Murder at Rough Point Read online

  This last puzzled me, but I assumed the group had its reasons. Mr. Dunn then escorted me back across the house, leaving me alone in the drawing room to mull over the information while he went off to manage last-minute arrangements. I was instructed to wait, though for what I received no clue. I drifted through the room, making note of the changes since the last time I’d visited. Ming vases, an original Gainsborough, and other priceless items had been supplanted by expensive but not irreplaceable pieces, just as Uncle Frederick had said. He and Aunt Louise were taking no chances with their beloved possessions.

  I returned to the central seating arrangement and sighed. That niggling question from earlier had been answered, for I had wondered how a group of artists, never known for possessing wealth, had raised enough funds to lease an estate like Rough Point. Mr. Dunn had confided that one of the guests was no starving artist, but an English baronet with a fortune at his disposal. I found his inclusion in such a group both unusual and interesting, and looked forward to interviewing him.

  Wondering how long I would be consigned to the drawing room and what I might be waiting for, I stared at a fire screen I hadn’t seen here before, an elegant piece in carved, gilded wood holding an embroidered design on gold silk. It was a bright spot in this room, which, like the rest of the house, boasted the same dark floors, thick mahogany moldings, and deep, coffered ceilings.

  “Your reputation quite precedes you, Miss Cross. Mr. Dunn informed me of your arrival, as I asked him to. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you again.”

  Even after more than a decade, I recognized the voice. I also realized it belonged to the person whose name had not fully reached my ears as Aunt Louise and Uncle Frederick drove away. I also understood now why Uncle Frederick had used the term keeping up with the Joneses. For a member of that very family, the daughter of George and Lucretia Jones, was here beneath this roof, in this very room with me. It was her family’s wealth and extravagant lifestyle that had inspired the saying that had grown so prevalent most people had no idea where it originated. But I knew, and I struggled to compose my feelings.

  How ironic that an individual I might most wish to avoid—whom I had for the most part avoided through the years—would be the first to greet me today.

  I turned to face Mrs. Edward Wharton. Some ten years my elder, she and I had met once before, only briefly, before my mother shooed me away. Run to Nanny, Emma, she had said, and let the grown-ups visit. It had been at our house on Walnut Street in the Easton’s Point neighborhood by the harbor. I had scraped my knee, badly, and sought my mother’s attentions. But she had company, and I’d been too young to understand the significance of such a visitor entering our modest home. Too inexperienced to grasp that my father’s Vanderbilt roots combined with his growing reputation as an artist had garnered the notice of one of society’s wealthiest young women. Edith Wharton.

  “Do you not remember me, Miss Cross? I suppose it has been many years, and you were so very young at the time.”

  Oh, I remembered. I remembered how my child’s heart had detested her for putting such an avid light in my mother’s eyes, when her own daughter so rarely achieved the same level of enthusiasm. I hadn’t understood the reasons then. I hadn’t understood that this woman would become one of my father’s most ardent patrons, so essential to an artist’s career, and that eventually she and others would persuade my parents to leave Newport for the intellectual stimulation of Paris. But even if I had comprehended all those years ago, all it would have meant to me was that this individual could purchase my parents’ attentions while I could not.

  I drew a fortifying breath, forced a courteous smile, and summoned the professionalism I so prized, and which I’d lost, utterly, at the sound of this woman’s greeting. “I certainly do remember you, Mrs. Wharton. I hope you’ve been well?”

  “Come, let us sit and become acquainted.” She went to the lovely Regency-era sofa set at a perpendicular angle to the hearth, its gold pin striping setting off larger bands of burgundy and cream and picking up the gold silk design of the fire screen. She patted the cushion beside her. “I’m a great admirer of yours. I’d hoped we might discuss our literary tastes and writing techniques.”

  I was taken aback and could do little to hide the fact. “You follow my Fancies and Fashions page?”

  “Well, yes, there is that.” She brushed the notion aside with a flutter of her carefully manicured hand. “But your news articles, your reports on the terrible goings-on in Newport these past two summers. I must tell you I’m exceedingly impressed that you convinced your editor-in-chief to allow you to write those articles. Nellie Bly would be proud of you, I should think.”

