by Julie Hyzy
This time Frances didn’t enter, Bennett did. Behind him, Jack’s younger brother, Davey, followed, carrying a sheaf of papers.
I stood. Judging from the twin looks of sorrow on both their faces, they’d heard the news. “Jack just left,” I said. “He told me.”
They exchanged a look of puzzlement. “Told you what?” Bennett asked.
I gestured for them both to sit, but neither did. What was up with that today?
“He told me that he’s giving up Marshfield. His business is booming and he thinks we would be better off with another landscape architect.”
Davey’s head dropped back, as if in defeat. “I’d like to wring his neck.”
Bennett’s expression hadn’t changed. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said without emotion. I would have expected more of a reaction. “But that’s not why we’re here.”
I was at the breaking point, yet I could tell that I was in for another blow. “Just tell me. Whatever it is. I can handle it. I’ve handled enough already.”
Bennett looked almost as grim as he had when Abe died. Davey shuffled in place, his gaze flicking between me, Bennett, and the papers in his hands, looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here.
“Have a seat, Grace,” Bennett said. It worried me that he didn’t call me Gracie.
“I’d rather stand.”
Bennett held a hand out toward the younger man. “As you know, Davey has been helping me with my technical needs. I’ve come late to the information age, and he’s been a willing and able mentor.”
“I know.” All I could think was that I’d done something terribly, horribly wrong.
Bennett lifted his chin. “I won’t blame you if you’re angry—”
“Bennett, please. Tell me.”
Finally, his eyes softened. “I’m very sorry. Very sorry.” He turned to Davey, who had been shifting his papers from one hand to the other. “Go ahead.”
Davey swallowed. “Mr. Marshfield asked me to run a background check on Mark Ellroy.”
I looked to Bennett, who refused to meet my gaze. Suddenly light-headed, I sat. “This isn’t good news, is it?”
Davey shuffled in place again. “Mark Ellroy told you the truth about a lot of things. He’s a jeweler in Denver, and his parents died a few years ago, but he lied about one important fact.”
I stared down at the blotter on my desk, knowing exactly what was coming next.
“His wife didn’t die. She’s . . . still alive.”
The deep breath I tried to take came in with a shudder. I didn’t look up. I swallowed past a lump of sandpaper several times before I managed to say, “Thank you for telling me.”
“Gracie?” Bennett asked.
“I’d like to be alone now, if you don’t mind.”
Bennett hedged.
“Please,” I said.
“Very well. I’m here if you need me.”
He and Davey started to leave, but as they reached the door, I called, “Wait.” They turned. “Have you shared this with anyone else? Anyone at all?”
They said they hadn’t.
I looked at Davey. “Not even Jack?”
“Not even Jack,” he said.
I blew out a pained breath. “Thank you for that. Please don’t mention this to anyone. Not yet, at least.”
The door closed behind them with a sad, final, click.
Mark, for all his declarations of truthfulness, was a liar after all.
My head hurt. My heart hurt. I felt stupid and used and ready to explode.
I wanted to vent, wanted to scream at Davey and Bennett for delivering the news. Even more for pitying me. I knew deep down that these two people were part of my life and—despite their unsolicited involvement—had done me a favor I couldn’t yet appreciate. The logical part of my brain recognized that they’d saved me from bigger mistakes ahead. But the pain was unbearable.
I thought about Eric and now about Mark. What was wrong with me? What drew me consistently toward losers? I was angry, full of rage so profound it took up residence in every inch of my being. I didn’t trust myself to talk to anyone right now, so I picked up the phone and waited for Frances to answer.
“Please hold all calls and all visits,” I said, adding, “no matter who it is.”
Frances didn’t question me. She probably knew why I was asking, knew the whole sordid mess. “Sure thing.”
I stared out the window.
Could this day get any worse?
* * *
FRANCES KNOCKED AT MY DOOR AN HOUR later. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said.
