A Gilded Grave (19 page)

She reached into the dresser drawer and lifted out the brown wrapper that held her two new magazines, slid them out on the bed, and saw the yellow paper sticking out of the top one.

The telegram. She still had the telegram for her father. She pulled it out turned it over. She’d meant to give it to Mr. Woodruff as her father’s proxy, but after overhearing his
conversation with Charles, and seeing the way Charles had been acting with Madeline, she was afraid to trust either of them with it.

If Mr. Woodruff took advantage of the house servants, would he kill the girls to keep them quiet?

Did her father expect as much? Surely he wouldn’t have left her here if it wasn’t safe. But it was becoming more obvious that her father didn’t trust Mr. Woodruff with their business.

Maybe Deanna shouldn’t trust either of the Woodruffs with this telegram. The only person who had knowledge of the company business and whom she could truly trust was Joe.

Or she could just open it herself.

J
oe paced along the brick floor of the shop. The machines were all shut down, and his footsteps echoed in the cavernous room.

He hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights, and he could barely discern their shapes in the darkness. But these machines were his future—he hoped. And the future of R and W. Just because he didn’t enjoy the day-to-day running of the business didn’t mean he didn’t care about it. He cared a lot. And he had something concrete to offer.

He’d asked his father to give him a year to try to increase efficiency in the refining and the delivery processes. Improving efficiency and producing at a higher volume was the only way they could compete against the giant Sugar Trust.

And his machines would be safer for the workers.

They would still have to buy sugar from growers who had no concern for the men and women who worked their plantations under hideously hot and dangerous conditions.

Joe didn’t think things had to be like this just to get a profit.
He was in the minority, of course. He’d been called an air dreamer, a nutcase, a communist, and a fool. Let them call him what they would. Soon they’d all be coming to him, or someone like him, to increase their profits, and Joe would make the life of the workers just a little better at the same time.

Meanwhile, he’d be damned if he’d let American Sugar take over R and W like it had so many other refineries. Bought them up or shut them down, paid them off, cheated them, sabotaged them, destroyed men’s livelihoods. Havemeyer, who controlled the trust, didn’t care. So far nothing had stopped him in his insatiable hunger to control all sugar refining in the country. Not strikes, not the courts, not his conscience.

Havemeyer wasn’t alone; there were the Rockefellers and Vanderbilts, Carnegie, Gould, Fisk, Morgan. Lust for power and wealth was cutting out the middle class in every arena; it trounced the working class, took advantage of the poor.

Joe supposed it had always been like that. And maybe he was a communist to think that people should live in harmony with one another. An attitude his father attributed to Grandmère and her freethinking ways.

But tonight he wasn’t just thinking about sugar.

He was trying to figure out why two maids in the same household had been killed. Was it coincidence that Cokey had run into Joe and Daisy on the street? Why had Joe been the one to find that second maid? Were they the victims of some madman? Could it be someone from the Woodruffs’ own household?

Joe really needed to get Deanna out of Seacrest—the sooner the better.

Deanna.

He rested his elbow on the mechanical arm of the bagging
machine. He loved machines, wanted to spend his entire life among them. But he would also like to go home to something—someone—warm and soft who would talk back to him, laugh with him, make love to him.

But that would have to come later. How much later, he couldn’t pretend to know. It was imperative that they get this raw sugar deal and that he make machines that could help them compete in a shrinking market.

R and W wouldn’t go down without a struggle. Not if he had anything to do with it.

D
eanna ripped open the telegram. “This is from Joe’s father.”

ANOTHER OFFER FR. H FOR MY SHARE OF R & W.

IMPORTANT THAT WE TALK PLEASE RETURN TO CITY

Deanna turned the telegram for Elspeth to see.

“Who is H?”

“It has to be Mr. Havemeyer. He’s the head of the Sugar Trust, and he’s been trying to buy R and W for years. Now he’s trying to get Joe’s papa to go against mine and Mr. Woodruff.”

Elspeth shook her head. “I don’t know why they can’t leave each other’s businesses alone. I guess men are just plain greedy. Like boys and their marbles.”

Deanna frowned. “I suppose so, but with a lot more at stake than some colorful glass.”

Elspeth rested her chin on her fist. “But your papa is already in the city.”

“I know. And surely Mr. Ballard has contacted him by now. But what if he hasn’t? What if he doesn’t expect him in the city until Monday? We’ll have to go to the telegraph office first thing Monday and send papa another telegram telling him to see Mr. Ballard first thing. I hope it isn’t too late.”

