by Julie Hyzy
“You aren’t calling me to confirm, are you?” I asked Corbin.
“No, I’m not.” His tone was much more gleeful than my mood could tolerate. I wished he would get to the point. “I was going to wait until morning to tell you but I thought you might appreciate a heads-up tonight.”
“What is it?”
“You know those two men from my crew? Donald Lee Runge and Harry Hinton?”
“Yes.” My tone was clipped.
“I put Harry in charge of looking to see if that photo you gave me matched up with anyone we might have caught on tape.”
He had my attention now. I sat up. “And?”
“I told you those guys were friends, right?”
“Did they recognize him?”
“That’s the funny thing,” Corbin said, driving me bonkers with the pace of this revelation. “Harry was running through the dailies, checking out the background people for you when Donald Lee came in and asked what he was doing.”
I willed myself to remain silent.
“When Harry showed him the picture you sent, Donald Lee recognized the guy.”
“He knows who he is?”
“No, no, sorry,” Corbin said quickly. “He doesn’t know the guy, but he remembered seeing him during the filming on one of the days we had access to the grounds during open hours.”
“And?” The word came out high-pitched and impatient.
“Your guy looks just like Donald Lee’s uncle Robert. Donald Lee noticed him walking around the gardens, staring up at the south wall during one of the days we were filming.”
“Okay, so?”
“So then Harry knew which day’s filming to check. And we found him. You were right: He’s got a full head of hair, but it’s the same man.”
I nearly yelped, I was so excited. “Is there any way to send me a still shot of the guy?”
“In this digital age? You bet.”
I asked him to send it to me both at my home and office e-mail addresses. “Thank you, Corbin, you’re a doll.”
“Remember that tomorrow,” he said and hung up.
As soon as the file arrived, I dashed off another e-mail to Nadia at the Kane Estate with another request for her to see if she recognized the guy. I sent an update to Rodriguez, too. Then I crossed my fingers.
* * *
MONDAY MORNING DAWNED BRIGHT AND warm, but there was little sunshine in my heart, despite the phone call from Corbin the day before. I decided to wait to reach Mark until I was in my office at Marshfield.
“I’m not so worried about the credit card fraud,” he said when we finally connected. “That’s how they caught this originally. I’m worried about what’s going on in my investment accounts. They aren’t huge, but they’re all I’ve got.”
“Will you be heading home then?” I asked.
“As soon as I can get a flight out. That’s tough to do without a valid credit card, but the card companies have been great. With any luck, I’ll get out later this morning. This afternoon, at the latest.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I meant to tell you, I found your phone,” he said. “I was so worked up last night I couldn’t sleep so I went outside for a walk. Took me about two miles of circling before I remembered. I’ve got it here. Do you need me to drop it off?”
“Don’t worry about it right now,” I said. “Worry about getting things fixed for yourself. We’ll figure that out later. I’m surviving without it.”
“Thanks for understanding,” he said. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“Nothing to make up. Just keep me informed if you can, all right?”
“I promise.”
“What was that all about?” Frances asked when I hung up.
Even though it was only ten-thirty in the morning, I was spent. Call it weakness, call it a lapse in judgment given my assistant’s propensity for gossip, but I brought her up to date on everything.
Frances took a seat across from me and let me talk. I’d bottled up all my frustration, and once I started, it poured and I found myself unable to stop. Even as I talked, I realized the anger and irritation I was experiencing was probably small in comparison to what Mark was dealing with right now.
“Your problem is that you’re too empathetic,” she said when I finished. “You make everyone else’s problems your problems. And that’s a problem.”
I smiled, realizing she’d been attempting—lamely—to compliment me. “In some ways, it’s good that Mark’s getting away from here for a while. With the killer on the loose, you never know if he’ll target Mark next.”
I told her about sending the photo to the Kane Estate and about Corbin’s guys finding a match in the footage they took. “I don’t know what I expect to come from this, but it’s better than doing nothing at all. And then . . .” I rolled my eyes. “Bennett insists I participate in the filming for the DVD.” I glanced up at the clock across the room. “I’d better get down there. It’s almost eleven.”
* * *
HILLARY AND BENNETT WERE WAITING WITH Corbin inside Marshfield’s giant front doors. “It’s about time,” Hillary said, making a show of checking her watch. She was decked out in pink today. Not pastel, but not hot pink either, it was a color that brightened her complexion and brought out her eyes.
She and I waited on the sidelines while Corbin worked with Bennett, who bristled at taking direction.
“You look great,” I said to Hillary in a low voice.
“Thanks. I consulted a friend who’s spent a lot of time on the big screen. Nothing like relying on expert advice. She told me exactly what color to wear.” I couldn’t miss the up-and-down glance she tossed my way. “You’re not supposed to wear white or off-white. I’m surprised you didn’t know that,” she said, not unkindly.
I shrugged. “With any luck, I won’t even have to be on the tape at all and it won’t matter.”
Hillary grimaced. “Papa Bennett insists. I swear, I don’t know what hold you have over him.”
“Hillary,” I said changing the subject, “remember that bottle of wine I brought to you?”