I looked up at the clock surprised to see that it was already after five. I’d lost the entire afternoon feeling sorry for myself. “Shouldn’t you be heading home?”
“Soon.”
She watched me carefully as she crossed the room. “I took care of all your calls, like you asked. No visitors.”
“Thank you.” Politeness came automatically.
“I decided to intercept your e-mails,” she said, fingers fidgeting in front of her waist. I often asked Frances to handle my e-mails for me. What about it was making her nervous this time?
“Something important?”
“I think you need to read one of them,” she said, indicating my monitor with her eyes. “From your friend at the Kane Estate. Nadia. She thinks she has a match.”
I wouldn’t say I was elated—how could I be after such a day?—but the idea that Nadia might have recognized the killer from the photos I’d sent was truly the only good news I’d received recently. “Thank you,” I said sincerely.
But Frances was shaking her head.
“What’s wrong?” I asked as I accessed my inbox.
“She said they didn’t know for certain that he was their thief. Not until you sent the photo.”
I clicked the e-mail and it opened on my screen. “You mean I might have helped them?”
“The photo that matched ours was taken several days before their biggest loss. It’s security footage of visitors entering the grounds.”
“Still,” I said, eagerly scanning the message. It read precisely as Frances was describing. “This will be a huge help to the investigators.”
“She included copies of the photos from their security cameras.”
“Even better,” I said as I scrolled down the page, thinking about how quickly I could get Nadia’s information into Rodriguez’s hands. “That way I’ll be able to see for myself that he’s—”
There he was. The killer I’d photographed. The one I’d run into at the Oak Tree Hotel. In this photo he had a full head of hair, just like he did in Corbin’s footage. There was no doubt this was the same man. No doubt at all.
Just as there was no doubt that the man next to him in every single shot was Mark Ellroy.
Chapter 25
I HAD NO AWARENESS. I HAD NO FEELINGS. MY world spun as sparkles danced in front of my eyes.
Frances’s words drifted toward me but it took forever for them to register. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But you needed to know.”
“I think I may throw up,” I said.
“No you won’t.” Frances took a seat. “You’re stronger than that.”
Even my ingrained politeness was no match for this. I couldn’t speak. All I could do was stare at the screen. He’d manipulated me. Made me believe he cared about me. Lied. Worse, he’d stolen from Bennett and been involved in Lenore’s murder.
“Why don’t you go home?” she said. “Nothing much good can happen here tonight.”
I didn’t answer. I wasn’t finished putting all this together in my overworked brain. Mark was working with the killer. What other explanation could there be? He’d had himself shot and gotten involved in the investigation. Why? He’d maneuvered me into a very vulnerable position. He’d worked hard to get me to care about him.
“To what end?” I asked, finally facing Frances. “Why?”
Her eyes were clouded. “I don’t know.”
“We must
have been getting close. Otherwise why run now?” I stopped, remembering. “Of course.” I said as I pulled up my recently returned phone. “I told him I was going to send the photo of the killer to the Kane Estate. He had to have known there was a risk of our discovering this.” I flung a hand toward the screen. “That’s why he’s gone. I had the photo . . .” I sorted through my options, trying to pull up the shot I’d taken of the killer at Amethyst Cellars. After two tries, I looked up. “It’s gone. He deleted it. He stole my phone and then returned it after he made sure to delete the picture.”
“He didn’t know you’d sent it?”
“No.” I barked a laugh. “I told him I was going to do that today. But I wound up sending it yesterday instead.”
I tossed the phone onto the desk, disgusted with him. Disgusted with myself. Was I that easy of a target?
“It’s a good thing you did,” she said. “It’s a good thing you found out about him now. Before you got hurt.”
Anger thundered in my chest. “I’m calling Rodriguez right now,” I said, grabbing for the desk phone.
Frances shook her head. “Already done.”
“When?”
Frances gave a helpless shrug. “Nadia’s e-mail came in right after Davey and the Mister left. I didn’t think you’d want to see it right then. You needed a little time.”
