Murder at Rough Point (5 page)

Voices from another room at first blended with the plaintive notes of Niccolo's cello, but after another moment they became quite distinct from the music. The sound drew me to the doorway of the dining room, which should have been empty at this hour. It was far too early for Mr. Dunn and Carl to be setting up for dinner, and there was no reason for guests to be in there. Yet when I peeked in I realized the voices did not emanate from the dining room at all, but from an adjoining office that faced the front lawns.

“Randall, no one was pandering to you, I promise,” a female voice said. “Your work is brilliant. No, do not rumble at me. Your sculptures have shown cunning and innovation. If anything, you are ahead of your time and your recent audiences have failed to understand your meaning.”

“I don't know. . . .”

I tiptoed into the westernmost end of the dining room, but did not crane my neck to peek around the elaborate moldings framing the office doorway. I didn't have to, as I recognized both voices well enough.

“I do know,” Mrs. Wharton said, “and furthermore, I think you should buy Rough Point. Stay away from Europe for a time. Americans are much more amenable to change. In fact, we embrace change and progress in a way your stodgy Europeans never will.”

“Ah, Mrs. Wharton, you cannot convince me you find the Parisians stodgy.” There was a touch of laughter in Sir Randall's voice.

Mrs. Wharton laughed as well. “You are correct, but Paris is an altogether different matter. I—”

“Is that my wife I hear?”

If the voice behind me wasn't enough to send my heart thudding in my throat, the hand that gripped my shoulder and drew me aside prompted me into a defensive stance. My fingers stiffened, and I very nearly resorted to a self-defense tactic I'd learned last summer by thrusting them tips-first into the Adam's apple of the man who had sneaked up on me. The act would have sent my attacker coughing and stumbling backward while I prepared to strike again, but I forestalled my assault as I recognized, not an imminent threat, but merely Teddy Wharton.

“I—uh—that is . . .” I stuttered as I groped to explain why I had been standing near a doorway listening in on his wife's conversation. Yet here before me was not the mild gentleman I'd met during luncheon. He wasn't merely inquiring as to the whereabouts of his wife. He clearly seethed, his eyes sharp and bright against the room's dark woodwork. I thought all that anger must be directed at me, yet before I could utter another word, he strode past me into the office.

“Edith, I've been searching for you. What are you doing here?”

“Teddy.” Mrs. Wharton sounded surprised, but not unduly disquieted. “Randall and I were discussing his future. Help me persuade him to stay on in Newport.”

“Randall's future is his own concern. Come. I need you elsewhere.”

I seized the opportunity to turn and flee. My pattering steps took me across the Great Hall and into the drawing room. Would Teddy Wharton think I'd been eavesdropping—as indeed I had been? But what had sent him in pursuit of his wife in such a rude manner? Surely he couldn't think she and Sir Randall . . .

Suddenly I regretted my snooping. I had hoped to glean some clue as to what drove this odd group with its many idiosyncrasies, but had I simply made my presence known and joined in Sir Randall and Mrs. Wharton's conversation, I might now be able to provide Mr. Wharton with proof that his wife's moments with Sir Randall had not, in fact, been a tryst.

H
aving decided I would do best to mind my business when it came to the domestic affairs of Rough Point's current inhabitants, I took my pencil and tablet and sought the relative privacy of the library. Of the first floor's public rooms, this was the only one that overlooked the drive and front lawns, and I understood why my relatives had chosen this location for their library. The view here of trees and flowerbeds elicited a peacefulness conducive to reading, while the rear vista of windswept hillocks, rocky cliffs, and restless ocean inspired one to toss down one's book in favor of a brisk tramp across the promontory.

I selected an armchair that faced an open window. To my right, French doors that opened onto a covered piazza filled the room with sunlight but still couldn't quite banish the shadows hunched in the corners of the room. I began making notes on the only uncontroversial topic I could think of: my impressions of Niccolo Lionetti's cello playing.

I hadn't been writing long when Sir Randall shuffled in from the drawing room. He stopped when he saw me. “I thought I'd search out a good book, but I don't wish to disturb you, Miss Cross.”

“Not at all. Join me, please.” My pencil came to rest. “I was just attempting to capture in words the essence of Signore Lionetti's talents, and failing miserably, I'm afraid. Perhaps you'll tell me a bit about your sculptures.”

“I suppose that is why you're here, isn't it?”

He ambled over and chose an armchair set at a comfortable angle to my own. The open windows admitted the heady perfume of late-season roses, and the light breeze stirred my hair. In the room's tranquil environment I felt comfortably at home, but it seemed to take an effort for Sir Randall to settle in. He tugged here at his tie, there at his cuffs. Finally, he regarded me with a careworn expression.

“What would you like to know, Miss Cross?”

“Well . . .” I picked up my pencil again. “Sculpture seems a much more rigorous pursuit when compared to sketching or watercolors. What first attracted you to the endeavor?”

