Murder at Vinland

Book 12: Gilded Newport Mystery

by Alyssa Maxwell

Genres: Historical Mysteries; Private Investigators; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Reporter and sleuth Emma Cross Andrews must stop a bold poisoner who is targeting the society wives of the Four Hundred in Gilded Age Newport, Rhode Island . . .

August 1901: A fundraiser for a new Rhode Island Audubon Society brings Emma to Vinland, the Viking-themed seaside home of her relative, Florence Vanderbilt Twombly, where the guest of honor is Edith Roosevelt, wife of Vice President Theodore Roosevelt. Listening to the speakers and observing the ladies in attendance, Emma is struck by the contrast of the Viking warrior–inspired elements in the house and the admirable but admittedly genteel cause of bird protection. Vinland bears the name of the Vikings’ first landfall in North America, but in this room today there is most assuredly no one to fear.

Emma’s observation of harmless philanthropy is proven wrong the following morning when one of Mrs. Twombly’s houseguests from the luncheon becomes mysteriously and dangerously ill. Accompanying police detective Jesse Whyte, Emma discovers a box of petit fours supposedly sent by Mrs. Roosevelt. They promptly rule out the Second Lady as a suspect, but someone has poisoned the cakes.

Soon another box of desserts as well as letters tainted with ink containing caustic toxins show up at other grand Newport cottages. Are the ladies from the luncheon being targeted? Emma and Jesse must sort through possible motives and means because now more than the birds need protection . . .

Release date: August 20, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Newport, Rhode Island, August 1901

Even flanked by the palaces that were Ochre Court and The Breakers, the red-sandstone mansion dominated the near horizon like a mythical castle. Framed by the Atlantic, the house spread its wings as if in invitation to the men who had inspired the building of it, men who had braved the perils of the sea in their open longboats to explore our shores a millennium ago. Rugged ashlar-block walls, precipitously pitched rooflines, and wide, peaked turrets stood as a testament to the courage and sheer audacity of those Viking seafarers who may or may not have touched the shores of Aquidneck Island centuries ago.

It was a hotly debated subject on our island.

As I drove my carriage past the gatehouse and onto the circular driveway, I recalled how the former owner, Catherine Lorillard Wolfe, had been inspired by the Old Stone Mill in Touro Park, which, many said, had been built by visiting Vikings. She had insisted Vinland be designed with these Norsemen in mind. But as I alighted from my carriage and handed the reins off to a waiting footman, I couldn’t help noting that, while the architecture might have harkened back to the Norway of a thousand years ago, I very much doubted the average Viking’s longhouse bore much resemblance, in length, breadth, or height, to this behemoth of a house.

A tide of ladies engulfed me as I made my way toward the wide stone archways of the porte cochere, the sounds of wind, birds, and ocean no competition for their upraised voices. There wasn’t a man in sight, other than footmen and grooms. But on a Tuesday in Newport, that was to be expected. Most gentlemen of the Four Hundred traveled back to New York during the week to attend to business and dutifully returned to join their wives on the weekend.

Several ladies called my name, and I paused to exchange greetings. My aunt Alice Vanderbilt and her daughter, Gertrude Whitney, caught sight of me and hurried over, the crowd between us parting liked scattering leaves at their approach. Aunt Alice, as The Mrs. Vanderbilt, even in widowhood, had that effect on most people. It had been two years now since Uncle Cornelius had left us, and Aunt Alice had abandoned black crepe and veils in favor of gray silk with lavender trim and a lace-covered hat trimmed in satin. It was good to see her resuming her social schedule and philanthropic activities. They had been a love match, Cornelius and Alice, and had shared both a religious devotion and a passion for charitable causes.

More familiar faces came into view: a now-elderly Caroline Astor leaning on the arm of her daughter, Mrs. Carrie Wilson; a stately Mary Wilson Goelet; and, perhaps the most welcome sight of all, Mrs. Edith Wetmore, wife of U.S. Senator George Wetmore, and their daughter, Maude. We had begun our friendship on the shakiest of foundations, and Maude, in particular, had treated me with skepticism at best, suspicion at worst. But all that was in the past, and now we often collaborated on charitable endeavors.

We were funneling through Vinland’s entrance when a voice I did not recognize called out, “Mrs. Andrews, what a delight to find you here.”

