Murder at Rough Point (15 page)

My gaze snapped to his. “Surely you don't think my father had anything to do with this.”

He shook his head, but he didn't answer me.

* * *

Before Jesse made his way back to town that night, he spoke to Irene about the number of towels she delivered to the bathrooms each morning. The number, six, was exactly what we found on the shelves in Monsieur Baptiste's bathroom.

This led to several conclusions. First, it seemed unlikely that anyone who had been caught in the spray in Miss Marcus's room could have then entered Claude Baptiste's bathroom without leaving a wet trail across the tiled floor, yet the culprit hadn't needed to mop the floor with a towel. Yet the bedroom rug
had
been damp, suggesting it had been the police after all who tracked in rain from outside. The only people in the house who hadn't been soaked in Miss Marcus's deluge, other than myself, Mother, and Mrs. Wharton, had been Irene . . . and Vasili.

Irene could have no reason to kill anyone, and I refused to believe my mother or Mrs. Wharton could be guilty. That left Vasili, but only an accomplished actor could have feigned the grief displayed by the young Russian at his friend's death.

An actor. . .

As a ballet
dancer
, Vasili would have been trained in drama and theatrics. Jesse would call that a stretch, however, so I tucked the thought away but did not entirely dismiss it.

I worried about Jesse and the other officials driving through the storm, but he let me know they arrived safely in town with a brief telephone call I could barely hear over the crackling lines. Those of us who remained behind, disturbed by the notion of murderous art thieves and black market dealers, spent a sleepless night in the drawing room and library, where none of us would be alone.

Patch lay by my feet all night as I slumbered fitfully, sitting up in a wing chair. The occasional snore drifted through the two rooms, only to break off with a snort as the individual caught him- or herself dozing and awoke with a start. By dawn everyone began to stir in earnest, standing and stretching sore limbs and necks, groaning, and even muttering oaths. The downpour continued with little promise of respite, while an ashen mist robbed the landscape of dimension, rendering the lawns and sky and the distant sea flat and lifeless. It was unlikely any of us would be leaving Rough Point today.

Mr. Dunn announced a simple breakfast would be served in the dining room. Simple, perhaps, but Mrs. Harris outdid herself in quantity. Sitting down to fluffy scrambled eggs, bacon, muffins, and porridge reminded me of Nanny's plain but hearty cooking at home. Though I arrived at the table believing I had little appetite, I nonetheless tucked in with surprising vigor, as did the others. On a day where nerves were already strained to breaking, I immediately saw the wisdom of foregoing fancier delicacies in favor of a fortifying New England breakfast.

We did not, however, arrive at the table wielding andirons or other similar weaponry, as my mother had suggested. Still, the meal was a tense affair that included little conversation but a good many flashes of suspicion from one end of the table to the other. The rain that ceaselessly pelted the windows didn't help, nor did the wind that howled off the ocean to batter the outer walls and whine beneath the eaves of the covered verandas.

“How I wish that would stop,” Miss Marcus said. Her fork slipped from her fingers to clatter against her plate.

“Are you going to start complaining again, Josephine? Perhaps make another scene?” A threat echoed behind Vasili's question, and Miss Marcus flinched and compressed her lips as if she
had
been about to go on but thought better of it. Vasili's hands shook this morning, and after a few bites he began pushing his food around on his plate. Instead of coffee or tea, a tumbler of the same clear liquid as last night sat by his elbow, and once again I suspected the contents were something other than water.

That startled me, for a man who imbibed at breakfast enjoyed few if any rational moments the rest of the day. Is that what he wished, to obliterate thoughts of his friend? I understood what grief could do to a person, but I also knew the dangers of giving oneself over to spirits in an effort to silence one's demons. My half brother Brady had often indulged to excess in the past, but he had done so out of youthful exuberance and an underdeveloped sense of responsibility. Much to my relief he had since discovered the merits of moderation, at least for the most part. No, it was my cousin Reggie, the youngest of Cornelius Vanderbilt's sons, who came to mind.

