Grace Sees Red

by Julie Hyzy

  “Bruce? Scott?” I called a little louder.

  I heard the soft padding of Bootsie’s paws down the stairs before she bounded into the room to greet me. “How are you, baby?” I asked as I dropped my purse on the table and stooped to pick her up. “Where is everyone?”

  She opened her mouth and yawned. Not much of an answer.

  A second later, I heard scuffling from the basement. “That you, Grace? We’re down here.”

  As I opened the door to head down, Bootsie twisted out of my hold. Jumping to the floor, she made her way over to her food and water bowls, turning to give me a sleepy-eyed “Go on without me” look.

  Bruce and Scott waited for me at the bottom of the stairs. Clad in dirty jeans and sweat-stained T-shirts, they wore identical expressions of frustration. “You’re just in time,” Scott said as I made my way down.

  “For what?”

  “For the grand reopening of Amethyst Cellars,” Bruce said. “In the cellar. What could be more appropriate?” When he gestured me forward, I noticed his hands were covered in grime.

  Crates and boxes—dozens of them—were lined up about shoulder height along the far wall. I recognized wine cases among the varied sizes and shapes. And I couldn’t miss the bloodred wine staining most of the cardboard before me.

  Set in front of the boxes were fragments of furniture. Or at least that’s what they looked like to me. Amethyst Cellars’s cherrywood cabinetry—spotlighted and shiny—always looked so rich and elegant. Here, broken into components under harsh fluorescent light, the red-colored wood looked scuffed, old, and forlorn.

  “This is only half of it,” Scott said. “There’s more upstairs in the living room and parlor. We don’t have it in us to carry the rest down here tonight.”

  “You guys have been moving everything here yourselves?” I asked.

  “We had no choice,” Bruce said. “If we didn’t get it out today, we risked losing our inventory when the contractors came in. Building inspectors are forcing our landlord to gut the place before putting it back together. Anything left there after five o’clock this afternoon gets tossed.”

  “But none of this was your fault.”

  “Tell that to the inspectors,” Scott said. “Their job is to ensure safety. They don’t care about stuff.”

  “Have you eaten?” I asked.

  Bruce waved to indicate a pile of fast-food papers and bags. “We brought in burgers about an hour ago. Sorry we didn’t think to order anything for you.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said.

  “But it gets worse,” Scott said.

  “How can it?” I shook my head. “Forget I said that. What do you mean?”

  “The landlord is already warning us that with all the money he’s putting in to restoring the building, he’s going to have to raise our rent.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  Bruce made his way over to one of the battered cases on the floor. He opened the purple-spattered cardboard flaps of one marked “Rioja” and pulled out a bottle, hefting it one-handed. “Can’t sell this.” He turned the bottle so its label faced me. Streaked with red, it looked as though it had been caught in a rain shower of wine. “May as well drink it. We deserve it after the long day we’ve had, don’t we, Scott?”

  At the dismay on my face, Scott said. “At least half the bottles are stained like that. Some worse. We may eventually be able to offer customers a demolition discount, but that plan is a long way off.”

  “How many bottles did you lose completely?” I asked.

  Bruce shrugged. “I have a guess. Do you?”

  “Broken bottles?” Scott nodded. “I think we lost at least eight cases.”

  Bruce shook his head. “More like twelve.”

  Scott’s shoulders drooped.

  “Insurance will cover some of the loss, at least.” Bruce was still holding the bottle of Rioja. “And on that happy note, let’s go upstairs and celebrate that we didn’t lose more.”

  I followed them as they trudged into the kitchen. Their despair was absolute, their misery complete. They had hopes, dreams, and plans, but no way to implement any of it. But even as my heart broke for them, I felt a tingle of anticipation.

  When we got to the top of the stairs, Scott turned the kitchen lights on and Bruce handed me the bottle. “Care to do the honors, Grace? I can’t wait to get out of these filthy clothes, and I’ll bet Scott feels the same way.”

  “Sure.” I moved to the drawer where we kept the corkscrew.

  “I need a shower,” Scott said. “Maybe two.”

  They sounded so utterly dejected and yet my excitement continued to build. I couldn’t wait for them to come back down. Spinning, I caught them as they crossed the threshold to the dining room. “Wait.”

  They stopped in their tracks.

  “What’s wrong?” Scott asked.

  “We didn’t ask you how everything went with Frances today,” Bruce said. “I’m so sorry. We’ve been so busy that I completely forgot. Have the Rosette detectives finally seen the light and dropped charges?”

  “No.” I raised a hand to my forehead. I couldn’t believe how much had transpired today. “Frances was arrested,” I said. “This morning.”

  Bruce reached out to grab the doorjamb as though to steady himself. “And you let us go on and on about our problems? How is she? Where is she?”

  Scott’s mouth had dropped open. “No.” He drew the word out. “No, that can’t be.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, talking quickly now. “No, wait. It’s not okay. But at least she’s been released. Bennett covered her bail.”

  “Thank heavens for Bennett,” Bruce said.

