Murder at Arleigh

Book 13: Gilded Newport Mystery

by Alyssa Maxwell

Genres: Historical Mysteries; Private Investigators; Mystery

Synopsis

Reporter, sleuth, and new mother Emma Cross Andrews comes to the aid of a distraught wife who’s convinced her husband is trying to kill her . . .

April 1903: Emma and Derrick Andrews have been invited to the wedding of her cousin Reggie Vanderbilt and heiress Cathleen Neilson at the Bellevue Mansion, Arleigh. Their hosts are a popular young couple who are leasing the home for the summer—Harry and Elizabeth “Bessie” Lehr. Known for his practical jokes, Harry is the toast of parties, earning a reputation as the court jester of the Gilded Age. However, as Emma soon learns, behind closed doors he is dead serious.

Following the wedding, Bessie comes to Emma for help, insisting that her husband is cruel to her in private, telling her outright he married her only for her money and finds her repulsive. Divorce is unthinkable. Now she believes he is plotting to murder her and make it look like an accident: a broken balcony railing she might have leaned on, a loose stair runner that could have sent her tumbling down a staircase, faulty brakes in the car she uses . . .

Some would say being trapped in a loveless marriage is a fate worse than death. Not Bessie—she wants to live! Unsure if these situations are mere coincidences or add up to premeditated sabotage, Emma agrees to investigate and determine if Newport’s merry prankster is engaged in a cold-blooded game of life or death . . .

Release date: August 26, 2025

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

April 1903, Newport, Rhode Island

A peevish burst of wind and rain pursued me beneath the porte cochere and through the front door of Arleigh, the midcentury Queen Anne–style manse about to play host to my cousin Reginald Vanderbilt’s wedding. Even with its double-gabled, asymmetrical design, punctuated by an impressive turret, as if to put an exclamation point on an astonishing fact, Arleigh couldn’t hope to emulate the grandeur of Reggie’s parents’ cottage, The Breakers. Surely, I couldn’t be alone in wondering why Reggie and his bride, Cathleen, had decided to hold their nuptials here.

Inside, however, I discovered that Cathleen’s mother, Isabelle Neilson, had spared no expense to create a fantasy tableau fit for a princess. Multitudes of fragrant and exotic spring blossoms, mostly white, festooned nearly every surface in stark but pleasing contrast to the entry hall’s dark wood paneling. Urns of flowers, interspersed with gleaming satin bunting, adorned the grand staircase and the railings of the overlooking gallery. A pure white carpet runner lined the steps like a fresh blanket of snow.

With the chill clinging to me, I felt loath to hand over to the waiting footman the silk and velvet pelisse I’d tossed over my gown upon leaving home. But then my husband, Derrick, stepped into the foyer behind me, slid the garment from my shoulders, and replaced its warmth with the touch of his hand at the small of my back. The footman took my wrap, along with Derrick’s top hat and gloves, and we moved farther into the entrance hall to make room for others streaming in behind us.

The hall itself might have been considered a salon, being spacious and square, with a built-in, cushioned seat beneath a vivid stained-glass window—or what would have been vivid if not for the dreary weather—as well as other seating along the perimeter walls. However, from what I could see, a parlor lay through a doorway to my left. To the right, ceiling-high pocket doors had been slid wide, leading into the wide expanse of a drawing room, from where one might drift through another such opening into a music room. A dining room lay directly ahead and appeared cavernous. I surmised each room led into the next and back into the hall, creating a continuous flow that allowed guests to move about freely. Footmen circulated, offering small delicacies and coupes of champagne punch.

The hearths were ablaze, and that, along with some 150 guests—small by society’s standards—heated the house adequately enough. As I’d expected, more than a few expressions mirrored my puzzlement over the day’s event. Smiles appeared barely pasted on, about to slip at any moment; brows gathered above sideways glances. I tried to ignore the cynics and instead studied the profusion of floral garlands that climbed the walls, encircled the sconces, edged the gilded tables, and draped the doorways.

Yet, Derrick’s whisper in my ear gave voice to the very doubts I myself could not banish. “So, why do you suppose we’re here and not in New York? What’s he gotten himself into now?”