Expecting to encounter a familiar face, I turned to find a complete stranger at my side. I wondered, at the same time I opened my mouth to reply, whether I should pretend to recognize this dark-haired woman of middle years, still slender but with a sturdiness that suggested she was no delicate society matron. A much younger woman accompanied her, someone about my own age. She was a plain, auburn-haired individual who also struck no chord in my memory.

Before I could force out a word, the elder of the pair widened her smile and broke out into laughter. “Yes, that’s right, my dear, I know who you are. I’m afraid I do have an advantage over you. But not for long, I assure you.”

Her companion said nothing, but merely watched us with solemn hazel eyes. Before any further words could pass between us, we were swept through Vinland’s front door along with the others, into the dark-paneled hall adorned with moldings whose geometric designs I guessed to be Norwegian in origin. While the others proceeded along the corridor and through a wide doorway into the dining room, the three of us paused beside the staircase. Three tiers of stained-glass windows at the half landing sent a mosaic of colored light cascading down on us. I glanced up, making out the forms of Norse gods and goddesses immortalized in the glass.

The elder of the two women gave my hand a firm shake. “Mrs. Andrews, do forgive my having taken you off guard. I am Amity Carter. Miss Amity Carter.” She emphasized this with a note of unmistakable pride. Her voice also conveyed that I should now understand everything. I did not. She gestured to her companion. “This is my niece, Zinnia Lewis. We are lately come from Florida.”

Amity Carter. Should that name have meant something to me? It failed to, as did the name Zinnia Lewis. Once again, I felt at a great disadvantage.

“My dear, I own the property adjoining yours on Ocean Avenue. I thought you knew.”

Once again, she had rendered me speechless. I shook my head. “But the records state the property is owned by one Cecil Briarton . . .”

“Yes, my uncle. My mother’s brother. He passed away at the beginning of the summer and left the property to me. He died childless, you see, and he and I were quite close.”

“I see,” I replied rather stupidly, and blinked. Miss Lewis offered me an almost apologetic smile, but I barely noticed as my mind raced ahead. Cecil Briarton had never built on the parcel, indeed had shown little interest in it for as long as I could remember. How would this sudden development affect my husband’s and my quest to purchase the property, where we wished to build a new home for ourselves? The house we currently lived in, Gull Manor, which I had owned for nearly a decade, would become a school for girls.

At least, that had been our plan. Would Amity Carter wish to retain the property, perhaps build a summer cottage for herself? Then a different question had me frowning in puzzlement. “How did you know me?”

Before replying, she turned to her niece. “Zinnia, be a dear. Go in and find our seats, and I’ll be along in a moment.”

“All right.” Miss Lewis spared me another slight, ambiguous smile, reminding me of the pictures of the Mona Lisa I had seen in books. “Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Andrews.”

“Likewise, I’m sure.”

She scurried off, her simple straw sun hat paling beside the silk, taffeta, tulle, and jewel-adorned chapeaux of the other ladies streaming into the dining room. She seemed a plain little sparrow lost among a bevy of exotic birds.

But speaking of which, I suddenly realized something—or the lack of something. Apparently, the guests either had been asked not to wear hats decorated with feathers, or they had deduced for themselves that displaying the plumage of rare birds at a fundraising luncheon to benefit the Audubon Society would be in bad taste.

I turned back to find Miss Carter grinning at me, her own hat lined in gray-blue silk to match her ensemble. “My dear, it seems everyone in this town knows who you are. It’s not every city in America that can boast a lady journalist.” She tittered. “But the other day I happened to pass you on the street while driving with Miss Twombly in her carriage, and she pointed you out to me.”

“I didn’t know I caused such a stir.” I joined her in a chuckle. “You must have been on Spring Street?”

“Yes, Zinnia and I are staying at an inn on one of the side streets nearby.” She told me the name of the place, and I disclosed the location of the Messenger, the newspaper owned and operated by my husband and myself. I burned to continue speaking with her, to discuss the property and what her intentions might be, but the settling of the commotion in the dining room signaled that we should hurry to find our seats. The program would soon begin.

Just inside the doorway, we passed along the receiving line, headed by Vinland’s current owner, Mrs. Hamilton Vanderbilt Twombly, sister of Cornelius Vanderbilt and technically a distant cousin of my own. However, unlike the close relationship I had shared with Uncle Cornelius while he graced this world, and still shared with his wife, Alice, and their several children, Florence Twombly and I were virtual strangers. Hence, when I greeted her, I said, “Mrs. Twombly, thank you for inviting me. It’s a pleasure to be here.”