“Well, it’s too late for you to still be awake. Now turn around or we won’t have time for any reading tonight.”

Deanna changed into her nightdress, then sat down to have Elspeth comb out her hair. While Elspeth began pulling out pins, Deanna reached into the drawer.

She didn’t open the magazine but spent a long time looking at its cover. “I think we need to turn this over to Will.” Deanna yawned. “But for tonight . . . I’ve had enough about poisoning and murder for this week. How about Loveday Brooke in
The Ghost of Fountain Lane
?”

T
he breakfast room was empty when Deanna came down Sunday morning. She was relieved not to have to make conversation.

She didn’t feel much like eating, but she also didn’t want to sit in her room like the others were doing if they weren’t still sleeping. She hadn’t slept well at all, and she knew her eyes were a little sunken and her cheeks were pale. The thought made her feel a little sad, because it made her think of her mother always telling Adelaide to pinch her cheeks.

Deanna looked around to make sure she was alone, then pinched her own cheeks.
Mama was right about some things
, she
conceded. And wondered what her mother would do if two of their maids had been murdered.

Her lip trembled; she wasn’t exactly laughing and not exactly crying. But uncomfortable. Her mama would never allow murder in Randolph House.

The baize door opened and Neville entered carrying a coffee tray.

“Good morning, miss. Coffee?”

“Yes, please.” She felt embarrassed to be sitting here alone like the mistress of the house. It was a lonely feeling. Maybe it was because the Seacrest breakfast room was almost as large as Randolph House’s dining room.

Neville poured coffee, moved the sugar and cream closer to her. “Do you care for toast? There are eggs and ham on the sideboard. As well as porridge. But if there is anything else you desire . . .”

Deanna shook her head. “No, that will be all.”

Neville bowed and left the room.

Deanna quickly brushed a tear away. She was feeling a little homesick this morning. Which was silly. Still, she wished she were home. If she were at home, she would be going to church. She liked church, especially here in Newport. But of course she wouldn’t go by herself, and this morning, when she’d been told that the Woodruff family would not be attending, Deanna had actually felt relieved.

She knew people would be paying more attention to the Woodruffs and whispering about their two murdered maids than attending the words of the sermon.

She finished her coffee and went upstairs to get her sketchbook, then walked out to the cliffs to sit by the sea. There were
several boulders perfect for sitting, so she didn’t bother to ask for a chair to be set out on the lawn.

She skirted the topiary hedge and cut through the garden. The hydrangeas were in bloom, fat and delicate as glass that had been filled with the color of the sky.

Deanna continued until she was at the walk. No one was about, so she sat down and opened her book. But she didn’t start drawing, just looked out to sea.

Her world had shuddered this week. That two servants of a prominent family could be murdered here in Newport—or anywhere, for that matter—was just beyond comprehension.

She didn’t believe the maids had done anything wrong, though both had worked for Mr. Woodruff, and if what Daisy said was true . . . But that just made no sense. If all gentleman carried on in such a way, there would be no reason to kill the objects of their . . . feelings.

It must be something else that bound both girls together. Was it that Daisy and Claire were friends? Or that Claire had been teaching Daisy to read? Could it have been one of the other servants?

That must be it. A jealous servant, or one who had interfered with both of them and killed them when they’d threatened to tell.

But surely Daisy would have told Orrin or Elspeth if that was happening. Unless she’d been too ashamed. It wasn’t fair that the maids were preyed upon and then brushed aside. Leaving them without reputations or references was bad enough. But to kill for that?

Abominable.

Someone must know something. Even if it was one of the
guests, someone must have seen. Though she supposed that, from a distance, maid and killer would look like any other couple. No one would pay any attention. Might not have noticed if she suddenly disappeared.

Vlady had discovered both bodies. Was that significant or just coincidence? Vlady was always doing adventurous things. It was reasonable that he
would
find something like that.

She sighed. It was just as reasonable that he’d known where to find them. But why lead everyone there? To keep from being suspected? No one would think of accusing the person who’d pointed out the crime. But how many stories had she read where the villain appeared as a friendly, well-mannered gentleman who, after gaining the heroine’s trust, turned out to be a horrible monster?

Herbert Stanhope was friendly and well-mannered, kept them all laughing. He’d also been at both discoveries. Now that she thought about it, he hadn’t stayed to wait for the police at Bailey’s. She’d looked for him and he’d been gone.

But that didn’t make
him
the murderer.

And then there was Joe . . .

