Murder at Rough Point Read online

  His friend clapped him on the shoulder. His hand remained there as Claude Baptiste turned to me. “Miss Cross, if you will excuse us now.”

  “Of course, I . . . Thank you so much for sharing your plans with me.”

  They walked off together, talking and laughing as they had been when Patch and I first found them. They seemed an odd pair of friends, mismatched in age and physical appearance. I supposed their artistic natures provided common ground enough, and I was glad the Frenchman was able to prevent his younger friend from falling hopelessly into melancholy.

  It struck me how many calamities this group of artists had endured—Sir Randall’s failing career, depression, and subsequent death; the injury that prevented Vasili from ever dancing professionally again; Josephine Marcus’s fading voice. Were there other hidden misfortunes waiting to be discovered?

  * * *

  That evening before dinner I retired to my room to complete the notes I’d taken during the day. I attempted to describe the impromptu performance by Vasili Pavlenko, with admittedly little true success. I had also spent time with Niccolo Lionetti, who had played his cello for me. He’d explained how he allowed his instrument to guide his playing, rather than merely following the sheet music. I could not say I entirely understood him, but I did conclude that he achieved something extraordinary.

  A knock at my door stilled my thoughts and my pencil. “Come in.”

  My mother poked her head into the room. “Are you terribly busy?”

  Part of me wished to tell her yes, I was. Why did this reluctance to speak privately with either of my parents continue to linger? I’d more than come to terms with the old bitterness once directed at Mrs. Wharton, so why my hesitation with Mother and Father? What was I truly avoiding?

  “No,” I said, “not terribly.” I smiled and gestured for her to come in. When she sat on the edge of my bed, I pivoted on my chair before the dressing table, which I’d been using as a desk. A heavy silence fell between us, as obvious as it was awkward. Mother stared down at her hands, resting in her lap.

  “You’re angry with us,” she said at length. I winced, not having expected such directness.

  “Shouldn’t I be? Father committed fraud in Paris—”

  “It was only meant to be a prank. We never intended for it to become so out of hand.”

  “And then you concealed your actions from everyone, including me.” Suddenly I found myself falling into the maternal role I often assumed with Brady. How odd to take such a stance with my own mother. “Not only might you have endangered yourselves and your friends, but you came home under false pretenses.”

  “Yes, all that is true, and I apologize for it. Again.” She added emphasis to that last word, as if to suggest I might accept her contrition with an ounce of graciousness. “There is something more here, isn’t there? Something that began long ago.”

  Her perceptiveness rendered me at a momentary loss. I needed a moment to gather my thoughts, and so I stalled for time. “Why do you say that?”

  She smiled and released a breathy little laugh. “You’ve been avoiding us since our arrival. Since before you knew about the hoax.”

  “I’ve been doing my job, Mother.” I kept my voice light, amiable. But she was correct. I had been avoiding them. “It’s my task to interview everyone here and learn about the course their careers have taken. I can’t spend all my time with you and Father.”

  “You’ve spent precious little time with your father and me. I’d say as little as you can manage. Your father is as much an artist as anyone else here, yet you haven’t asked him a single question about his career.”

  “I thought I’d familiarize myself with the others first.”

  She studied me, her brow furrowing. “Is it because we went away to Paris? We never would have gone if we thought you’d be alone. But you weren’t, were you? You had Aunt Sadie and Nanny. And your cousins, of course.”

  Again, she was right, on both counts. When they first left the country, I had already taken up residence at Gull Manor. Great-Aunt Sadie had been alive then and had wanted me to learn the nuances of the house and property she intended leaving me when she passed. Nanny had come with me as well, so essentially I’d had two strong female influences and, with my Vanderbilt cousins here part of the year, a stable family around me.

  But Aunt Sadie hadn’t been as strong as I’d believed, and had left this world less than two years later. And Nanny . . . I’d never realized just how much she had aged since my childhood. She had always seemed timeless to me—never young, never changing, always the same stolid, stoic support she had always been. Then one day I truly looked at her and knew she needed taking care of as much as I did, that I could no longer lean so wholly against her but must be as obliging to her as she had always been to me.

