Excerpt: Murder at Rosecliff

(At Tessie Oelrichs famous White Ball . . .)

I wandered into the dining room and spotted Grace with several other wives helping themselves to refreshments laid out on the long table. A red-haired beauty, she held a glass of champagne punch and laughed at whatever someone had just said. She looked carefree, beautiful, and young—and no longer affected by the family schism her marriage to Neily had caused. Even today, seven years later, Aunt Alice refused to receive them. Yet that hadn’t stopped Grace making her mark on society. I watched as the other women appeared to hang on her every word. She might not be The Mrs. Vanderbilt, but she was certainly a Mrs. Vanderbilt to be reckoned with.

“Emma,” she cried out upon seeing me, though we had greeted each other earlier, if only briefly. I credited the champagne for her exuberance and unreservedly returned her embrace.

Arm in arm, we drifted from the group of ladies and took a turn about the perimeter of the dancefloor, so highly polished we could see our reflections. Grace’s tiered diamond earrings, choker, and wrist cuff glistened like liquid stars in the light of the chandeliers with each step we took. “Did I tell you about Neily’s latest project? Or did he?”

“Which one?” My eldest Vanderbilt cousin loved mechanics of all kinds and could typically be found tinkering in the workshop he’d assembled in the basement of Beaulieu, the house they leased here each summer. He held multiple patents, some of which his brother, Alfred, who now ran the New York Central Railroad, had utilized to make improvements to train cars and engines. As the elder brother, it should have been Neily running the New York Central, but this had been another sacrifice when he married Grace.

“He’s partnering with Ollie Belmont’s brother, August, to construct New York’s first ever subway, like they have in London and Paris,” she informed me. “America is entering the modern world—finally. Can you imagine, Emma? Train travel below the ground. It boggles the mind.”

“Goodness, it does indeed.” I enjoyed hearing the pride in Grace’s voice. All too often, Neily’s and her interests lay worlds apart. Only last month she begged me to drop everything at the Messenger and come to tea because Neily refused to look up from his books and papers and she had grown bored.

A sudden change in topic exemplified her capricious nature. “You must come by and see the children. Corneal is almost all grown up. Goodness, he’ll be off to St. Paul’s in a few short years.” She referred to the boarding school in New Hampshire all the Vanderbilt men attended—although Reggie, Neily’s youngest brother, never made it to graduation before being shown the door. “And Gracie . . . she’s quite the young lady now.”

“She’s four, Grace,” I said, laughing. Just as when she’d brought up Neily’s latest project, it was good to hear her boast about her children. As much as I loved her, there were times I wondered if she remembered she even had children. It wasn’t coldness of heart. Unlike her husband, who was happy being home among his family and his books, Grace yearned for excitement, for extravagances like tonight’s ball. Like the socialite she had been before her marriage, she still had the power to turn heads, as she was doing presently, and the twinkle in her wandering eyes told me she was well aware of it.

I didn’t begrudge her glamour. I only wished she and Neily had proved to be better suited.

“Let’s step out into the garden.” She steered me toward the closest of four, west-facing doors that opened onto the Italian flower garden at the front of the house. Torches and moonlight gilded the statuary, while two fountains gurgled pleasantly, one at the center of the garden and the other, much larger one, out on the lawn beyond the driveway. Farther off, the lights from the smaller house that blocked Rosecliff’s view of Bellevue Avenue, owned by the Parkman family, sent the shadows of well-trimmed trees and hedges stretching across the grass.

Posing with one of the lions guarding the Italian Garden

As we stepped into the doorway, I came to an abrupt halt. Despite Grace’s gentle tug, I stayed put and gestured discreetly. “Who do you suppose that is? That man there.”

The person in question appeared to have come up the driveway on foot and now picked his way along one of the garden pathways toward the French doors. That alone would have made me notice him. No one invited here tonight would have the audacity to enter the ball any other way but through the front door, past the butler in the marble-clad vestibule, from where he would be escorted into the salon and announced to Tessie.