“Miss Deanna.”

Deanna yelped and her sketchbook slid off her lap.

“I beg your pardon,” Neville said as he stooped to collect her notebook and the pencil that had fallen with it.

“You startled me.” She scrambled to her feet.

“My apologies, miss.” He handed her book and pencil back. “Miss Cassie and Lady Madeline asked me to say they desired your presence in the morning room.”

“Oh, is that all?” Deanna brushed off her skirt. “I’ll come at once.”

He bowed, and she preceded him up the lawn to the house.

Cassie and Madeline were sitting in the morning room, a carafe of coffee and tray of pastries between them.

“We’re picnicking,” Cassie said, with what Deanna thought was forced enthusiasm. “To soothe our wounded souls,” she said, and sighed theatrically.

Deanna thought the idea of eating pastries as a display of mourning missed the mark.

“Mama sent our regrets to Mrs. Callum that we wouldn’t be attending her ‘hen’ luncheon today. She said it would be unseemly in view of recent events.”

“Is your mama feeling under the weather?” Deanna asked, glad of the cancellation. She hadn’t relished lunching with a dozen women, all chattering about whatever came into their heads.

“Not ill, exactly. She just isn’t quite the thing this morning.”

Who could blame her? Though, eschewing society because of something as scandalous as murder might only cause more speculation. Sometimes it was better to just brazen it out and get it over with.

“Perhaps spending a few hours reflecting wouldn’t hurt us,” Deanna offered.

Cassie rolled her eyes. “Oh, Dee, sometimes . . .”

“She’s right,” Maddie said. “We’ve been so busy partying that we’ve barely thought about those poor girls. We’re very self-absorbed creatures aren’t we, Deanna?”

“Yes, we are,” Deanna agreed. Though Lady Madeline’s attitude won her back a smidgen of Deanna’s esteem.

“I suppose you want to read sermons,” Cassie said on a yawn.

“No. What a thoughtless thing to say.”

Cassie huffed. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just so boring to sit around and do nothing. And then Papa and Charles insist on
taking Lord David to New York on the ferry tonight. They might be gone all week.”

“Well, at least there will still be plenty of men to dance with,” Deanna consoled.

“Yes, but . . .” Cassie glanced at her. “But won’t you miss Lord David?”

“I’m sure we all will, but I don’t want to sit here and dwell on our misfortune.” With that, Deanna left the room, primly she supposed Cassie would say. But she just had no patience for her friend’s whining today.

But on one score she was right. It was going to be a long day.

The gentlemen left for the ferry around five o’clock, joining the other husbands, sons, and guests who took the ferry back and forth each week.

Some kept their yachts at the ready so they didn’t have to wait for the ferry, but the ferry was almost as sumptuous as one’s own parlor, and there was plenty of entertainment for the men.

Dinner, like most Sunday dinners without the men in the family, was a desultory affair. Newport seemed to sigh with relief once the ferry pulled away from the wharf. Though Deanna wasn’t fooled. It was the matrons who ran Newport, and any seeming relaxation was only a momentary pause to reenergize themselves for the power struggles that would begin again on Monday.

C
assie and Madeline and Mrs. Woodruff were in the breakfast room when Deanna came down on Monday morning. Deanna helped herself to eggs, tomatoes, and sausage from the buffet.

“Well, I think it’s a bore,” Cassie was saying. “What are we supposed to do while they’re gone?”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Mrs. Woodruff said.

As far as Deanna was concerned, they could stay gone. Hopefully, Mr. Ballard and her father could finally cinch their deal, and Lord David and his sister would leave before Adelaide got back.

Cassie sighed dramatically. “Stuffy old business. I’m sure Lord David would have rather stayed here,” she continued. “Who’s going to escort us to the musicale tonight? And we were supposed to go on Vlady’s yacht this week. And the Howes’ soiree. Oh, and the theater. Oh, Mama, don’t say we’ll have to miss the new play.”

“Perhaps Vlady and Herbert would escort you to the theater.”

“Vlady hates the theater. Well, he likes the farces but not real plays.” Cassie sighed again. “I can’t say as I blame him. Plays are boring, long-winded things.”

“Well, I have an idea.” Mrs. Woodruff smiled and twinkled at the girls. “We have the Latham-Jones musicale tonight, but why don’t we have an impromptu get-together tomorrow night with games and maybe a few dances? It won’t be a yacht party but it will help all our moods. Nothing too big, just the regular boys and girls. I’m sure Vlady will give up one yacht party. They can all come here.”