“You’re quite welcome, my dear. But . . .” She leaned in, and I noted that her oval face, with its large eyes and prominent nose, retained a European-like charm even as she neared sixty. “I will remind you, Mrs. Andrews, that you are here as a guest, and while I will certainly understand mention of today’s event in your newspaper—it is, after all, a good cause and we wish to gain as much support as possible—I admonish you to be discreet and not to report on intimate details about the house or my guests.”

“Of course, ma’am.” I struggled to keep my features steady, to betray nothing of my inner thoughts. But, like a child, I felt tempted to hold out my hands to show her I held no pencil or notebook. “You needn’t worry.”

“Needn’t I?” She cast me a sideways glance and dismissed me with a blink before turning to the next guest in line. This happened to be Miss Carter.

“Amity, darling, I’m so glad you could come.” Mrs. Twombly embraced this woman newly come from Florida, and I wondered how they knew each other. I searched my memory for prominent families named Carter, thought of a few, but couldn’t place an Amity in any of them.

Miss Carter returned to my side, and the two of us wended our way through Vinland’s dining room. Whatever large table usually dominated the space had been replaced by about a dozen round tables, each seating ten. Sprays of lilies and roses adorned the center of each table, artfully arranged but low enough to allow everyone to see their luncheon mates across the table. The ocean and a cloud-studded sky framed the view outside expansive windows.

At every place setting, a tented placard embossed in silver gilt bore the name of each guest, and throughout the room, footmen holding similarly embossed charts were assisting ladies to their seats. Where had I been placed among the crush? Halfway across the room, a lace-mitted hand went up, and I spied Miss Lewis’s simple hat.

“I believe you’re over there,” I said to Miss Carter, pointing.

“Ah, yes, there she is.” My companion craned her neck. “Is that an open seat beside her? Do come and see. I’d love for you to sit with us.”

I wanted that, too, but as I set out with Miss Carter, a hail came from the opposite direction, closer to the podium that stood in front of the unlit fireplace, which was filled with long-stemmed roses. My cousin Gertrude waved at me. She was easy to spot in any crowd, being so much taller than the average woman. Rather than retake her seat, she started toward me at a brisk pace.

“Emmaline, come along,” she admonished when she reached me. Then she noticed Miss Carter beside me. “Forgive me, Emmaline, do introduce your friend.” I did, and once pleasantries had been exchanged, Gertrude said, “Please do excuse us, Miss Carter. Perhaps we might speak later. Come, Emmaline, Mother is waiting, and there is someone at our table who is anxious to meet you.”

“But . . .”

Miss Carter patted my arm. “We’ll talk soon enough, Mrs. Andrews.”

I swallowed back a sigh. Whomever my cousin wished me to meet, I doubted my time would be more productive than if I sat beside Miss Carter. But Gertrude would not be deterred. She linked her arm through mine and drew me away.

“Wait till you see who it is.” My typically composed cousin was nearly breathless with excitement. “We’re lucky enough to be at the table of honor, and this person in particular—well, it’s such a thrill to be seated with her. And what a coup for your newspaper. It was entirely Mother’s doing that you’re with us. Otherwise, Aunt Florence might have seated you somewhere in the back.”

This last didn’t surprise me. But the fact that Gertrude referred to the Messenger without shuddering or curling her lip made a significant statement and piqued my curiosity. However much my Vanderbilt cousins held me in their esteem, none of them understood my inclination to work. Never mind that for most of my adult life, working had been necessary to put food on the table for my little household. That I continued in my employment as a news reporter even though I’d come into an inheritance a year ago and married a wealthy man utterly baffled them.

We hurried along, returning greetings as we went, until we approached a table positioned directly in front of the podium. Aunt Alice sat beside Mrs. Twombly and her daughter, Florence, or Flora, as we called her to differentiate between mother and daughter. Across from them sat the two Wetmore ladies. The woman beside them was unfamiliar to me.

No, on second thought, I did recognize her, from having seen her photograph in the newspapers. Now I fully understood Gertrude’s excitement.

“Emmaline, there you are.” Aunt Alice forewent tsking at me, but only just. “Whatever kept you?”

Mrs. Twombly conveyed her own annoyance with a twitch of a dark, delicate eyebrow. I smiled apologies, which in the latter case met with imperial indifference. I wondered about the two empty places that remained at the table. Who besides me dared to offend the formidable Florence Twombly in her own home?

