Murder at Rough Point (18 page)

I didn't know where to go, whom to talk to. If I could have gotten through on the telephone, I would have called Jesse. With the storm showing little sign of abating, who knew how soon he would return to Rough Point, or what he might reveal when he arrived.

In any case, I needed time to calm down and think over what I had learned—
possibly
learned. Perhaps Gayla hadn't been about to say “Long Wharf.” Perhaps my father had first telephoned a friend in town. Goodness knew my parents still had countless acquaintances despite their lengthy absence.

Passing through the Stair Hall on my way to the drawing room, I nearly collided with Niccolo, who came charging blindly out of the billiard room. I jumped out of the way, receding into the alcove beneath the half landing. He continued into the Great Hall, where his footsteps bombarded the marble floor and echoed against the ceiling two stories high. A moment later Miss Marcus exited the billiard room in a flurry of skirts and the clatter of her high-heeled mules. Her bosom straining to escape her bodice, she looked furious and augmented that impression by shouting Niccolo's name with a demand he return. It was a demand he evidently ignored, for he could not but have heard her. Even Mrs. Harris in the kitchen would have heard her command. Like Niccolo, Miss Marcus didn't see me as she breezed by and followed his path into the Great Hall.

I hesitated for several seconds before I, too, crossed the Great Hall, but at a slower pace than my predecessors and with lighter footfalls. Though a fire cracked in the drawing room hearth, I found the room empty, and a glance out the French doors confirmed they hadn't gone out onto the covered veranda. The library?

Perhaps I sank to a new low, but asking questions of any of these people—including my own parents—had yet to yield forthright answers. The only person I felt I could trust was Mrs. Wharton, and for all I knew I could be entirely wrong about her. After all, she did harbor her own resentment toward Claude Baptiste due to his ending their collaboration on their play. But whereas Miss Marcus's disappointment over the role of Carmen stemmed from desperation over a fading career, Mrs. Wharton's career as a writer was only just beginning. It made no sense for her to have become enraged enough to kill the Frenchman.

In one matter I had no doubts. Miss Marcus and Niccolo Lionetti were somehow involved with each other, whether as intimates, coconspirators, or merely friends, I could not say, but now they appeared incensed with each other and I wanted to know why. In light of events and my unspoken promise to be Jesse's eyes and ears in his absence, I felt it my duty to learn more.

I turned to proceed into the library but a gasp escaped my lips. The sight of Teddy Wharton sitting with his back to me in one of the wing chairs stopped me in my tracks. I hadn't noticed him upon entering the room and now I saw my subterfuge foiled. Except . . . as I slowly came around his chair I realized his eyes were closed, his head propped against the carved frame, and his mouth slightly parted. Without wasting another moment I tiptoed past him, ready to pretend to be in search of a book as I neared the library doors.

To my bewilderment, no voices emanated from the library either. After seeing Niccolo and Miss Marcus in such a state only moments ago, I could not believe they had fallen into so abrupt a silence. I peeked in to discover the room vacant, the lights doused, the fireplace cold.

Then movement caught my eye. Another set of French doors led out to the covered piazza, often used for outdoor dining and evening entertainments in the summer months. The pair stood with their backs to me, as if Niccolo had turned away from Miss Marcus and started to walk off. She stood poised with her hands on her hips, and the jerky movements of her shoulders suggested she was speaking sharply to him. Surrounding them on three sides beyond the piazza, the storm seethed, sending gusts beneath the roof to ruffle Niccolo's hair and Miss Marcus's skirts.

Two dead men and a host of mysteries hovering over this baffling group of friends sent me into the library. Thanks to the lack of hearth fire or lamplight, the shadows would cloak me should one of my quarry happen to glance inside. I positioned myself to the right of the doors and leaned toward the closer of the two just enough to press my ear to the miniscule gap between the door and the lintel. This seemed to have become quite a habit of late, me listening in with my ear pressed to doors. I refused to allow a nagging sense of shame to deter me.

Their words were muffled and garbled by wind and rain, but Niccolo apparently turned, perhaps moved closer to Miss Marcus, and raised his voice. I heard him well enough now, the words crystal clear despite his accent. “Perhaps you wish I died rather than Randall or Claude. That would make you happy, yes, Josephine?”

I dared to peer with one eye through the closest pane of glass. Miss Marcus had raised both hands in a gesture that seemed to beseech him to be quiet. His features contorted in anger, and once again he ignored her command.

“I have been more than patient while you play me for a fool. Do you enjoy laughing at me, Josephine?”

