Murder at Beechwood (8 page)

I read over what I had typed so far, a fair account of an incident the police officially still considered an accident. No need to mention Wyatt Monroe's accusations, or Jesse's disclosure that the
Vigilant
might have been tampered with. None of those things had been proved yet. A prudent reporter would wait.

I would be prudent.

 

“I don't know, Emma . . .” Mr. Millford's voice faded and I fidgeted with the telephone wire as I waited for him to continue. What didn't he know about? My article was straightforward, wasn't it? Then why hadn't he run it yet? Why was he calling me that next morning, Thursday, to express his hesitation?

“It feels as if . . .” He paused again, then said, “As if you're holding back. Being too careful. Maybe we should let Ed take over this one.”

“No!” My shout prompted a cry from Robbie, just then being carried down the stairs in Katie's arms. In my mind's eye I could picture Mr. Millford flinching, then frowning. I hurried to control the damage I had just inflicted on my cause. “Mr. Millford, just as with the Marble House murder, I was there at Beechwood. I'm a firsthand witness. If I'm being careful—and I'm not saying I agree with that assessment, not entirely—but if I am, it's because I'm waiting for the facts to unfold before rushing to judgment. Which is what Ed would do. You know he would, Mr. Millford.”

A murmuring sound came over the wire as he apparently mulled this over. Again, I pictured him frowning, perhaps this time running a hand over his hair. “Ed might do that on occasion, but he also sells newspapers.”

“Yes, but—” I cut my own argument short, suddenly unable to defend myself. I
had
held back, and it wasn't the first time. Last summer I reported on the Marble House murder, but I had swept a good many facts under the rug. I'd done so for my cousin Consuelo's sake, but all my good intentions didn't prevent a certain guilt from nudging at my reporter's soul. Once again, I found myself facing the same conundrum. But what choice? Either water down the truth, or allow people I cared about to go down in a froth of scandal whipped up by Ed Billings. Was my journalist's integrity worth more than their futures?

“Mr. Millford,” I began anew, “I—”

“All right, you can continue with this one, Emma. But if Ed turns up any interesting developments, I'll run his articles, too.”

“Then you'll run mine? The one I handed you yesterday? On the front page, in my name?”

“E. Cross, like last time, and page two, I think.”

“Mr. Millford . . .”

“That's all for now, Emma. Good-bye.”

He ended the call before I could manage to push an appropriate response past my lips.

Later that day I visited Rough Point to see how Uncle Frederick, Uncle William, and his two sons fared after their brush with the ocean storm. Like Neily, they were all well, though shaken, and could only tell me that they had also noticed the Monroes' sloop dragging awkwardly through the water right before the wind picked up. Uncle William remembered thinking the other vessel wouldn't maintain its lead for long unless they regained control.

I found that odd. The sloop had appeared to those of us on Beechwood's loggia as having been in the lead since rounding the southern tip of the island. If the boat had been tampered with prior to the race, how could it have sailed out ahead of the others so easily? And what could have developed during the race that caused the boat to falter before the storm hit?

I arrived home to hear my telephone jingling once again.

“Emma, it's Jesse.”

My pulse jumped. “You've learned something?”

“We're not certain it didn't happen during the storm, but the rigging on the sloop's main mast appears frayed, which caused the line to fail, possibly even before the mast broke.” He sounded rushed, and I could imagine him at his desk amid the bustle of the busy police station.

“What does that mean exactly?” I tried to picture how the sloop had struggled against the waves and wind. Fraying resulted from friction, from being rubbed against—or by—a rough object. Surely the lines had been strained to breaking against the wind, but would that have resulted in the rope wearing out? “What would the result of such fraying be?”

“Once the line snapped, the boom would have swung out of control or fallen. Specifically, to the port side given the prevailing winds during the storm.”

“But even before the line failed, the boom would have been difficult to control, no?”

“That's correct.”

“And you believe that resulted in Virgil Monroe falling overboard?”