  I confess to experiencing a tiny thrill at being compared to the journalist I most wished to emulate. Nellie Bly, who wrote for the World in New York, had exceeded boundaries no female journalist had ever crossed before. “I confess it wasn’t easy. Mr. Millford resisted my efforts at every turn, as did my fellow reporter at the Observer. Ed Billings attempted to step in each time and claim the byline for his own.” As soon as I’d spoken, I wondered why I’d confided such details to her.

  “And yet you persisted, didn’t you, Miss Cross?” She didn’t wait for my answer. “I believe you have grown into a woman of substance. And your style! It is much to be envied.”

  Puzzled, I swept a glance downward at my blue carriage dress. It had once belonged to my aunt Sadie, was years out of date, but Nanny, my housekeeper and surrogate grandmother, had refreshed its appearance with jet buttons and, more recently, satin trimmings. Still . . .

  Mrs. Wharton must have guessed the train of my thoughts, for presently she laughed, a light, easy sound. “No, Miss Cross, I don’t mean your fashion style. That is neither here nor there. I refer to your writing style. I don’t know if you are aware, but I’ve written a good deal of poetry, and I’m currently working on a manual of interior design I plan to call A Decoration of Houses. That is why I’m here, you see, and I’m hoping . . . well . . .”

  She hesitated, seeming uncertain for the first time during our little tête-à-tête. I waited, wondering what she could possibly be leading up to, and took the opportunity to take in details that, in my shock of recognition, had eluded me.

  She was dressed simply yet expensively in a cream skirt and, in the current trend that emulated menswear, a gray silk shirtwaist topped by a crisp white collar and a smart black bowtie. A tailored black jacket completed her outfit, the sleeves fashionably wide at the shoulders and tapering to tight cuffs at the wrists. The effect was both masculine yet unmistakably feminine. Confident. There was nothing frilly or superfluous about her, and the ease with which she moved in the outfit aroused my envy.

  Yet Edith Wharton was not what I would consider a beautiful woman. She had rather plain, even features, large, earnest eyes, and a small, thin mouth that, in its resting position, did not encourage the viewer to expect more than a polite smile.

  “What I hope,” she elaborated, “is that you might deign to look over a bit of what I’d written and give me your honest opinion. Perhaps advise me where and how I might adjust my prose for greater impact.”

  I believe my mouth might have dropped open. She in turn looked apologetic, as if she supposed I would say I was far too busy and dismiss her request out of hand. “If you wish,” I said, “I’ll be happy to take a look, but be forewarned, Mrs. Wharton. I’m merely a journalist. I have no experience with writing books.”

  Briefly, almost guiltily, I thought of the manuscript buried in a drawer in my desk at home. Ah, but I had progressed very little before I realized no fictional scenario could ever compete with the realities I’d witnessed these past two years, and the prospect of even trying had become a trite endeavor to me.

  “My dear, a journalist is exactly what I need to banish the poetess in me. I wish to be taken seriously, to be seen as having valid opinions in matters of taste and style.” Mrs. Wharton hesitated, absently fingering the bowtie beneath her chin. “I have aspi
rations beyond my interior design project. Did you know I’ve tried my hand at playwriting, and I believe I might have a novel in me. Perhaps several. But I must hone my craft before I plunge in.”

  “I’d be happy to help you if I can, Mrs. Wharton . . . And honored.” How extraordinary. This was not how I would have envisioned such a meeting, and most surprising, after years of resenting Edith Wharton, I found myself quite liking her. Admiring her. And finding in her a kindred spirit of sorts. “Mrs. Wharton, I must ask. Was it you who asked for me to report on this retreat?”

  Her smile brought a trace of beauty to her otherwise plain features, yet I detected some glint in her eye that hinted at more than her next words revealed. “I did. I hope that’s all right. Perhaps it was a bit presumptuous of me.”

  “Not at all. Thank you.” A bit of my former elation returned. Still . . .

  “No, thank you, Miss Cross. I acted out of completely selfish motives, and this is an opportunity of which I plan to take full advantage, if you’ll allow me.”

