Murder at Rough Point (4 page)

Yes, they had. A suspicion of just this scenario had entered my mind several times this morning, but each time I dismissed the idea as too outlandish. Then again, earlier this summer they had wired me in hopes of my convincing Uncle Cornelius to extend them a loan. An emergency, they had said.

I slid my hand out from beneath my mother's with a feigned need to adjust my collar. “Does this have anything to do with your telegram in July?”

“How suspicious you are, Emmaline.” Father stepped away from the window, moving closer and standing in front of the coffered mahogany paneling that lined the walls. I saw him more clearly now, and I found his smile forced, his gaze evasive. “Aren't you happy to see us?”

I breathed in and let it out slowly. “Yes, yes, I am. Very much so. I'm sorry if it seems otherwise but you did shock me with your abrupt entrance. Did you stop in on Brady in New York before heading north?”

“No, we didn't know he was there.” Father fiddled with the shade of a porcelain figurine lamp on the table beside him. “We'd hoped to find him here.”

I shook my head in bewilderment. “I haven't seen you in almost four years. Don't you realize you might have missed seeing me as well? I might have been away.”

“Emma, darling, you never leave Newport.” Mother made the very notion sound ridiculous. “We knew you'd be here. Where else would you go?”

Italy sprang to mind. Derrick Andrews was in Italy. . . . But even as the thought formed, I cast it aside. If Derrick and I were meant to be together, we would be—when the time was right. My chasing him halfway around the world when he had pressing responsibilities there would only complicate matters.

“Perhaps Brady can make the trip up before we leave,” Father said.

“I'm afraid that's highly doubtful on such short notice, especially as Uncle Cornelius is still unable to work and Neily is in Europe on his honeymoon. Brady is needed at the New York Central. Unless you intend staying longer than the duration of your retreat, or you make the trip back to New York afterward, I don't believe you'll see Brady at all.”

“Perhaps we'll do just that,” Mother said brightly. “We'll spend a few days in New York.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “How long
are
you planning to be in Newport, or in the country for that matter? Does this mean you've wearied of Paris?”

“We haven't exactly decided yet.” She played with a fabric-covered button on her sleeve. “When our friends mentioned the trip, your father and I knew we had to take advantage of the opportunity to see you.”

“With what funds?” I wouldn't let it go. Couldn't. I wasn't being the best of daughters, but something simply didn't
feel
right about this visit. “In July, all indications were that you were short of funds.”

“Oh, that.” Father waved a hand. “Yes, it's true we were rather in straits at the time and your mother . . . well . . . she panicked. But I've since sold a couple of paintings and everything is fine.”

“But now maybe you can explain something, sweetheart.” Mother slid a few inches closer on the sofa. “Why are you staying on at Rough Point? You live nearby, and I'm sure you have plenty you must see to every day at Gull Manor. And don't you prefer solitude when you write your articles?”

My articles. Had Edith Wharton been untruthful? Perhaps it had been my parents who asked for me to report on the retreat—not someone who knew of me by reputation, but my own mother and father, well-meaning but unintentionally reducing a professional triumph to a vast disappointment. With an inner sigh I let my hopes of becoming the next Nellie Bly flitter away.

I concealed my letdown with a shrug and answered Mother's question. “Mrs. Wharton convinced me it would be a good idea to stay and . . . how did she put it? Ah, yes, and immerse myself in your artistic world.”

“Perhaps Edith should learn to mind her own business,” my father murmured.

Mother glanced over at him. “What was that, dear?”

“Nothing.”

I pretended I hadn't heard him. “Will you be painting while you're here, Father?”

“I certainly plan to. Would you care to sit for me?”

Mother's face lit up at the suggestion. “Yes, Emma, you must. Let your father capture you as you are now. Darling, you've grown so beautiful. But still, I wonder at the wisdom of your staying at Rough Point.”

“Why? Is there something I should know about your friends, Mother? Or perhaps something you don't wish me to know?”

“Oh, they're a lively bunch, to be sure,” she replied, evading the question.

“Yes, Miss Marcus mentioned that earlier. But she certainly didn't indicate I'd be in any sort of peril.” I said this only half jokingly, for my curiosity and determination to uncover facts had indeed led me into peril in the past. Mother and Father didn't know that. I had always glossed over such details in my letters.

