Murder at Beechwood by Alyssa Maxwell Page A

hammered in my wrists so that I could hardly position the binoculars I raised in my free hand. The sloop was once more upright, but the mast had splintered, the shattered section and broken boom pitching riotously in the waves. I caught my breath and held it as two men leaned out over the port side. They reached out and latched on to something in the water, and to my horror I realized that something was an individual. They gripped handfuls of clothing and heaved until they dragged what appeared to be a lifeless body up, over, and onto the deck. There he lay sprawled on his back, unmoving.
    â€œWho is it?” I asked aloud. Even with the binoculars I couldn’t make out the features, not of the prone man or the others. It was all a watery blur, the images muted and gray upon the darker gray background of sea and sky.
    â€œWhat’s happening?” Grace demanded. “Can you see Neily?”
    â€œWhat about Lawrence?” Daphne shouted.
    Before I could answer either of them, Mrs. Andrews made her own hoarse demand. “Do you see Derrick? Where is Derrick?”
    â€œI don’t know. . . .” Fear made me queasy. No matter how coldly he had treated me the night before, or how much this woman apparently disdained me, I could not wish either ill. I clamped my teeth around a wordless prayer that he would be all right.
    â€œThank God,” a man in the crowd shouted. “The Life-Saving Service is on the way!”
    This time I released Grace to raise the binoculars in both my trembling hands. Sure enough, two official cutters sliced through the rain and churning waves. Within minutes one had rendezvoused with Uncle William’s ketch. The other continued until it reached Virgil Monroe’s sloop.
    With a gasp of relief I said, “Thank goodness, they’ll be safe now.”
    Yet when I swerved my sights back to the foundering vessel, it was to realize there were only four men on board. The binoculars slipped from my grasp to clatter to the marble-tiled floor.
    Someone else had gone over. Someone had been lost.

Chapter 7
    M rs. Astor’s guests crowded into the ballroom, a somber gathering waiting for news. The buffet tables had been carried inside at the first drops of rain, but not many people ventured toward them. I certainly had no appetite. How could this have happened? How could the elements have dared defy Mrs. Astor and wreak such havoc on her festivities?
    One by one Mrs. Astor assembled those most affected by the day’s events and ushered them upstairs to her private parlor. Grace and Gertrude, Mrs. Monroe and Daphne Gordon, Mrs. Andrews and her daughter, Judith Kingsley, all followed Caroline Astor up the Grand Staircase in heavy silence. She had not sought me out, but I brought up the rear nonetheless. Five of my relatives had been directly involved, not to mention Derrick. As we arrived on her parlor threshold she eyed me as if contemplating sending me away, but both Gertrude and Grace reached out their hands to draw me into the room.
    â€œShouldn’t we telephone someone in town?” Mrs. Andrews plucked nervously at the lace on her sleeve. “The hospital, or the Life-Saving Service station?”
    â€œDon’t you think someone would telephone here if there were any news, Mother?”
    Something in Judith Kingsley’s tone caught my attention. I glanced over at her in time to catch the petulance on her features before she schooled them into a more suitably apprehensive expression. I studied her a moment longer, remembering her anger of the night before, aimed at both Derrick and Virgil Monroe. Could her resentments be so powerful as to overshadow any concerns for their welfare? Had she not realized someone on that sloop had most likely drowned?
    Daphne Gordon, on the other hand, appeared almost inconsolable. She had collapsed into a side chair near Mrs. Astor’s escritoire. Her face in her hands, she sobbed quietly while Mrs. Monroe stood over