Murder at Crossways by Alyssa Maxwell

Author:Alyssa Maxwell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington Books
Published: 2019-05-28T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

Aunt Alva and her husband stood by the windows and pored over the photograph of my mother and Stuart Gale. Occasionally they passed the photo back and forth and made thoughtful little murmurs. Finally Aunt Alva turned back around.

“This is your brother, isn’t it?” she asked me.

“No,” I said. “That’s not Brady.”

Aunt Alva gave a harrumph. “Well, he’s very familiar.”

“Of course he’s familiar,” Mrs. Fish agreed. “That picture is of Stuart Gale from years ago. Quite a man about town, as I recall. As charming as he was boastful. Not to mention reckless.” She shot me a glance. “Got himself killed, didn’t he? Or so we all thought.”

“Ah, yes.” Mr. Belmont let the hand holding the photograph fall to his side. He squinted as if looking into the past. “I remember him. He styled himself Stuart Gale the Third, but no one ever knew if there had been a Stuart Junior.” He chuckled. “He was rather like Miss Cross here.”

I reacted to the comparison with a start. I didn’t believe I had much in common with a boastful, reckless man. Mr. Belmont apparently noticed my chagrin.

“What I mean is, he seemed equally at home among society and Newport residents. Like you, Miss Cross, he belonged to both worlds, so to speak. I raced with him, a time or two.”

I nodded. “Yacht races?”

Mr. Belmont nodded. “Horses, too, but yes, yachting. Sometimes on the same vessel, sometimes on opposing ones. He didn’t own a yacht of his own.”

“No, he wouldn’t have been able to afford one,” I said. “Do you remember the race that took his life?”

Mr. Belmont exchanged a frown with his wife and shook his head. “I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you a thing about it. There have been so many over the years.”

“Yes,” I said, “but three men went into the water during that race. Surely it must stand out in your mind.”

“It’s not an unusual occurrence,” Mr. Belmont said apologetically. “Why, just two years ago, there was that race Mrs. Astor organized beyond Beechwood. A man went overboard that day, too.”

I remembered all too well. Mrs. Astor had arranged the race for the enjoyment of her guests at her season-opening lawn party, and I was there to cover the event for the Observer. Foul play had been suspected, and later, the possibility that the death had been faked. The memories of that time had the power to send chills through me, and as I attempted to subdue them, I felt half tempted to let this matter go, as well.

But I could not, and so I persisted. “Stuart Gale might have raced with foreigners that day. With Europeans.”

Aunt Alva shrugged. “There are almost always Europeans about, Emma. Unfortunately, races were more informal back then. We didn’t have a New York Yacht Club station in Newport where records could be kept. Have you tried writing to your mother? If anyone will remember, it’s she.”

“I sent a wire earlier today, actually, but I don’t know when I might hear back.” Or if, I silently acknowledged.

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