“There's nothing conclusive. With the boom out of control any number of the men could have been swept overboard. However, Wyatt Monroe's position of port trimmer put him most in the line of danger.”

“That makes no sense.” I thought a moment. “What positions did the others hold?”

“Lawrence Monroe was the main trimmer, and your friend, Derrick, manned the starboard trimmer position.”

I ignored his subtle emphasis on the word
friend.
“What did Nate do?”

“Tactician. He basically had to keep track of the wind shifts and relay the information to the others, while they trimmed the sails and shifted course accordingly.”

I considered these facts in silence until Jesse said, “Emma, I just wanted to let you know. I really must go. . . .”

“Wait. Something isn't adding up here. The fraying on the rigging should have been noticed during the inspections before the race, and that suggests it was done intentionally afterward. Yet the damage would have been most detrimental to Wyatt, not Virgil. Whoever did the tampering couldn't have known a storm was brewing, but . . .” I fell silent again, thinking.

“Emma, I can ring you later tonight—”

“Don't hang up,” I practically shouted. I moved closer to the call box and spoke directly into the mouthpiece. “What if whoever frayed the rigging did it to stage what appeared to be an accident? Maybe the plan was simply to push Virgil from the boat while the others were distracted, and put the blame on the faulty lines. But then the unexpected storm struck, making the pretense of frayed rigging unnecessary.” A scenario took full shape in my mind and I gasped.

“What? Are you all right?” It was Jesse's turn to raise his voice.

“Jesse, what if Wyatt frayed the rigging because he planned to stage the accident and make it look as though he himself were about to go overboard? Who would most likely hurry to his rescue?”

“I assume you mean his brother?”

“I do. Not to mention that Virgil's position put him closest to Wyatt, so it would make sense that he would have been the first to reach for him. But even if the others tried to intervene as well, Wyatt could have managed to fall overboard and take Virgil with him, drowning him in the waves before the others could fish them out.”

“Stop right there.” Jesse's policeman's voice startled me. I jerked the ear trumpet away and suddenly understood how a criminal felt when told to halt or his pursuers would shoot. His next words floated across the several inches I'd put between myself and the device. “You're stretching again, Emma. That scenario is too convoluted to hold water. I telephoned because I promised I'd keep you apprised of developments, not to feed your wild imagination. I've got to go. If you think of any sensible possibilities, let me know.”

He hung up, leaving me holding the ear trumpet in the air and staring at the call box with my mouth half open. I didn't know whether to be insulted or despondent that my old friend would speak to me that way. For a moment I considered calling back and giving him a dressing down.

My own words played back in my mind . . . and I realized Jesse was probably right. Crimes were usually simple—it was the aftermath and the attempts to cover up that became convoluted, to use Jesse's word.

Still, in my mind the frayed rigging spelled tampering, a clumsy attempt to make an intentional drowning appear accidental, the result of a swinging boom. And the fact that the boom would have struck either the starboard or port trimmer implied even more an attempt to make Virgil's death appear accidental. He would hasten to assist the struck man, and in turn be tossed overboard and left to the mercy of the waves.

Gently I replaced the ear trumpet to its cradle. My theory seemed ludicrous, not to mention impossible to prove.

But somehow, I
would
prove it. Or so I hoped.

 

On Friday I returned to Beechwood, this time not only with Grace, but also her sister-in-law, Mrs. Orme Wilson, formerly Carrie Astor. Which meant, of course, that on the way over in Grace's carriage I could not speak openly about little Robbie or my suspicions concerning Virgil Monroe. Carrie's mother had asked both women to come and help her entertain her unhappy guests. When we arrived, Mrs. Astor looked less than pleased to see me again, but she could hardly voice her disapproval when her own daughter treated me as a friend.

Carrie Astor Wilson was a slender beauty, with dark, lustrous hair, large eyes, and a delicate nose and mouth. Despite her mother's rigid social standards, I had always felt at ease with Carrie, and she had been a favorite of my cousin Consuelo's. In fact, she reminded me of Consuelo now, in both looks and manner, and a sudden sadness came over me. I'd seen my cousin every summer for as long as I could remember, and she had always been like a younger sister to me, so much more so because neither of us had sisters of our own.

