by Hyzy, Julie
“That’s pretty quick.”
“We’re the best,” she said simply. “Will there be anything else at this time?”
I told her no and we hung up. With the receiver still in my hand, I decided to try Geraldine Stajklorski again. This time if she didn’t answer, I’d leave a message and suggest she call me Monday morning to work out some compromise with regard to her complaint.
Her phone had rung only twice when my office door opened and Rodriguez came in. He lifted his chin in greeting. “Ms. Wheaton,” he said. Too formal.
Flynn stepped in right behind him, staring at me with menace.
I hung up. Stood up.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” I said, gesturing them both to sit. “I have something important to discuss with you.”
“Oh?” Rodriguez’s sly tone bugged me.
Flynn made a noise that sounded like, “Pfff.”
I looked from Rodriguez to Flynn and back again. All the excitement of sharing news about the secret room flew out the window. These two had something on their minds and from the look of it, it wasn’t good. “What?” I asked uneasily.
Rodriguez slid into his chair. “Did you forget to tell us something?” he asked.
I waited.
Flynn looked ready to pounce. “We talked to Frank Cassano.”
Frank Cassano. Marshfield Manor’s unhappy neighbor. “Let me guess,” I said. “He told you that if he’d known that we planned to build another hotel he would never have sold his property to us, right?”
“No,” Rodriguez said slowly. “He claims that . . .” the older detective made a show of consulting his notes, “. . . you told him that Mr. Vargas wasn’t going to be in charge any longer. That you were taking over.”
“I took over the Cassano problem,” I said, not understanding.
Flynn fidgeted with eagerness. “Cassano seems to think you knew that the victim was going to be killed—before it happened.”
Too flabbergasted to form a reply, I could only manage, “What?”
Rodriguez tugged at his tie and sat forward. His dark eyes didn’t waver. “Frank Cassano claims that last Wednesday afternoon, you and him had a discussion.” He waited for my acknowledgment.
“Sure,” I said. “Probably. He calls here pretty often.”
“In that conversation, according to Mr. Cassano, you indicated that Mr. Vargas would no longer be running Marshfield and that from now on you were to be considered in charge.”
I was shaking my head before he finished. “No. What I said was that I had the authority to handle his complaint. He wanted to talk to Abe, but Abe didn’t want to talk to him. I was told to handle it. I handled it.”
The two detectives looked at each other, then at me. Flynn took up where Rodriguez had left off. “You always wanted the position of head curator of Marshfield Manor, didn’t you?”
No sense in denying it. I squared my shoulders. “Yes. I still do.”
Rodriguez made a tsking sound. “With Mr. Vargas out of the way, that . . . sorta . . . clears the path for you to move into the top job, doesn’t it?”
I wagged a finger. “Don’t even go there.”
“We’ve been talking to some of your acquaintances.”
“Give me a break,” I said with vehemence. “I’ve been trying my darndest to find out information to help you guys and you’ve been wasting your time investigating me?” I laughed, despite the sick realization that these guys weren’t kidding. “Did you forget that I was in the Birdcage room when the shooting took place?”
“No,” Flynn said with such arrogance that I wanted to slap him. “We have no doubt Mr. Vargas was shot by a man. But . . .” he gave me a wicked smile, “that doesn’t mean you weren’t involved.”
I opened my mouth to answer, but just then the phone rang. The caller ID number was familiar, but there was no name and I couldn’t make the connection.
Rubbing my temples, I said, “I’ll let that go to voicemail.”
“No,” Rodriguez said between phone chirps, “go ahead. Take it.”
I was too angry and frustrated to do more than deal with the dunderheads sitting at my desk. “Not now.”
He smiled and, without asking permission, lifted the receiver. “Ms. Wheaton’s office,” he said falsetto. “Can I help you?” He listened, scowled, then held the receiver away from his ear. I could hear a woman’s shrill voice. “Uhhuh, sure. Just a minute.” From the look on his face, Rodriguez was surprised and disappointed to discover it wasn’t the killer calling me to arrange a clandestine rendezvous. He held the phone out. “A Geraldine something-or-other wants to talk to you about compensation for her pain and suffering.”
“Great,” I said a mite too loudly and grabbed the receiver.
“That’s a rather rude way to answer the phone,” she said by way of greeting. I winced. Her high-pitched voice would have sent me screaming from the room if I thought the detectives would allow me out of their sight.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Stajklorski,” I began, “I didn’t mean you. This is a bad time right now. Can I call you back later?”
“Didn’t you just call me? There’s a missed call on my cell. It comes back to this number. And I’ve been trying to reach you for days. Have you been avoiding me?” Her anger bubbled over, two octaves too high. Now it was my turn to hold the phone away and wince. “Or are you just unwilling to keep your guests happy after you’ve put them out and ruined their vacations?”
“I did call you and of course we want to keep all our guests happy. It’s just that—”
“I expect at least a week’s stay.”
Was she kidding? “You were with us only one night.”
“I checked out early. My vacation was ruined by your people. And now, do you see the runaround you’re putting me through? I was so upset about the murder—murder!—at your hotel that I couldn’t even consider coming back that day. I had business that couldn’t wait and was forced to stay at one of those shoddy little places on Walnut Street.”