  “And you had Brady,” Mother added, unaware of my thoughts.

  It was my turn to laugh. “Brady had me, you mean. My goodness, until last summer he was a child. I can’t tell you how often I had to intervene with Jesse to have charges of drunk and disorderly conduct dismissed.”

  “It can’t have been as bad as all that.” She flashed a grin, but guilt flickered behind her eyes. Was she remembering her first husband, Brady’s father? Stuart Braden Gale III had been a dashing sportsman with charisma that lit up any room—or so I’d been told. But accompanying that affability had been ribald behavior, a reckless disregard for his own welfare and that of others, and a propensity for spending far more money than he could ever make. Thus had been my brother’s path as well until life taught him a painful lesson that forced him into sobriety and responsibility. He was still my lighthearted half brother, but the devil-may-care attitude had, one might say, been relinquished to the devil.

  But perhaps Mother had touched upon the heart of what troubled me. “Brady needed you last summer,” I said. “Yes, he had me, Nanny, Jesse . . .” I’d been about to mention another name but I trailed off lest Mother ask questions. I had no desire to talk about Derrick Andrews, not with her, not with anyone. I felt his absence too keenly. For the foreseeable future he remained beyond my reach, and it simply hurt too much to contemplate him as anything more than a fond but distant memory.

  A lie perhaps, but one that helped me live through each day without him.

  “Brady had us, but your presence would have meant the world to him,” I finished rather feebly.

  “Brady and I corresponded following those awful events of last summer. Any animosity that might have existed on his part has been resolved.” She reached out across the narrow distance between us. “Why then should you hold grudges on his behalf?” Another question I couldn’t answer. She continued to beckon with her outstretched hand. “Emma, come sit with me. Please,” she added, as if already anticipating my refusal.

  With my attention on the scene outside my window, I rose. A misting rain was falling and the treetops swayed back and forth in a sensual dance. I searched for remnants of the afternoon sun behind the pewter-edged clouds crouching low in the sky. My earlier prophesy of an approaching storm seemed about to be fulfilled.

  I sat on the bed beside my mother, at first perching rigidly, then forcing myself to relax as the mattress sank beneath me.

  “Thank you,” she said, aware, perhaps even more than I, of how difficult that had been for me. I only wished I could explain the reasons. She hadn’t been a poor mother, quite the contrary. Through both my parents I had learned about art and self-expression and been exposed to a multitude of ideas unheard of in most children’s lives. I couldn’t but credit them with setting early examples that readied me for the independence Aunt Sadie would later foster in me, and that had ultimately allowed me, as an adult, to stride into the offices of the Newport Observer with several articles in hand and a request for employment.

  There had been times in recent years when my burdens had become overwhelming, and I had wished nothing more than to have my parents here to relieve my anxieties. This had garnered my resentment, yet I couldn’t
but admit I persevered and eventually triumphed. My confidence in my own abilities had grown accordingly—but would it have, if my parents had been here?

  Perhaps I had more to be grateful for than I thought.

  I slipped my hand into hers and immediately sensed the relief that washed over her. I gave her fingers a little squeeze. “Perhaps we must become reacquainted. It’s been several years, and I’ve changed since we met last.”

  “Of that I have no doubt, darling. Your father and I are very proud of you. You’ve achieved a lot, and we believe you’ll achieve more.” She leaned a little away as if to view me from a distance. “I wonder, would you have accomplished as much had we been here?”

  Goodness, had she read my mind? Perhaps, but the matter was far from simple, and our relationship was far from entirely mended. It was, however, a beginning. Arching my eyebrows, I said, “I suppose we’ll never know, will we?”

  That produced a rueful chuckle, but Mother sobered quickly. “If you’re wondering why I came alone to speak with you, it’s because your father is rather hurt, Emma, by how you’ve ignored him so far. He would never admit it, but there it is. Perhaps you might . . .”

  “Perhaps I’ll ask him for an interview after dinner, and suggest again that I sit for a portrait,” I finished for her.

