Free Murder at Beechwood by Alyssa Maxwell

scribbled an article for my society column. The details of America’s most illustrious names—Vanderbilt, Belmont, Fish, Forbes, Oelrichs, et cetera—along with the styling of gowns and jewels, the china and silver gracing Mrs. Astor’s table, and the many dishes served to her guests at the midnight supper, flowed from my hand almost by rote, from habit and experience much more than any effort of my mind. No, my thoughts remained tangled in the mystery of little Robbie, along with a strong premonition that kept leading me back to the Monroes. When the delivery boy came with our newspaper, I sent my article off with him and didn’t give it another thought.
    That afternoon I returned to Beechwood with my tablet and pencil, but this time dressed casually in a linen day dress meant for tennis, a hand-me-down from my cousin Gertrude.
    The rear lawns bustled with activity—badminton, tennis, bowls, and croquet. White and pink flowers on flowing green vines decorated the round tables lining the arched loggia that wrapped around the rear and south sides of the house, while down on the lawn, long rectangular buffet tables, shaded by bright-colored pavilions, held platters overflowing with glazed duck, roasted partridge, stewed pheasant, and seared fillets of beef; there were lobster tails and crab croquets, pickled oysters, buttery clams, and a multitude of refreshing summer salads. Some of the guests sat on the shaded loggia while others strolled as they nibbled from small plates. Footmen circulated with trays of champagne and colorful hors d’oeuvres.
    Nanny had warned me to steer clear of Virgil Monroe, and for now I wouldn’t have to worry about that. He, along with twenty of the other male guests, were down at the harbor, at the New York Yacht Club stationhouse. In about half an hour’s time they were to sail their vessels along the coast and hold a race some several hundred yards out from the cliffs behind the Beechwood property. It seemed Mrs. Astor had planned every entertainment possible for her guests.
    A weary-looking Daphne Monroe, her face shadowed by a wide straw hat pulled low over her brow, stepped into my view. She seemed listless, uninterested in the goings-on. Had she slept badly? Did worries keep her awake? “Miss Gordon, hello. How are you today? Feeling better than last night, I hope?”
    â€œShould I be?” She tersely excused herself and walked off.
    A shadow fell across the place where she had stood. “It seems my ward could benefit from a lesson in manners.”
    â€œMrs. Monroe . . . I . . . good afternoon,” I stammered. Frankly, that the woman addressed me at all left me flustered. Despite my Vanderbilt relatives, most of the older guard—especially those allied socially with Mrs. Astor—considered me only slightly above the status of a servant.
    â€œForgive her behavior, Miss Cross,” she said, surprising me further. “We’ve spoiled her. Not hard to do considering her history, but perhaps we didn’t do her any favors with our lenience.”
    â€œThere is nothing to apologize for, Mrs. Monroe. I’m sure Miss Gordon doesn’t mean to give offense, and be assured there was none taken. How are you enjoying the festivities?” Becoming all business, I pulled my tablet from my purse and set my pencil to paper. I sent an admiring glance at her sapphire blue frock with its silver satin inset, scalloped hem, and Medici-style collar. The colors and cut flattered her build, making her appear more queenly than simply large. “Is that an Augustine Martin you’re wearing?”
    She looked impressed. “Yes, it is.”
    â€œStunning . . .” I went on to ask her the usual questions about the weeks leading up to her arrival in Newport. She seemed only too gratified to supply me with details, though they did little to answer the real questions lurking in my mind.
    â€œGoodness, it’s hot out