“Shh!” But he was right. That we were here, a relatively small gathering in the leased home of Harry and Elizabeth Lehr, and not at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in the heart of Manhattan, could not be a simple case of the bride being Catholic and the groom Episcopalian. Yes, mixed marriages could be complicated, but not irresolvable, especially considering the Vanderbilt millions. And while Newport did play host to the cream of society all summer long, this was April, and the only fashionable place for a society wedding at this time of year was, inarguably, New York City.

So, why were we here?

“Mr. and Mrs. Andrews, welcome to Arleigh. I trust you are both well?” Elizabeth Drexel Lehr, a tall, slender woman, with rich, nearly raven-black curls and aristocratic features, which were sometimes beautiful and sometimes bordered on haughty, extended her long-fingered hand to me. Her husband stood beside her, a hand at her bent elbow, while he stretched out his other to Derrick.

“Lehr, old man.” Derrick gave his hand a hearty shake. “Awfully good of you to lend Reg and his girl the use of your house.”

“Well, it’s not really ours, is it?” Harry Lehr gave a cavalier shrug. He was clean-shaven, his light brown hair parted in the middle and slicked back. Though trim of figure, his features held a softness, a certain slackness in the jowls. It suggested corpulence later in life. “It’s only leased,” he told us, referring to the house, “and it seems the pair were in something of a bind, don’t you know. Needed a convenient place to get hitched, and Mrs. Lehr and I said, ‘Heck, why not?’ Isn’t that so, m’love?” he added with a fond look at his wife.

“Indeed, though Mr. Lehr should receive all the credit, as it was his idea.” She linked her arm through her husband’s, and he gave her hand a pat, as if to secure it within the protective crook of his elbow. Society spoke of the Lehrs as a perfect love match, their affection for each other evident wherever they went. At a previous meeting, I had thought I’d detected a hint of discord between them, but perhaps I’d been wrong. Then again, what married couple didn’t disagree, at least once in a while?

“That was very kind of you,” I said with emphasis, and it was true. The Lehrs had been inconvenienced all week, having to vacate their own home—leased or not—while the wedding preparations commenced. While I debated whether or not to inquire why Reggie and Cathleen were in want of a place to get hitched, Mrs. Lehr unwittingly supplied an explanation.

“They never actually mentioned why they wished to wed in Newport,” she said with a delicate, well-bred laugh, “but only that it was important to them that they do so. I thought it wonderfully sentimental. I can only surmise that both harbor only the fondest memories of their summers here.”

“That must be it,” I agreed; although as soon as they walked away, Derrick and I traded looks that declared us both firm nonbelievers in that theory. I slipped my arm through his. “Let’s go say hello to Aunt Alice and the others.”

We wound our way to the front of the crush in the drawing room. Here, a string ensemble grouped off to one side played only loud enough to provide a gentle cadence above the hum of voices. An elaborate arch of white flowers framed a mullioned window overlooking the sodden side garden, faced by a few rows of chairs for the immediate family. Everywhere else—the remainder of the drawing room, the music room, and the entrance hall—offered standing room only.

Aunt Alice, flanked on either side by her sister-in-law Florence Twombly and my cousin Gertrude, stood in the aisle between the rows. Alice’s son Alfred, his wife, Ellen, and Gertrude’s husband, Harry Whitney, hovered close by. Gertrude’s beaded and flounced Worth gown successfully camouflaged her pregnancy, her third. After a girl and a boy, she and Harry were hoping for another daughter.

Missing, of course, were Alice’s eldest son, Neily, and his wife, Grace, for the family schism caused by their marriage had yet to heal, if it ever would. Also missing was Alva Belmont, formerly Vanderbilt, ostracized forever since her divorce from Uncle William eight years ago. I spied Uncle William, however, across the room, as well as his two sons: Willie, all grown up and married himself, and Harold, not yet twenty. Their sister, my dear cousin Consuelo, had been unable to make the trip from faraway England, where she presided over Blenheim Palace as the Duchess of Marlborough.

But as for Aunt Alice—I approached her with slight trepidation. Did she know or suspect anything amiss about today’s proceedings? Did she, too, find it strange to be here in Newport?

She wore her typical half mourning, though enlivened today by a glossy silken sheen and vibrant shades of violet trim. But it was her smile, filled with the self-satisfied pride of an indulgent mother, that assured me that if Reggie had found himself in some kind of trouble again, she knew nothing about it.

I breathed a sigh of relief, for her sake.

