Murder at the Breakers (20 page)

“Yeah,” a gruff voice said next.

I steeled myself to continue. Unlike Jesse Whyte, Officer Anthony Dobbs was no friend of mine or of Brady’s. I shuddered to count how many times Dobbs had taken discreet slaps and punches at my brother when Brady had been apprehended for drunken and disorderly conduct, and I couldn’t help but remember how eager Dobbs had been to condemn Brady for Alvin Goddard’s murder.

But Anthony Dobbs knew who I was, and more importantly who my relatives were, and he didn’t dare snub me. Besides, I reminded myself, as hardheaded and arrogant as he might be, he had a reputation for being an honest if rough-hewn policeman.

“Officer Dobbs,” I said decisively, “this is Emma Cross. I have good reason to believe Alvin Goddard’s murderer is on his way to the Point. He’s probably there already, as a matter of fact, and I need you and your men to apprehend him.”

“Now, Miss Cross . . .” I heard a barely restrained chuckle. “You know good and well where Alvin Goddard’s murderer is, and it’s not on the Point. He’s in a cell in this very building.”

I tightened my grip on the ear trumpet and wrapped my other hand around the mouthpiece for good measure. “You listen to me, Tony Dobbs. You’ve had it in for my brother for years, but even a bully like you can’t want to send an innocent man to the gallows. Now, I have reason to believe Jack Parsons retrieved the murder weapon from The Breakers less than twenty minutes ago. He owns a small house on Third Street between Poplar and Walnut, a blue clapboard saltbox, and I believe that’s where he was headed. It’s where I’m headed now, and where I dearly hope you’ll be headed in the next few minutes.”

His words of protest died as I closed the call.

Vehicles clogged Third Street when I arrived, and a warning gripped my nape. Police mounts and wagons lined the street, forcing me to leave Barney and the buggy half in the middle of the road. I jumped down to the ground and proceeded on foot. That warning pinched at the sight of several officers striding in and out of Jack’s open front door.

Good heavens, had they apprehended him so quickly? Had I been right?

I was almost to the front step when a hand seized my arm from behind. “Emma. Don’t go in there.”

I turned to see Derrick Anderson’s dark eyes filled with concern . . . and something more. “Did Jack put up a huge fuss? Did they have to restrain him?”

That something more defined itself as regret and reluctance as Derrick slowly shook his head. “We all arrived too late. . . .”

“So you got my message.”

He nodded, but repeated, “Too late, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t understand.” I tried to tug free. “I want to go inside, Derrick. I have a right to confront him after what he’s done. Brady . . . Mr. Goddard . . .”

He wouldn’t release me, his hold stubbornly firm. Then he drew me closer. “He’s gone, Emma.” Seeing my puzzlement, he clarified his meaning. “He’d dead. When I arrived, the door was ajar and Jack Parsons lay dead on his parlor floor, a bullet through his chest.”

D
errick’s grip on my arm relaxed. I suppose he thought the shock would immobilize me, but, in fact, it had the exact opposite reaction. Surprising him by whisking free, I hefted my skirts and bulldozed my way past the swarm of police officers and into the house. Vaguely I heard my name being called; from the corner of my eye I saw Jesse beckoning, but I didn’t pause to acknowledge him. My boots clattered loudly on the wide floorboards of the tiny front hall, their echoes clashing with my pounding heartbeat.

Through the parlor doorway, I saw his feet first, toes pointing upward, the tips of his ankle boots reflecting the glow of the many gaslights burning around the room. The heat of all those lamps struck my cheeks and burned my eyes. Or were those tears swimming in my vision and rendering that familiar, handsome face watery and indistinct, as though he floated beneath several inches of water?

“Back away . . . give her a moment.”

Jesse’s quiet order scattered the handful of officials who had been leaning over the body and examining the room. I fell to my knees beside that silent, too-still form, one hand braced on the floor to support my weight while with the other I swept a shock of bright, golden hair off his brow. A brow still so smooth and youthful for a man in his forties. . . .