He gave a small laugh, as if he found my question amusing. “My mother dabbled in the arts, Miss Cross, and she encouraged me to explore. I was hopeless with paints, but stone, clay, wood—I somehow had a knack for creating lifelike images.”

“And from what I gathered at luncheon, you've been successful at it.”

“Yes, for a time. But I grew weary of lifelike images. I thought, what is the point in portraying something as we might already see it in nature? It is merely a copy, an imitation. Rather like photography, which has its uses but in my opinion is no kind of artwork.”

“And so you changed your technique?”

“Right you are, Miss Cross. Have you seen the work of the Impressionists?”

“You refer to the paintings? Yes, of course.” My parents had taken me to an exhibit in New York years ago, and there had even been a collection here in a Newport gallery. “My father admires them greatly.”

“As do I, Miss Cross.” His fingers opened and closed around the arms of his chair, and his foot thudded repeatedly against the rug in a bout of nervous energy. “They sparked a new passion in me, and I began to experiment with more abstract designs, new proportions, angles not typically found in nature.”

“It sounds exciting.” I quickly made note of the terms he used to describe his methods.

“It
was
exciting . . . until the first exhibit. The others tried to convince me one cannot be discouraged by one poor showing, and so I weathered on. But the response was the same everywhere. The audience
loathed
my new work, and the critics agreed.” He released a breath, gazing down at his feet as he shook his head.

“I'm so sorry.” I groped for something useful to say. “You could always return to the sort of sculptures people liked.”

“Move backward, to what now feels hollow and pointless?”

“Oh.” My own spirits sagged. My father had had days like this, I suddenly remembered, when he'd felt devoid of both talent and a future as an artist. I hadn't been able to be of much comfort to him then, and I doubted my ability to counteract Sir Randall's downheartedness now. So I merely said, “Then you should continue with what you love, for yourself, and the critics and everyone else be damned.” I said this last word in a whisper, and hoped Sir Randall would take no offense.

“Good heavens, my girl, you
are
Arthur Cross's daughter, aren't you?” A chuckle became a guffaw, a sound that carried the first authentic enjoyment I had heard from his lips. “Yes, yes, that's exactly what I should do. Good heavens.” He slapped his thighs and came to his feet. “I believe I'm going to have a sherry, and then take a stroll down to that Cliff Walk of yours. Would you care to join me in either?”

“As a matter of fact . . .” I had been about to accept his offer of a stroll, when a streak of brown and white outside the front windows caught my eye. Rising ire pushed me out of my seat. “I'll have to join you in a bit, Sir Randall. There is something I must attend to first.”

“Is something wrong, Miss Cross?”

“Indeed there is.”

* * *

“Patch, come here this instant!”

With energetic leaps, that brown and white blur I'd glimpsed from the library darted past me a third time. I stood with my hands on my hips and arranged my features into my most disapproving expression, until my itinerant pup grew tired of trying to coax an obviously stubborn human to play. He bounded over to me on the gravel drive and jumped several feet in the air before returning to all fours and nudging my hand with his snout.

I refused to give in. “No, I will not pet you! You're supposed to be home. How did you get here?” Though his soft brown eyes showed no trace of guilt and beamed only love up at me, the answer was obvious. “You followed me when I returned here with Mrs. Wharton, didn't you, you sneak? And then you hid so I couldn't bring you straight home.”

My accusations only prompted Patch to sit and lift a front paw, a trick Katie had spent hours teaching him. When I didn't lean to “shake his hand,” he waved the appendage and tilted his head, ears flopping to one side, as if to make his message clearer to this rather dimwitted human before him.

I sank to a crouch. “You're a very bad boy, you know that.” But while my words chastised, my tone did not, and soon Patch rolled onto his back and presented his belly to be scratched. I obliged. As with orphaned babies and young women in crises, it appeared dogs were yet another weakness of mine. And how does one remain angry with an exuberant, silky-furred creature with great floppy ears and a warm, soulful gaze that proclaimed you the most important being in all the world?

“I'm beginning to think you're part fox terrier.” I increased the speed of my ministrations until Patch's eyes rolled backward in bliss. “You're certainly as clever, determined, and naughty as one.” To his dismay I stopped petting him and pushed to my feet. “But what to do with you?”

With a quick roll he achieved a four-footed stance and gave a breathy little
woof
.

“The house is full of people, I'll have you know, and I am hardly in a position to ask them to tolerate an unexpected visitor.”

His tail wagged furiously.

“I suppose I might ask the staff if they'd mind looking after you while I'm busy.
If
you promise to behave.”

As if comprehending my meaning, he stilled his tail and primly sat.

I pursed my lips as I regarded him. “Come along. We'll telephone home to let them know you're safe and then I'll make arrangements for you to be fed, not that you deserve it, you minx.”

In a moment he was up and vaulting across the lawns, first in the wrong direction, then doubling back and dashing out ahead of me when he understood my direction to be the kitchen wing. But I found myself lagging behind. Faintly, for Niccolo Lionetti's room lay on the other side of the house, delicate notes sang their way through the open windows. I felt as though gossamer, fragrant petals rained down around me, encompassing my being and blotting out everything but the wondrous melody—Vivaldi, I thought it must be—rendered by the Italian's skillful hands. I marveled at the sheer beauty of it, despaired of ever being able to describe it in words, and found myself wishing the sound would never cease.

