Murder at Beechwood by Alyssa Maxwell

John Astor’s and Stuyvesant Fish’s, were already heading south after taking the first turn in the course. Now they kept going, hugging the coast as they made their way around the island and toward the safety of Narragansett Bay.
    â€œWell, that’s certainly a relief,” a woman said. Despite much of her face being hidden by a flowered, beribboned hat that resembled an overdecorated cake, I recognized the tall brunette as Stuyvesant Fish’s wife, Mamie. She made her way to the ballroom doors and stepped inside.
    That left Uncle William’s ketch and Virgil Monroe’s sloop. My stomach clenched as I considered how many people I cared about were on those boats. Uncles William and Frederick, Neily, William’s two young sons . . . and Derrick.
    â€œThey’re having a devil of a time,” announced a man who stood near me. He held a pair of binoculars to his eyes.
    â€œWhy don’t they turn and follow the others?” someone asked.
    â€œThey can’t,” another replied, pointing. “Looks like they’re caught in the currents.”
    â€œAnd they’re too close to one another. . . .”
    The man with the binoculars lowered them to his side, and with a look of apology I snatched them from his hand. The sloop and the ketch were indeed close—too close—and the wind barreling over the waves threatened to send them crashing into each other. Through the rain and at this distance I couldn’t make out individuals, but I could see them all scrambling to tighten the sails and secure the lines.
    I gasped as the Vigilant ’s boom swung wildly around from starboard to port. Behind me, a woman shrieked. On board the men ducked, narrowly missing being hit, but as the boom swung out over the water again the boat tipped onto its side. My heart reached up into my throat even as cries of dismay erupted around me. A hand squeezed my arm. I lowered the binoculars to discover Grace once more beside me, her eyes large with fear.
    â€œOh, Emma . . .”
    â€œThat wasn’t Neily’s boat,” I said quickly. No, but Derrick was on that sloop. I craned my neck, wishing away the rain and the distance so I could more clearly see what was happening. Grace let go a breath, but the worry didn’t release its hold on her features—worry that pulled my own features taut with an almost painful tension. Another woman elbowed her way through the crowd, her flawless skin blanched of color, making a sharp contrast with her ebony hair.
    â€œGood heavens. Derrick . . .” Mrs. Andrews pressed her fingers to her mouth and stared out at the rain-blurred view.
    â€œThey’ll all drown,” another female voice said, and I turned around to find Daphne Gordon and Eudora Monroe standing side by side and clutching each other’s hands. It was Daphne who had spoken, and now she cried out, “We must do something!”
    â€œThere is nothing we can do,” Eudora Monroe told her with anxious shakes of her head.
    â€œI’m sure they’ll be all right,” I said with little conviction. I turned back around to face the water. The sloop tipped again, this time towed by the current toward Uncle William’s Defender, also banked sharply on its side. My own stomach seemed to drop out from under me as the mast from the former seemed about to crash into the hull of the latter. Grace gripped my arm like a vise. I drew her closer and wrapped an arm about her trembling body.
    Cresting waves obscured the vessels, sending up a collective gasp among the spectators around me. When the waves broke, the Defender straightened and skipped over the water away from the sloop, putting a safe distance between them. But the Vigilant tilted sharply again, the boom once more swinging out of control. Mrs. Andrews cried out. Daphne’s sobs filled the air while Mrs. Monroe murmured a steady stream of words to calm her.
    My heart clogged my throat and my pulse