“You might find us distracting,” Father said, “when you're writing.”

“That shouldn't be a problem. While I'm here, I'll primarily be taking notes. I've been instructed not to submit my article until the retreat is over.” I paused to study them both. They were trying their hardest to appear natural, but there were volumes being left unsaid. I was more confused than ever. Why have the
Observer
send me here by day, only to send me packing each night with flimsy warnings of distractions and unruly friends?

I stood, prompting Mother to assume a look of mild alarm.

“Where are you going?”

I smiled down at her and offered my hand to help her to her feet. “To luncheon, of course. You do realize the others must be famished by now.” And since I thoroughly doubted I would be enlightened any further at the present time, remaining upstairs would serve no good purpose.

* * *

The group, now complete with all nine of its members having settled in, gathered for luncheon in the dining room, which faced the rear lawns. Unlike Gull Manor, which occupied a promontory only yards above sea level, Rough Point sat high on the cliffs, away from the briny reek of low tide. Open windows admitted cool breezes that carried the distant lull of the ocean and the hum of bees in the elaborate flowerbeds closer to the house.

Although I had been allocated a servant's bedroom, my role had subtly changed since I had first entered the estate. This morning I came as a journalist to write about the retreat and set each participant in a noteworthy light. My function in publicizing each of these artists had even superseded my relation to the owner of the house. My parents' presence here, however, elevated me virtually to the status of guest.

As Irene and the footman, Carl, served the food, I was introduced to two more guests: Mrs. Wharton's husband, Edward, or Teddy as she called him; and Sir Randall Clifford, the man revealed to me earlier as interested in purchasing the estate.

Mr. Wharton made little impression on me, for he seemed a mere shadow lost in the blaze of his wife's outspokenness. He nodded and made noises of agreement whenever she spoke, but added little to the substance of the conversation. I mainly knew him from reputation. He was not an artist of any sort, but a banker from an old Boston family. He seemed a well-bred gentleman and twice or thrice made references to yachting. It was all I could do to keep my sentiments about that sport to myself. I'd had enough of yachting in July. The subject no longer held any appeal for me.

Between the soup course and the main entree of baked haddock, potato croquettes, and stewed cucumbers, I turned my attentions to Sir Randall. He was undoubtedly the eldest of the group, past fifty if one were to judge by the wisps of peppered hair that stuck out in tufts around his ears. Only a few inches taller than I, he sported a stocky physique and was much narrower across the shoulders than the hips. I wondered if he had a wife and family back in England, and how on earth a member of the gentry had found his way into my parents' hodgepodge band of “bohemians,” as Uncle Frederick had termed them.

When Sir Randall commented that the views here were sure to inspire my father's next painting, I found the cue I had been waiting for, as so far no one had told me much about this Englishman.

“What is your preferred art form, Sir Randall? Are you also a painter? Or perhaps a musician?”

“Good heavens, neither. I dabble a bit with paints, but that is merely a form of relaxation for me. I could never
sell
a painting as your father does. No one would give my unfortunate squigglings a second look.”

Something happened then. I couldn't quite identify it, but a look slithered its way around the table: the flicker of an eye, a twitch of the mouth, the compression of Mother's lips. The emotion, whatever it was, touched all but the Whartons, who continued their meal without the slightest pause. Then, with a collective clattering of flatware, the others resumed eating.

Sir Randall spoke again as if nothing unusual had occurred. “As for music, I'm afraid I've no ear at all.”

“That's not true, Randall,” Mrs. Wharton said. “You love listening to Niccolo play. We all do.” She smiled at the young Italian, who nodded appreciatively. Teddy Wharton shot a glance across the table at him, then sucked in his cheeks and sipped his wine.

“I am a good listener, that is true,” Sir Randall clarified. “But never a maker of music. Perhaps never a maker of anything worth having,” he added in an undertone.

“I'm sorry?” I was about to ask what he meant, when Miss Marcus spoke up.

“There you go again. One exhibit and you're quite ready to throw it all away.”

