Murder at the Breakers (10 page)

“I think you should do as you damn well please.” He raised his glass as if to toast me. My gaze drifted to the bottle, almost half-empty now. He held his booze rather well, I noted. Too well; it meant he drank often. He noticed me staring. “Want some?”

“No, thanks.” Yet my eyes remained riveted to that bottle . . . a bottle identical to the one that had been found beside Brady after the murder. True enough, Uncle Cornelius always kept plenty on hand. But . . .

“Reggie, when Alvin Goddard died . . . where were you? I mean, did you see or hear anything unusual?” I added quickly to avoid sounding like I was accusing him.

But was I? Could Reggie have had time to push Alvin Goddard from the balcony and return downstairs in time for Gertrude’s toast? But then again, anyone might have gotten hold of that bottle and placed it near Brady. Well, anyone who knew where to look, that is.

“Oh, I’d snuck off to the butler’s pantry for more of this,” Reggie said in reply to my question. He lifted the bottle and tilted it in my direction before setting it down again.

“Did you go upstairs at all?”

“I was up and down all night. You don’t think I could stand being in the middle of that crowd without a breather now and again, do you?”

“I suppose not. And when you were upstairs, did you see anyone? Brady, for instance? Or Mr. Goddard?”

“Is this more of your investigation, Em?”

“Humor me.”

“All right, I will, if for no the other reason than because Father wouldn’t. Yes, I saw Alvin. He was going into a meeting with Father and a few other men.”

“Do you remember who the others were?”

“Well . . . let’s see . . .” He drummed his fingertips on the table. “Uncle William was there, of course, and John Astor, William Wetmore, Stuyvesant Fish . . . um . . . I think old man Halstock . . . and . . . that friend of your father’s, the one Father used to call ‘that eager pup’—Parsons.”

Jack Parsons. It was one name that kept coming up.

He slanted an eyebrow at me. “Any more questions?”

“Only this. Did you see any of those men enter Uncle Cornelius’s room that night?”

“Sorry, Em. I wish I had. I wish I could get Brady off the hook. I like him, you know.” He leaned further over the table, bringing with him a sharp whiff of spirits. “He understands me.”

Yes, all too well.

“Don’t drink any more today, Reggie,” I said as matter-of-factly as I could. “Go back to the house. Gertrude and Esther are back, and your mother and Gladys should be home soon, too. They’ll wonder where you are and someone might come looking for you. You don’t want them to see you . . .” I trailed off and gestured at the bottle and once-more empty glass. As I did so, I thought of Brady and where he sat at that moment. And I thought of what often became of charming young men who turned to the bottle whenever life challenged them.

Sunday dawned bright and clear, and just hot enough to make me uncomfortable beneath my layers of muslin and linen. Nanny, Katie, and I piled into the buggy and drove into town to attend church. Not where my Vanderbilt relatives and most of their acquaintances worshipped, at beautiful Trinity Church with its soaring white steeple, but at the much smaller and more modest St. Paul’s, where I had attended with Aunt Sadie during the last decade of her life; where she had played the organ almost every Sunday since before I was born.

A small crowd nearly filled the sanctuary by the time we arrived; we found seats together near the back. I thought I’d find respite here, an hour or so of peace, but on the contrary. As the summer heat closed around me, augmented by so many tightly packed bodies, my mind drifted from the usual platitudes intoned from the altar.

Using my little hymnal to fan my face, I pondered what Aunt Sadie would have done if faced with my dilemmas. With her fiercely independent spirit and refusal to accept any terms but her own, how would she have set about vindicating Brady? So far I’d hit a dead end at every turn; Officer Whyte, Uncle Cornelius, Neily, and even Brady himself seemed intent on hiding the truth—or, at least, hiding it from me. Was each trying to protect me, or did each have a reason to prevent the truth from coming out?

Yet, even I could hardly put stock into the list of suspects I’d compiled so far: Theodore Mason, Jack Parsons . . . and Neily? It all seemed absurd, beyond the scope of possibility.