Voices in the drawing room startled me out of my concentration. I backed away from the doors and snatched a book off a shelf—any book—ready to pretend this was my reason for entering the library. Suddenly one of the French doors opened. I retreated into the gloom of the closest corner and pressed myself to the bookcases behind me. I held the book I'd seized in front of me like a shield. Niccolo stomped past without seeing me, partly due to the shadows and partly to his never raising his eyes from the floor. A glimpse of his profile made me wince and shrink deeper against the shelves. Miss Marcus followed him inside and shut the door behind her hard enough to rattle the glass. With tangled wisps of hair floating about her face and her dress windblown into wrinkles, she looked almost slovenly. She, too, crossed the library into the drawing room without seeing me.

I breathed a sigh of relief, until I heard Miss Marcus's voice and the sound of her skirts rustling against the brocade upholstery of a drawing room chair.

“I'm sorry about Niccolo,” she said to whomever else occupied the room. “He has the manners of a goat sometimes.”

“I'm sure he didn't mean any insult. He is terribly upset. We all are.” I recognized my mother's voice. Was Father there as well? Would I have to hide in the library all afternoon? I glanced outside, weighing the prospect of exiting through the piazza and making my way around to the service entrance. The continuing downpour quickly dissuaded me of that option.

Teddy Wharton must have been startled awake, for I heard his voice after a throaty snort. “What? What is it? Has something happened?”

“Nothing, Teddy,” his wife said with a note of impatience.

After a hesitation he asked, “Did you leave me alone in here? We're not supposed to be alone.”

“No, of course not,” Mrs. Wharton lied smoothly. “Go back to sleep.”

“On the contrary, I wish we would all wake up.” Miss Marcus let out a dramatic sigh. “I wish nothing more than to open my eyes and find myself transported back to Paris. I wish I'd never set foot on American soil, let alone come to Newport. Surely this is all nothing but a nightmare.”

I
stood pressed into the corner of the library for another ten minutes. I know that because the bronze figurine mantel clock ticked away each eternal second with maddening precision. The voices in the other room droned on. They spoke of Sir Randall and Monsieur Baptiste, of the likelihood of having to remain at Rough Point indefinitely, or whether Jesse and his men would complete their investigation quickly. Then silence fell. Perhaps they were wondering if one among them in that very room had committed murder. I could only imagine the suspicions springing to life as these friends regarded one another. My father, absent previously, arrived and he added his opinions to theirs. I stiffened at his mention of my name. Had anyone seen me lately, he inquired. My mother expressed concern, but Mrs. Wharton reassured her.

“I saw her only a little while ago. I believe she's spending time with that adorable dog of hers.”

Another lie. She seemed to do it both readily and well. Before I could contemplate the significance of that, Father spoke again.

“She already spent time with that animal this morning. She told us she took him outside. Silly thing to do in this weather. Isn't that what the maid is for?” He paused, and when no one commented he added in a rumbling monotone, “Seems just another ploy to avoid her mother and me.”

“Arthur, really,” Mother scolded. I mentally visualized the disapproving glare she no doubt sent him from beneath her lashes, and the blush of embarrassment that stained her complexion to hear my father air family matters in front of others. “It's obvious she loves that dog. Besides, he wasn't supposed to be here, and I'm sure Emma doesn't wish to overburden our tiny staff.”

“Yes, that's very true,” Mrs. Wharton said eagerly. “Your daughter is a most considerate young woman. I like and admire her very much. You've done a splendid job raising her.”

Again, Mrs. Wharton came to my rescue and deflected questions away from my evidence-hunting activities that morning. I silently applauded her. Whoever dropped that cigarette stub had been careless, and I didn't wish to inspire our culprit into being more careful.

“Such a fuss some people make over animals.” Miss Marcus sounded bored as well as drained. Her confrontation with Niccolo must have depleted her energy. “I'll never understand why any sane person would invite a beast to share their home. Barns and the wilderness are for animals. That and coat collars.”

I believe gasps followed her pronouncement, followed by protests, but the blood roared so loudly in my ears I couldn't be sure. My pulse points throbbed, and I wanted nothing so much as to charge out of my corner and give the woman a thorough scolding. Only knowing I would receive one in return for eavesdropping held me in place. But I vowed never to leave Patch alone with that woman. Coat collars, indeed.

“Emma?”

At the sound of my name, I gasped and dropped the book I held. It landed on the carpet with a heavy thud, the cover flipping open and the pages riffling. My heart pounded and I was about to stammer out an excuse when I both recognized the voice and saw the speaker step into the library.

“You may come out now,” Mrs. Wharton calmly said, her hands clasped at her waist. “The others have left the drawing room.”