Gertrude’s enthusiasm was not to be thwarted. “Emmaline—that is, Mrs. Andrews—I’d like you to meet Mrs. Theodore Roosevelt, our esteemed Second Lady of the United States. Mrs. Roosevelt, my cousin, Mrs. Derrick Andrews. Of the Providence Andrewses.”

I nearly winced at my cousin’s reference to my husband’s hometown, but managed to maintain even shoulders and a steady expression. Dear Gertrude, attempting to increase my social worth through my husband’s connections. But then, my connection to the Vanderbilts was a thready one, my being a descendent of the first Cornelius—the Commodore, as he had been called—through one of his daughters.

But whether Gertrude’s tactic worked, or if Edith Roosevelt simply possessed impeccable manners, I couldn’t say, for she glanced up from under the brim of an elaborate picture hat and smiled as if truly interested in me. She was not a beautiful woman, her face being rather too square, her mouth flattish and her lips thin, and the shape of her eyes unremarkable. Nonetheless, the directness of her gaze and the confidence in her bearing made her a handsome woman, a woman who commanded respect.

“It’s a pleasure and an honor, ma’am,” I said, and half-wondered if I should curtsey. I was saved from such a quandary by Aunt Alice bidding both Gertrude and me to take our seats. A footman came up behind us and held first Gertrude’s chair and then mine.

After settling, I greeted the Wetmore ladies, and we exchanged brief inquiries about our respective families. It was no surprise that the wife and daughter of a United States senator would be seated with the Second Lady; they must know each other well.

“I understand you’re a journalist, Mrs. Andrews,” Mrs. Roosevelt noted as a footman filled our glasses with citrusy Roman punch. “A noble profession, one our great democracy could not survive without.”

“Indeed,” Aunt Alice put in. “So rightly put.”

Beside her, Mrs. Twombly harrumphed. I almost did too, as I happened to know Aunt Alice felt no love for the press. Both ladies would undoubtedly have disapproved of my wish to tell Mrs. Roosevelt that had I been able to, I would have voted for the present administration. However, when my gaze happened to connect with young Maude Wetmore’s, I saw an admiration in her eyes, directed toward Mrs. Roosevelt, that suggested that if she could, she would have voted for that lady herself in a presidential election.

Imagine.

Two women hurried to the table, apologies on their lips. One appeared to be about Aunt Alice’s age; the other, closer to the younger ladies at the table, myself included.

“We’re so sorry to be late,” the elder said.

“We tried our best, truly, but the ferry from the mainland ran late today,” the young one said. A footman instantly appeared beside them and held their chairs for them.

“Ladies, this is Mrs. Harriet Hemenway, founder of the Massachusetts Audubon Society.” Mrs. Roosevelt gestured to the elder woman, who nodded generally to all of us while attempting to rein in her rapid breathing. Mrs. Roosevelt then indicated the younger of our new arrivals. “And this is Miss Jeanine Pierpont, who is attempting to establish a society here in Rhode Island.”

“Lovely to meet you all. Thank you so very much, Mrs. Twombly, for agreeing to host us.” Miss Pierpont carried a youthful spark accompanied by a gleam of mischief in her wide-set blue eyes. “Call me Jennie, please.”

“That’s rather familiar at a first meeting, isn’t it?” Mrs. Twombly sniffed and raised her glass of sparkling citrus punch to her lips. Beside her, her daughter, Flora, compressed her own lips in an effort not to grin.

Mrs. Twombly was even less appreciative of what happened next. Mrs. Roosevelt held up a hand toward me and addressed the newcomers. “Ladies, this is Mrs. Andrews, the reporter we’ve heard about.”

That was all she said, but Jennie Pierpont’s expression became immediately animated, even more so than a moment ago. “Delighted to meet you, Mrs. Andrews. I’m hoping you and I might talk afterward. Perhaps your newspaper might be of help in raising local awareness about the Audubon Society’s role in protecting our native birds.”

“Yes, of course. I’d be happy to discuss it with you. May I ask if you’re related to John Pierpont Morgan?” I had had the privilege of making that man’s acquaintance a year ago. It had been during a particularly trying time involving his cousin, Edwin Morgan, and the house he had built, called Beacon Rock, overlooking Newport Harbor.

“I am, but in a rather roundabout way,” she replied. “Much as you are related to Mrs. Vanderbilt and Mrs. Twombly.”

