Murder at Beechwood (18 page)

“I don't know . . .” His gaze clouded with uncertainty.

“There are a lot of
ifs
to consider. My guess is, if Officer Whyte didn't immediately reject this notion, it was out of friendship.”

Frustration sent me to my feet. “I was all but convinced of Wyatt's guilt, and now he's dead. That surely rules out the possibility of any of this being accidental. So who do you think is to blame?”

“I don't know.” He tilted his head to look up at me. “If I did, I'd tell you. But while powerful men like Virgil accumulate no shortage of enemies during their lifetime, I can see no reason why anyone would want to murder Wyatt. This may sound harsh, but he was of little consequence to anyone.”

“Except perhaps to Virgil himself.”

With a long exhalation Derrick stood. “You should go, Emma. You've already stretched the limits of propriety by staying so long.”

“You're going to be stubborn about this, aren't you?”

“And you're going to respect my confidence and not go to the police with what I've told you, correct?” When I didn't answer, he reached out and lifted my chin in his palm. “Don't you see, Emma, my going off island doesn't prove I didn't kill Wyatt. I might have done so right before I left the hospital. The information would do little to exonerate me, and could damage Judith's reputation irrevocably.”

I let my chin rest in the warm strength of his hand another moment. “With what you're facing, how can you be so calm?”

He gently drew me closer, until his lips touched my forehead. “Dearest Emma, I am far from calm.” He suddenly set me to arm's length. “Write an article. About my being under suspicion, essentially under arrest, which I am.”

“Why on earth? You haven't been formally charged. There is no reason—”

He was nodding, a shrewd grin dawning. “Yes, there is. Running an article in the
Observer
about my alleged guilt might entice the guilty party to grow careless. And then perhaps he'll show his hand. But, Emma . . .” He lifted my chin again. “Write the article and then step away. No further involvement, understand?”

“What if this doesn't work?” I whispered. My stomach twisted into knots. “What if you remain the chief suspect?”

“I'm innocent.”

“Innocent men go to prison. Brady almost did.”

“I won't.”

The adamancy of that avowal made me wonder. Did he have a plan to elude the authorities if it came to that? I found myself hoping he did, yet at the same time not wanting to know. I just hoped if he did have a plan, it was a good one.

I
returned to the
Observer
office after leaving Derrick. Had I found the article about Uncle Cornelius difficult to write? This one drew pain from every part of me. I handed it to Mr. Millford, ignored Ed's questions as well as his protests that he was the hard news reporter and this wasn't fair, and made my way, numb and unseeing, back outside.

“Barney,” I said wearily as I took up the reins, “bring me home.”

An overwhelming sense of having condemned a friend, of having betrayed him—no matter that this was his idea—hardened like cement around my heart. I wanted Nanny. Needed the familiar embrace of Aunt Sadie's creaking old house. Longed to hold Robbie and press my cheek to his little head.

After settling Barney in his stall, I entered the house through the kitchen. Voices from the front parlor traveled down the corridor to me. As if in mockery of my mood, laughter rang out—laughter that could not have come from Nanny, Stella, or Katie, and certainly not from Robbie. I tossed my hat to the kitchen table and hurried to the parlor.

“Brady!” I cried. “You're here!”

“A bit obvious, little sister, but if there is any confusion, yes, here I am.” Sitting in the wing chair, he lifted Robbie from his shoulder and handed him off to Katie. Then he rose and crossed to where I still hovered in the doorway, not quite able to believe my eyes. “You're looking well,” he said, and drew me into a tight embrace. “A bit harried, if you don't mind my saying so, but well.”

“Oh, Brady.” I got no further. Anything I wished to say became lost in my tears. With exhaustion and disheartenment nearly crushing me, I clung to my half brother. He exclaimed something I couldn't make out, I had become that insensible. I believe Nanny might have patted me on the back, and Katie murmured gentle words as she carried Robbie from the room. This I saw through my watery vision, while poor Brady's coat turned sodden beneath my cheek.

Though I hadn't yet found my composure, Brady loosened his hold on me, pried my arms from around his neck, and led me by the hand, as he used to do when I was little, to the sofa.

“Nanny filled me in on a lot of what's been happening. Robbie, Virgil Monroe, his brother . . .”

“Do you know about Derrick?” At his quizzical frown, I said, “Oh, Brady, he's a suspect. Wyatt accused him of drowning Virgil, and now Wyatt is dead, too. I found the body in Derrick's hospital room. Now Derrick is under house arrest, but he didn't do it. He has an alibi . . . generally speaking. He says it won't suffice, but I believe with some critical analysis of the timing and how long it would have taken him to reach North Kingstown—”

Brady placed his fingertips over my mouth. “Shh, Em. You need to slow down, because you've lost me. If I know Nanny, she'll be bringing in tea in a few minutes. We'll drink it, and then you'll start over and tell me everything.”

