Murder at Kingscote Read online

  “It would be awfully sporting of you to let your mother take the tiller,” I suggested, hoping I sounded lighthearted rather than worried.

  “As if she would. I think not, Miss Cross.”

  “Your sister, then. She wouldn’t be the only woman driver. My aunt Alva intends to operate her vehicle.”

  As if I’d suggested something so outlandish as to not warrant the least consideration, he grinned and shook his head at me. Then he circled the Hartley and swung himself up onto the seat beside his mother. With a salute he dismissed me, or so I thought. “I’ll own one of these yet, Miss Cross, mark my words.”

  Perhaps, but his mother’s expression told a different story.

  Applause and cheers went up, and I shaded my eyes as I glanced along the avenue to see Aunt Alva’s Duryea Runabout begin creeping forward. Beside her, her husband, Oliver, shouted instructions, which I’m quite sure she ignored. The grind of gears, the hiss of steam, the whine of electric motors, and several backfires filled the air as, one by one, the entrants in line prepared for the trek. I prepared for my own trek on foot, but before I could take the first step a woman’s voice carried shrilly above the commotion.

  “Enjoy your privileges now, Mrs. King. They shan’t last much longer, I promise you that.”

  Startled by the threatening nature of those words, I turned back to the Kings’ automobile. A woman in dusky violet wearing an ostrich-plumed hat stood gripping the top edge of the side panel as if to hold the motorcar in place. She set one booted foot on a lower spoke of the front wheel.

  “How dare you.” Philip’s profile hardened and the knuckles of his right hand whitened around the steering tiller. “Release this vehicle at once or I’ll accelerate and let you be dragged along.”

  As I took in this shocking exchange, Philip’s mother put a hand on his forearm to quiet him and peered down at the defiant woman. “Mrs. Ross, haven’t you done enough damage? Your demands are irrational and unjustified. Please, go away and let us be.”

  The name Ross struck an awareness inside me. I had heard it before, and knew this woman, Eugenia Webster Ross, had been an unwelcome fixture in the King family’s lives for more years than they would have liked to count.

  Mrs. Ross emitted a harsh laugh, her sallow complexion darkening with anger. “Be assured, I shall never go away, nor will it do you a lick of good to wish me gone. Kingscote and everything in it rightly belongs to me, and I’ll not rest until I see you out of the place and myself in my proper position.” Her accent told me she didn’t hail from New England, nor any state in the north of the country.

  “Don’t listen to her, Mama.” Gwendolen slid along the back seat, putting more space between her and the woman. She even tipped her hat brim lower to block Mrs. Ross from her view. “She’s obviously unbalanced.”

  The vehicle in front of the Hartley, a two-seater electric Rambler decked out in roses and a fortune’s worth of vibrant, multihued dahlias, rolled forward. It was the Kings’ turn to move. Philip released the brake and with clenched teeth repeated his earlier threat. “You’d do best to release your hold now or you will find yourself dragged along the road.”

  Mrs. Ross lowered her foot and let go of the seat with a flick of her fingers as if to dislodge an unsavory substance from her glove. But then she raised a fist in the air and shouted threats as the motorcar rolled away. She captured the attention of the spectators on either side of the roadway, though only momentarily. The spectacle of so many automobiles proved too tantalizing to allow a common feud to dampen their excitement. Eugenia Ross was left to vent her anger on deaf ears.

  That was, until she whirled about and encountered me.

  “You’re Emmaline Cross, aren’t you?”

  Her bluntness took me aback. I blinked, rendered briefly mute. She might have learned my name in relation to my position at the Messenger, but she and I had never met. I wondered how she recognized me by sight, but didn’t give her the satisfaction of expressing my surprise. “I am.”

  “Are you a friend of the Kings?” Her Southern accent asserted itself more insistently.

  “As much as someone in my position can be a friend of the Kings, yes,” I replied without irony, but rather a simple statement of fact.

  “More fool, you. Do you know who I am?” She spoke the words as if challenging me to a contest of wits.