  Mother replied by embracing me, and with only an instant’s hesitation I returned the hug. We had made a stride, but there would need to be more.

  * * *

  That evening I again donned Cousin Gertrude’s champagne Rouff gown, this time without the jacket. Instead I draped an embroidered shawl of Aunt Sadie’s over my shoulders and wondered why we were bothering to dress for dinner. Jesse hadn’t returned with more questions about Sir Randall, which meant the coroner hadn’t yet finalized his report about the head injury.

  I patted my hair in place, adjusted my shawl, and was just opening my bedroom door when a muffled but distinct caterwauling made its way down the main second-floor hallway. My parents’ door swung open and they stepped out, apparently ready for dinner. They, too, stopped short to listen.

  “What on earth?” they chorused. Then my mother said, “That sounds like Josephine.”

  Shrieks set us in motion. The three of us hurried to the main landing of the upper story, where more doors were opening. Teddy and Edith Wharton joined us. My parents and I didn’t stop, but followed the shrieks across the gallery to the northern wing of bedrooms. Others peeked out of their rooms, inquiring what the matter was. I came to a halt outside Miss Marcus’s bedroom. Mother had been correct. It was from behind the opera singer’s door that the shrieking emanated, accompanied by an odd whooshing sound as well.

  “Miss Marcus,” I called out, my hand on the knob.

  “Josephine!” My mother stood behind me, craning over my shoulder. “Emma, quickly, open the door.”

  I swung it open. Miss Marcus was nowhere to be seen, but her cries continued, along with the now identifiable sound of gushing water.

  “The bathroom.” Mrs. Wharton pushed past me. At the open bathroom door she gripped the lintel with both hands in an attempt to stop herself. She didn’t quite, and raised a splash when her feet hit the bathroom floor. “Good gracious!”

  Mother and I came up behind her to discover a pond spreading across the marble tiles. Miss Marcus stood several feet back from the pedestal sink, her head down and her arms held out in front of her like a shield against the plume arcing from a pipe that ran up the wall. Water streamed from her hair and clothes and she appeared frozen in shock, except for her formidable shouts. I had wished to hear her sing. Now I was learning just how powerful a trained soprano’s voice could be.

  For a moment astonishment held us all immobile. Then my father’s hand came down on my shoulder, nudging me out of the way. Mrs. Wharton stepped aside, too, and Father and Mr. Wharton proceeded into the bathroom. Their feet slid on the tiles, and they grabbed each other’s shoulders in an attempt to avoid falling. By some miracle they remained upright, raising splashes that sent the water eddying into the marble baseboards, around the feet of the claw foot tub, and the base of the pedestal sink.

  Fighting through the spray, my father made his way to the offending pipe. He wrapped his hands around it in a futile attempt to stem the flow. He became instantly soaked. At Miss Marcus’s side, Mr. Wharton struggled out of his evening coat and tossed it around her shoulders, not that the dripping coat was any better than her sodden gown. With an arm around her waist he guided her to the bathroom door, where Mrs. Wharton took over.

  “Come, Josephine, dearest, it’s all right. Just a broken pipe. We’ll soon have you set to rights.”

  Several male voices filled the bedroom behind me as I continued to monitor my father’s efforts to stop the water, now with Mr. Wharton’s help. Countless times their feet seemed about to slide out from under them. They clutched the sink to keep from sprawling.

  I was nudged again, and Niccolo Lionetti, Carl, and Mr. Dunn streamed around me. I couldn’t help thinking the efforts of five men would be no more effective than those of one. The bathroom fell to chaos: water and shouts and dripping figures until Mr. Dunn shooed the other three away and Carl helped them maneuver over the wet floor back into the bedroom. Mr. Dunn sank to his knees, instantly drenching his trousers, reached under the sink, and found the main valve. The thing squeaked in protest as he twisted and twisted, but gradually the spray diminished and finally ebbed to a feeble drip, drip, drip.

  In the bedroom, Mrs. Wharton and my mother attempted to comfort Miss Marcus.