“Oh, Jack . . . I’m so sorry.” I was sorry for not trusting him, sorry to have played at being a detective. I had thought to save Brady, and all too willingly I would have condemned an innocent man based on . . . what? The fancies of my faulty imagination, fueled, obviously, by pseudo-evidence I was all too eager to credit. Obviously Jack had done no wrong and the killer was still out there.

It struck me a stinging blow that in his final moments, Jack had known who the killer was, and must have confronted him with whatever weapon or evidence he’d found secreted in our playhouse hidey hole. I trembled to consider the terror Jack had faced in those moments, how he might have struggled, wishing he could convey what he knew. . . .

And then I felt it—moisture seeping through the rug and into my palm, enveloping my fingers as they sank into the woven pile of the floral design. I lifted my hand, and the sight of the blood, clotting and matted with rug lint, made my stomach pitch.

His suit coat was closed but not buttoned, I now realized. One of the authorities must have discreetly covered him when I barreled in. Instinct urged me to look away, to stand up and let the police get on with their work. I couldn’t. If Jack had confronted the murderer, then I owed it to him, to my father, and to Brady, to know exactly what happened to him.

From somewhere behind me someone had pressed a dish towel into my bloodied hand. Dully I used it to wipe away the mess, or most of it, because try as I might, I couldn’t erase the rusty traces staining my fingers and caking in the creases of my palm. Would I ever erase those stains? Maybe not.

Still, I set the rag aside and reached for the placket of Jack’s coat.

“Emma, don’t,” I heard from behind me, and realized it was Derrick, down on his haunches, hovering close.

I shook my head and opened Jack’s coat. At first what appeared to be a giant, vibrant rose blossom formed in my gaze—nothing sinister, just a rose! But, no, that couldn’t be right, and as I stared the
petals
rearranged themselves into angry blotches and splatters, with a vicious entry wound torn at its center.

Quickly I replaced the edges of his coat and turned away . . . to be caught up in Derrick Anderson’s arms.

“Emma, how could any of this be your fault? You need to listen to reason.”

Derrick and I sat at the little round table in the cramped kitchen at the back of Jack’s house. Cups of tea steamed before us, yet neither of us did much drinking. I hunched with my head in my hands while Derrick alternated between rubbing my back and slipping his arm around my shoulders and hugging me close.

His firm touch came as a great comfort to me, which only heightened the guilt coursing through me. How could I possibly be enjoying a man’s embrace when my family’s dearest friend lay dead only two rooms away?

“But don’t you see,” I said without much feeling, “if I hadn’t been running around asking questions, Jack wouldn’t have gotten involved, and he wouldn’t be dead. . . .”

“Nonsense. We don’t even know for sure yet that Jack’s death is related to Alvin Goddard’s—”

“Oh, don’t be obtuse. Of course it’s related. Coincidences like this don’t happen in a town like Newport. Everything here is connected.” My chin sank to the table. “Why didn’t I leave it all to the police?”

That last came out as nearly a wail, and Derrick’s arm went around me again. Softly he shushed and soothed me, or tried to, with whispered words against my ear. His large palm rubbed up and down my arm, and our sides pressed together as he shuffled his chair closer to mine.

“And what’s worst of all, Derrick, is that I suspected him. That’s why I called you today. I was certain Jack was a murderer. Instead . . .” It was then I saw the bloodstains smeared across the folds of my skirt. Jack’s blood. A man who had been as much an uncle to me as Cornelius Vanderbilt. “Oh . . . Jack!”

I hadn’t wanted to cry. I hadn’t thought I deserved to cry. I deserved to suffer my guilt and endure the ache in my heart for as long as it lasted. But as Derrick pressed my face to his neck, I cried and cried, soaking his shirt collar, until a small portion of my pain receded. In the circle of those sturdy arms, I began to feel safer, stronger, more myself.