  “I didn’t at first, until Mrs. King mentioned your name. Then I realized you are the woman who has been attempting for years now to undermine the Kings’ rightful inheritance from their uncle William.”

  “William Henry King was my relative and owed the King family nothing. They took advantage of his bearing the same name and invented their ties to him.”

  “That hardly makes sense.” I started to chuckle at the ridiculous claim. Motorcars rumbled past us, their tires crunching on the hard-packed dirt of the avenue at a pace not much faster than most people walked. Mrs. Ross took issue with my lightness of mood.

  “You find me funny, do you?” She stepped closer, the pointed toes of her high-heeled boots nearly touching mine. Her dark eyes on a level with my own, she attempted to stare me down. Her shoulders squared, and her chin jutted at me with menace. I suddenly felt threatened and darted glances around me, hoping someone would notice my discomfort and come to my aid. No one did. No one returned my glance, too enthralled as they were with the passing automobiles festooned in their floral displays. “Is it also funny, Miss Cross, that they shut him away in an asylum and took control of his money?”

  “Mrs. Ross,” I said with feigned calm, albeit my heart pounded in alarm, “is there something you wished of me? Can I be of assistance in some way?” I hoped not, for I wanted only to be away from this woman, but it was all I could think of to defuse the situation.

  My words did seem to placate her. Her threatening posture relaxed and she opened the space between us by several inches. I breathed more freely, then nearly choked on a gasp when she said, “Take up my cause.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Write an article telling my side of the story. I’ve been vilified for years by the press. Let people know my cause is just.”

  “Is it?” That was more than I knew. “Will you explain the exact nature of your supposed relation to William Henry King?”

  “Supposed? Why you . . .” She moved closer again, prompting me to pull back. Though she was approximately my size, the fury flickering in her nearly black eyes made me once again fear for my immediate well-being. I might have called out to the nearest spectator, except that at that moment, someone called my name. A moment later, a firm, warm hand came down on my shoulder.

  “Emma, is there a problem here?”

  I recognized the voice immediately and craned my neck to look up at Derrick Andrews, standing slightly behind me. He smiled, his face shaded by the brim of his boater, the grosgrain band of which matched the rich amber brown of his suit coat. His hand dropped to his side, but its warmth and reassurance lingered. Ignoring Mrs. Ross for the moment, I turned to face him, hardly able to contain the flurry of emotions set loose by his sudden appearance. Happiness, exhilaration . . . apprehension. I took a steadying breath and schooled my features to reveal none of it—not here, on a bustling parade route. “I didn’t know you were in Newport.”

  “Only just arrived. With my mother,” he added with a quirk of his eyebrow only I would have noticed. Yes, the source of my apprehension—Derrick’s mother, Lavinia Andrews. “I’d hoped to surprise you. I see I have.”

  A gleam in his eye mirrored my own delight. He looked perfectly wonderful—fit and robust, and slightly tanned from his summer pursuits of golf and tennis and riding. “She wished to see the parade. In fact, she’s riding in an auto, several back.” He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. “She’s staying on a couple more days to attend the Jones’s charity cotillion.”

  “Oh, is Edith in Newport, too?”

  Before my excitement could take hold at the prospect of reuniting with the buddi
ng author, Edith Jones Wharton, Derrick shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not. She’s still in Europe.”

  I let my sense of letdown pass. “It’s good to see you.”

  He leaned closer, bowing his head to deliver his murmur to my ears alone. “And it’s wonderful to see you, Emma. Wonderful to see you smiling back at me. I feared my time away might have . . .” His face hovered barely a kiss away from mine, though our lips never touched. His smile turned wistful. “Well . . . it seems something or other always sends us in separate directions.” He raised his hand and gestured with his chin. “Are you going to introduce me to your friend?”

  I whirled about. I’d completely forgotten about Mrs. Ross, still standing near me and staring daggers now at both Derrick and me.

  “We are not friends, sir.” Eugenia Ross fingered the strand of golden pearls hanging over the front of her bodice. “I approached Miss Cross in hopes of persuading her to do a bit of unbiased reporting on my behalf, but it seems she is too heavily influenced by those she considers her superiors.”