  “All right?” The soprano’s voice shot to high C. “Does this look all right to you?” She held her arms up and away from her plum silk gown. “This dress is from Madame Paquin—Paquin I tell you—and it’s ruined. And my hair, my shoes.” She gave a fierce tug on her hems, displaying the watermarks on a pair of exquisite, yellow satin evening slippers adorned with purple beading. “And the shock of it all. I thought I was being attacked. I didn’t know what was happening—I had no idea! I thought I was about die, truly I did.”

  My mother let out a breath of relief. “I didn’t know what to think with all that screaming. Thank goodness it’s only a broken water pipe and nothing more serious than that. Josephine will be fine. Gentlemen, thank you, but I suggest you leave us now to help her to dry off and change.”

  At the bathroom sink, Mr. Dunn straightened, running his hands over his hair, which had been forced from its usual slicked-back style to something resembling the spiky vegetation I’d spied in the kitchen garden. He tugged to straighten his coat for good measure. With his dignity thusly reassembled as far as was possible, he walked like a condemned man across the flooded floor into the bedroom.

  “You!” Miss Marcus’s finger shot out. She would grant no quarter, it seemed. “How could you let his happen?”

  “I . . . uh . . . I’m so very sorry . . . I can’t imagine . . . the handyman . . . it should have been inspected . . . may I . . . get you something?”

  “No, indeed,” Miss Marcus shouted, “unless it is to undo all this damage your incompetence has inflicted upon me.”

  Glancing around at the others, I could have attested that Miss Marcus was not the sole recipient of those damages. Water verily dripped from Father, Mr. Wharton, Niccolo, and even Mrs. Wharton. My own hems showed dark stains where the water had lapped them, and the moisture was spreading to my stockings and felt cold against my ankles. I held my tongue and decided that with my mother and Mrs. Wharton there to attend to our indignant victim, I had no reason to remain. I followed the men out into the corridor, where I heard Mr. Dunn promising to have the handyman remedy the broken pipe immediately.

  I met Vasili Pavlenko outside his bedroom on my way back to my room. “What was that about?” He was in vest and shirtsleeves, and seemed to be fumbling to secure a cuff link.

  I took hold of the jeweled piece and snapped the backing into place, remembering with a start that I used to do so for my father. “Everything is all right. Just
a broken water pipe in Miss Marcus’s bathroom. It was quite a mess and rather traumatizing for her.”

  “That I do not doubt.” He inspected my handiwork and gave the sapphire-studded link a slight turn. He jerked his chin in the direction of my hemline. “You are wet.”

  “A little, but not nearly as bad as some of the others. If you’ll excuse me, I need to change again before dinner. Everyone does, so if I were you I wouldn’t hurry down to the dining room.”

  “No, I should think not,” he said with an amused chuckle.

  Chapter 8

  Some forty-five minutes later, eight of us, in dry clothes, gathered around the dining table. No one sat, but remained standing and trading wary looks. A horrible sinking sensation robbed me of my appetite.

  The table had been set for nine. Like a nightmarish repetition of last night, someone was missing.

  “I’ll wager Claude couldn’t decide which cravat to wear.” Mrs. Wharton gave a weak laugh. “You all know how he can be.”

  “Was he there with the rest of us in Josephine’s room?” My father gripped the back of his chair. “Does anyone remember seeing him?”

  Heads shook in reply. Miss Marcus raised a hand to lightly touch a reset curl. “I certainly wouldn’t remember if he’d been there or not. It’s all a blur.”

  “He may have fallen asleep,” Vasili Pavlenko said with an eagerness that hinted at desperation.

  Apparently I wasn’t the only one experiencing doubts coupled with a sense of dread. Last night, a man had gone missing at dinner, and the next morning we found Sir Randall at the bottom of the cliff....

  “Perhaps we should go check on him,” Mother suggested.

  No one moved. Rain splattered the windows, and gusts of wind sent sheets of water angling across the dusky rear lawns. In the distance, thunder rumbled, and Miss Marcus shivered. “How I hate this weather.”