  “But charges are still pending?” Scott asked.

  “They are. And we can’t let our guard down for a moment. Bennett, Tooney, and I—along with Joe Bradley, the coroner—are doing our very best to ensure those charges are dismissed. And soon.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Bruce said. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

  “Yes, there is,” I said. “I know you want to get cleaned up but this can’t wait. Would you both please have a seat?”

  As they moved the boxes, cleaning supplies, and assorted detritus, I opened the bottle of wine and pulled three glasses from the shelf.

  “You know we’ll do whatever we can,” Scott said.

  “I know that. And I’m counting on you both.”

  I placed the glasses on the table and began to pour.

  “The suspense is too much,” Bruce said. “Forget the wine. Just tell us already.”

  “The wine is part of it.” They shot confused expressions at me and at each other. “I have two favors to ask.”

  When all three glasses were poured, I set the bottle on the table and sat down. “Okay, the first favor involves one of the people in Gus’s life who sort of works in your line of business. A man named Anton Holcroft.”

  “The restaurateur?” Bruce asked.

  “You know him?”

  Scott’s jaw dropped again. “This ‘Gus’ Frances is accused of killing—the victim. Are you talking about Gustave Westburg?”

  My turn to look surprised. “How do you know these people?”

  “We don’t,” Bruce said. “But we’ve heard of them. They owned a slew of restaurants along the coast. Hugely successful.”

  “They made a killing together,” Scott said.

  Bruce frowned. “Scott!”

  “Oh, sorry. Bad choice of words.”

  “How did I never hear of them before?” I asked.

  Scott shrugged. “Probably because you aren’t in the business.”

  “And because they sold out their holdings about ten years ago. Well before you moved down here.” Bruce tapped the table. “What do you need us to do?”

  I gave a little laugh. �
�I was going to ask you to do some homework on Anton for me. I’d like to know what kind of man he is, what makes him tick. I met him only once and my impression was that he was truly broken up by the news of Gus’s death, but that could have been an act.”

  Bruce and Scott exchanged a glance across the table. “We could contact him under the guise of looking to hire a consultant,” Bruce said. “I mean, we would love to work with Anton Holcroft if we could, so that isn’t much of a stretch. The fact that we have no money to actually hire him is beside the point.”

  “And that’s where we come to the other favor.”

  The two waited expectantly.

  “I want to buy the Granite Building,” I said. “And provide you whatever funds you need to make it operational.”

  They exploded with questions and surprised exclamations.

  “Grace, what?”

  “No, we can’t let you do that.”

  “That’s too much money. Not a chance.”

  I waited for them to jabber themselves into silence.

  Bruce finally said, “That’s extraordinarily generous of you, but we told you before—we won’t take a handout.”

  “But that’s the beauty of this. It isn’t a handout.” Excited, I sat up straighter, as the idea I’d broached to Bennett gained momentum in my heart. “Not if we’re partners.”

  The two men looked at each other then at me. The room remained silent for about a count of five.

  “What are you talking about, Grace?” Scott asked, speaking slowly. “What do you mean by ‘partners’?”

  Mounting enthusiasm warmed me. I leaned forward, elbows on the kitchen table. “The Granite Building is still available for sale, isn’t it?”

  “As far as we know,” Scott said. “But remember, the bank wants to put up a new branch in that location.”

  “But the chamber of commerce would have to approve that. Which they may not choose to do if there’s a better option.”

  “True,” Scott said. “But that’s a long shot.”

  “Not if we offer to buy it outright. No mortgage. The bank walks away with a nice profit on their foreclosure and you have a new home for Amethyst Cellars.”

  “You would do that for us?” Bruce asked.

  “I’ve been thinking about this for some time, but I needed to discuss it with Bennett’s financial guy before I mentioned it to you.”

  “You talked this over with Bennett’s financial guy?” Scott asked.

  “He said that I could either hold the mortgage myself or partner with you two.” I waited a beat. “I’d rather be your partner than your landlord.”

  The two of them sat in shocked silence.

  I cleared my throat to recapture their attention. “I wouldn’t want to push myself in as a managing partner, though. More a silent investor. You two have built something special here, and I’m not savvy enough about the wine or restaurant business to have an informed opinion. You won’t have to consult me on every decision, but I do want to invest enough to get you started in the new location.”

  “But, but”—Scott’s brow furrowed as my proposal sunk in—“we can’t ask you to do that.”

  “You’re not asking me. I’m offering.” My words came faster. “With the funds Bennett has made available to me, I can do this.”

  “Grace, wait.” Scott held up both hands as though to ward me off. “We haven’t developed a business plan yet. We haven’t ordered an inspection on the building. It may not be up to code, and repairs could cost you more than the investment is worth. This may not be a sound financial decision.”

  “I’m not investing in a building,” I said. “I’m investing in you. I have no doubt that you’ll examine every detail before moving forward. That you’ll do whatever homework you feel is necessary.” I made eye contact with each of them in turn. “Trust me, I want to do this. Bennett has encouraged me to invest in ventures I believe in. And I believe in you.”