Or was it? Theodore Mason had been accused of theft by Alvin Goddard and sacked without a reference. Jack Parsons . . . I sighed. If he owned the watch I’d found in Uncle Cornelius’s safe, it could mean he was in financial straits. It was possible he owed Uncle Cornelius money—a great deal. People killed because of money all the time, didn’t they? And then there was Neily, carrying on a courtship with a woman his parents disapproved of. Mr. Goddard had been spying on him and reporting back to Uncle Cornelius. . . .

Another name whispered through my mind, along with a remembered aroma so pungent my throat began to close. It was the sickly stink of bourbon, and the name . . . was Reggie. Again, it seemed impossible, but why? Because he was a boy? Because his father was the richest man in America? Those, I realized, were only the reasons he’d never likely be suspected . . . or charged. But something was clearly eating away at Reggie, something with the power to destroy him. Could that something have led him to commit murder?

I went rigid, my hymnal slipping from my fingers and thwacking to the floor. Heads turned in my direction. I smiled my apologies even as my heart thrashed with a possibility I hadn’t considered previously. Uncle Cornelius seemed content to let Brady take the blame for Alvin Goddard’s murder.

Was it because he believed one of his sons had killed the man?

Neily, Reggie . . . and there was Alfred, too, although the middle Vanderbilt brother spent most of his time at Yale lately, and was never one to defy his parents. He wasn’t a drinker or a gambler or a ladies’ man, not someone with anything to hide. No, I couldn’t imagine Uncle Cornelius suspecting Alfred, but as for the other two . . . perhaps I wasn’t the only one with questions about my cousins. And if Uncle Cornelius believed one of them to be guilty, wouldn’t he use his considerable resources to prevent his own son from being accused, much less charged?

It wouldn’t be the first time a man in his position interfered with the law.

Nanny nudged my shoulder. “Almost time to go.”

Indeed, the congregation was on its feet, singing the final hymn. I could barely remember the words, I was so impatient to be gone. The time for tact, politeness, and propriety had passed. It was time instead to confront my suspects with direct questions and let their replies bear witness to their guilt or innocence.

Perhaps attending church reaped its benefits that morning, for the angels sent me a minor blessing. Upon stepping outside, we ran into one of Nanny’s countless acquaintances, elderly Mrs. Bronson who was only too happy to bring Nanny and Katie home. That left the next hours wide open for me. I headed back up to Broadway, to the Harbor Hill Boarding House.

“I’d like to see Mr. Mason, please, if he’s in,” I boldly told the proprietress when she opened the door. Her eyes widened slightly, and no wonder; here I was, a lone young woman seeking a private audience with a man at his home. Most improper, but would that have stopped Aunt Sadie?

I think not.

“Ah, I remember you,” the landlady said in her breezy German accent. “You came the other day with the older lady. Pot roast and potatoes.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“I get your basket.” I tried to stop her, but she disappeared into the gloom of the house. A few moments later she returned and handed me the basket Nanny and I had left for Mr. Mason, now empty. “I’m sorry, but the gentleman is not here anymore.”

The determination that had brought me here began to flag. “Mr. Mason moved out?”

“Not exactly. He still pays for room—for
his
room,” she corrected herself, “but for now he lives elsewhere.”

“Can you tell me where?”

Her eyebrow rose, disappearing beneath wisps of brown hair. “He did not say. He checks for mail sometimes. I tell him you called . . . again, yah?”

“No.” I blew out a breath. “No need to tell him I called. Thank you, and sorry to disturb you.”

But she wasn’t listening to me. She was retreating into the house, closing the door, and saying, “Yah, I will tell him.”

I didn’t wonder what Aunt Sadie would do now, but I tended not to use strong language, even when there was no one around to hear. Without having formed a plan, I climbed back into my carriage and headed back into town. By the time I reached Spring Street, I knew where my next destination would be: Lakeview Avenue, in the hopes I would be able to identify Jack Parson’s rented house. He was next on my list, and I had questions for him, the first being whether or not a certain pocket watch belonged to him.

I made the mistake of turning my rig onto Spring Street to cut across town. When I reached the corner of Spring and Church streets, the roadway jammed as Trinity Church let out. Fine carriages vied for space with single riders and pedestrians attempting to cross. With an impatient scowl I settled in to wait until two familiar faces near the corner caught my attention.