So Frances knew all of it. For once, her nosiness didn’t bother me. “Now what?” I asked.
“Rodriguez and Flynn said they would be in touch. And they have been.”
As she talked, I wondered how it was I could remain upright when my soul had taken so many personal hits in such a short period of time. I listened, distancing myself from the emotion, telling myself I’d sort it out later, but that now I needed to focus on the crime, not my defeated-and-left-to-die ego.
“They found Mark Ellroy’s rental car. He’d returned it at the airport. They assume he and the killer hopped a flight, but they don’t know their destination.”
A question began to form in my brain but Frances answered it before I could put the words together.
“They can’t track where he went because he was using an alias. Mark Ellroy isn’t his real name. He lifted that from a real jeweler in Colorado, a guy whose story fits what he told you—except for the dead wife.”
At least Mark Ellroy—the real one—wasn’t a philanderer. Oddly enough, I was happy to know it. There was hope for the world. “Does Bennett know?”
“He said for you to come upstairs if you need to talk.”
“I think I need to handle this alone for a while.” I shot another glance at the clock. “The boys will be out until at least ten tonight. If I leave now I can have the house to myself for a few hours.”
Frances stood. “Will you be all right driving?”
“Yeah,” I said, standing, “I’ll be fine.”
* * *
THE DRIVE TOOK LONGER THAN USUAL. AT least that’s the way it felt to me. I couldn’t wait to get home. Couldn’t wait to climb into my T-shirt and sleep shorts, grab Bootsie, and drown my sorrows in a glass of red wine and mindless TV. It wouldn’t fix anything, wouldn’t even make me feel better, but it had the potential to quiet my turbulent emotions.
Nothing I’d ever been through before compared to today. I kept the radio off as I drove through the forested area, aware of little more than clanging criticism in my head. Was I forever destined to fall under the spell of despicable men? I thought about my sister, Liza, now married to my former fiancé. Was this some sort of genetic defect? Did I have any hope? My parents’ marriage had been a good one—a great one, really—but I knew my maternal grandmother’s had not. Her husband had been a bon vivant, a philandering boor. And when my grandmother had finally found love, it had been in the arms of Bennett’s father. Add adultery to the list of my bloodline’s sins.
Get a grip, I told myself. But could I?
I was surprised and disappointed to see the boys’ car parked in the driveway. The shop didn’t close for another several hours so their car being home did not bode well. Two possible scenarios: one of them had taken ill, or there had been an emergency at the store and they’d shut it down for the day.
Either way, I didn’t feel like facing Scott and Bruce. They would know at a glance that something was horribly wrong and I dreaded having to revisit my hurt so soon. There hadn’t been enough time to develop a sufficient scab and here I’d be, ripping it off to expose it again.
Maybe, I thought, I could sneak in, feign weariness, and disappear into my room. Whether they would buy it or not was immaterial. They’d give me privacy if I made it clear that’s what I needed.
Plastering on as neutral a face as I could muster given the circumstances, I headed up the back steps. When I saw that the back door hadn’t closed all the way, my anger resurfaced bright and hard. I was instantly furious at Bruce, at Scott, at the locksmith for taking forever to get this small project done. Did no one realize how important it was to keep Bootsie safe?
I swung open the door and stepped inside, ready to explode at whomever I happened to encounter first.
“Welcome home, Grace.” Mark sat at my kitchen table, wearing a navy nylon jacket and a smug smile. He had a newspaper spread out before him and the coffee mug I’d bought on my last trip to Boston next to his hand. He would have looked like the picture of domesticity if it weren’t for Bruce tied to the chair opposite him, his mouth duct-taped shut. “It’s about time you finally showed up.”
Before I could spin and run for help, I was shoved deeper into the room from behind. The man I’d photographed, the killer, Mark’s cohort, had been waiting behind the door. Before I could exclaim or scream, he shoved the barrel of a gun into my cheek and said, “Shh.”