Most of Walnut Street was gorgeous. I couldn’t imagine what she was referring to. “Business? I thought you said this was your vacation—”
She shrieked. No other word for it. “It’s the little peons like you who waste my time. Does it really matter what I was in town for? Does it? All that matters is that I paid good money to stay in your hotel and I had a perfectly horrible time.”
The two detectives were watching me. I had no doubt they could hear both sides of the conversation. “I’m sorry you had a bad experience—”
“I’ll tell you what,” she said, her voice dropping from dolphin-pitch to calculating cackle, “I have to be back in Emberstowne next week . . .”
“What do you want?” I asked, ready to give her anything to just get her off the phone.
“I want a luxury suite on your concierge level next Monday through Friday. Give me those nights gratis, along with a voucher for dinner in your restaurants each evening I’m there. Five nights total. Then I’ll be out of your hair.”
“Five? To compensate you for one night?”
“You had a murder there, you know.”
“I’m well aware,” I said. “I can offer you two nights.”
She made a noise before countering. “Three.”
Rodriguez tapped his fingers on my desk and stared at me. Loath to allow this conversation to continue, I gave up. “Done. I will notify the hotel regarding our agreement,” I said, keeping my tone as businesslike as possible. “Just, please, give us twenty-four hours’ notice before you arrive. We do get busy and I wouldn’t want there to be any problems this time.”
“Oh, of course,” she said with a giggle. Her voice returned to normal, which is to say—grating. “Thank you so much. I knew I could count on you.”
I hung up, depleted. “What kind of people are there in this world?” I asked rhetorically.
“I dunno,” Rodriguez said. “Why don’t you tell us?”
“Listen,” I began.
“No
, you listen,” Flynn said, inching forward. His finger came up and he pointed. “You’re the one in the hot seat. We don’t have a lot on you yet, but we’re not finished looking. You’re the one who ought to be worried.”
“Do I look like a picture of serenity?” I asked, my voice rising. “I don’t think so. Now, before this goes any further, I’m going to tell you everything I think you ought to know. Take as many notes as you want. Try to figure out why I’d be telling you this if I had anything to do with Abe’s death.” Pausing long enough to catch my breath, I also took a moment to realize what they were accusing me of. “Do you think I would really kill a person? For a job?”
Rodriguez blinked slowly. “People have done so for less.”
“I haven’t,” I said. “And unless this is an official interrogation, which it isn’t, I’d rather we talk about some important information that just came my way.”
Had they been bluffing? What was their angle? Were they so in the dark that they were throwing darts, desperately hoping one would pop the winning balloon? Whatever their story, the two men quieted. While I wouldn’t have termed them as an eager audience, they apparently would at least let me have my say.
“Did you examine the room next to the study?” I asked. “The room accessed through that secret panel in the bookcase?”
Flynn looked dumbfounded.
Rodriguez took the bait. “What secret panel?”
“The one where you have to use a hidden mechanism to open. It leads to the room right next door.”
Rodriguez’s jaw slacked slightly and Flynn sent a furtive glance his partner’s way. Aha! Got ’em.
Rodriguez scribbled. “And how do you happen to know this?”
“You know Hillary Singletary?”
“Mr. Marshfield’s stepdaughter?”
I nodded. I told them that she and I had been upstairs earlier and that she had shown me the trick to opening the inset door.
“You entered the adjacent room?” Rodriguez asked.
“And I saw the hidden stairway, too. It leads to the basement.”
“Where in the basement?”
I shook my head. “I decided not to find out on this trip. I didn’t want to disturb anything. But I suggest you take a look. If the killer knew about this secret access that may be how he got in and out of the study without being seen.”
Flynn’s eyes narrowed. “Of course now if we find your fingerprints all over this room and this stairway, you have an excuse as to how they got there.”
“If I were guilty, why would I tell you about the secret staircase at all?” There was no disguising my exasperation any longer. And I had them there.
Rodriguez stood.
“There’s one more thing,” I said. “The killer may have stolen a valuable music box.”
Flynn had gotten to his feet, too. He edged closer to my desk. “How come we didn’t hear about this before?”
“Because nobody knew it was missing until today. Hillary told me. She . . . left it there.” No need to explain her original theft, nor her attempt to absolve herself by returning it, but I did think the missing item offered a valuable clue.
When the two exchanged a look this time, their intent was unmistakable. I had successfully deflected their interest in me—for the moment. But now Hillary was right in their sights. I almost felt sorry for her.
Chapter 20
SCOTT MET ME AT THE DOOR. “WE’RE CELEBRATING,” he said, shooing me past him. “Get upstairs, put on something fabulous, and let’s go.”
I turned. “What are we celebrating? Did you get the feature?”
Bruce joined us in the kitchen, smiling so hard his face had to hurt. “It’s not a sure thing, yet,” he said, the glee in his voice making me smile, too. “But Dina said that Grape Living has agreed to review our samples.”
“I thought they did that already.”
Scott shook his head. “They originally agreed to take a look at us and to read Dina’s write-up about our store. That was just the first hurdle. Now they want samples of what we carry so as to make a final decision.”