The advantages his older brothers, Neily and Alfred, enjoyed due to their family connections, seemed to have become, for Reggie, unbearable burdens, ones he couldn't face with a sober mind. I'm not altogether sure I understood, except that whenever I considered trading places with any of my Vanderbilt relatives, a certainty welled up inside me that I couldn't bear the artifice of such an existence. Though my own life could be challenging at times, both financially and personally, my perseverance and triumphs were a source of immeasurable pride.

Could that be what Reggie missed, perhaps without even realizing it? At the age of seventeen he seemed infinitely older, not in maturity but in how quickly life had already begun to beat him down. And now with his father ill and his mother's attention completely focused on her husband's well-being, Reggie had no one to correct him or curb his undisciplined ways.

I stole another glance at Vasili, sitting on the other side of Mrs. Wharton two seats down from me. Little more than his trembling hands, framing his plate, were visible to me, but that alone told a self-destructive narrative. I didn't have to ponder long to understand what he missed in his life. His friend, yes, but also his talent, his rare ability to perform. Beyond a doubt choreography came as a distant second to his life's passion. Perhaps Claude Baptiste had been able to help his young friend cope. Who would serve that function now? I found myself sincerely hoping the answer wouldn't lie permanently within that crystal tumbler.

“Mr. Pavlenko,” I ventured, leaning over the table to speak to him. “Would it comfort you to speak of your friend?”

As if by reflex he reached out and snatched his glass between unsteady fingers, prompting me to hold my breath lest the thing drop and shatter against the tabletop. He managed to hold on to it long enough to bring it to his lips for a swig. He then banged it beside his plate but didn't release his hold on it. His next words rang sharp with bitterness. “What can one say, Miss Cross, about a man who lay dead?”

“I thought we might honor Monsieur Baptiste by talking about his accomplishments, and . . .” I trailed off as the young man laughed harshly.

“Accomplishments that are all in the past now. There will be no more of them. No
Carmen
, nothing.” He aimed a scowl at Miss Marcus.

She dropped her fork again and pushed her plate away from her. “You are correct, Vasili, there will be no
Carmen
. Do you think I take pleasure in that?”

“I think yes, you are glad. If you could not have the role, you are happy no one will.”

“Now see here, Vasili.” Signore Lionetti thumped a fist against the table, so hard his fork rattled against his plate. “You have no right to say such things. No reason to take this out on Josephine.”

“But he blames us,” Miss Marcus said in a nasty tone. “He said as much last night. He has no cause, no evidence, but he blames us all the same because he needs to lash out at someone. But then, he blames us—all of us—for so much. Don't you, Vasili?”

Again, that reference to Vasili Pavlenko blaming his fellow artists—for what? I considered his injury. Had some or all of them somehow caused it? With two men dead and these so-called friends nearly at one another's throats, I abandoned all former resolve to mind my business. It was time for answers. But not here, where these clever people might suddenly decide to work together and cover up the facts I sought. I would need to approach them separately. Only then could I sift through their various responses and glean something of the truth.

“Josephine, please,” Mrs. Wharton murmured over Miss Marcus's continued complaints. “This isn't helping matters.”

“I'm only speaking the truth, Edith. This is Vasili's way of avoiding any responsibility for his own life,” the opera singer nearly shouted. “Besides, he began this. I'm merely responding in kind.”

“He isn't himself.” My father speared a forkful of eggs. “Of all of us, he was closest to Claude, and this has been a terrible shock to him.”

“Will you speak of me as if I am not in the room?” Vasili raised his glass again, this time in a mock toast. He smirked. “I speak for myself. I do not need any of you to be my tongue.”

“Vasili, please. My daughter's idea is a lovely one.” My mother cast a fond look in my direction, but misgivings and guardedness peeked out from her eyes as well. “She is no stranger to tragedy, you see. She understands.”

Perhaps my mother knew more about the past two summers than I had believed. I would have to inquire with Brady about just how much he had included in his letters to our parents during the previous year.