Slowly I vacated my corner, only now realizing I'd pressed so hard against the shelves I'd likely left indentations on my back. “How did you know I was here?”

She grinned. “I followed you from the Stair Hall. I was on the half landing when Niccolo burst out of the billiard room, followed by Josephine. I saw you hasten after them, and I thought perhaps you might need . . .” She shrugged, her grin widening. “I don't know. Reinforcements? I surmised that you intended spying on them.”

Indignation forced my mouth open, until I couldn't but concede, both to myself and her, that she was correct. “Regrettably, I've been doing quite a lot of that lately.”

“Am I included on your list of suspects?”

“No,” I said immediately, but then remembered that I had eavesdropped on her conversation with Sir Randall right before her husband rudely interrupted them. She must have seen the truth written in the lines of my face, for she laughed ruefully.

“Well, I assume I must have passed muster for you to include me in your evidence gathering.”

“Most certainly. And I didn't mean to eavesdrop that time.” No, that wasn't entirely true. I amended my own statement. “I didn't
set out
to eavesdrop. It was the afternoon before Sir Randall died. You all perplexed me to such lengths, I merely wished to gain some understanding of why . . .”

“Why such mismatched characters could possibly become friends?”

“I'm sorry, but you are a rather contrary group.”

“And cantankerous,” she added with a tilt of her chin.

I couldn't deny it. “So, when I heard you and Sir Randall talking together, especially when your voices seemed to be coming from the dining room, where no one really should have been at that time of day . . . yes, I decided to listen—but only for a moment.”

Her brows converged. “Was that when Teddy found Randall and me in the office and practically dragged me out by the arm?”

“Yes, and it was also when I realized you're a very kind person. You encouraged Sir Randall when others of your group showed him little patience.”

“Josephine.”

“She certainly didn't seem to like him much, and neither did—” I broke off, having been about to speak Teddy Wharton's name.

“My husband,” she finished for me. “No, he didn't. But he doesn't particularly like any man I show an interest in, even though my interest has never been anything but professional. Teddy simply won't understand. Or perhaps he cannot.”

His melancholy, as she had explained to me earlier. If he perceived his wife's creative endeavors as flirting, as he apparently had that time, would his melancholy magnify his anger enough to drive him to revenge? To murder?

Once again, I was left with conflicting evidence and motives. And once again Mrs. Wharton accurately read my mood, for she took my hand and brought me to sit beside her on the sofa beneath the front window. She perched on the edge of the cushion with her perfect, finishing school posture. I attempted to emulate her, but with questionable success.

“And now you're doing more—much more—than simply trying to understand us, Miss Cross. You're looking for a murderer among us. How can I help? And I mean
truly
be of help, to you and Detective Whyte.”

I met her gaze in the half-light and held it several long, steady moments. Like me, she had literary aspirations, which meant human nature was of acute interest to her. One could not endeavor to take up the pen without that inherent fascination. With her skills and her travels, she could very well provide the extra insight needed to ultimately reveal the motive, from among myriad motives, that led to the deaths of two men.

Even if the guilty party turned out to be her husband? Perhaps. Did I trust her? Every instinct told me I could as she returned my gaze with barely a blink. At that instant her less-than-beautiful face held only kindness, intelligence, and patience—ample patience to allow me whatever time I needed to reach a decision.

I laid my hand over hers. “Can you do that, Mrs. Wharton? Can you put yourself in relative danger to help expose one of your friends, if indeed it is one of them, as a cold-blooded murderer and hand them over to the police?”

“Yes, Miss Cross, I believe I can do just that,” she replied without the slightest prevarication. I smiled, for she reminded me of the friend I had made over the summer, Grace Wilson, who was now my cousin Neily's wife. She, too, had been eager to lend me her assistance, but where I believed a portion of Grace's courage stemmed from her sheltered upbringing and an inability to envision just how perilous the world could be, I detected none of the same naïveté in Mrs. Wharton, despite the similarities in their privileged lifestyles.

I rose to slide the pocket doors closed, and then resumed my seat beside her. “Very good, then. What can you tell me about Miss Marcus and Niccolo Lionetti? I witnessed more than a friendly spat. Are they . . .” I drew a breath and blurted the word. “Lovers?”

To my chagrin she laughed, but then quickly apologized. “I'm sorry. It's just that you are so young, Miss Cross, but seem to hold such knowledge of people and the world. It's rather sad, in a way, for I see it as a sign the world is fast changing. When I was your age . . . well. But I don't mean to criticize. I applaud your pluck, Miss Cross. Now then, as for Niccolo and Josephine, I believe you are correct. Naturally the two were drawn to each other from the start of their acquaintance, for they share a common passion for music. Did you know Niccolo has played many times in the orchestras accompanying the operas Josephine has performed in?”

