EXCERPT: Murder at Vinland

Derrick and I kept busy attending to usual matters at the Messenger—he with issues of management and finances, and me with local articles and those sent over the wires from the Associated Press. I also typed up the social and fashion details I remembered from the luncheon for Ethan, and then drafted my own article about the Audubon Society and Jennie Pierpont’s goal of establishing a chapter in our state. I still needed to interview her privately. Vinland had been too noisy yesterday, Jennie too involved in taking donations, and Mrs. Twombly too disapproving of my profession, for us to have conducted the interview there.

Just before lunchtime, Derrick came down the hallway to my small office near the rear of the building. Detective Jesse Whyte of the Newport Police strode in behind him, his derby in his hands and his reddish hair tousled by the wind.

“I was just informed by Dr. Kennison that Mrs. Robinson doesn’t look to be suffering from food poisoning.” Before Derrick or I could ask what the doctor did think, he went on. “It looks more like some kind of toxin.”

Derrick, who had perched on the edge of my desk as was his habit, came quickly to his feet. “You mean someone tried to poison the poor woman at the luncheon yesterday?”

“I didn’t say that.” Jesse and I had known each other as long as I could remember, both of us having lived in the Point section of Newport before I moved to Gull Manor. We never stood on formality, and in recent years he had come to rely not only on my connections to members of the Four Hundred, but also on the insights I shared with him about both our summer residents and our year-round locals. “It could be some kind of household chemical, mostly likely used in cleaning, that somehow got into something she ate.”

“Has anyone else at the luncheon taken ill?” I asked. “What about the Second Lady? I heard she was also of sound health, but—”

“Apparently she was also staying at Vinland.” I nodded as Jesse confirmed what Nanny had said. “She’s gone on to Providence and from there Boston, apparently. As far as we know, she hasn’t reported having any illness.”

“Thank goodness for that.” I allowed a sigh of relief to escape my lips.

“Mrs. Robinson might have ingested the toxin this morning at breakfast.” Jesse began to pace the length of my small office, one I typically shared with our society columnist.

“Ethan is out on assignment,” Derrick said. “As soon as he returns, we’ll ask him if he’s heard about anyone else taking ill in the past twenty-four hours.” He turned to me. “Where is he now?”

“The polo grounds, and after the match I believe he’ll be covering the picnic at Chateau-sur-Mer.” I consulted the watch pinned to my shirtwaist. “In fact, that’s probably where everyone is by now.”

“Good, then he’ll be in a position to notice any unusual absences.” To Jesse, Derrick said, “So what next?”

“We’ve sent a pair of bluecoats to Vinland to ask questions and poke around the kitchen. I’m going out there soon.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “If you’re so certain this was accidental, why are you going?”

He gave a soft laugh. “Because this is Mrs. Twombly and we have to be certain.”

Derrick widened his stance and faced Jesse down. “Are you about to involve my wife in a potentially criminal matter again?”

Jesse held out his hands, palms up. “Didn’t I just say we believe it was an accident?” Before either I or Derrick could respond, Jesse’s arms fell to his sides and he assumed a sheepish expression. “But yes. Emma, if I might ask you to accompany me to Vinland . . .”

“Of course,” I said without hesitation, before Derrick could object.

He did anyway. “Then maybe you should think about hiring her on instead of endangering her with no compensation.”

“Derrick . . .” I murmured.

“I only need her to help smooth things with Mrs. Twombly. You know how your sort can be, especially the ladies.” Jesse referred to Derrick’s family being, essentially, members of the Four Hundred, even though they hailed from Providence. His father’s New England newspaper fortune and his business interests tied to New York more than qualified him for membership in that particular club of America’s elite.

Derrick gave a loud, “Ahem.” He didn’t appreciate the reference and had no qualms about letting Jesse know it. They had engaged in an ongoing rivalry ever since they had met several years ago—mostly to do with me. And while time had alleviated the cause of their contention, they seemed often to revert to it out of habit. I believed they enjoyed it.

Men.

I came around my desk and grasped Derrick’s hands. “Don’t worry so. I’ve helped Jesse before and have come out all right in the end. And you know I can move about these cottages and talk to their owners in ways he cannot.”

His mouth tightened. His eyes held mine in a kind of supplication. Then the hard line of his jaw relaxed and he sighed. Then nodded. My long-suffering husband knew me too well to try to stop me from doing something I deemed important.

I smiled up at him. “We’ll make short work of this, I promise.”

He laughed, a sound that held more cynicism than humor. Jesse and I left shortly after, climbing into his police buggy and heading over to Ochre Point.

#

When we arrived at Vinland, Mrs. Twombly herself let us in the front door. She appeared visibly shaken, her usual poise having failed her.

“Thank you for coming, Detective,” she said in tremulous voice. “Your officers are already here. I believe they’re looking through the kitchen and pantries.”

“Yes, thank you. I’ll join them there, if you’ll point the way.” He removed his derby and tipped his head. “How is Mrs. Robinson?”

“The same. I simply cannot understand it.” Mrs. Twombly turned her attention to me. “Mrs. Andrews, I didn’t expect you, although perhaps I should have.” A raised eyebrow both censured and accepted the reason for my presence.

“I hope you don’t mind.” We kissed the air beside each other’s cheeks, more like casual acquaintances than family. “I do wish to check in on Mrs. Robinson. And then I can assist Detective Whyte in interviewing the female staff.”

She nodded, closing the door softly behind us. When she turned back around, she said, “You might find it rather upsetting, seeing Lottie.”

“Upsetting?” I exchanged a glance with Jesse.

“In what way, ma’am?” he asked.

“I suppose you should see for yourself.” A shudder skidded across her shoulders. But be prepared. It’s quite unsettling.”

She led us down the long hall and to the staircase. The stained-glass windows at the half landing washed us in myriad colors until we made the turn and continued up. Here, another long hall mimicked the one below it. We walked partway down, where we came to a closed door. Mrs. Twombly knocked softly.

A woman in nurse’s garb opened the door. “Yes?”

“Miss Webber, this is Detective Whyte and Emmaline Andrews. They’ve come to see Mrs. Robinson.”

“She’s sleeping at the moment.” Still, the nurse opened the door wider and stood aside to let us enter. I knew her face, youthful and fair, with small but keen eyes and a prettily bowed mouth. My good friend, Hannah Hanson, was a nurse at the Newport Hospital, and I had met Miss Webber through her. We nodded our acknowledgements of each other.

“Come,” she said, and beckoned us to follow her to the side of the bed. Charlotte Robinson lay on her back in the middle of the mattress, her head and shoulders supported by downy pillows, the satin comforter tucked beneath her chin. Her hair lay in salt and pepper whisps about her head, and her eyes were sunken and surrounded by blue shadows in a face as white as tissue paper. But it was her mouth my gaze adhered to, the raw and peeling flesh surrounding her lips, and the lips themselves, split in several places and looking as though they would bleed at the slightest touch.

“Yes, you see now,” Mrs. Twombly said.

“Yet, they don’t see,” Miss Webber said cryptically. “Not really. Inside—her tongue, the roof of her mouth, her throat—all burned as if she’d swallowed fire. One can only guess at the damage to her stomach.”

Beside me, Jesse hissed a breath between his teeth. A wave of fear and nausea swept over me. I tamped it down, and asked, “Will she live?”

Nurse Webber exhaled. “Only God knows, Mrs. Andrews.”