by Hyzy, Julie
“Why?”
A shrug, as though it was no matter. “You’re shrewder than I gave you credit for.”
I had no idea what that meant, but clearly no compliment was intended. She stared at me a moment longer before pivoting and prancing away to answer her phone.
“It’s for you,” she called from the other room. “Detective Rodriguez.”
I snatched up the receiver. “How is Percy?”
“Hanging in there,” he said. “But it’s touch and go.”
I nodded, even though I knew he couldn’t see me. “Thanks for the update.”
“He’s got a guard watching over him so no one tries to finish the job, you know?” Clearing his throat, he continued, “And we’ve finally got additional manpower coming in to assist with the Vargas murder. On another matter, I plan to talk with your friends about this scam woman later today or tomorrow.”
I sat up. “Wait,” I said. “Didn’t you pick her up at the hotel?”
“Your friend Stajklorski checked out,” he said. “Left yesterday.”
“But—”
“Yeah,” he said, anticipating me, “the hotel staff is surprised, too. Her room was completely vacated. And stripped. According to the manager, everything that wasn’t tied down is missing. Bedsheets, pillowcases, ice bucket. You name it, she took it.”
“That little conniving . . .”
“I hear you. We’ll see how much we can get from the hotel staff. With any luck, they’ll have her license plate. But I’m not holding my breath. Gotta go.”
“Thanks.” I hung up and rubbed my eyes.
I felt better that at least Percy wasn’t dead, and that con artist Geraldine Stajklorski was on the detectives’ radar, but there were still so many loose threads. Too many. I took a deep breath and slowly let it out.
I decided to focus on Rupesh Chaven and Jeremy Litric. Their files, along with that of Samantha Taft’s, were not on my desk. I tried to remember where I’d put them, and snapped my fingers. I pulled open the left-hand desk drawer and reached down to pull them up.
Litric, Chaven, Taft. And . . .
My grandmother’s personnel file.
I gripped it tightly, surprised and relieved to have it in my possession again. I must have stashed it away with these other files when I cleaned off my desk yesterday. I didn’t remember doing so, but it wouldn’t be the first time I’d accidentally misplaced an item I was certain I’d put away. I’d suspected Frances, and was very, very glad I hadn’t voiced my doubts aloud.
“Did you say something?” Frances asked from the doorway.
I glanced up, taken aback by her venomous stare. “No.”
Accusingly: “I heard something.”
The phone rang on her desk. Neither of us said a word as she spun to get it. “Just a moment,” she said. Back in the doorway. “It’s for you. Again.”
I reached for the receiver. “Thanks.”
Frances spoke under her breath, “You’re welcome, Mizz Marshfield.”
“What did you say?”
“The phone is for you.”
“After that.”
She affected a look of innocence. “Nothing at all.”
The light on the phone blinked. I had no idea who was waiting to speak with me, but at the moment, I didn’t care. I stood. “Why did you call me Ms. Marshfield?”
She splayed a hand across her chest. “Why would I ever call you that?”
“That’s what I’m asking you.”
Pointing, she said, “That’s the Mister on the phone. You better answer it.”
I did. Bennett had heard about the incident at Percy’s house and was calling to see how I was. “You could have taken the day off,” he said. “I would have understood.”
“During my ninety-day probationary period? Not a chance.”
His voice deepened. “After everything that has happened these past couple of weeks, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were the one who wanted out. You have been called upon to go above and beyond . . .”
Bennett probably didn’t realize how close he was to hitting the mark. I kept telling myself, however, that once we got through this difficult period, my routine here at Marshfield would resemble that of a curator and not that of a homicide cop. “I’m doing okay,” I said. It was true. More or less.
“Good. Keep me updated.”
He hung up.
I returned to studying the files on the investor/victims and on Samantha Taft. I had one hand resting at an angle on top of the reports in front of me, obscuring most of Mrs. Taft’s name. All I could see was “Sam,” and I felt a tiny trill of excitement. Last night, I’d been certain that Percy had been trying to say “same.” What if what he had truly been trying to say was “Sam”? Samantha?
Frances hovered. “The hotel called while you were on the phone.”
I looked up. “About Geraldine?”
She nodded.
“What a mess,” I said. “Send a memo to all departments to keep alert for her. I doubt if she’ll come back now, but I don’t want to take any chances. The woman is ruthless.”
“What made you think to check on her?” Frances asked. “I mean, she was unpleasant, for sure, but we never expected this. What made you start this investigation?”
I didn’t want to get into the details. “She scammed friends of mine,” I said, hoping that would be the end of it.
“Oh,” she said with peculiar inflection. “Then you knew her from before.”
“No,” I snapped. “I didn’t know her. Not until she lodged her complaint. Yesterday I discovered that she was running a scam on friends of mine.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you have something to say, Frances?”
When she shook her head, her neck waddled. She flashed an angry look and returned to her office.
Not a minute later, my cell phone rang. I pulled it up, my heart sinking when I read the display. “When it rains, it pours,” I said, mimicking Rodriguez, and got up to shut the door between my office and Frances’s. “Hello, Liza,” I said.