Adelaide saw me the same time I spotted her and we each raised a hand to wave. She stood at her husband’s side, one arm hooked through his. Rupert Halstock appeared distracted by the surrounding crowd, his lined features pulled into an expression of childlike confusion. The manservant I’d encountered at their home flanked Mr. Halstock’s other side, and with one arm extended, the valet made sweeping gestures in front of his employer to keep people from treading too close.

Adelaide turned to them and spoke some words. Her husband seemed not to hear her, but the servant nodded and stepped protectively closer to the ailing gentleman at his side. The next thing I knew, Adelaide was holding her skirts clear of the dusty street and making her way in and out of the slow-moving vehicles . . . to mine.

“Good morning, Emma, how fortunate to run into you like this.” She stretched a gloved hand toward me, and what could I do but grasp it and help her up onto the seat next to me? “You don’t mind driving me home, do you?”

“Good morning, Adelaide. Er . . .” I yearned to make my excuses. Drat this mire of Sunday traffic, or I’d have been halfway to Jack Parson’s house by now. At my hesitation a desperate plea filled Adelaide’s eyes, and I knew she had made no light request. “What about Mr. Halstock?” I asked.

Her gaze skittered to the sidewalk, where a gleaming brougham inched to a halt in front of her husband and his valet. A footman hopped down from the back to open the door. “Please, Emma, just drive on. He won’t miss me.”

Within minutes the way began to clear and Barney was able to achieve a steady walk. As we drove in silence for another minute I felt the tension drain from Adelaide’s posture. “Is he worse?” I asked softly.

“He’s taken to accusing me of taking things.
Stealing
things from the house.” She faced straight ahead, the brim of her silk hat hiding her face, but I heard the tears tightening her throat.

“What kinds of things? Is it that he’s misplacing them and blaming you?”

“It’s mostly the things we moved down to our New York house. Rupert seems to have forgotten, and so he accuses me of stealing paintings and statues and such. Oh, Emma, it’s become so wearying. So distressful. The doctor says he’s better of late, but I’m afraid I don’t much see it.” She pulled a lace handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at her eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Adelaide. I wish there was something I could do to help.” I held the reins with one hand and patted her wrist.

“Oh, but there is.” She lowered her hanky and turned toward me, her eyes surprisingly bright and clear. “You can cheer me up. That’s why I hailed you. Just talk to me, Emma. I’ve so few friends. . . .”

“What do you mean?” I maneuvered Barney around a mud puddle as I turned toward Bellevue Avenue. “You were always so popular in our schooldays.”

“Oh, but I no longer associate with many of our old school friends. My marriage has moved me above them, Emma, yet so many of the wives of Rupert’s peers refuse to accept me. Your aunt Alice Vanderbilt included.”

“Oh . . .” What could I say? While Adelaide judged me worthy of her association because of my Vanderbilt relatives, many of those same relatives judged her beneath their notice. It didn’t surprise me. It took more than a rich husband to gain acceptance into Aunt Alice’s social circle. As she always said,
breeding
was what mattered, while money was merely window dressing. Which, I suppose, is why they accepted poor, penny-pinching me into their club.

“What would you like to talk about?” I asked Adelaide brightly, hoping to raise her spirits.

“Anything but illness. How is Brady’s case going? Are you still investigating?” She asked the latter question in an undertone brimming with eagerness and intrigue.

I bristled. Did she think it was any easier for me to discuss my brother’s troubles than it was for her to discuss her husband’s illness? Good heavens, should Brady be convicted, he might very well face execution.

But Adelaide never had been particularly good at empathy, at seeing past her own difficulties long enough to consider those of others. If I had to name a character flaw, that was hers, but if she had always been a bit self-absorbed, I’d never known her to be vindictive. In this instance, she was being curious, not hard-hearted, so I buried my anger and answered her matter-of-factly. “It’s not going at all well, I’m afraid. There are questions whose answers could prove Brady’s innocence, but the police don’t seem inclined to ask them.”

“And so you are, aren’t you, Emma?”

“I’m trying to, but sometimes it’s like banging my head against a wall.”

She emitted a little chortle. “Do you have any other suspects?”

Her enthusiasm raised my ire again. “This isn’t a detective novel, Adelaide.”

“But surely you must suspect . . . someone,” she insisted, perhaps not noticing how my lips had thinned.