True enough, Nanny brought tea, of a good strong Irish variety that fortified me and steadied my nerves. I started at the beginning and told Brady everything that had happened while he'd been in New York. Relating the distressing tale didn't solve anything, but having the whole of my immediate family around me—at least the ones who would never abandon me—served as a balm that somehow made me believe the truth would eventually prevail. For the first night in many, I slept soundly.

 

The next morning, the paper boy delivered the morning edition of the
Observer.
Mr. Millford ran my article about Derrick on page two. Had this been any other article about any other subject on the face of the earth, seeing it on page two would have been a personal triumph after finding my other news pieces buried farther in. Not today. Although the article citing Derrick's apparent guilt had been his idea, I still couldn't shake a dismal sense of having wronged him. And of having compromised myself in writing an article I didn't believe in.

The morning melted into afternoon with further discussions between Brady and me about the various possibilities and scenarios that might explain the murders. With Brady playing devil's advocate at every turn, it seemed we could reach no agreement.

“Virgil alive, Em? I can't fathom it. Not with the kind of squall you're describing.”

“A competent swimmer might have managed it.”

“A
superior
swimmer might have managed it. Someone more athletic than Virgil. Wyatt, for instance. He was the sportsman of the family.”

“Yes, but Wyatt didn't go overboard.”

A knock at the front door cut short our debate. We had been sitting in the kitchen with Nanny while she prepared the dough for the evening bread. We all froze and my gaze darted to her.

“Where is Robbie?”

“Katie and Stella brought him upstairs for his nap.”

Yes, I had known that, but we didn't often have visitors at Gull Manor and the knock had rattled my nerves.

“It's probably Mr. Neily,” she said, her arms floured to the elbows.

“I'll go see.” I rose from my seat, but then I heard Katie's voice in the downstairs hall.

“May I help you?”

This time I traded a glance with Brady. “A stranger. Katie wouldn't question Neily or any of our other friends that way.”

“I'm here to see Miss Cross,” a familiar and youthful voice said.

“I know who that is.” Knowing, however, didn't make me any less bewildered. Why would Lawrence Monroe visit me, unless something had happened to Daphne? I hurried into the front hall to discover it wasn't Lawrence after all. It was his younger brother, Nate.

“Oh,” I said without hiding my surprise. “Nate. What are you doing here?” Perhaps not the most hospitable greeting, but I simply couldn't imagine what brought him.

“Miss Cross, forgive me for disturbing you. I hoped I might have a word with you.”

The last time I'd encountered Nate Monroe had been in the library at Beechwood. He had been scowling, complaining about his brother and Daphne carrying on in spite of his father's wishes. The memory made me wary of his motives for coming to Gull Manor, but I remembered my manners. “Please come in, Nate. My brother and I were just having tea. Would you care to join us?”

A throat clearing behind me alerted me that Brady had followed me into the hall. I gestured into the parlor. “We can have it brought in here.”

Nate removed his straw boater but didn't move to follow me. “I need to speak to you alone, Miss Cross. Please.”

I studied his face, noting how the petulance of a sixteen-year-old boy warred with the dignity of someone much older. He was an oddity, this younger son of the Monroe family, and now my curiosity burgeoned. After brief introductions, I asked Brady to excuse us. I didn't have to see his lopsided grin to know he'd be eavesdropping from the discreet grate in the wall that connected this room to the formal dining room, allowing for the flow of air in the summer and heat in the winter. I led Nate into the parlor.

“Please have a seat.” I gestured to the wing chair. I settled onto the sofa. “Now, what seems to be the matter?”

“It's Lawrence and Daphne. I need you to talk sense into them, Miss Cross.”

“Me? What makes you think I should become involved, or that I hold any influence over either of them?”

“Oh, you do. Daphne thinks the world of you.”

My stomach tightened. Cousin Consuelo had thought the world of me, too, and last summer my aunt, Alva Vanderbilt, had sought to use my influence over her daughter to persuade her to willingly marry the Duke of Marlborough. The results of my interference had been all but disastrous.

“And perhaps you'll tell me why they need someone to talk sense into them, Nate.”

“They're planning to elope.” His eyes briefly flared with that Monroe temper I had become so familiar with over the last week.

“Does your mother object?”

“Mother doesn't know. She's beside herself with grief over my father.”

That didn't sound right. From what I had learned of Eudora Monroe, she had abhorred her husband, and if she felt anything at all about her husband's death, it was merely the guilt of having wished ill on another human being.

But I certainly couldn't point that out to her son.

“Nate, I'm not a member of your family. It would be inappropriate for me to intrude.”