I lifted my face, no doubt blotchy and swollen, and instantly found a handkerchief pressed into my palm. “It’s clean,” Derrick whispered.

I used it to dab at my eyes. “I’m so sorry—” I tried to apologize, but as I glanced up I found Derrick’s face disconcertingly close to my own. His lips touched mine, and any thoughts I might have expressed flew straight out of my head.

The kiss started gently, as this morning’s kiss had: a cool brush of his lips across mine. He pulled away slightly and our cheeks touched; the surprising softness of his skin felt heavenly against my own. Deeply I inhaled his scent—shaving soap and starch and a clean, outdoorsy essence. He pressed his lips to mine again, and I tasted coffee and mint and a dark promise of excitement, of a passion I could only partly understand.

But as gently as he’d begun, he ended the kiss, pulled an inch or two away, and rubbed his nose across mine. “I like you, Emma Cross.”

My stomach tightened and my heart flipped into my throat. Before I could respond, or even decide how I wanted to respond, there came a throat clearing and a shuffling of feet in the kitchen doorway.

Good heavens, how long had Jesse been standing there? I blushed to the roots of my hair, but Derrick only sat back in his chair and cast an even gaze at the other man. “Do you need something, Officer Whyte?”

Jesse nodded and stepped into the room. “I hate to do this to you, Emma, but I need to ask you some questions. Do you feel up to it?”

I swiped away a remaining tear or two and clutched my trembling hands together. “Of course, Jesse.” I gestured for him to sit at the table with us. He took a seat opposite me, taking out a writing tablet and pencil.

“When was the last time you saw Jack?”

“This morning, at The Breakers. I’d gone to—” I stopped and shook my head to clear it. “Jesse, this is a bit of a long story.”

“Tell me everything, from the beginning.”

And so I retraced my steps for Jesse—the questions I’d asked, the theories I’d formed, the suspects I’d accumulated. With each revelation his frown deepened. He had told me from the first to leave the investigation to the police, and now he knew his warnings had fallen on deaf ears. Though I found myself unable to look him in the eye as I continued my story, I gleaned unexpected courage from the large hand holding my own beneath the table.

“And then I remembered what Reggie said about murder investigations not being child’s play—”

“He was right,” Jesse interrupted pointedly.

“Yes, well, that was when it occurred to me to check the playhouse at The Breakers. You see, when my cousins and I were children, we used to hide things under the floor. Neily made the hole beneath the flagstones and I thought anyone needing a convenient hiding place the night of the ball might go there, because with all the carriages parked on the front property no one would notice and . . .”

Jesse had been scribbling madly in his tablet. Now he stopped and held the pencil up. “Slow down, Emma. Who knew about this hiding place?”

“All the children, of course. Neily, Gertrude, Reggie . . .”

“So you and your cousins. Anyone else?”

“I suspect Mr. Mason might have known as well. He always seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to us children and—” I gasped and my eyes opened wide.

“Emma? What’s wrong?” Jesse asked at the same time Derrick tightened his hold on my hand and leaned closer.

“Mr. Mason. Good Lord, how can I have forgotten? According to Jack’s maid, he accompanied Jack from home today. He should be here.” I began looking wildly about as if I might find him standing in a corner. “Where is he? Is he anywhere in the house?”

Jesse’s expression became alarmed. He instantly came to his feet and strode from the kitchen; his stern orders to search the entire house drifted in from the other room. Then he returned to the kitchen table.

“I’m still confused, Emma. What does all this have to do with Jack Parsons?”

“When I went to check the playhouse this morning, Jack was speeding out the gates—in a leased carriage. He might have collided with me, he was in such a hurry. Still, I didn’t think much of it until I reached the playhouse and discovered the flagstones had been moved and the hidey hole was empty.”

“And?” Jesse waited, obviously expecting more.

“So whatever was in there, Jack must have taken it.”

“How do you know whatever—if anything—had been in there wasn’t removed before Jack got there?”