Bruce added. “This is it. This is the make-or-break. If they like our wines and the specialties we offer in the shop, they’ll send out a team for a photo spread.”
“Excellent!” I said. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day. Will this Dina write the article, too?”
“No, Dina is just the scout for new stories. One of the regular contributors will come out to interview us.” Scott made the shooing motion again to hurry me along. “We know we can’t count on anything but Dina says it looks really good. So let’s celebrate while we can, okay? Days like this don’t come around too often.”
He was right about that.
Upstairs, I slipped into a comfortable-yet-classy jersey dress, a bit worried for my friends. They were so excited—but what if the magazine took a pass on them? They would be crushed. I knew they’d sent some of their best merchandise, at their own expense. Shouldn’t the magazine have at least offered to pay? Magazines had deep pockets and my roommates couldn’t afford things like health insurance. But a feature in Grape Living would bring in enough tourist trade to make the investment worth it. I whispered a prayer of sorts, that everything would work out for them in the best way possible. And then I shook off my worries, realizing it was probably just my mood carrying over from all that had happened at the mansion. Tonight I would let go of all that. Tonight we would celebrate.
An hour later, the three of us were seated at a high-top table for four at Hugo’s, one of Emberstowne’s finest restaurants and only about a six-block walk from the house. Reminiscent of a swanky 1940s dinner club, the place boasted burled-wood walls, linen tablecloths, and shiny trim. Just sitting here with the heavy leather menu in my hands made me feel like a star. Of course, even though we were celebrating, we still couldn’t afford the restaurant’s pricey steaks or seafood. What we could afford were meals from the bar menu and a cocktail or two.
We apparently weren’t the only ones in this predicament. The restaurant was half empty, but the bar area was getting busier by the moment. We’d been lucky to get a table and I mentioned as much to my companions as more and more people streamed in. Any minute now, I knew someone would ask to use our empty chair.
“You can tell it’s Friday,” Scott said. “Nice to see so many people getting out again.”
“Especially us,” I said.
Bruce watched a keyboardist set up in the small space next to us. “It’s been a while, that’s for sure. And look, entertainment tonight, too. It’s our lucky day.”
“Not to put a damper on things,” I began, “but the roof’s getting worse by the day. Do you two know anyone in the business? Somebody who will do a great job and not cost a lot of money?”
They both shook their heads. “We’ll keep our ears open,” Scott said. “We’ve got that neighborhood announcement board up near the door. I’ll see if anything looks promising.”
Our drinks arrived. I’d ordered a raspberry lemon drop—a wonderful beverage for celebrating if there ever was one—while Scott had a daiquiri and Bruce a mojito. After taking our food order, the waiter left again, wending his way through the ever-deepening crowd.
“So tell me more about this Dina St. Clair,” I said.
The two exchanged a look then simultaneously answered: “Cougar.”
I sat back. “Seriously?”
They laughed. “Definitely,” Scott said. “But that’s why I feel good about our chances. She’s clearly on the make, though obviously not with either of us. She’s a little power-house, that one. If she’s on our side, Grape Living doesn’t stand a chance.”
We were each only about three sips into our drinks and giggling already. Yep, it had definitely been too long since we’d been out on the town.
Next to us, in a space that looked far too small to accommodate one person, let alone three, a drummer set himself up next to the keyboardist. They were joined by a cello player and a female vocali
st. “Interesting combination,” I said. “Think we’re going to be too close to actually enjoy it?”
Scott lifted his daiquiri. “I’m already enjoying myself and nothing’s going to change that.”
Just as he said that, he was jostled from behind, causing him to spill. The man behind apologized, keeping his face averted but I recognized him immediately. “Ronny Tooney,” I said with a gasp.
Before my friends could react, Tooney was at my side. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I asked.
“Can I at least talk with you?”
To my left, the band tested out a chord—loudly. “Sorry,” I said, pantomiming that I couldn’t hear. “Now go away.”
“Don’t you want to talk with—?”
The band played a little more warm-up and I missed the end of his sentence. “Who?”
“Percy,” he shouted. “The kid who caused the disturbance in the Birdcage room the day Abe died.”
“He’s here?”
Tooney placed both hands on the back of our empty chair. I hoped he wasn’t planning to join us. “I know how to reach him.”
“Good for you.”
With a look of disappointment I couldn’t parse, Tooney reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a card. “Call me, okay? I promise no more—”
Whatever he said next was lost as the band broke out into their first song. Right next to my ear. I flinched, and hoped the musicians didn’t notice. What the heck were they playing?
Bruce made a little finger-walking motion in the air. “Why don’t you scurry off,” he said loudly. “Grace is here to relax.”
I finally recognized the song being played. A frighteningly bad version of “Kung Fu Fighting.” At a place like Hugo’s, I would have expected Sinatra.
Tooney put both hands up, much like a victim in a robbery. He smiled warily. “Not trying to cause trouble here,” he yelled over the din. “But can we talk, maybe?” His voice strained with desperation, and he reached back down to grab the empty chair again. “I’ll only take a minute.”
