Free Murder at the Breakers by Alyssa Maxwell

the carriage shed behind St. Paul’s Church, whose steeple cast a thin shadow across the front of the police station. A glance over my shoulder revealed no well-dressed stranger in pursuit.
    “You’re in a hurry, Miss Emma. Everything all right with your brother?”
    I didn’t stop to ask Mr. Weatherby, St. Paul’s sexton, how much he had heard about last night’s ordeal. Yes, in a town like Newport, news traveled fast and rumors spread like weeds. I assured him Brady’s involvement was a misunderstanding, thanked him for brushing Barney down, and promised I’d see him at Sunday morning services.
    Did I see a flash of gray overcoat as I swung the buggy back onto Marlborough Street? I might have, but I didn’t linger to be sure. Was I overreacting? Maybe, but as garish headlines ran through my mind, I didn’t think so. This man might poke around as much as he liked. I had my own information to gather. My next stop was The Breakers.

Chapter 4
    T he skies opened up as I drove through The Breakers’ main gates. Parker, the young footman on duty at the front door during the day, ran out from the porte cochere with an umbrella at the ready. A lot of good it did. I was already wet from the ride in my open-sided carriage, and in the nearly sideways rain poor Parker became fairly drenched as well.
    Inside, he quickly handed me off to the acting head butler, Bateman, and excused himself to change into a dry uniform. Bateman hurried me into the ladies’ parlor off the marbled entry hall. Within minutes my carriage jacket had been whisked away by a maid for drying, and I sat wrapped in a thick shawl, sipping strong tea. I was grateful Bateman hadn’t brought me into the library, where the memories of last night would have replayed over and over in my mind.
    “Is there anything else I can bring you, Miss Emmaline?”
    Russell Bateman wasn’t much older than Brady, which was far younger than the typical head butler. With his wheat-colored hair and freckled complexion, he appeared greener than the most inexperienced under footman, yet I knew him to be capable of assuming an authoritative role when necessary—as was the case now. Mason, as I’d learned last night, had been recently let go, supposedly caught stealing by Alvin Goddard.
    I wondered about that.
    “Thank you, Bateman, I’m fine now. Has my uncle returned from town yet?”
    “He’s been in and gone again, miss. None of the family is presently at home.”
    “None of them?” This surprised me. I’d hoped that if nothing else I might probe Aunt Alice with a few strategic questions. “They’ve all gone out in this weather?”
    “The events of last night have left the family unsettled, miss. I believe Mr. Alfred suggested an afternoon at the Casino and then dinner at the country club.”
    “Probably a good idea,” I murmured. If I shrank from the idea of having tea in the library, I could only imagine how the rest of them felt inhabiting a house where a man well-known to them all had died less than twenty-four hours ago.
    Seeming unsure what to do with me, Bateman hovered near the table as I sipped my tea. It might not have been very sporting of me, but I decided the family’s being away provided me with a rare opportunity. Setting my cup in its saucer with a light clink, I caught his eye. “Bateman, you’re aware of the circumstances surrounding Mason’s dismissal, yes?”
    “He was accused of stealing valuables from the family.”
    “Like what?”
    “Well . . . I believe some rare bronze figurines of Mrs. Vanderbilt’s were taken. Chinese, I think, and priceless.”
    “But he’s worked for them for years with never a mishap. When did the items go missing?”
    “In the spring, it seems. No one noticed right away, though, what with all the refurbishing going on.” He lifted the porcelain teapot. “More tea, miss?”
    “Thank you.” I held out my cup. “Did he admit to the theft?”
    “Not at all, miss. Mr. Mason insists he’s