Grace followed my gaze and instantly her brows converged to a frown of distaste. “Dear heavens, look how he’s dressed. Granted, he’s not a bad looking bounder, but a bounder all the same. I have no idea who he is, and I don’t doubt Tessie will send him packing for his brazen disregard of tonight’s theme. A green striped vest and matching cravat? Not even a bowtie?” She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t believe I’ve ever set eyes on him before. He’s quite young, isn’t he? About our age, perhaps? A whelp who hasn’t learned his way in society yet.”

I didn’t think he was quite that young. Moonlight and the glow of torches always smoothed complexions and gentled features. Late thirties, I judged him to be. He entered the ballroom through the open doors to our right. As he did, he removed his top hat, turned his head toward us with an appraising look, and nodded in what appeared to be appreciation.

I bristled at his insolence.

Grace did too, judging by her huff. “Ignore him. As I said, he won’t be long for Tessie’s Bal Blanc.” Once again, she started over the threshold and into the garden, but I didn’t follow. Some instinct sent me turning full around as I watched him cross the ballroom without once adjusting his stride or attempting to sidestep the whirling couples. He made them veer out of his path or be struck by his shoulders.

Excusing myself to Grace, I followed him. He turned into the grand stair hall and stood looking about him for a moment. He peered up the broad, pale rose-carpeted staircase to its landing, where it divided into curving flights on either side of an astonishing heart-shaped opening. Then he looked to the left, into the salon. He set his feet in motion.

Rather than follow in his wake, I dashed the width of the ballroom to a second doorway, which led directly into the salon. As I neared the threshold, I saw him standing behind two couples who had also arrived late and were greeting Tessie. He slipped a gold pocket watch from his vest pocket, consulted the time, and slid it back in with an impatient huff, as if he had somewhere else to be.

I recognized the exact moment of horror when Tessie spotted him. Freezing utterly, several seconds passed before she roused herself and, with the deft skills of a seasoned hostess, urged the two couples to proceed to the ballroom and enjoy themselves. Without yet acknowledging the man waiting for her attention, she spoke to someone out of my line of vision. Her butler moved to her side yet made no move to escort the obviously uninvited guest from the house. Tessie obviously hadn’t demanded he do so.

“What on earth is going on?” Grace, having abandoned her plan of strolling in the garden, came up beside me.

Tessie Oelrichs and Family at Rosecliff

Tessie not only looked aghast, but she did something that drove home to me the seriousness of the matter. In what might have appeared a trivial gesture, she turned her head slightly to the left. Only those who knew her well would understand. During the building of Rosecliff, Tessie had been here nearly every day, issuing orders to the workmen, demanding the architect, Stanford White, make constant changes, and inspecting each phase of the construction. One morning, a carpenter’s tack went flying and hit Tessie directly in her right eye. She had been half blind ever since and in times of distress would unconsciously tilt her head to favor her left side.

She did so now, as if not quite believing what she was seeing, that it might possibly be a figment of her imagination.

No one else occupied the salon now, only Tessie, her butler, and the stranger. Looking over my shoulder into the ballroom, I caught Aunt Alva’s eye and waved my fingers emphatically. She spoke a quick word to her dance partner and joined Grace and me. I wondered where the third member of their Triumvirate was, but at present it appeared Mamie Fish wasn’t in the ballroom. Tessie’s younger sister Virginia, or Birdie as everyone called her, was also nowhere to be seen. Even so, I felt as though we had formed a small army to come to Tessie’s defense. The only question was, from what? Or from whom?

“Won’t you welcome a dear old friend to your home, Tessie?” The man’s voice carried over the music and conversation, reaching us as our little force stepped into the salon.

I couldn’t make out Tessie’s reply; she kept her voice much lower than his. But I recognized the expression she wore: entreaty. She very much wanted him to leave.

Then why not have him ousted?

“Tessie, is anything wrong?” Aunt Alva marched her way past both the stranger and the onlooking butler to take up a defensive position shoulder to shoulder beside her friend. She turned to face him with her classic bulldog expression that stated unequivocally that whatever he wanted, he wouldn’t find it here. “Who might this be?”