Her cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink. “What about it?”
“Who did you give it to?”
“That’s none of your business.”
Why was every conversation with this woman such an ordeal? “You’re right, it’s not. But the police are looking for him.”
“Whatever for?”
“He was caught on tape leaving the mansion right after the murder.”
“They think Frederick is the killer? Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She laughed more sincerely than I’d ever seen. “What was he doing on the tape that made them so suspicious?”
I explained why a person carrying a briefcase was cause for concern and I mentioned the bottle of wine he had with him—the clue that led me to her.
“He’s not a killer,” she said. “That should be good enough.”
“So his claim that he was here on business is valid?”
“It is.”
“What’s his full name? I’ll give it to the police so they can verify his story.”
Her brows came together. “Is that really necessary?”
One of the crew shouted, “Quiet on the set.”
Properly chastised, I whispered, “We’ll talk later.”
She shook her head in disbelief and we watched as Bennett, following Corbin’s direction, took a step toward the camera and welcomed visitors to his home.
* * *
BENNETT SPENT A LOT OF TIME IN FRONT OF the camera. I could tell he was tiring—not so much physically as temperamentally. Although Corbin was patient to the breaking point with him, Bennett was uncomfortable following orders. He argued everything—word choices, where he was told to stand, how to manage his inflections. But even I could tell that once the edits were done, Bennett’s role as patriarch here at Marshfield was solid, his scenes golden.
I knew Hillary concurred because she said, “Nice,” very quietly after Bennett’s fina
l take. It had been decided that Hillary would talk about tourism and how to plan a visit to Marshfield. Her portion was filmed immediately inside the front doors, where, behind her, visitors checked in and received brochures, maps, and radio headsets. She delivered her lines flawlessly, as though she was born to perform. I was impressed.
My turn. As curator and manager of the estate, it fell to me to talk about the mansion’s history and restoration projects we’d completed and those that were currently under way. Bennett and Hillary stuck around to watch. I wished they would leave. I felt incredibly uncomfortable.
“Just relax,” Hillary said, once Corbin called “Cut” after the fourth time I’d blown my lines.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not good at this.”
Hillary strode forward, telling Corbin to wait for a moment. She brought her face close to mine, keeping me from asking what was up with a stern look of warning. She whispered softly so that no one nearby could hear, but there was an edge to her voice. “Why Papa Bennett wants you up here is a mystery to me. But this is important to him.”
“I know.”
“Then do this. Forget about being shy in front of the camera. Forget everything that makes you nervous. It’s not about you. It’s about him. What he wants.”
Hillary lecturing me about loyalty to Bennett? Dumbfounded, I nodded.
“Okay,” I said. Suddenly it was. Hillary was right. Once I started doing this for Bennett, I stopped worrying. I put all thoughts of Mark, the killer, and my concerns about how I might look on camera out of my head. I stole a glance over to where Bennett and Hillary stood. He gave me a nod of encouragement.
“Let’s try this again,” Corbin said.
I relaxed. Even more surprising, I enjoyed myself.
* * *
I DIDN’T GET BACK TO THE OFFICE UNTIL AFTER three. “Did Mark call?” I asked Frances, not even bothering to disguise my eagerness.
“He stopped by,” she said, opening her side drawer, “to drop this off.” She held up my phone.
I started to take it but she moved it out of my reach.
I wasn’t in the mood for antics.
“Before I give it to you, I have some bad news.”
“Go ahead.”
“Your friend Mark is on his way to Colorado. He wanted to tell you in person and I offered to accompany him downstairs so he could see you, but he was in a hurry to make his flight. He offered his apologies for taking off without a proper good-bye.”
That was a blow.
Frances placed the phone on her desk in front of me and pushed it forward with the tips of her fingers. “You can’t trust men. When are you going to learn that?”
I bit the insides of my lips hard not to make a snippy retort. “I’m sure he’ll be in touch when he gets things straightened out at home,” I said. Before she could reply, I turned and headed into my office.
I wasn’t fast enough.
“I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
* * *
CELL PHONE IN HAND, I SHUT THE DOOR between our offices and dialed Mark immediately. His phone went directly to voicemail, meaning it was probably turned off. I hadn’t asked Frances if she knew what time his flight was scheduled, and I wasn’t about to go back in there and ask her now. For all I knew, he was in the sky this very moment. He would call me when he landed. I had no doubt.
I had a pile of paperwork in front of me, representing projects I’d let slide since Lenore’s murder. I’d tried my darnedest to catch up, but there was always a greater influx of things to do than an outflow of missions accomplished.
Buried deep in necessary minutiae—the kinds of tasks that kept Marshfield running smoothly—I didn’t realize there was a knock at my door until it sounded a second time.
I glanced up. “Come in.”
Frances appeared in the doorway. “You have a visitor,” she said. “Can I show him in or are you busy?”
My heart surged. Mark. I stood. “Show him in, by all means.”
When Jack walked through the door, I felt my mood deflate. Frances shot me a look that I couldn’t parse—sympathy or “I told you so,” I wasn’t sure—it was hard to tell from across the room. She said, “I’ll be right here,” and shut the door behind her.
