, sir,” I said evasively. “Is there anything you can tell us about her?”

  With the help of his cane, he drew himself up taller. He inched his nose higher for good measure. “Certainly not. She came here making trouble, and if you were wise you’d leave her be. Wherever she has gone, let her stay there.”

  Unsteadily, he made his way around us and kept going until he reached the horseshoe piazza. There he must have been greeted by an acquaintance, for he reached up and grasped an assisting hand as he climbed the steps.

  I stared after him another moment. “That was odd.”

  “Exceedingly. Do you know who he is?”

  I shook my head. “I was hoping you did.” At his half shrug I retook his arm, and we resumed walking. “It behooves me to find out, doesn’t it?”

  I’d hoped to make another circuit of the Casino and this time include the upper porches. That plan came to a sudden end as we circled back around to the entry arcade.

  “Mr. Andrews and Miss Cross.” James Gordon Bennett stepped out from the archway, his arms folded across his chest. “I’m going to ask the pair of you to leave, please.”

  “Leave?” Derrick’s hand moved to cover mine where it rested in the crook of his arm. “I think you’d better explain yourself, Bennett.”

  “With pleasure.” The man smiled and released his arms to his sides. His was an athletic figure, not surprising since in addition to polo he excelled at tennis and golf and was an active yachtsman. His cool eyes assessed us in a way that made Derrick’s muscles tense beneath my hand. I longed to cut this encounter short. He and Derrick were already rivals of a sort—in the newspaper business—for James Bennett owned the New York Herald. Would Mr. Bennett, known for his irreverent sense of humor, find amusement in haranguing his competitor, even make a scene?

  I wouldn’t have put it past him. James Bennett was known for neither discretion nor decorum.

  “You are harassing my guests.” Mr. Bennett’s smile didn’t waver. “And I cannot have that at my club.”

  “We’re doing no such thing, and technically this is not your club.” I kept my voice low, but firm. “You may be responsible for the Casino having been built, but there is a board of governors now, along with patrons and supporters.”

  His gaze slid to me. “Would you like me to gather them all here right now, Miss Cross? I assure you, they will be no happier than I at the prospect of your asking sordid questions about ladies of the evening.”

  “Do you know Miss Lilah Buford? Were you aware she visited the Casino regularly?” My implication, that a known prostitute had been suffered to enter the establishment and ply her trade, brought a wash of crimson to Mr. Bennett’s face. And something else. Wariness, and if
I didn’t know better, something akin to remorse.

  He recovered swiftly. “No, Miss Cross, I was not aware of that. Now, if you please.” He gestured toward the street and added, “Before I send for the police.”

  I almost laughed and challenged him to do just that, with the proviso that he ask for Jesse specifically. But this being a private establishment, I could easily find myself barred from entering, permanently.

  “Is someone here in need of assistance?” A man with an olive complexion and glossy black hair swept neatly back from his forehead came to stand at James Bennett’s side. I recognized him as Dominic Ellsworth, who played with Mr. Bennett on the Westchester polo team, and I entertained no doubts to whom he would render his offered assistance. He fixed his dark gaze on Derrick and me, one ebony slash of an eyebrow raised. Mr. Ellsworth’s exotic good looks favored his mother, the beautiful Cuban American Lucinda Yznaga. Coincidentally, her sister, Consuelo, was a great friend of my aunt Alva Vanderbilt, and they had named their daughters after each other.

  Mr. Bennett emitted a soft laugh. “I think Mr. Andrews, Miss Cross, and I have reached an understanding.”

  “Have we, Mr. Bennett?” I ran my gaze over both men, allowing my expression to register an amusement I didn’t quite feel. “I’m glad Mr. Ellsworth has joined us, for there is one last question I’d like to ask you both.”

  James Bennett scowled. “Miss Cross, I made no idle threat when I said I’d summon the police.”