Sir Randall's gaze had fallen to his plate. Now it swung upward, aiming ill-concealed ire in Miss Marcus's direction. “It was not one exhibit, Josephine. It was several. London, Paris, Barcelona—I'm a failure in every major city in Europe.”

“Stop exaggerating and don't make out to be the only artist who has ever fallen into disfavor.” Josephine glanced around the table for approbation, which she received from several quarters, though not all. The Whartons appeared appalled at this turn in the conversation, and Niccolo Lionetti looked apologetic, as though he'd like to agree with Miss Marcus but had never yet experienced the disdain of his audience. Vasili Pavlenko, the fair-haired former dancer, grumbled something into his hand, and though I couldn't be certain I'd have wagered the Russian words were an oath, and a vehement one at that.

I couldn't have been the only one who heard, but the others pretended they hadn't. Father set down his fork. “It does happen, Randall. The only cure is to keep working at your craft.”

“If I might ask—” Ask
again,
I thought—“What is your craft, Sir Randall?”

“It is—was—”

“
Do
stop the dramatics.” Josephine thrust her napkin to the table and tensed as if about to push back her chair and abandon the table. A throat-clearing stopped her; it came from Niccolo. Their gazes met across the table, hers sparking with anger, his dark and calm. He raised an eyebrow, smiled slightly, and Josephine slid her napkin back into her lap.

Thoroughly flummoxed, I wished to demand that these people explain themselves. Mother caught my eye, rolled her own a little, and shook her head. I relaxed. After all, I had been warned, hadn't I? I'd grown accustomed in recent years to the meticulous manners of my Vanderbilt cousins and other members of the Four Hundred. I had little experience of artists, and I supposed one must accept their stormy temperaments as part of their charms. Although the idea of describing this bunch as
charming
produced a chuckle I barely managed to stifle.

“My dear, I am a sculptor very much in need of new inspiration.” Sir Randall gestured to the scene outside the windows. “I am hoping to find it here on your rocky island and your steep cliffs.”

“I'm sure you will, Sir Randall. Those same views are what inspired my father to become a painter. Aren't they, Father?” For some reason he avoided my gaze and Mother let out a strained giggle. The others went right on eating. “Of course,” I continued, “there must be equally stunning views all over Europe. What brought you all to America?”

“I have concerts in Philadelphia and New York, signorina,” Niccolo said in his lyrical accent. “I am to be playing at the Car-ne . . . Carneggy . . .”

“Carnegie Hall?” I supplied, and he nodded happily.

“And I am considering bringing my new staging of
Carmen
to your Metropolitan Opera House.” Claude Baptiste raised his wine goblet, his hawkish nose almost touching the liquid as he sipped. “Do you care for opera, Miss Cross?”

“I do, though I don't often have the pleasure.” A thought occurred to me, and eagerly I asked, “Is that what brought you as well, Miss Marcus? Will you be Monsieur Baptiste's Carmen?”

Once again, as if it were a gauntlet, Miss Marcus threw her napkin to the table. “No, I shall not be.” She slid her chair back and sprang to her feet, and with her blond curls dancing and her bosom jiggling, she swept from the room.

“Oh, dear . . . I'm very sorry. . . .”

“Never mind, Miss Cross.” Mrs. Wharton took a roll from the silver basket and passed the rest to me. “As Josephine herself told you earlier, we are a lively group.”

My father raised his glass. “To our lively group.”

* * *

When luncheon ended the group scattered. My parents, as well as some of the others, had unpacking to finish, and Niccolo retired to his room to play his cello. Even through his closed door, the deeply sweet notes drifted through the upper hallway and down the stairs. I stood alone for some minutes in the Stair Hall, my hand resting atop the banister's ornamental finial. As I listened, I thought how incongruent his playing was to the contentious meal I'd witnessed. There seemed to be a dynamic I didn't understand at work here, that didn't resemble anything I'd encountered before. My Vanderbilt relatives argued, certainly, and this summer one of those arguments had yielded dire results, but there were always reasons one could point to, sources of the discontent. This group, however, seemed to thrive on discord. I believed they enjoyed it. Did it provide fuel, perhaps passion, for their art? I wondered, and then doubted as I considered their continual evasiveness. Something was wrong here, and my journalist's heart yearned to discover what it was.