Murder at Rough Point (2 page)

* * *

The vestibule and foyer of Rough Point left one with a distinct sense of disappointment. Smallish, rectangular rooms with stone flooring, white walls, and coffered ceilings, the entryway rather underwhelmed the first-time visitor. Especially if one had visited, say, Marble House, with its golden Sienna marble entry hall and grand staircase, the eighteenth-century Venetian-painted ceiling, and generous views of the veranda and expansive rear grounds. No, one would not enter Marble House and experience the slightest twinge of letdown.

Here, it was as if the architects, Peabody & Stearns, hadn't deemed this foyer of great importance and perhaps even added it as an afterthought. Ah, but before taking many steps, the visitor entered Rough Point's Great Hall, a room of stone and marble that stretched two stories high, with an upper gallery that ran the full length of the room, and opposite, a rotunda of soaring windows that confronted a carefully sculpted scene of lawn and rock and sea. One had a sense of stepping back in time and across the ocean, to the charmed manorial world of the English countryside. Dark marbles and darker woods defined the interiors of Rough Point, creating those shadows Consuelo so abhorred, and lending a Gothic atmosphere to the place that might have leaped out of a Brontë novel.

Unlike Marble House or The Breakers, Rough Point sprawled from one end to the other, with the majority of rooms on the first and second floors facing out over the ocean. It was across the house that Mr. Dunn led me, through the Stair Hall, dining room, and through a heavy door to the servants' wing. His brisk stride didn't cease until we reached the butler's pantry with its locked storage cupboards and equally locked safe. Multiple scheduling boards decorated the walls, and an imposing desk that boasted a telephone dominated nearly a third of the room. He bade me sit, and then ran through a list of instructions rather as a butler might have conveyed the house rules and daily duties to a new housemaid: quickly and tersely. If he thought to intimidate me with the importance of his position, I might have informed him that I had dealt with Newport's most formidable butlers and housekeepers in the past with little or no permanent bruising. I held my tongue. He went on to explain that I would come and go each day, conduct interviews, view artwork-in-progress, and report on the retreat only once it had concluded and the artists had gone.

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 aspirations 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—”