He shut the door behind me and pushed me into one of the unoccupied kitchen chairs.
Next to me, Bruce’s eyes were wild. “Are you okay?” I asked. Stupid question. Of course he wasn’t. He tried to speak but his efforts were futile and sad.
All thoughts of personal misery were gone in a snap. “What did you do to him?” I shouted, reaching over to grab an edge of the silver tape.
“Don’t touch him,” Mark said, “or my good friend Lank will have to stop you. And that will make a very big mess.”
Bruce made noises that sounded as though he were trying to tell me he was okay. But the sweat dripping down his face and the veins popping out from his arms, stretched tight and tied behind his back, told a different story.
“Where’s Bootsie?” I asked, looking around in panic. “Where is she?”
I looked over to Bruce, who shrugged, then pointed to the open basement door with his eyes. I hoped to God she was upstairs. I started to rise, but Lank pushed me back down. He was wearing gloves. I glanced over. So was Mark. My heart sank.
“Why?” I asked Mark. “What can you possibly hope to gain? Why didn’t you get away while you could? Nobody even suspected you.”
He smiled and the dimples were back. Rather than thrill me the way they had, they made me want to reach across the table, haul off, and slap his face.
Lank stood behind my chair, humming as he ran the cold metal of the gun alongside my neck. Bile rose up the back of my throat as hatred like I’d never known before filled my heart.
“Can’t you guess what happens now?” Mark asked.
“How about we call the police and they cart you two sorry idiots away?”
Mark leaned forward. “Grace,” he said softly, reaching a finger up to caress my cheek. I jerked back. “You used to like it when I said your name. You should have seen the way your face lit up every single time I said it.” He smiled again. “Do you have any idea how easy you are to manipulate?”
“I’ll have to remember to work on that.” Assuming I survive this. “What do you want, anyway?”
“You’re a little spitfire, aren’t you?” Mark stood and crossed to the counter, where he poured himself more coffee. “Where was that spark when you and I were together?”
&nbs
p; “We were never together.”
Behind me, Lank gave a short laugh. “Only because you spotted me in the window that night.” He clucked his tongue. “Mark’s never going to forgive me for spoiling the fun we had planned for you.”
Mark gave me a baleful stare. “You do have a way of screwing up plans.”
Lank laughed again. The noise set my teeth on edge.
Bruce was breathing so hard through his nose I was afraid he’d hyperventilate. “Please,” I said, “take off the tape on his mouth.”
Mark gave a brief nod and Lank came around me, ripping the duct tape from Bruce’s face with a sound that made me gag. Tiny beads of blood instantly appeared around Bruce’s lips as his shocked skin paled and flushed in the span of two seconds. “You won’t have to shave for a week,” Mark said, then adopted a more serious tone as he addressed me. “If he ever shaves again. That, my darling, is up to you.”
“Bruce,” I said, choking up at my friend’s pain. “What happened? Why are you home?”
He worked his mouth, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “A text. From your phone. Said Bootsie had gotten out and to come home to help you find her.”
I spun in my seat. “You used my phone to bring Bruce here?”
Mark took a sip of coffee. “Can you think of a better way?”
“What do you want?”
“You really don’t know, do you?” Mark held the mug with both hands, elbows on the table. He smiled up at Lank, who was still behind me. “If you had any idea how much trouble you’ve caused us so far . . .” He shook his head. “But I digress.”
“I’m sorry, Grace,” Bruce said. “When I saw Mark I thought he was here to help look for Bootsie, too. It wasn’t until—”
“Shut up,” Lank said. Now that I was able to face him fully, I hated what I saw. His bald head was sickly pale compared to his suntanned face. He had small, cruel eyes, which stared back with what I could only characterize as triumph. He was enjoying himself and making no attempt to disguise it. The mark on his neck wasn’t a tattoo after all—it was a thick, scabbed lesion that hadn’t yet healed. I wondered if he’d gotten it during his escape from the Kane Estate.