“I didn't know that, but it makes sense.”

“That is how Niccolo found his way into our little circle. To her credit, Josephine has always appreciated singular talent in others, and when she discovered what magic he creates on his cello, she spoke of him to anyone involved in the theater who would listen. And whenever she was invited into society, she brought Niccolo along. That is how he gained his patron.”

“The owner of the Montagnana.”

“Correct, an Italian
visconte
, and due to the man's resources and connections, Niccolo now has a recognized name in Europe. He owes that to Josephine. But as to your question, the pair began spending more and more time together, especially over the past year, much to Sir Randall's displeasure.”

“He didn't approve?”

She sent a gaze skyward and shook her head. “Poor Randall, I believe he was quite smitten with Josephine. He tried to pretend otherwise, but it was plain to all who saw them together.”

I thought about that a moment. “I'm going to guess that Josephine is closer in age to Sir Randall than to Signore Lionetti.”

“I wouldn't quite say that. I believe her age to fall somewhere in between. But yes, she is a good ten years older than Niccolo. Does that shock you, Miss Cross? A woman involved with a much younger man?”

“Ten years seems a wide gap, but is it really?” I was thinking of Jesse and his affections for me. No one would think twice were we to court and ultimately marry. In fact, people would call it a fine and sensible match. Yet part of the Vanderbilts' objections to Grace Wilson had been the age difference between Neily and her, even though she was only a couple of years older than he.

But if Sir Randall had intentions toward Miss Marcus. . . . “No wonder he took Miss Marcus's derision so much to heart,” I said. “Her snide comments about his artwork truly wounded him. I witnessed as much. Now I see her criticisms weren't merely an affront to his talents, but to him as a man. How sad, and how unfeeling of her to treat him so unkindly. Unless . . . did she know of his regard?”

“As I said, it was there for all to see, and I don't believe Josephine is as blind as that.” Mrs. Wharton compressed her lips in a disparaging moue. “I'm afraid our prima donna is not the most considerate of individuals.”

“To say the least,” I agreed. “I heard what she said about animals and coat collars.” My dislike of the woman grew exponentially, but I shoved aside my personal judgment and tried to think objectively. I did so out loud, for Mrs. Wharton's benefit. “Vasili Pavlenko blamed Niccolo for Monseiur Baptiste's death. He said Niccolo did it for Josephine. Then there is the painting hoax propagated by my father and Sir Randall. Niccolo admitted to knowing about it, that Sir Randall had confided in him, although Niccolo claimed he didn't fully understand the circumstances at the time. But I wonder . . .”

With a slight frown she waited for me to continue.

“What if Sir Randall told Niccolo everything, and Niccolo used the information to his advantage? He claimed Sir Randall confided in him
after
the painting was stolen, but what if he lied? Perhaps Niccolo knew about the hoax and he himself arranged for the painting to be stolen and the threatening messages delivered to Sir Randall's doorstep?”

“But why would he do such a thing?”

“For the same reason he might have murdered Claude Baptiste—for Josephine. Perhaps he viewed Sir Randall as a rival.”

“An older, wealthier man vying for Josephine's affections,” Mrs. Wharton murmured as if weighing the possibility in her mind. She nodded.

“And goodness knows, Miss Marcus and Niccolo have not exactly exhibited the most amorous of sentiments toward each other lately. Perhaps Miss Marcus had begun to tire of him back in Paris.”

“All this speculation, and so much of it pointing to either Josephine or Niccolo or both.” For the first time since I'd met her, Mrs. Wharton's shoulders sagged.

“So far they are the only two in your circle with possible motives against both Sir Randall and Monsieur Baptiste.”

She slunk down farther still, until her back rested uncharacteristically against the pillows behind her. “My dear Miss Cross, perhaps I am not capable of assisting you after all. I cannot conceive of a young man like Niccolo Lionetti, who creates such heaven-sent beauty on his instrument, being capable of stubbing out the life of another human being. I am afraid I cannot think as you do, however much I might try.” She regarded me with obvious regret. “I am very sorry to have to let you down.”

“But there you are wrong, Mrs. Wharton. It is exactly because you know these people so well that your insight is invaluable. With possible motives and clues, Jesse and I can find links between individuals, but we cannot with any accuracy predict which of your friends might actually commit a violent act. I need your instincts and your honesty.” I smiled as kindly as I knew how. “Surely you didn't believe I would have you directly accuse or confront any of your friends, or put you in harm's way.”