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Authors: Alyssa Maxwell
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anything?”
“They feed me pretty well in here, and Jesse looks in on me when he can.” He smiled, though his eyes remained bleak. “Don’t suppose you’d bring me some cigarettes?”
“I would, but I don’t suppose they’d let you have them.”
He nodded and looked away. I blew him a kiss and left him, along with a generous portion of my heart.
I got as far as the sidewalk before the image of Brady holding on to those bars and putting on a brave face turned me about and sent me back inside.
“I’d like to see Officer Whyte again, please.”
“You’ll have to wait, Miss Cross,” the sergeant manning the front desk replied. “He’s busy.”
Then wait I would. Surely I could convince Jesse to release my brother into my custody. He’d known us both all our lives, and he was Brady’s friend. Besides, we lived on an island with only one way off: by boat. It wasn’t as if Brady could simply run off in the night.
From where I stood in the lobby I had a clear view into the main room. Officer Dobbs had returned and sat tapping away at one of the typewriters, pausing now and again to squint down at a paper while uttering what must have been oaths beneath his breath, judging from his expression. Was he typing up the report on Brady?
A few feet away from him, Jesse was on his feet talking to a man in street clothes—dark blue suit and gray overcoat. Smartly tailored, but not extravagant, his attire marked him a professional, if not quite wealthy. He was no one I recognized, which immediately made him interesting—everyone in Newport knew everyone—yet that wasn’t the only reason I found myself staring. Framed by thick dark hair that curled slightly at the ends, his square jaw, straight nose, and strong brow caught my fascination, as did the broadness of his shoulders, the tapering lines of his figure beneath his coat.
“This Mr. Gale is being charged?”
Hearing Brady’s name, I pricked my ears.
“Looks like it,” Jesse said. “He was found at the scene of the crime. And there appears to have been a motive.”
For a moment I thought to admonish him for discussing Brady with a stranger; then I remembered he was merely revealing what was already on public record.
“What about the other guests? From what I understand, some three hundred of the Four Hundred were in attendance last night. Fish, Goelet, Oelrich, Astor, Halstock . . .”
My curiosity piqued, I moved into the wide doorway that separated the lobby from the main station. The gentleman referred to the very cream of society’s upper crust, determined, rumor had it, by how many people could comfortably fit in the Mrs. Astor’s New York ballroom: 400. Was someone finally agreeing with me that any number of people at the ball might have had reason for wanting Alvin Goddard out of the way?
Jesse shrugged, shook his head, and spoke some words I couldn’t hear over the typing—drat that Dobbs. I started to move closer, then stopped and pressed tight to the doorway as the gentleman glanced my way. His gaze skimmed past me into the lobby, slowly slid back, lingered until my face heated, and finally returned to Jesse.
Those dark eyes left me unsettled . . . tingling, as if I’d been touched. Left me speculating, too. Was this man a reporter, or had Uncle Cornelius hired a private detective to investigate the crime? If so, to help Brady or to seal his fate?
Either way, I wouldn’t be asking Jesse for any favors in that man’s hearing, because if I identified myself as the alleged culprit’s sister to either a reporter or a private detective, I wouldn’t have another moment’s peace.
Outside, I made my way to the telegraph office on nearby Franklin Street. I penned a quick message, scratched it out, and then tried again to convey in a few short sentences the seriousness of Brady’s situation without sending my parents into a panic. There was little they could do all the way from Paris, but I hoped they’d be able to send funds to
“They feed me pretty well in here, and Jesse looks in on me when he can.” He smiled, though his eyes remained bleak. “Don’t suppose you’d bring me some cigarettes?”
“I would, but I don’t suppose they’d let you have them.”
He nodded and looked away. I blew him a kiss and left him, along with a generous portion of my heart.
I got as far as the sidewalk before the image of Brady holding on to those bars and putting on a brave face turned me about and sent me back inside.
“I’d like to see Officer Whyte again, please.”
“You’ll have to wait, Miss Cross,” the sergeant manning the front desk replied. “He’s busy.”
Then wait I would. Surely I could convince Jesse to release my brother into my custody. He’d known us both all our lives, and he was Brady’s friend. Besides, we lived on an island with only one way off: by boat. It wasn’t as if Brady could simply run off in the night.
From where I stood in the lobby I had a clear view into the main room. Officer Dobbs had returned and sat tapping away at one of the typewriters, pausing now and again to squint down at a paper while uttering what must have been oaths beneath his breath, judging from his expression. Was he typing up the report on Brady?
A few feet away from him, Jesse was on his feet talking to a man in street clothes—dark blue suit and gray overcoat. Smartly tailored, but not extravagant, his attire marked him a professional, if not quite wealthy. He was no one I recognized, which immediately made him interesting—everyone in Newport knew everyone—yet that wasn’t the only reason I found myself staring. Framed by thick dark hair that curled slightly at the ends, his square jaw, straight nose, and strong brow caught my fascination, as did the broadness of his shoulders, the tapering lines of his figure beneath his coat.
“This Mr. Gale is being charged?”
Hearing Brady’s name, I pricked my ears.
“Looks like it,” Jesse said. “He was found at the scene of the crime. And there appears to have been a motive.”
For a moment I thought to admonish him for discussing Brady with a stranger; then I remembered he was merely revealing what was already on public record.
“What about the other guests? From what I understand, some three hundred of the Four Hundred were in attendance last night. Fish, Goelet, Oelrich, Astor, Halstock . . .”
My curiosity piqued, I moved into the wide doorway that separated the lobby from the main station. The gentleman referred to the very cream of society’s upper crust, determined, rumor had it, by how many people could comfortably fit in the Mrs. Astor’s New York ballroom: 400. Was someone finally agreeing with me that any number of people at the ball might have had reason for wanting Alvin Goddard out of the way?
Jesse shrugged, shook his head, and spoke some words I couldn’t hear over the typing—drat that Dobbs. I started to move closer, then stopped and pressed tight to the doorway as the gentleman glanced my way. His gaze skimmed past me into the lobby, slowly slid back, lingered until my face heated, and finally returned to Jesse.
Those dark eyes left me unsettled . . . tingling, as if I’d been touched. Left me speculating, too. Was this man a reporter, or had Uncle Cornelius hired a private detective to investigate the crime? If so, to help Brady or to seal his fate?
Either way, I wouldn’t be asking Jesse for any favors in that man’s hearing, because if I identified myself as the alleged culprit’s sister to either a reporter or a private detective, I wouldn’t have another moment’s peace.
Outside, I made my way to the telegraph office on nearby Franklin Street. I penned a quick message, scratched it out, and then tried again to convey in a few short sentences the seriousness of Brady’s situation without sending my parents into a panic. There was little they could do all the way from Paris, but I hoped they’d be able to send funds to
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