“Emmaline, Derrick, how good of you to come.” She opened her arms to us, embracing each of us in turn. Though my branch of the Vanderbilt family was far less illustrious than those who still bore that name, they had always been kind to me, included me in their summer activities, and filled in as needed, once my parents had departed our shores to live as expatriates among Paris’s artist community.

“Isn’t it wonderful to see Reggie taking on a man’s responsibilities with such a lovely young wife?” she simpered, then called out to Alfred, her second eldest son, who had replaced Neily as head of the family upon the death of their father. “You simply must find a place for Reggie now at the New York Central.”

“Of course, Mama. Just as soon as he’s back from his honeymoon.” Alfred caught my eye an instant after those words left his lips and hoisted an eyebrow. We both knew Reggie had no interest in working for the New York Central Railroad. Or anywhere, for that matter.

Derrick and Harry Whitney exchanged greetings, and once he and I had drifted away to mingle with other guests, he murmured, “Did you know he was arrested yesterday?”

“Who? Reggie?” I shook my head in dismay. “What was it this time? No, let me guess. Since we’re in Newport, it must have had something to do with that new Winton-Tourer of his.”

“Right you are, my dear. Caught racing it down East Main Road—with someone else in the car with him.”

“So reckless and thoughtless.” Though acquiring both touring and sporty automobiles had taken society by storm, I had yet to become enamored of them. Oh, I certainly enjoyed the exhilaration of a brisk ride through the open countryside on the mainland, where there seemed to be ample space for them. I knew that, for the most part and in the right hands, they were a relatively safe, if somewhat undependable, mode of transportation. But here, they seemed out of place, a noisy, smelly encroachment on the peace and quiet of our island.

Derrick had nonetheless joined the ranks of the motorcar owners the year before, purchasing a little Peugeot phaeton in shiny maroon with brass trim. We’d had to enlarge our barn to accommodate the vehicle, which kept our two carriage horses company. I hadn’t minded, but I had made it abundantly clear that while I might ride in it occasionally, I far preferred our reliable horse and buggy—and I utterly refused to allow our baby daughter to be a passenger.

Before I could ask who had been with Reggie during this race, Derrick leaned in and lowered his voice. “It was one of the bridesmaids, Miss May.”

I stifled a gasp and spoke lower still. “Mable? Was Cathleen also there?”

Derrick shook his head. “Not that time, although there was an incident of racing last week and Cathleen was with him then.”

“He’s going to kill someone, one of these days. Who was he racing against??”

“One of his groomsmen. Ely Forrester.” Derrick pointed to a young man standing in a group of equally youthful men, all of whom looked as though they wished to be elsewhere. I knew of the Forrester family, but they were not summer Newporters, so I was not acquainted with Ely. Taking his measure, I judged him to be in his early twenties. He was of slight build, with sloping shoulders and a slouchy posture that diminished his stature even more. He appeared oblivious to those around him as he fidgeted with his tie and cuffs and tugged at his morning coat.

“Well,” I said with a sigh, “at least Reggie and Cathleen are leaving immediately on their honeymoon. That should keep him out of trouble for at least as long as the voyage.”

Derrick snorted. “Trust me, there’s a host of trouble a man can get up to on a cruise.”

“Speaking from experience, are you?”

He was saved from having to reply when the orchestra went suddenly silent, and then struck up a few warning notes. This caused a subdued commotion as the guests took up their desired positions to witness the nuptials. The opening notes of the Lohengrin March effectively stifled any remaining conversation. Reggie, accompanied by Alfred and his groomsmen, including Mr. Forrester, stepped up to the floral arch, under which now stood a priest I recognized, Father Meenan, of St. Mary’s Catholic Church. Along the gallery on the upper floor, the first of the bridesmaids appeared, dressed all in white with a darling picture hat perched just so over the upsweep of her hair. Behind her came the next three. Following was the maid of honor, my youngest cousin, Gladys, looking as flushed and ebullient as a bride herself.

The music surged, and Cathleen descended the staircase—floated really—on the arm of her uncle, her father having passed away several years earlier.

“How lovely she is,” I whispered to Derrick. In white silk chiffon, she was an ethereal confection, crowned by diamonds and orange blossoms and a veil of antique lace. With each downward step, her wide, tiered sleeves fluttered like the wings of a tiny bird. Another thought struck me, one I didn’t voice. How very young she looked. Young, eager, and so unaware of anything beyond the glory of her wedding day. But at eighteen, how could she envision anything but a perfect life with her new husband?