  “I can see no reason why not.” I fell silent as I studied her a moment. It seemed highly odd to me that this woman, who could easily gain access to some of the most creative and brilliant minds of the day, would seek my counsel.

  She obviously noticed my pensiveness. “Is something wrong?”

  I slowly shook my head. “No, but . . . is there any other reason you wished me to be here?”

  “Such as what, Miss Cross?” Again that evasive look in her eye. “Perhaps you underestimate your talents.”

  “May I ask you . . . why lease Rough Point when your own Land’s End is so close by?” I referred to the property she and her husband inhabited in the summer months, on Ledge Road off Bellevue Avenue at the very southern tip of the island. Land’s End was a blend of Colonial and Italianate styles, with steep gambrel roof lines that gave the appearance of a great beast crouched at the edge of the land.

  “There is a very good reason for that,” she said. “Anonymity. If we were to open Land’s End, my mother and other relatives would be on us in an instant. As it is, they don’t yet know I’ve returned to the country. We wish this retreat to be exactly that, Miss Cross. Peaceful, contemplative, and productive. Oh, but here is our Miss Marcus.” She gestured to the doorway and the woman entering the room.

  I admit to having yet a second unprofessional moment. Like an unseasoned schoolgirl I rushed to my feet and met the woman in question before she’d closed even half the distance between us. “Miss Marcus, what a thrill. I’ve had the very great pleasure of seeing you perform in Providence, oh, nearly three years ago I believe it was. You were in—”

  “La Traviata, wasn’t it?” Her skirts swayed as she spoke. She wore lavender silk jacquard with a pale green pattern of dogwood and bamboo—swaths of it draped elegantly around a generous figure, with flowing sleeves and a lacy décolletage cut daringly low for this time of day.

  “Yes,” I confirmed, hearing my own eagerness and helpless to do anything about it. “Opening night. I went with my Vanderbilt cousins, Cornelius, Alice, and—”

  “Yes, I don’t often perform in Providence, and I remember that opening night.” She pouted full, pink lips—rouged, if I wasn’t mistaken—and awakening dimples in either cheek. “It rained dreadfully and I feared no one would come.”

  “A little rain could not have kept us away, Miss Marcus. You were divine.”

  She tipped her head, her blond curls caught up in a beaded band sporting a tulle bow at one side. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe I heard your name.”

  “Josephine, this is Emma Cross.” Something in the way Mrs. Wharton spoke my name once again raised my guard. My reporter’s instincts reared up inside me, banishing the starry-eyed admirer of renowned opera singer Josephine Marcus.

  I returned to my seat beside Mrs. Wharton and removed my tablet and pencil from my purse. “Will you be performing in the area while you’re here, Miss Marcus? The Casino, perhaps?” I couldn’t contain the hopeful note in my voice, although I knew full well the social Season had ended weeks earlier and it was a rare performer indeed who could be coaxed to entertain our local populace.

  “No, I’m here to calm my nerves and enjoy a bit of sea air.” Miss Marcus sat opposite us. Whereas Mrs. Wharton perched properly upright with the straightest of postures, which I attempted to emulate, the opera singer reclined against the cushion at her back—a woman who sat as she pleased and, I guessed, did as she pleased, convention be damned. “I’m afraid I’ll be no use in providing gossip for your newspaper article, Miss Cross. The spring and summer seasons have left me quite diminished.”

  “I don’t write a gossip column, Miss Marcus,” I told her as politely as I could, although the very word raised my hackles. “My Fancies and Fashions page is about styles and trends and follows society activities during the Season.”

  “That’s not all Miss Cross does, Josephine.” Mrs. Wharton went on to describe the more harrowing tales I’d retold in print. Then she and Miss Marcus traded pleasantries of the sort people do when they know each other well but haven’t seen each other in recent days. I listened, jotted down a note or two that might be of interest in my article, but my attention was momentarily drawn elsewhere.