“Hey, Grace,” Jack said, taking a couple of steps forward. “You have a minute?”
I’d just said that I did, so it would be ridiculous to tell him I was busy now. “Sure,” I said, gesturing to the chair across from me. “Make yourself comfortable.”
He wandered to the windows and looked out. “It’s better over here.”
We stayed that way for more than a minute: me next to my desk, Jack at the window. I resisted the urge to stand next to him. As usual, he projected a vibe that discouraged closeness.
“Did you ever hear that old song?” he asked, not looking at me. Rather, his gaze wandered over the expansive grounds and garden as though he were seeing them for the first time.
“Which one?”
“‘Too Much, Too Little, Too Late’?”
“I’ve heard it.”
He finally turned to face me. “I’m sorry, Grace. I haven’t been fair to you. And I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to realize it.”
His face was tight with emotion. This was difficult for him.
Oddly enough, it was difficult for me to hear.
He’d taken two strides toward my desk when I broke eye contact. “It’s okay. Let’s just put everything behind us,” I said.
Stopping short, he said, “You’re shutting me out. Because I shut you out.”
“I’m not,” I lied.
“I hurt you.”
“You didn’t.” Another lie.
“Now you want to hurt me.”
I did.
I looked over at him again. “Why are we even talking about this? We’re both adults. Let’s agree to be friends and move on.”
He worked his jaw. “I messed up. Badly. For that I apologize. I know you’ll tell me it wasn’t all my fault, and you’d be right. It wasn’t all my fault.” He focused on the ceiling. “I wish I could go back thirteen years and prevent it from happening but I can’t.” Looking at me again, he said, “I can’t start over, but I can start anew.”
I was confused. “Start what?”
“Putting my life together. I’ve let circumstances dictate my direction for too long.” He got a wistful look on his face. “Far too long.”
I didn’t know what to say. What came out was a very lame, “I wish you the best of luck.”
Still at least six feet from my desk, he raised his chin. “How is the relationship with Mark going?”
“Very well. And how is yours with Becke?”
He closed the distance all the way now, and perched his fingertips on my desk. “There is no relationship with Becke.”
“I’ve heard differently.”
“Then you’ve heard that we’ve gone out a couple of times. I’ve been polite. Much like you would be in the same situation. She wanted to get together, so we did. For old times’ sake, she said. In the interest of honesty, I’ll admit she’s made it clear she would like to pursue a romantic relationship.” He stared with a penetrating gaze. “But I don’t. Becke abandoned me when I needed her most. That doesn’t bode well for a long-term relationship, does it?”
“No,” I admitted, “it doesn’t.”
“You, on the other hand, stuck with me, stuck with Davey, stuck with my family, throughout the entire ordeal.”
“An ordeal I inadvertently set into motion.”
“No, you didn’t.” He said it with such vehemence I leaned back. “It was a ticking bomb. All it needed was a spark to light the fuse. You had nothing to do with that.”
If Jack’s little speech had come a week earlier, I might not have even given Mark a second look. “Thank you for saying that,” I said, sincerely. “It means a lot.”
He rubbed his hands down the sides of his khaki shorts. “There’s one more thing. I told you that busin
ess has picked up, right?” He waited for me to nod. “I’m now doing well enough on my own to be able to give up my work here at Marshfield.”
“What? We depend on you.” He couldn’t do this, could he? “Why? Aren’t we a major client? Won’t that hurt you?”
“Marshfield is a major client. My biggest client, in fact, and yes, losing your business will make things difficult for a while. But for years I’ve known that the only reason Bennett kept me on was because he wanted to give me a hand when I was down. I will be grateful to him forever, but it’s time I let him choose a landscaper who better serves the mansion’s needs.”
“No, no,” I said. “It’s not like you’re a charity case. You’ve done amazing things here at Marshfield.”
“And I’ve learned a lot while I was at it. Truth is, I’d like to go back to school. Finish that degree like I always planned. Take hold of my life in a way I never believed I could. I know you, of all people, must understand that.”
I nodded.
“Consider this my two weeks’ notice. I’ll be happy to come up with a list of qualified landscape consultants you may want to consider.”
“That would be nice,” I said dumbly. Bennett was going to be horribly disappointed.
He turned to leave. Before he opened the door, he turned. “Giving up the Marshfield account will hurt. But it’ll hurt a lot less than watching you in a relationship with someone else.”
Chapter 24
WHEN THE DOOR CLOSED BEHIND HIM, I SAT and dropped my head into my hands. I’d worked hard to repress my feelings for Jack and I’d been successful enough to almost believe I was over him. This apology or confession or whatever it was set me off my axis and I needed to get my head together before it burst.
I reminded myself that work was the greatest panacea for heartbreak, so I pulled up last week’s timesheets, vowing to bury myself in my to-do list and not come up for air until I heard from Mark again.
Instead I stared down at the numbers and names in front of me, unable to figure out what anything meant. “Thanks a lot, Jack,” I said to myself.
As I did so, there was another knock at my door.