  This time when they exchanged glances, there was something in their eyes that hadn’t been there five minutes earlier: hope.

  “This is too generous of you,” Bruce said.

  I grinned. “Not generous at all. I’ve seen what you two are capable of. I expect us all to turn a tidy profit.”

  Spontaneously, we stretched our hands out across the table and grasped tightly. “We make an awesome team, don’t we?” I asked.

  Bruce’s eyes were red-rimmed and glassy. “We do.”

  My cell phone rang, interrupting our warm moment of togetherness.

  “Thank you, Grace. Thank you, so very much.” Scott’s voice was thick with emotion. He smiled and cleared his throat. “Tomorrow morning, we’ll go talk to the bank.”

  “Good. Keep me updated,” I said as I released their hands and reached for my phone. “It’s the coroner,” I said when I saw the caller ID. “I hope it’s good news.”

  Chapter 28

  I took the call in the parlor and realized the boys hadn’t been kidding. There were boxes everywhere. Bootsie wandered between them, jumping from level to level as though scaling cardboard mountains. No wonder she hadn’t wanted to make the trek to the basement. Our main level had been turned into a kitty playground.

  Joe sounded eager, excited. “Where are you?”

  “Home, why?”

  “I’ve been going over this autopsy report and I’d like to talk with you about it. I’m in my office right now. Am I calling too late?”

  “No, not at all.” Instinctively, I glanced at the clock. Seven thirty. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten. This was the day that wouldn’t end. “Did you find something that could help Frances?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Is there somewhere we can meet? I don’t want to be rude and invite myself over, but—”

  “And I don’t usually make the excuse that my house is a mess, but Bruce and Scott literally emptied out Amethyst Cellars into our living space today and I don’t have a single free chair I could offer you.”

  He made a small noise of disappointment.

  “Would you mind if we met at Hugo’s?” I asked him. “I’m starving.”

  “Not many people would be willing to discuss an autopsy report over dinner.” He laughed quietly. “How soon?”

  “It takes me about ten minutes to walk there.”

  “Ten minutes it is.”

  * * *

  Hugo’s was a popular restaurant, but because it wasn’t a weekend and the town wasn’t yet in high season, I had no trouble snagging a table in the back where Joe and I could converse freely without fear of being overheard.

  I seated myself with my back to the wall. Less than two minutes later, the hostess pointed Joe in the direction of my table. He carried a manila folder in one hand and waved to me with the other. No cane tonight either, apparently. And his limp was barely noticeable.

  “This place has a nice vibe.” Giving Hugo’s a quick once-over, he lowered himself into the chair to my right and placed the folder on the table in front of him. “Have you ordered?”

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “Do you mind if I hit you with a couple of questions while we wait?”

  I liked the way he got straight to business. “Please.”

  He opened the folder to the autopsy report, where two preprinted line drawings of the male human form took up most of the first page. One drawing was to document findings on the body when viewed faceup, the other, facedown. Handwritten notes were scribbled around both outlines.

  “First of all, the coroner who performed the autopsy did not indicate the presence of any unexplained skin punctures. Reading through her notes, I’ve been able to determine that she did, indeed, perform a thorough examination.”

  “That’s great news,” I said. “Insulin is typically injected into the thighs, abdomen, or buttocks, right?”

  He nodded but
didn’t smile.

  “So that means Gus didn’t die of an insulin overdose?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “But if there aren’t any puncture wounds—”

  “Hang on, look right here.”

  Just then, a waitress arrived at our table. Joe shut the folder as she introduced herself. I could barely wait for her to get through her welcoming spiel.

  “Can I bring you something to drink while you look at the menus?” she asked.

  “I’m ready to order. I’ll have a cheeseburger and fries, please,” I said. “And I’m fine with water to drink.” When Joe glanced over, I could tell he sensed my impatience. I shrugged.

  He nodded. “Same for me.”

  As soon as she was gone again, he reopened the folder and positioned it between us. He pointed to the facedown human outline. “The coroner who performed the autopsy noted the presence of a heparin lock on the back of Gus’s left hand.”

  “That’s what started the whole investigation,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “When Santiago found Gus dead, it was because he’d gone in there to flush Gus’s heparin lock.”

  Joe sat forward, eyes glinting. “I hadn’t heard that detail before.”

  “Is it significant?”

  “Does Frances have any medical training?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  He sat back, tapping a finger against the page. “If Gus died of insulin poisoning, I’d wager he received the dose through his heparin lock.”

  “Meaning Frances is still a suspect.”

  “Technically, yes, but if she had no medical training, then she probably wouldn’t know she had that option.” He gave an exaggerated shrug. “And unless Gus was an incredibly sound sleeper, I highly doubt the man would allow a nonmedical person to inject him with anything.”

  When our burger platters arrived, Joe shut the file again and moved it to the side. Our waitress asked typical, polite questions and then, to my relief, took off again promptly.