  “Perhaps that is a good idea, sir. For you see, someone witnessed the two of you visiting the Blue Moon several nights ago. The very night Lilah Buford disappeared.”

  Dominic Ellsworth’s dark complexion turned florid. “That’s a lie.”

  It might have been, considering I’d gleaned this bit of information from Anthony Dobbs, but I took care not to let my own doubts show. “Then why do you color so, Mr. Ellsworth? I seem to have struck a nerve. Tell me, how well do you know Lilah?” I made sure to place emphasis on the words do and know, rather than asking how well he had known Lilah.

  “That’s quite enough.” Mr. Bennett reached out an arm, guiding Derrick and me, without quite touching us, through the entryway. “We wouldn’t want to cause a scene, now, would we?”

  Derrick’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Don’t think this is the end of the matter.”

  “That’s quite all right, Derrick,” I murmured to him. “I believe we’ve learned enough for one night.”

  The strident complaint of alarm bells confronted us moments after we entered the street. My senses instantly alert, I breathed in a deep draft of air. “Fire,” Derrick and I said at the same time. I paused to listen. “West of us. Oh, Derrick, heaven help us.”

  The Newport Observer’s offices were west of us. So was the Blue Moon, and a host of other taverns, homes, shops, and businesses.

  Chapter 8

  Derrick and I set off running along Bath Road toward the harbor. The ringing became louder as we went, and as we approached Thames Street we were swept into a current of individuals, mostly men, hurrying southward. Billows of black smoke poured from a building several streets down. I strained to make out which one it was. A ladder truck pulled by a team of four horses and bearing several firemen barreled along the street. Moments later the steam engine and the hose wagon rumbled past.

  The air became thicker, hotter, with each street we crossed. Sparks swirled and crackled; flames leaped above the rooftops. I gasped for breath. My heart thudded in my throat as I strained to peer through the growing crowd, wafting smoke, and my own rising dismay. Relief poured through me as I realized the burning building stood closer to us than the Observer ’s offices. I could determine little more, for the confusion of flame and smoke, the pooling crowd, the scrambling firemen, and the water, now bursting from hoses connected to the steam engine, left me disoriented.

  Derrick placed a firm hand at the back of my waist. “We shouldn’t go any farther. They don’t need spectators closing in on them.”

  He was right, of course, generally speaking. “I’m not a spectator. I’m a reporter.” I continued forward, but I moved to the opposite side of the street, the side closer to the harbor, from where I could observe without getting in the way.

  “It’s the cigar shop.” I pointed at the half-consumed sign above the shop window.

  Beside me, Derrick whistled low through his teeth. “Ellsworth Cigars serves half the population of Newport.”

  “Half the summer population, you mean. The average Newporter can’t afford cigars, much less those.” It was true, the establishment catered to the expensive tastes of Bellevue Avenue, importing the finest cigars from around the world, but especially from Cuba. This was but one shop in the Ellsworth empire. There were others in nearly every major East Coast city. Still, this loss would be acutely felt. As families arrived for the summer, men inundated Ellsworth Cigars with orders that would be delivered periodically throughout the season.

  “Poor Dominic.” Derrick emitted a low whistle through his teeth. “I could almost feel sorry for him, if he hadn’t acted the ass along with Bennett back at the Casino. I wonder what happened. There must be a fortune inside, going up in smoke.” He looked down at me with a contrite expression. “Sorry. I don’t mean to make a joke of it, but it is rather ironic.”

  “Thank goodness the shop was closed for the night.” As I spoke, I caught sight of several familiar faces, Madam Heidi’s included. Her bright blond hair, though swept back and piled high on her head, flashed like a beacon among the gawking crowd. Beside her, one of the girls, the young, golden-haired Flossie, caught my gaze, her own wide and filled with alarm.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said to Derrick.

  He grasped my wrist. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Just there.” I pointed to Flossie across the flood of onlookers. “I’m going to see what I can find out. Wait here, please.” He nodded reluctantly and released me. It wasn’t until I reached Flossie that I realized he had followed me despite my request.