This question came from Derrick and I swung my head in his direction. “I . . . he must have . . .”

“Not necessarily,” Derrick said gently. He gave my hand a squeeze. “If Jack knew about the hiding place, one of the Vanderbilt siblings must have told him about it. Who would that most likely have been?”

I started shaking my head, but the sad light in Derrick’s eyes forced me to acknowledge the obvious. “Neily,” I whispered. “He might have told Jack about the hiding place, but that doesn’t mean—”

“Why Neily?” Jesse asked abruptly. “I wasn’t aware that Neily Vanderbilt and Jack Parsons were particularly well acquainted, much less confidents.”

“I didn’t either,” I replied, once more setting my chin in hand. “Not until the other night when . . .” I glanced at Derrick. He nodded. “Not until I discovered that Neily and Jack were both using this house for . . . personal purposes.”

“Such as . . . ?”

“Oh, Jesse, what does it matter?” I almost shouted. “Neily certainly didn’t murder anyone. In fact, is there a telephone in this house? Someone should call The Breakers and find out where Neily is. That would clear him once and for all.”

Without a word Jesse once more left the room. When he returned, another officer trailed him. “Theodore Mason isn’t in the house, sir.”

“Then I want him found. Immediately.”

“Try his boardinghouse,” I suggested. “The Harbor Hill on Broadway.”

Jesse sat back down and picked up his tablet. “Do you have anything else to add, Emma?” When I shook my head, his gaze swerved to Derrick. “And how do you figure into all of this?”

By the time Jesse had finished with us, the body—Jack’s body—had been removed. The police were finishing up gathering the evidence when I went to stand in the parlor doorway. Derrick came up behind him and set a palm on my shoulder.

“We should go, Emma.”

I shook my head and stepped into the room—this room where a part of my own life seemed to have died, vanished. Oh, but not without a trace, for in the middle of the carpet, almost mocking the vital, dynamic man Jack Parsons had been, sat the ugly, rusty stains from the blood that had seeped out of him. There had been two shots, the police determined. One had struck him in the back. Then, as he’d turned toward his assassin, he’d been shot again, this time to the side of his chest, the wound I’d seen when I opened his coat.

Two shots, two moments in time that could never be taken back, done over, changed. The finality of it pressed in upon me until I could barely drag my feet one after the other. And yet I did. Careful not to step into the way of the policemen, I entered the room, walked over to the stains, and looked down, trying, somehow, to disassociate those hideous splotches from the vibrant man I’d known.

“Miss Cross, maybe you shouldn’t be here anymore.” One of the policeman, though who I couldn’t say because I never looked up, gave my arm a pat as he paused before walking by.

No, I didn’t look up, nor was I still staring at the drying remnants of Jack’s life’s blood. My gaze had drifted a few feet away to a long, low cabinet against the wall beside the fireplace. I moved closer to it, stood studying the piece a good long while before I realized what had captured my attention.

“Derrick!”

He was at my side in an instant. “What is it?”

I stretched out a finger. “There, along the edge.”

Before he could respond, I nearly pounced at the cabinet and fell to my knees in front of it. I ran my hand along the gilded edge and quite clearly felt the sharp indentation of the wood, my fingers catching on fine splinters left by whatever hard, wide object had caused the dent.

“Get Jesse,” I said frantically. Less than a minute later he and Derrick stood frowning down at this latest evidence. “It’s a match, I know it is,” I announced adamantly. “This dent and the one in Uncle Cornelius’s bedroom were made by the same blunt instrument. The murder weapon. And it proves Brady’s innocence.”

“Now, wait a minute, Emma,” Jesse said with a shake of his head. “The murder weapon in this instance was a gun. Alvin Goddard wasn’t shot.”

“No, but the weapon used to kill him was here in this room. Don’t you see? Whoever killed Alvin Goddard retrieved the murder weapon from the playhouse, came here to confront Jack, but brought added protection.”