It suddenly struck me that this summer, for the first time, I would receive no invitations to Marble House, or desperate telephone calls begging me to come and comfort her after one of her mother's infamous tirades. Last November Consuelo married the ninth Duke of Marlborough and moved away to England. It might be years before I saw her again.

“Do you play bridge, Miss Cross?” Mrs. Astor asked as she herded us out to the loggia, whose graceful arches mirrored those of the porte cochere at the front of the house.

“I'm afraid I don't, ma'am.”

“Good,” she said rather too heartily, so that I took it as a slight. But then she gestured beyond the two garden tables obviously set up for card games to where Daphne Gordon stood staring out at the ocean. “Neither does Daphne. Perhaps you might keep her company while the rest of us play a few rounds.”

“I'd be only too happy to,” I said quite truthfully. I had come to ask questions, and I couldn't think of a better person to begin with, or under better circumstances. With Eudora Monroe's attention on her cards, she was less likely to steal Daphne away from me again.

Voices drifted from inside the house, and a moment later several ladies stepped outside. I recognized among them Grace's sister, May, and their mother, Melissa. Eudora walked between them, wearing dark blue moiré with thin black stripes—somber colors for summer, to be sure, but not quite what one would consider mourning attire.

Mrs. Astor bid them take their seats. Before Grace moved to take hers, I shielded my mouth with my hand, and whispered, “Isn't this a bit odd, setting up for bridge when one of the players' husbands has just died?” I glanced over at Eudora again. “And she's wearing half mourning at best.”

“I thought you knew,” Grace whispered back. “Mrs. Monroe is refusing to declare her husband deceased until the search has been exhausted.”

I gazed out at the heaving waves. The weather had cleared, but whitecaps dotted the vista. “The rescue ships are gone.”

“Yes, but she hasn't given up hope that he might wash up alive somewhere on the island.”

“After two days?”

Grace shrugged.

“Come, ladies,” Mrs. Astor called. “Let us begin.”

Grace went to the table where her mother and sister already sat with Eudora Monroe. I stood watching a few moments more while footmen carried out trays of lemonade, tiny sandwiches, and colorful petits fours. Eudora plucked up a sandwich and nibbled at the corner.

I didn't understand her at all. She had practically tossed her fan, a gift from her husband, at me as if it meant nothing to her, yet she refused to accept his apparent death. At the same time, however, she was enjoying an afternoon of cards—albeit a quiet occupation—when most wives would be lying in their beds, incoherent with grief.

Was she a bereaved woman who kept her feelings close, or had her husband's obvious demise left her wholly unaffected? I would have to talk to her to find out, and to do that I would need to find a way to be alone with her.

For now I crossed the loggia to join Daphne near one of the fluted columns supporting the loggia's beautiful arches.

“Good afternoon, Miss Gordon,” I said as I reached her. “How are you holding up today?”

She turned to me with a serene, one would even say contented, countenance that took me aback. “I'm well, Miss Cross. And you?”

I hardly knew how to answer. Three nights ago she had been on the verge of tears, with nothing but complaints about having to attend one of the most important balls of the summer. And now, after the death of her only father figure . . .

She went back to staring out at the ocean, tilting her cheeks up to the breeze and closing her eyes in apparent enjoyment. “Such a beautiful day, isn't it? I don't know how the others can concentrate on cards with such a glorious view available to them.”

“I'm glad to see Mrs. Monroe up and about,” I ventured, but received only a nod and a murmured “yes.” It seemed Daphne was not of a mind to offer up any insights. An odd sense settled over me that Wednesday's events hadn't occurred, that I'd only imagined the boat race and storm and Virgil Monroe falling overboard. How else to explain this utter lack of effect upon either Eudora or Daphne? Yet the fallen coachman had not been imagined, nor Robbie, whom I'd held and fed and walked up and down my kitchen garden that morning.