  Both Derrick and I opened our mouths to reply. What he might have said, I couldn’t say, but I intended to relieve this woman of her misconceptions, there and then, by assuring her the Messenger reported only verifiable facts, and thus far she had verified nothing about her outlandish claim. Before either of us could speak, however, Mrs. Ross set off toward Bath Road.

  “She’ll miss the parade,” Derrick said as he watched her strut away. “What did she mean by unbiased bit of reporting?”

  “She’s Eugenia Ross. Does the name mean anything to you?”

  “Indeed it does. There was that big to-do at the McLean Asylum in Massachusetts a few years back. She tried to have Willie King released and actually managed to do it on one attempt. The courts ordered him placed back into custody the very same day, and then he was moved to the Butler Hospital in Providence. She’s tried multiple times again, but to no avail.” He glanced again toward Bath Road, but the woman in question had disappeared from sight. “Good grief, is that really the same Eugenia Ross?”

  “The very same.” I told him what had occurred between her and the Kings before Philip had driven away down the avenue. The vehicle’s bright yellow spokes and brilliant blue cornflowers stood out against the dusty road, and I could see that the Hartley had reached the edge of the Kings’ own property, Kingscote. The automobiles had picked up speed as they proceeded, though none seemed to be moving at the heady fifteen miles-per-hour they were capable of. The Kings would reach the obstacle course a few dozen yards farther along. I worried again about Philip’s ability to handle the vehicle, and turned back to Derrick. “I’d like to walk. Will you accompany me, or do you need to rejoin your mother?”

  He had secured my hand in the crook of his elbow before I’d finished asking the question. Dare I say my fingertips felt utterly at home there, against the strong muscle covered by sturdy serge? “Mother will be just fine. In fact, why don’t we hurry along before she catches up to us?” He set us in motion with a brisk step, while deftly steering us through the milling spectators.

  “I take it your mother’s opinion of me hasn’t changed.”

  He said nothing, his jawline going tight.

  “It’s all right. I’m used to it by now.”

  “I’m not,” he said tersely, then sighed. “If not for my father’s health and my need to be in Providence making sure the Sun continues to thrive . . .”

  He spoke of his family’s primary newspaper, though they were invested in numerous others throughout New England. I shook my head when he continued to speak. “You needn’t explain, Derrick. I understand.”

  “I don’t want you to think it’s all merely an excuse to keep me away.”

  “I don’t. Your faith in my abilities to run the Messenger says all I need to know.” Indeed, Derrick had bought the small local newspaper less than two years ago, had taken it from little more than a failing broadsheet, and in mere months had built up its influence and its subscriber list. Last summer, when family duties had called him back to Providence, he asked me to take over the running of the Messenger as its editor-in-chief. We had known each other several years by then, had shared both harrowing and meaningful experiences on multiple occasions, and yet had always seemed at cross purposes when it came to the affections we each harbored for the other. He had once proposed, early on, long before I had been ready to consider such a thing. And then, as he had said, something or other had consistently sent us in separate directions.

  Our moods lightened after that. We continued down Bellevue Avenue, caught in the general flow of spectators, chatting and catching up since we’d seen each other several months ago. We passed Kingscote with its Gothic peaks and gingerbread trim, but I refused to let Eugenia Ross invade my thoughts. I had been apprehensive at the outset of the parade, and, in a way, Mrs. Ross had given substance to my misgivings. For now, at least, she was gone, leaving me to enjoy a festive, beautiful summer day on the arm of a man I esteemed and cared for very much, and who shared those feelings for me.

  Under a thick canopy of shade trees, we passed Bowery Street. Berkeley Avenue came into view, and just beyond, the obstacle course with its wood and canvas figures representing pedestrians, delivery carts, trolleys, and more. The first few automobiles weaved their way around the barriers, the laughter of the occupants audible above the puttering engines. I saw Aunt Alva’s Runabout swerve perilously close to an object that, in the distance, appeared to be a mule pulling a plow.