“Hey, how’s it going?”
I didn’t have time for her this morning. “I’m really busy here. What’s up?”
“Are you in a bad mood?”
I didn’t answer.
“I hate to give you news like this over the phone,” she said slowly.
I didn’t want to hear that she’d blown all Mom’s money on a business venture that went bust. I’d had enough of scams lately. Too many stories of people losing everything they owned. I didn’t want to hear that she’d been arrested and needed bail. I didn’t want to hear any of it. “Then don’t,” I said.
She laughed.
And that’s when I knew exactly what she had to tell me. And of everything, I didn’t want to hear that, most of all. “Good-bye, Liza. I gotta go.”
“Wait, please.”
I don’t know why I didn’t flip my phone shut at that moment. Maybe some long-lost sisterly affection made me hesitate. Maybe for one single instant I hoped her news really wasn’t all that bad.
“I’m married,” she said.
My breath caught. I couldn’t speak.
“He wants to talk with you.”
“I don’t—”
The moment I heard Eric attempt a wavering, “Grace?” I slammed the phone shut and onto my desk, seething for a long moment before I could speak. “Have a good life,” I said between clenched teeth. “You two deserve each other.”
I was rattled. So much so that my skin itched from the inside. I needed to break away—to get away.
I’d hit my breaking point. From the lack of progress on Abe’s murder investigation, to Percy’s attack, to Geraldine eluding our grasp, to this kick in the gut, I’d had it. I stared at the Taft investor information for a long moment. Burying myself in tasks would bring blissful oblivion. But I knew that no matter how hard I tried to concentrate, at this point I wouldn’t be able to absorb a single word.
I got up and opened the door
, headed for the hallway.
“I’m going out,” I said to Frances.
Frances looked me up and down. “You’re not taking your walkie-talkie?”
“No,” I said, daring her to criticize me. “I won’t be gone long.” All I needed was ten minutes of quiet, alone, with no chance of anyone interrupting my solitude.
“The Mister wants us to keep our walkie-talkies with us all the time.”
“I won’t be gone long,” I repeated, more slowly this time.
She arched her brows. “All righty, then,” she said, her tone clearly communicating disapproval.
Three minutes later, I was outside with the warm sun on my upturned face. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath of the fresh, green, spring scents. I let the breath out, willing my body to release its tension. Opening my eyes, I made my way to the entrance of the maze. I’d originally intended to lose myself in there for a little while, navigating the tall greenery. Just as I was about to step in, however, I thought better of it. Feeling the way I did, the last thing I needed was to feel hemmed in or trapped.
Instead, I turned toward the low ridge where Jack said he’d stood when he spotted the killer running from the mansion. I took long, fast strides up the small hill. Air deepened my lungs, but I continued to push myself, little beads of sweat forming near my brow. Had I been wearing more comfortable shoes or a less businesslike outfit, I would have been happy to run. With everything built up inside me, I knew the only way to exorcise my frustration was to push myself physically.
At the top of the hill, I turned back to stare at the mansion. Glorious, magnificent, it deserved to be named one of the country’s crown jewels. I could see my office window from here, and I stared at it longingly. I thought I had everything planned out so perfectly: Learn all the mansion’s workings from Abe and then take over seamlessly when he retired. But here I was, tragedy having pulled me into a role far more complicated than I had anticipated. Abe’s murder had changed all our lives, certainly not for the better. I wished, with all my heart, that he was still here. All of a sudden, I wished my mother was still here, too.
With only the breezy wind to keep me company, I heard and felt every breath as I fought to remember why I’d wanted to work here. Below me, tourists meandered. I spied a young mother holding her little daughter’s hand as they stared at the house and took in its exquisite grandeur. I wondered what the little girl was thinking right now. That had been me once upon a time. Those childhood moments had defined me, had helped shape the person I’d become. I knew I wanted to be part of Marshfield from the moment I first visited.
Looking back now, I wondered how much of that longing was influenced by my mother’s secret. Why hadn’t she ever told me about our ties to Marshfield? Were they real? She would know, wouldn’t she? Why wasn’t she here to answer my questions? Why was my house falling apart? Why couldn’t I have a sister I could depend on?
I felt very alone.
Maybe it was time to give up.
“Hey there.”
I yelped and spun, startled to see Jack trudging up the hill behind me. Gripping a hand to my chest, I said, “You scared me.”
“Sorry,” he said, looking not very sorry at all. He closed the distance between us. “What are you doing out here?”
I tried to force a smile, but it fell flat. “Clearing my head.”
“It’s been a tough go for you, hasn’t it?”
Wrinkling my nose, I looked at the house again. The majestic, gorgeous mansion that had towered over these grounds since the late nineteenth century. “The manor won’t collapse if I’m not here to oversee things, will it?” I asked.
“What are you saying?”
“It’s too much,” I said simply. “I thought I could handle it. I can’t. I’m crying ‘Uncle.’”
“You are handling it. Darn well, if you want my opinion.”