Aunt Alice cleared her throat loudly. I gathered she didn’t like the direction my conversation with Jennie Pierpont had taken. One of Aunt Alice’s quirks was that she often liked to pretend I was more closely related to her branch of the family than I was. I didn’t hold it against her; in fact, I found it endearing that she preferred to think of me almost as a daughter rather than a distant cousin. Bluntly, she asked, “Emmaline, who was that woman you entered the dining room with?”

“That is Miss Amity Carter.”

“Carter? Amity?” She drew her eyebrows together. “I don’t believe I know her.”

“I do,” Mrs. Twombly put in. “She’s a very old friend of mine. We attended finishing school together. Miss Porter’s in Connecticut. She and her family had a falling out some years ago over her refusing to marry.”

“Refusing to marry?” Aunt Alice looked as though this were the highest of crimes. She turned back to me. “Emmaline, what interest could you possibly have in this individual?”

“Aunt Alice, you needn’t worry. She owns the property next to Gull Manor, which Derrick and I wish to purchase.”

“To do what with?” She sought Gertrude’s eye, as if her daughter knew the answer to this question. Gertrude shrugged as I endeavored to satisfy Aunt Alice’s curiosity.

“We wish to build a new house for ourselves and establish Gull Manor as a school for girls.”

“Oh!” Her eyebrows went up, her eyes alight. “Yes, Newport could use a private finishing school for refined young ladies. Like Miss Porter’s in Connecticut.”

“Well, my plans are for it to be more than that. Much more.”

Her frown returned. “You mean you wish to fill girls’ brains with stuff and nonsense?”

“Aunt Alice . . .”

I got no further. At that moment, a small army of footmen began winding their way among the tables, each bearing a large silver platter held high in one hand, until he reached his destination and began serving the guests. The luncheon portion of the event had arrived, and I knew we could look forward to several lavish courses consisting mostly of meats and vegetables shipped here from Florham, the Twomblys’ sprawling farm in New Jersey. As the rattle of china, the clink of crystal and porcelain, and the high-toned chorus of ladies’ voices filled the room, conversation turned to the usual matters of upcoming weddings, debutante balls, summer soirees, and the latest fashions from Paris.

Such talk usually bored me, but it distracted Aunt Alice from the topic of my planned school, for which I was grateful. While I looked forward to the speeches that would be given following lunch, for now I busied myself with making mental notes of society’s interests and concerns. It had become a habit several years ago, when I’d begun my journalistic career as a society columnist for another local newspaper, the Newport Observer. Nowadays, I reported on real news—politics, crime, economic matters, both local and farther afield, but my observations today would not go to waste. Although Mrs. Twombly had forbidden me my reporting tools, I possessed a long and accurate memory. I would relay many of these details to the society columnist currently employed by the Messenger, a young man who enjoyed the job with the enthusiasm I had lacked.

But that didn’t prevent my attention from wandering from time to time, and as I studied the dining room, my gaze rose toward the ceiling. A gasp of appreciation broke from my lips. Circling the walls just below the ceiling was a wraparound frieze that appeared to tell a continuous story. As with the stained-glass windows on the staircase, these colorful and spectacular paintings depicted figures in medieval garb outside Nordic castles and on Viking ships, and other particulars out of both history and myth. As I scanned the scenes, my gaze lighted on a familiar sight: the Newport Tower in Touro Park, also called the Old Stone Mill, silhouetted against a sunset-streaked sky. Catharine Lorillard Wolfe had certainly taken Newport’s legendary Viking heritage to heart in designing her summer cottage, creating a visual tribute to those adventurous tales.

Finally, the plates were cleared. With a somber expression, Mrs. Twombly came to her feet and went to the podium. She rapped on its surface twice for attention and was rewarded with a silence that spread instantly through the room.

She briefly thanked the guests for attending, urged everyone to open their purses and checkbooks to such a worthy cause, and introduced Mrs. Roosevelt. Thunderous applause brought a congenial flush to the Second Lady’s cheeks as she rose. She talked about her and her husband’s great appreciation for the bounteous natural beauty to be found in this country, and of her gratitude to people like Harriet Hemenway and Jennie Pierpont for their tireless efforts to ensure that future generations would reap the benefits of our natural world.

She ended by introducing Harriet Hemenway. The applause was rather less fervent, merely polite, making it obvious that many in attendance had never heard of her or her Audubon Society of Massachusetts. She soon remedied that, explaining the delicate balance of nature, the importance of every species on earth in maintaining that balance, and describing the. . .