Grace and I went to stand slightly behind and beside the two other women. The man’s gaze lighted on each of us and he tipped his head. “Name’s Solomon Wheeler, ladies. Tessie and I go back a long way. Surely she’s mentioned me?”

“I don’t believe she has,” Aunt Alva deadpanned.

Up close, I could see this Mr. Wheeler was about Tessie’s own age, which made him only a few years older than me. Grace had called him a handsome bounder, and so he was, if one disregarded the insolent slant of his mouth. His eyes were a sharp blue, like a clear winter sky, his nose prominent but balanced by carved cheekbones and a strong chin, his hair a thick, golden brown. He wore his clothes well, and they were of quality, if not in keeping with the night’s occasion.

A movement in the doorway into the stair hall drew my attention to a footman who had taken up position there; another blocked the doorway into the ballroom, effectively preventing any guests from wandering into the salon. It had been accomplished without a word from Tessie, not even a visual signal from her butler, who continued to hover close by.

“Solomon, I don’t know what you want, and I assure you, I don’t care.” Tesse spoke barely above a murmur. “All I want is for you to leave.” A corner of her lip nearly bled from being bitten. “You are not welcome here.”

“Is that so?” Before any of us could react, he leaned and whispered something in Tessie’s ear, a message cut short when Aunt Alva stepped forward and swatted him. He lurched back in surprise, but not without a satisfied grin.

“Tessie,” Alva said, “have him tossed out.”

Solomon Wheeler stood his ground, his gaze leveled on Tessie. “She won’t. She and I understand one another. Don’t we, my dear?”

“Only if you understand that at the first hint of trouble, the police will be called.” Tessie clasped her hands and turned away, focusing all her attention on the intricate carvings of the room’s enormous Gothic fireplace.

Holding his top hat aloft, he tipped a mocking bow and sauntered back into the ballroom, his shoulder knocking into that of the footman guarding the door. Mr. Wheeler glanced over his shoulder at us, that infuriating grin still stretching his lips. The moment he disappeared into the crush, the other women and I surrounded Tessie.

“Who is that cad?” Aunt Alva demanded. Her gaze shifted to the butler and other servants. With a flick of her wrist, she dismissed them from the room, then turned back to Tessie. “Why didn’t you order him off the property?”

“Yes, who is he that you let him get away with insulting you so blatantly?” Grace circled Tessie, who had once more turned away to avoid our scrutiny. She began straightening the ropes of pearls that had been set askew by the ringing of her hands.

“He’s no one,” she said, her voice thin. Her chin quivered. “Just someone from San Francisco, from my father’s circle.”

“Your father’s circle?” Aunt Alva turned a skeptical eye on Grace and me. I had no doubt we all entertained the same thought: for some reason Tessie was lying, or at least not telling us the whole truth. “He’s far too young to be anyone your father worked with,” Aunt Alva astutely pointed out. “Surely he wasn’t involved in the Comstock Lode.”

Tessie’s father, James Fair, had been one of the famed Bonanza Kings who made billions in the Nevada silver mines beginning some two decades ago, before retiring to San Francisco to enjoy their vast wealth. Tessie would have been a mere child during his years in the mining industry. He’d died in ‘ninety-four, leaving Tessie and her siblings—along with a bevy of illegitimate offspring—exceedingly wealthy in their own right.

“No, he didn’t work with my father in Nevada.” Tessie turned back to face us, her features once more under control. “His father did, for a time, before leaving the group. His son, however, worked for my father in later years. He and I interacted occasionally at social occasions. That is all.”

“Apparently that isn’t all,” I said. “He certainly doesn’t believe so. Tessie, is he a danger to you? Does he have some claim on your father’s past business dealings, perhaps through his own father?”

The fear burst across Tessie’s features again. I’d obviously struck a nerve and wondered how close I’d come to the truth. I was not to find out, however, not just then.

Tessie shooed us into the ballroom. “Never mind this right now. Go on, stop gawking at me and enjoy the ball.”

Event: Guided Tour of Rosecliff followed by my talk, signing, and refreshments at The Elms Carriage House Cafe. Details soon to be announced on my Events page.