I smiled at his attempt to cheer me up. But what else could he say? “I underestimated how much Abe’s murder and its aftermath would affect me,” I said. “I thought because I didn’t know him well I could just press on, be a good soldier, and lead the troops back to normalcy. But I’m in over my head.”
“We’re all in over our heads, Grace.” His brows came together and he took a step closer. “Did you ever consider that? No one here knows what to do. We’ve never encountered anything like this. We’re all fumbling in the dark.”
“But I’m the one who’s supposed to run the place.”
“And you’ve been doing a hell of a job.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Is that a compliment or a cut-down?”
His voice softened. “You’re making a difference here. I’m seeing evidence of that everywhere. Little things are changing. The questions you ask, the departments you visit, your unflagging enthusiasm when it comes to making things right—these are all having an effect on the staff. People are thinking more these days, and responding less by rote. They’re beginning to take ownership of their positions. And that’s what you’ve been working for, right?”
I nodded.
He was on a roll. “It’s not going to happen overnight, but I’m seeing attitudes changing. You’re too close to the situation to see the effect you’re having. There’s a sense here, finally, that better times are ahead. And almost everyone on staff believes that change is necessary.”
His words cheered me more than I cared to admit. He’d hit, exactly, my hopes and dreams for this place.
“But you can’t stop now,” he cautioned. “Or everything you’ve worked for so far will be lost. Just hang in there, okay? If not for yourself, then for all of us.” The genuine concern in his eyes took my breath away.
“Thanks,” I said, my throat too tight to say anything more.
He tucked his hands into his pockets. “You know,” he said, looking out over the grounds, “maybe Saturday night you and I could meet up at Hugo’s again, and see if the music’s any better this time.”
I smiled. “I’d like that.”
I’D BEEN OUTSIDE FAR LONGER THAN TEN minutes, but for the first time in days I felt renewed—that everything would be okay—and as though all the troubles I’d been juggling might get sorted out after all.
Plus I had a date. With Jack.
When I returned to the office, I stopped short. Bennett had pulled up a chair to talk with Frances. His elbows on her desk, he leaned forward. At my entrance he twisted around, his eyes clouded like he’d been recently hurt. Frances met my stare, a tiny smile working at her lips. “Here she is now,” she said.
I stepped forward, my good mood dampened by the obvious tension in the room. “Bennett, I didn’t know you were here.”
He stood. “I gathered as much.”
Still seated, Frances piped up, “Mr. Marshfield came down here to talk about all your recent excitement over the past few days.”
“Of course.” I started to move toward my office door. “Come in, please. I’d like to bring you up to date on Percy and on Geraldine.”
He stared at me for a long moment. Turning to Frances, he said, “I will be upstairs if anyone needs me,” and walked past me.
“Bennett,” I said.
He didn’t answer.
“What’s happened?” I asked. “Is something wrong?”
Turning, his eyes narrowed as though searching for answers in mine. “I’m far too tired for weighty decisions today,” he said. “Far too tired.” Without another word, he left.
I pounced on Frances the moment the door shut. “What did you say to him?”
Brows up, eyes wide, she blinked. “He’s the owner. He’s entitled to know what’s going on around here.”
“What did you tell him? Specifically?”
She pursed her lips. “To expect a court order.”
“From whom?”
Frances stared up at me in disbelief. “Who do you think?”
I held my hands out trying to grasp what was going on. “I’m totally confused here, Frances. What in the world are you hinting a
t?” But even as I said the words, I put it together with her “Mizz Marshfield” comment earlier. Frances must have gotten a look at my grandmother’s file. I gritted my teeth. “You had no right to go through my desk.”
“I didn’t,” she said with a smirk. “You left it right on top. Like you wanted me to find it.”
“Why did you tell Bennett?”
She barked a laugh. “You had him fooled. You had us all fooled. Somebody needed to warn the Mister that you weren’t the sweet, helpful soul you pretend to be.”
“I would never have told him.”
“Sure, you wouldn’t.”
There was no reasoning with this woman. “It’s all circumstantial, Frances. You can see that much. Why would I jeopardize my job here with no proof?”
“Jeopardize your job? Pheh. When you think you can finagle inheriting the entire estate? I don’t think so.”
My euphoria was long gone. In its place I felt only frustration, helplessness, and fury. “I’ll set this right,” I said. “You’ll see.”
Trying to decide my best course of action, I returned to my desk. A moment later I heard the outer door close. I got up to check. Frances was gone.
Although I knew it would be better to wait, to rehearse just the right words to explain, I couldn’t stop myself from grabbing the phone and dialing Bennett. His line rang. And rang. He had apparently shut off his voicemail, and I let the whirr repeat twenty times before I gave up. I tried reaching him on the walkie-talkie, on his direct channel. No answer.
I didn’t blame him for being upset at the possibility that his father may have had an affair with my grandmother, but I did blame him for listening to Frances’s ugly whispers. He knew how much she liked to gossip. Why couldn’t he see that she’d distorted the facts?
I thought about his lament about everyone trying to get a piece of him. He now thought of me as one of them. My throat hurt. He’d begun to trust me. But now . . .