I stole a glance back at Reggie. In his tapering black morning coat and white silk cravat, he looked handsome, self-possessed, and aristocratic. Also, sober. Was he? I prayed so.

When it was done, I felt as though the entire assemblage let go a subtle sigh of relief. It had been a short but lovely ceremony, a nuptial mass having been dispensed with in deference to the mix of faiths present. We toasted the bride and groom, and the wedding breakfast was served. The guests found seats where they could, either at the dining room table, or on chairs and sofas that miraculously appeared from where they had been previously pushed against the walls.

While Mrs. Neilson presided over the festivities, the Lehrs also acted as hosts, making the rounds of each room to ensure the guests had all they needed—or wanted. Harry Lehr was quick to send footmen repeatedly down to the wine cellar, which they had stocked for the Season. With a glance at Reggie, I wished he wouldn’t. A telltale redness tipped my cousin’s nose and his heavy-lidded gaze melted hazily over his surroundings. And as his eyes lost their focus, his voice gained an edge, his laughter bellowing through the house and prompting Cathleen to watch her new husband with a bewildered expression. Alfred and Gertrude glowered at their brother, while many of the guests sniggered into their hands or rolled their eyes, being all too familiar with Reggie’s antics. Only Aunt Alice seemed not to notice, continuing to beam with pride at her favorite child.

While the rain continued lashing the windows, spirits inside remained high. Derrick and I wandered for a time in separate directions, each of us catching up with acquaintances. I had just left young Flora Twombly’s side when I noticed Mr. and Mrs. Lehr tucked into an alcove at the rear corner of the entry hall, partially hidden by a sweep of velvet drapery. By this time, most of the company had squeezed themselves into the drawing and music rooms, leaving the hall virtually empty. Except for the Lehrs.

Though his back was to me, I could see that Harry Lehr held a hand quite near his wife’s face and gesticulated forcefully, enough to make her startle and pull back. She didn’t cower long, however, but replied with a glowering look and words whispered too low for me to make out, but which shot like arrows from her tight lips. I eased back into the drawing room doorway, yet didn’t—couldn’t—look away. Was this the couple everyone termed a love match? Oh, we all had our moments, even Derrick and I, but never with such open animosity.

Mr. Lehr suddenly pivoted away from his wife, leaving her blinking as if he’d flashed a bright light in her eyes. As he strode in my direction I turned and attempted to blend into the nearest group. But the moment he entered the room, his scowls melted away; smiles and laughter replaced his bad humor. He moved past without noticing me, speaking with guests as he went and playing the proper host. I gazed across the hall to find Mrs. Lehr standing where he’d left her, still blinking. Were those tears? There was no mistaking the vulnerability that, for an instant, stripped away her cultivated, dignified veneer to reveal . . . something that, from my vantage point, bordered on heartache. Devastation. Then she, too, pivoted and vanished beyond the drapery, into, I presumed, a hallway.

I found myself unable to turn away from the empty space where she had been. With a brief look around me, I located Derrick in the music room, deep in conversation with Aunt Alice and Alfred. My feet conveyed me across the hall.

I found Mrs. Lehr in the sort of short corridor I had surmised would lurk beyond the alcove. My knowledge of Newport’s houses was such that I often could find my way around one I had never entered before. Mrs. Lehr stood in front of a gilt-framed wall mirror beside a closed door, her hands braced on the marble-topped console beneath it. The sounds of the wedding seemed far off here. The mirror reflected the watery gloom of the rain-streaked window opposite. It also reflected her troubled countenance. But she was not checking her hair or jewelry, but, rather, staring down at her hands. Her satin-gloved fingers trembled against the marble. I was about to call her name, but she straightened, opened the door beside her, and stepped inside.

Had she heard me and endeavored to escape my good intentions? When she didn’t close the door behind her, I hesitated several long moments before taking the liberty of following her into what appeared to be another small parlor or perhaps a morning room.

“Mrs. Lehr, are you all right? You seem . . . indisposed. Is there anything I can do?”