  The drawing room looked out onto a covered veranda and the main terrace, both of which overlooked the sea. Two men presently came up the terrace steps. They were young men, not yet thirty, I estimated, and they were laughing. When one stumbled on the top step the other reached out to steady him with a firm hand. This only elicited more laughter. Then they sobered and traded quieter words.

  I had a good look at them then. One was all darkness—hair, eyes, even his complexion, which possessed a smooth olive sheen particular to Mediterranean climates. He again raised a hand, this time to push a mop of thick curls off his forehead. That hand was large, the fingers long and slender, and beautifully tapered.

  But it was when the other turned in my direction that my breath stopped. Where the first was dark, this man was light—hair, eyes, skin, and even the way he held himself and the way he moved, as if he might at any moment grasp the breeze and fly out over the ocean. The fanciful notion nearly made me chuckle out loud. Here I had thought I had regained my professional perspective. But his was an artist’s face surrounded by wavy light brown hair, or at least the sort of face artists loved to capture, with its chiseled cheekbones, strong chin, and intelligent brow. And yet the mouth—the mouth was soft, gently bowed, almost feminine in its lushness....

  “Ah, that’s Vasili and Niccolo you see out there, Miss Cross.” Miss Marcus’s grin was feline and, I thought, cunning. “They’ve been out exploring the Cliff Walk. Thank goodness neither went over the side.”

  The men entered the veranda, first sitting to remove their boots and step into shoes before opening the drawing room doors to come in. They seemed startled at first to see Mrs. Wharton and me, and greeted us with brief bobs and good mornings. They continued through to the Great Hall, their steps echoing off the high ceiling.

  “I assume they’re part of the retreat,” I said. “Who are they, may I ask?”

  Josephine Marcus looked almost sorry for me. Mrs. Wharton said, “My dear, that’s Vasili Pavlenko—the pretty one with the light brown hair.”

  “And the delicious figure,” Miss Marcus added in a stage whisper. “He’s perfect—absolutely perfect from head to toe. But then, ballet dancers usually are.”

  “A dancer,” I mused. “How wonderful.”

  Mrs. Wharton’s hand came down on my wrist, startling me with its abruptness. “No, dear. Not any longer. Vasili sustained an injury that prevents him from dancing professionally ever again. It is his great sorrow. He’s now a choreographer with the Imperial Russian Ballet. Do not mention his past unless he brings it up first.”

  “Thank you for warning me. I won’t. And the other . . . ?

  “The dark one is Niccolo Lionetti.” Miss Marcus wrinkled the perfect slope of her nose, but rather than a negative gesture
there was something proprietary in her expression, though she elaborated no further.

  “Is he a dancer, too?” I asked.

  “Goodness, no.” Mrs. Wharton laughed again in that easy way she had. “Niccolo plays the cello, and quite beautifully, I might add. He’s in demand in every major city in Europe. I expect the same will soon be true here in America once he’s played on a few stages.”

  “I see. And whom else can I expect to meet?”

  My question sent furtive glances back and forth between Edith Wharton and Josephine Marcus. Mrs. Wharton said casually, “There is Sir Randall Clifford, of course. He’s interested in buying Rough Point.”

  “I didn’t know it was for sale.” Indeed, Mr. Dunn hadn’t mentioned that very pertinent fact, nor had Uncle Frederick and Aunt Louise.

  “Nothing is certain yet,” Mrs. Wharton explained. “I’m sure it’s no secret to you that they’ve grown tired of Newport. One cannot blame them for wishing to unload the place.”

  “No, I don’t suppose so.” My thoughts turned inward. I couldn’t help thinking about how much had been lost to me already, and how much more stood to be lost. My cousin Consuelo, gone away and unlikely to return to Newport anytime soon; Cousin Neily—dear Neily—also out of the country indefinitely; and his sister, Gertrude, had left as well, having married Harry Whitney in August. My childhood home on the Point had been sold—to a man who, despite my every resolve, held a significant part of my heart, and now he was gone as well with no definite plans of returning. Then there was Uncle Cornelius, victim of a stroke during the summer, from which he might never fully recover. On top of all that, I barely saw my brother Brady these days, working as he was in New York City at the offices of the New York Central Railroad.