“Do you, Miss Cross?” Mr. Pavlenko looked over at me, his expression both skeptical and cynical. “You have experienced great loss in your young life?”

I almost quipped back that I wasn't many years his junior. But I refused to be dragged into the general discord. “Quite a bit of loss, yes. And I have found that speaking openly of the departed has healing effects. However if you don't wish to—”

“I do not.” He pushed out of his chair, snatched the tumbler, and walked none too steadily from the room.

The others fell silent and I felt their stares on me, brimming with a range of emotions from chagrin to anger, though whether at me for pressing the issue or Vasili for his overreaction spurred by drink, I couldn't say.

“Never mind, dearest.” Mother rose from her chair and came round the table to me. She placed a hand on my shoulder. “You meant well, and beneath his pain Vasili knows that. Look—” Her hand left my shoulder to point out the windows. “The rain seems to be tapering off. Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could all quit this place?”

“None of us may go far,” I reminded her. “Jesse's orders.”

“At least we wouldn't have to remain here waiting to see who will be the next to . . .” With a shudder that shook her bosom, Miss Marcus let the thought go unfinished.

My father paled. “I do wish you'd cease your role as harbinger of doom, Josephine. There is no proof yet of foul play. Randall was melancholic enough to have jumped from that cliff. And Claude—who knows how much he and Vasili had to drink before he took his bath? It isn't inconceivable that he simply fell asleep.” But rather than reassuring, Father's tone conveyed a desperate need to convince himself.

“Then again, we don't want to split up either.” Mrs. Wharton lifted the porcelain teapot from the table and refilled her cup. “If someone
is
targeting our little group, splitting up will make their task easier, won't it?”

Niccolo Lionetti let his head sag into his hands, his fingers tangling in his dark curls. “To go separate ways would make it more difficult to find us, no?”

“In a town the size of Newport?” Mrs. Wharton laughed lightly. “I'm afraid there is nowhere to hide, Niccolo.”

“Perhaps not,” her husband blurted, “but I see no reason for you and me to remain here, Edith. We should seize the opportunity the moment the rain lets up and make our way to Land's End, where we should have gone all along.”

She offered him a haughty tilt of her chin. “And if Ledge Road is flooded?”

“How bad could it be?” he murmured moodily.

“Bad enough to sweep us off the road, Teddy.”

“Then we'll get out and walk.”

“I will
not
wade through a river of rainwater simply to humor you.”

Mr. and Mrs. Wharton continued their heated debate over the merits of returning to Land's End or remaining at Rough Point, with Mr. Wharton becoming more and more petulant with each hostile volley. My own nerves were stretched thin, not only due to the shock of two deaths in two days' time, but because of the web of animosity that defined this group. Not for the first time I marveled that they were friends at all. I wished to shake sense into them all and insist they learn better manners.

Instead I left the table and drifted to the window. To say the rain had abated would be a gross overstatement. The headland continued to take a sound pummeling, the drops splattering upwards from the lagoon that had formed in the depression between the terrace and the rocky rise closer to the cliffs. But the precipitation had eased enough to allow a clearer view across the landscape.

The autumn flowers carpeting the rise only yesterday now lay in tatters, flattened by the deluge. My gaze traveled farther, and I realized something. Due to those dips and hillocks in the land, I couldn't see the footbridge from here, nor could we have seen the bridge from the Great Hall the night we gathered to hear Niccolo play. From the second floor, yes, but from nowhere on the ground floor would anyone have seen what occurred on the bridge.

We could, however, have seen anyone crossing the lawn from the house to the Cliff Walk, which made it doubtful someone among this group had murdered Sir Randall. From the recital onward we were all accounted for, except perhaps for the brief interlude when everyone had dressed for dinner. But most of the bedrooms looked out over the back of the house. Again, anyone heading to the footbridge would have run a great risk of being seen. Those facts alone might lead one to believe either Sir Randall had taken his own life, had fallen accidentally, or his attacker came along the Cliff Walk from somewhere beyond Rough Point. Father's art thieves?