  Flossie reached out and latched onto both my hands. “Isn’t it awful, Miss Cross? We feared at first it might be one of the warehouses on Carrington’s Wharf, and that the flames might spread to us. The customers went running outside, and the rest of us followed.” She raised her voice to be heard above the commotion and the whoosh of the fire hoses. She took a moment to look around her. We stood only a few yards shy of Howard’s wharf, and the lumber mill that occupied space there. With a start I realized a single floating spark could ignite the wooden structure and its contents, especially with the sawdust that coated every surface inside. Apparently, Flossie shared my concerns. “Do you think they’ll be able to get it under control before it spreads?”

  “I hope so, Flossie. I think they will.” But what about the businesses flanking the cigar shop? A carpenter’s workshop stood to the left; to the right, a spice shop. The proprietors would lose everything should the flames leap through the walls between them.

  Derrick moved beside me and eyed Flossie. He couldn’t fail to guess her occupation, not with her loose hair, ill-fitting dress devoid of stays beneath, and her comment about customers running outside when the fire started.

  I cleared my throat, feeling suddenly awkward. It was my belief that all human beings should be accorded basic respect, no matter their occupation. I hoped Derrick agreed. He had met Stella, a former fallen woman who stayed at Gull Manor last summer, and treated her cordially. But poor Flossie was still very much a part of the illicit world of the docks. Well, if he didn’t like it, he should not have followed me. I cleared my throat again, already feeling raw from the smoke.

  “Flossie, this is Mr. Andrews, a good friend of mine. Mr. Andrews, Flossie.” I held my breath as I waited for him to respond. Then a notion occurred to me: Was he already acquainted with her? I couldn’t help hoping such was not the case.

  “A pleasure, miss,” he said with a nod. Even in the dark, with the flames reflected on her perspiring face, Flossi
e blushed prettily and ducked her head. Obviously, she was unused to the politeness of gentlemen.

  We went back to observing the efforts of the firemen. Policemen also arrived and pushed the onlookers back to a safe distance. One tried to usher us along the sidewalk until he recognized me.

  “The three of you stay clear, Miss Cross.”

  I promised him we would. Did he notice or recognize Flossie? Perhaps, but he didn’t miss a beat as he moved along to break up a small throng growing on the next corner.

  “There’s someone inside!” The shout came from the doorway of the burning building. The crowd pressed forward again, prompting the police to redouble their efforts. They dispensed with courtesy and roughly pushed several men backward before using their nightsticks, not to strike, but to clear the area as a shepherd would wave his staff to coax his flock in the desired direction. But even as the onlookers moved back, their shouts darted to and fro.

  “Who is it? Who’s inside?”

  “I think it’s the manager.”

  “Styles? Can you see him?”

  “Hurry, you’ve got to get him out!”

  Several firemen ran into the building. I stood on tiptoe, bracing myself with one hand on Derrick’s shoulder. Beneath my fingers, his shoulder became rocklike and deep lines scored his forehead. I peered ahead and craned my neck to see around the fire wagons and scrambling firemen. “Derrick, do you think he can still be alive?”

  He didn’t answer. Sparks blasted from the roof of the two-story building, and flaming shingles rained down onto the street. Onlookers shrieked and pulled back, many flush up against the building fronts behind them. Others spilled onto the nearest wharves. A fireman rushed from the cigar shop, his coat sleeve in flames. He cried out for help, but his fellow firemen were too distracted to notice. The man fell to his knees, striking at his arm with his other hand. Derrick uttered a terse “stay here” and ran into the street. As he did, he tugged off his coat. When he reached the fireman he used it to beat at the flames dancing along the man’s arm. Within seconds the flames were out, and the fireman collapsed onto his back. Derrick bent over him, speaking, though I could not hear the words.