  “Slow down, Aunt Alva,” I couldn’t help uttering under my breath, eliciting a laugh from Derrick. I wondered if her husband, Oliver, clutched the edges of his seat in trepidation for his very life.

  My cousin Willie Vanderbilt—Aunt Alva’s son—waved to me as he drove past with his new wife, Virginia. Their automobile had been transformed into the shape of a locomotive decorated with immense gilded bows interwoven with white tulle, and at each corner of the vehicle hung a golden cage of canaries amid trailing vines and poppies. It was all truly fantastical, and anyone suddenly transported to the scene would have believed themselves to be dreaming or to have taken leave of their senses.

  The bright sunny spokes and blue blossoms of Philip King’s Hartley Steamer brought my attention back to the family as they, too, entered the course. My worries for them eased, as Philip seemed to be guiding the automobile well enough. He wobbled a bit along the course, but certainly no more than Aunt Alva had. Perhaps the whiskey I’d detected on his breath had been the result of but one drink.

  Derrick and I fell to discussing newspaper business. The Messenger’s profits had been steadily rising in the past year, especially now that the summer people were back in town. We discussed our newest investors—or his, really. I couldn’t claim even the smallest share in the business, for I couldn’t afford to buy in and was, essentially, merely an employee. But if one’s heart and hopes mattered, I was as heavily invested as anyone else.

  One topic I avoided was that of my former office manager, Jimmy Hawkins. Once employed by the Sun, Jimmy had come down from Providence to work with Derrick when he’d first purchased the Messenger. Jimmy had stayed on to work with me when Derrick returned to Providence, but things hadn’t proceeded as one might have hoped. I’d had to let Jimmy go, and when Derrick first asked me why, I had answered vaguely that Jimmy and I simply hadn’t worked well together and he had decided to return to the Sun. Apparently, Jimmy had given Derrick a similar explanation.

  I doubted Derrick believed either of us. The next time I’d seen him, last winter, he’d made the same inquiry, and I’d given him the same answer, resulting in a look of disappointment that made me wish I’d told him the truth.

  Almost. But doing so would have meant explaining how Jimmy had betrayed both Derrick’s and my trust, and would reveal the role Derrick’s father had played in the deception. That, more than anything else, stilled my tongue, for I didn’t wish to come between father and son.

  Would he bring it up again? We
reached Bellevue Court, walking on the opposite side of the avenue from the building site of The Elms, one of Newport’s newest and largest homes to date. An actual house had taken shape, although there was still much work to be done. Last year, the site had been a giant rectangular opening in the ground while the engineers and electricians had prepared Newport’s first all-electrical system, with no gas power as backup. The plans hadn’t been without controversy, as workers from our local gasworks, the Newport Illuminating Company, had marched to the site to protest what they saw as the eventual loss of their jobs. So far that hadn’t happened, and now I mentioned this to Derrick, as much to discuss the prospect as to forestall any questions he might have been planning to ask about Jimmy.

  “There are several all-electric mansions going up in Providence now, and New York, too, although The Elms will beat them to completion.” He smirked. “I think that’s important to Ed Berwind,” he added, speaking of the home’s owner and president of the Berwind-White Coal Mining Company.

  I started to answer, when the sound of skidding tires gave way to a crash, a crunch, and the splintering of wood.

  Chapter 2

  Derrick and I exchanged startled looks. A collective cry went up among the spectators, and the leisurely stroll along the avenue became a rush to see what had happened.

  We hurried along with the rest. The line of cars had come to a halt beside us, which could only mean there had indeed been an accident up ahead. Just beyond the south corner of The Elms property, a crowd had formed across the road, their backs to us. Glimpses of blue and yellow peeked through the milling press of bodies.

  “I think it’s the Kings,” I said, and moved forward more urgently.

  With Derrick shouldering the way through, I found myself at the forefront of the shocked spectators to see the Hartley Steamer at a perpendicular angle to the road, as if it had spun a quarter turn. Its front end abutted a pile of broken wood and canvas. Philip had climbed down from the driver’s seat, while the two King women remained in their seats with their palms pressed to their bosoms.