When she didn’t reply I became aware of other voices—two of them, both male—coming from behind yet another closed door on the back wall of the room we occupied. She turned to peer at me over her shoulder, her features strained and her face gone pale. Before I could ask what had so dismayed her, the swinging door burst open and a man came striding out of a pantry that apparently connected this room to the dining room and the kitchen.

I recognized Ely Forrester, Reggie’s groomsman—the one who had been racing with him down East Main Road the previous day. He came to a halt, obviously startled by the sight of Mrs. Lehr and me. His nostrils flared, and his thick eyebrows gathered like thunderclouds before he resumed his brisk stride past us.

I looked beyond Mrs. Lehr to find Reggie hovering in the doorway, looking equally as startled as Mr. Forrester, but where Mr. Forrester had displayed anger, Reggie looked sheepish. His coat was unbuttoned, his tie askew.

“Ah . . . how much of that did you . . . uh . . . if you’ll excuse me.” Shoving his hands into his trouser pockets, he hunched his shoulders and walked determinedly from the room.

I moved to Mrs. Lehr’s side. “What was that all about?”

She gave an infinitesimal shake of her head. “I’ve no idea. It doesn’t matter. Men always have their secrets.”

Her face had gone paler still, and a strange brightness lurked behind the moisture in her eyes. In an act of over-familiarity, for we were barely acquainted, I pressed a hand to her wrist. “Are you quite all right?”

“Yes, of course. I merely needed a quiet moment.” She made a pitiful attempt to smile. “It’s grown awfully hot and stuffy, and all those voices.” She slid her hand out from under mine and touched her fingertips to the elaborate piles of raven-black curls that made up her coif. “Goodness, my head was beginning to ache. But I’m fine now.”

“If you’re certain . . .”

“I am. But it’s awfully kind of you to inquire.”

There was that word again—awfully. She’d used it twice. Was it a word that described the day for her? Her marriage? Her life?

No. I was getting carried away, seeing ill tidings where there had only been a tiring day, an exhausting week, and a married couple feeling the strain of opening their home to a host of outsiders.

“I can’t help but wonder what my cousin and his friend were up to,” I said, loath to leave her alone. “Was it me, or did they seem perturbed to find us here?”

“Probably discussing some business or other. You know men. They believe their concerns to be unfit for ladies’ ears, not to mention doubting our ability to comprehend.” She shrugged. “I should be getting back. Will you accompany me, Mrs. Andrews?”

On our way to rejoin the festivities, she asked me about Derrick’s and my daughter. Born in February of the previous year, Annamarie was toddling about the house now and delighting herself and us with a few newly acquired words: Mama, Papa, Nana, and, perhaps most darling of all, Pat-pat, her interpretation of our dog Patch’s name.

Once in the drawing room, Mrs. Lehr thanked me again for my kindness and signaled to someone across the room. “Excuse me, won’t you?” she said, and started away, presumably to whomever it was she had waved to. But when I turned to see whom she approached, there was no one, and Mrs. Lehr had gone in the opposite direction.

I didn’t speak to her again that day, or see her for weeks afterward, until quite unexpectedly she came to call one day at Gull Manor, our home on Ocean Avenue.

Since Annamarie’s birth, I had begun working at home some days, and on others, splitting my time between home and the offices of the Messenger, the local newspaper Derrick and I owned and ran. Technically, Derrick owned it, having purchased it while it was little more than a floundering broadsheet a few years back. With his business acumen, my reporting skills—if I might be so bold to boast—and the expertise of our editor-in-chief, Stanley Sheppard, our subscriptions had flourished, as had our list of weekly advertisers. My working from home as often as I did might not have been ideal, and to be sure, my male counterparts at Newport’s rival papers looked down their noses at me, but what were a few sneers when it meant being a mother—truly a mother—to our happy, bright, perfect girl?

One morning at the beginning of June, as more arrivals in town began breathing life into the summer Season, I took Annamarie out to our rear garden overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. I needn’t worry about my darling girl running into the water. The edges of the property were bordered by boulders that required one to climb them before gaining access to the water. On her short, tottering legs, Annamarie would be hard-pressed to make that climb before I swooped in to scoop her up. And should I be tardy in reaching her, our dependable spaniel mix, Patch, would catch the hem of her dress in his teeth and refuse to let her move another inch forward.

That day, we sat on a blanket I had spread out on the grass. Patch ha. . .