“Please, Miss Cross.” He tapped his hat against his knee repeatedly, a show of nervous energy. “Our family has suffered so much. We don't need any more upheaval. If Daphne and my brother won't see reason, the very least they can do is wait to carry out this plan of theirs. You speak of what is inappropriate. Surely marriage during this time of mourning would be most inappropriate.”

“All right.” I stood. “I'll come to Beechwood and speak to Daphne, but I cannot make any promises.”

“Thank you, Miss Cross. Thank you!” He practically leaped out of the chair. His rueful grin grazed my heart and reminded me of just how young he was, and how lost and truly frightened he must feel at the loss of his father and his uncle. How could he help but believe this elopement might deprive him of his elder brother as well? “I'll bring you over. I came in Mrs. Astor's cabriolet, and we'll both fit.”

 

“But we've waited so long already,” Daphne said with a wounded expression some twenty minutes later. “And besides, it is none of Nate's business.”

She and I strolled among Mrs. Astor's prize roses, a soft sea breeze stirring the blossoms and raising their heavenly scent. I inhaled the fragrance as I considered whether I should have stayed home and refused Nate's plea that I become involved. I had learned the dangers of advising people on the subject of marriage. What if my counsel went horribly awry again?

I reached out my fingertips to touch a velvety crimson petal. “Nate is very young, Daphne. And I believe he's feeling vulnerable. What youth wouldn't, with all he has been through? I understand Lawrence's and your wish to be together, but perhaps waiting until things have settled would be the wiser decision.”

“But one never knows what might happen in the interim. What if some calamity were to keep us apart again?”

A door on the loggia opened, and Lawrence Monroe came through one of the arches and down the steps. He approached like a charging cougar, his gait long and coiled, his face set and determined.

“Miss Cross,” he called out before he'd reached us, “am I to understand you are attempting to talk my fiancée out of marrying me?”

“Mr. Monroe, I am doing no such thing. I'm merely pointing out the wisdom of waiting until a more appropriate time when you wouldn't have to elope. When . . .” I thought quickly. “When Daphne might have a church wedding with your friends and family in attendance, a stunning gown from Mr. Worth, and a wedding feast to dazzle your guests and keep them talking about the event for months afterward.”

That stopped Lawrence in his tracks. His chest rose and fell sharply, and he pinned a burning gaze on Daphne. At a slower pace he continued to us. When he reached us he raised a hand to stroke Daphne's cheek. She blushed and ducked her head, smiling prettily.

“Yes.” Lawrence drew the word out, then repeated it in a low, almost sensual murmur. “What were we thinking, Daphne? You deserve all that, and more. Miss Cross is correct. To marry in haste would be to deprive you of the pleasure of planning a beautiful wedding, one we'll remember for the rest of our lives.”

“I only wish to be your wife,” she replied. I slowly backed away from them and turned to gaze out over the water and the cloud-specked sky.

“You
will
be my wife, but first you must be my bride. The loveliest bride in the world. It's worth waiting for, Daphne.”

“But—”

“No, I was foolish to suggest we rush. There is no reason for haste.” Lawrence's next words plunged to a murmur, yet reached my ears nonetheless. “Father is dead.”

Was he? Dared I tell them of my theory?

Lawrence spoke again. “He can no longer forbid us, or prevent us from doing as we please. We are free, my darling. Free.”

When he might have sounded happy, his voice had instead sharpened with resentment and no small amount of disdain. I waited, braced, for Daphne's reply.

“You're right. He can no longer hurt us. Thank you, Lawrence.”

At those last words I peeked over my shoulder at them, keeping my chin low and my face shaded by my hat brim. Lawrence grasped the stem of a rose, and with a snap he broke it off from the bush. Daphne smiled when he handed it to her and raised it to her lips. A crimson drop of blood rolled from the tip of Lawrence's finger into the grass at his feet.

They seemed to have forgotten me, having slipped into a world all their own. Lawrence sucked the wound on his finger for an instant and then offered his other arm to Daphne. She took hold of it and they strolled to the house.

I was left alone in the rose garden, pondering Daphne's gratitude. Had she thanked Lawrence for reminding her of their newfound freedom—or for creating it?

Could I be mistaken and Virgil the intended victim all along? It nearly made me dizzy, contemplating yet again how many people benefited from his demise, how many could now breathe more easily. There could be no denying Derrick was one of them, according to what Grace had told me about the Monroe and Andrews families' entwined fortunes.

I had just added Lawrence to the list, and even Daphne. She might not have been on the
Vigilant
that day, but that didn't mean she and Lawrence hadn't conspired. Would they have had a reason to kill Wyatt as well? Virgil's will hadn't yet been read, as it was still in transit with the family lawyer from New York. Perhaps, Lawrence being out of favor because of Daphne, Virgil had left the bulk of his estate to his brother instead of his elder son. If so, the fortune would probably revert back to Lawrence in the event of Wyatt's death.