Patch barked to regain my attention and broke the spell. In the service wing, I found Mr. Dunn and explained the situation, whereupon he promised to inform the cook, the footman, and the maid that a bowl of scraps should be set out for him each day. I then used the telephone in the butler's pantry to apprise Nanny of the situation. She tsked at the same time she chuckled. I could all but see her smile.

After chastising Patch to explore the grounds but stay out of trouble, I made my way back across the house to the library. Several voices greeted me, Sir Randall's among them.

I also heard Josephine Marcus. “All this moping ill suits you, Randall, and will avail you nothing.”

“But that is what I'm trying to tell you, Josephine. I've done with moping. I've gained a new perspective—”

“Since luncheon?” A mocking burst of laughter followed. “Pray, tell us, what brought on this miracle?”

“Josephine, do not belittle Randall's change of heart. It is a good thing, a thing to be encouraged, no?” At the sound of the exotic voice I realized I had no longer heard Niccolo's perfectly formed notes as I walked through the house. He was now in the library with Miss Marcus and Sir Randall, and seemed to be mediating an argument between the other two.

I hesitated before joining them. What right did I have to intrude upon matters I knew little about and had no stake in? My job was to report on the creativity of the group, not compose a scathing gossip column.

“One would almost believe you don't wish to see me roused from my doldrums, Josephine.”

Snide female laughter answered Sir Randall's observation. “I wish to see you move on and stop whining. Either be successful or accept your failure.”

“Josephina, that is most unkind—” Niccolo said, but even as I silently applauded him, Sir Randall interrupted.

“I don't need you to defend me, Niccolo.”

I knew so little of these people. In all likelihood their contention was so deep-rooted, no one person could be held to blame, neither Josephine nor Sir Randall. Yet, perhaps because Sir Randall had identified me as my father's daughter—yes, that still meant something to me—or perhaps because I understood what it was to aspire to greater things than people expected or wished to expect, I could not stand by and watch a man maligned for the ambitions of his heart.

I swept into the room. “Sir Randall, I apologize for my sudden departure earlier. I hope we might further discuss your artwork. I'm fascinated by your ideas about form and your abstract interpretation of reality, and I'm very much hoping you'll begin a new sculpture before you leave Rough Point. I would so enjoy the pleasure of familiarizing myself with your process.”

With a thrust of my chin I dared Josephine Marcus to utter a contrary word. Her mouth had twitched as I spoke of
form
and
interpretation
, as if she found it ludicrous to attach such importance to Sir Randall's work. My gaze shifted to Niccolo Lionetti. He looked relieved to see an end to the prickly conversation. I wondered why Sir Randall had not taken kindly to the musician's attempt to mediate. Perhaps Sir Randall had merely been angry enough to lash out at anyone.

Except me, apparently, for in a kindly voice he said, “My dear, I would be delighted to hear your opinion on my work. But I must first find my inspiration.”

I smiled and nodded, and then in an attempt to diffuse the situation, I turned my attention to Niccolo. “Your playing is wonderful, signore. I don't know much about music other than that I enjoy it greatly. I do hope you'll perform for us some evening.”

“I would be honored, signorina. Perhaps tonight.”

With a possessive gesture, Josephine slipped a hand into the crook of his arm. “You have been doubly treated, Miss Cross. The cello you heard Niccolo playing was made by Signore Domenico Montagnana. Do you know what that means?”

Was there a challenge inherent in her question? A touch of condescension? I refused to react to either. And luckily for me, I had once attended a parlor concert at The Breakers that featured a Montagnana violin. “It means the cello in question is among the finest in the world, on a par with those made by Antonio Stradivari.”

Her nostrils flared, a sure sign of disappointment that she had not bested me. Yet her hauteur persisted. “To put it in simplistic terms, yes. But it is so much more than a mere instrument. It is a mingling of souls, Miss Cross, that of its maker and of the musician.” A glowing passion ignited behind her eyes, an unfeigned fervor that took me aback. “But perhaps that is a bit too poetic for your reporter's tastes.” She lifted an eyebrow, having clearly judged me unable to grasp such a concept.

Perhaps she was correct—perhaps my musical sensibilities had yet to develop sufficiently for me to fully appreciate the communion of musician and instrument, but that was something I hoped to remedy, at least in part, during the course of the retreat. “I am grateful for the opportunity to expand my tastes, Miss Marcus.” I turned to the young man. “Do you own the cello, signore?”

“
Mio Dio.
” He pressed a long-fingered hand to his breastbone. “The instrument belongs to my patron—”

“Who shall remain nameless, Miss Cross.” Miss Marcus tightened her hold on Niccolo's arm and pressed closer to his side. “At the gentleman's insistence. You understand.”