Whitehouse Chef 04 - Grace Under Pressure

by Julie Hyzy

  Scott asked, “What happens now? I mean . . . your boss has been killed. Does that automatically make you the new curator?”

  Down to the last drops of a second glass of wine, I’d calmed enough to converse without shaking. But I hadn’t relaxed enough to consider what Abe’s death meant for my career trajectory. “I doubt that,” I answered slowly. “It seems awfully cold to be thinking about that, doesn’t it?”

  Scott leaned forward to pour me more Merlot, but I placed a hand over the top of my glass. “Come on,” he said. “You’ve had a bad scare. One more glass and maybe you’ll be able to sleep.”

  “I’ve had two. I’ll sleep fine. A third would put me into a coma.” I shook my head. “Remember, I have to go back there in the morning. Can you imagine how it would look if I called in sick?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you, sweetie,” Scott continued. “Somebody has got to take charge over there. Why not you? The place is going to be an insane asylum until they figure out who killed the old guy. You have to step into his shoes first thing in the morning, whether you feel ready or not. Show them what you’re made of.”

  “It’s not a question of being capable,” I said. “For one, I’ve got more formal training than Abe had. And I’ve learned a lot about Marshfield Manor’s specific procedures over the past two months, so I can probably hold my own. No.” I shook my head again. “It just feels wrong to talk about taking over the job now. Abe was part of an extended Marshfield family. I’m still just an outsider.”

  “Outsider or not, they’re going to need a steady hand at the helm,” Bruce said. “And let me tell you, kid, you’re the steadiest I’ve ever seen.” He made a tsking noise. “The stuff you went through last year would’ve killed a lesser woman.”

  I upended my glass to finish my wine. “Thanks for the reminder, Bruce,” I said.

  “What?” he asked when Scott shot him a derisive look.

  “Grace comes home from finding a murder victim and you cheer her up by talking about . . .” Scott’s hands worked the air in front of him as though grasping for the right words, “. . . about last year?”

  “I was just trying to give her a compliment. It isn’t every girl who can lose her mother to cancer and her boyfriend . . .”

  I held up a finger to correct him. “Fiancé,” I said.

  Bruce nodded, but didn’t stop. “. . . her fiancé to another woman, and still be strong enough to build a life for herself in a brand-new town.”

  Scott interrupted. “Grace was born here, remember?”

  He waved Scott off. “Yeah, but she was in New York before her mother got sick.” Turning his full attention to me, he went on. “You had a whole life out there. An exciting life. And you left it all to care for your mom.”

  When he smiled beatifically, I reconsidered that third glass of wine. The guy was on a roll and wasn’t about to let either of us thwart his dramatic narrative. Just what I wanted. To rehash all this. Tonight.

  “Of course, with the benefit of hindsight,” he continued, “I think moving here was one of the smartest moves you ever made. I didn’t like that scummy Eric anyway. And Emberstowne didn’t like him. I think the town scared him off, if you want to know the truth.”

  Emberstowne scare Eric off? I didn’t think so. I had my own suspicions about the mystery woman who had caused Eric to dump me just weeks after my mother’s funeral, but those feelings were too raw to put into words.

  Scott sighed. “Let’s talk about something happier, shall we?”

  I held up my empty glass in salute. “I agree. What can we talk about?”

  The room went silent. Bruce looked at me, then at Scott. Scott lifted his chin as though expecting Bruce to jump in. Bruce shook his head.

  Scott opened his mouth then shut it again. As for me, I had nothing to offer. My body and mind were sapped of energy and the wine was making me drowsy. But like the elephant in the room, the murder couldn’t be ignored. Nor could the memory of last year’s disappointments. We all strained to not discuss either. I knew I didn’t want to go through it all again. But what else was there?

  Bruce was right about one thing: When Mom had first gotten sick, I’d left a plum position in New York to be with her in Emberstowne. My sister, Liza, claimed she couldn’t break away, but promised to come help just as soon as she could. That hadn’t surprised me. She’d finally made it into town a scant week before Mom died. And she’d stayed just long enough to collect her share of inheritance before she was off again to parts unknown. That hadn’t surprised me either.

  The thought of where my sister was now and what she might be doing depressed me. Needing a distraction, I glanced at my watch then reached for the remote. As I turned on the TV, I said, “Let’s see if there are any updates on the Marshfield story.”

  We all watched together as the newscast led off with Abe’s murder. From all reports there were no new leads in the case. The anchorwoman mentioned that the police were questioning a person of interest.

  “You think they caught the guy?” Bruce asked.

  “No,” I said. “I bet they mean Percy.”

  “The fat boy who caused the ruckus? They think he’s involved in the murder?”

  I nodded. “The police have to assume so. The timing was just too precise to be ignored. They’re keeping him overnight for questioning.” I made a face at the TV. “And here I believed he was just some random troublemaker looking for food. He had me fooled. I sure hope they sweat the truth out of him tonight.”

  Scott and Bruce looked as convinced of that outcome as I felt.

  When the murder news segment ended and the focus switched to that of the T. Randall Taft swindling scandal, I got to my feet. “I hate to break up this cozy evening,” I said, “but I’m going to bed.”

  Bruce pointed to the TV. “Hey, look. Your boss. Twice in one night.”

  I turned, half-expecting to see another photo of Abe on the screen, but was surprised by footage of Bennett Marshfield instead. He waved cameras away, looking annoyed. The anchor’s voice-over reported, “But the most incriminating testimony came from billionaire Bennett Marshfield, who took the stand first thing this morning. Marshfield told the jury how he began to suspect his former friend T. Randall Taft of creating a Ponzi scheme to lure innocent investors. Prosecutors are confident that Marshfield’s testimony will be what ultimately delivers a guilty verdict in this case.”

  The footage continued following Marshfield as he stepped into a waiting limousine and the driver shut the door, effectively closing his employer off from the extended microphones and eager cameras. The anchor added, “Outside of the courtroom, Mr. Marshfield refused to comment on allegations against his former friend.”

  “Whoa,” I said, half to myself. “I had no idea that’s where he was today. No wonder he said it wasn’t a good morning.”

  “Taft took a lot of bigwigs down,” Bruce said as he started to clean up. “Marshfield is just the tip of the iceberg.”

  Scott said, “I’ve been following this since the story broke. Marshfield is the iceberg. Taft had already gotten a lot of wealthy folks on board. It was Marshfield who was his undoing. He’s the guy who turned him in.”

  When the news broke for a commercial, I was ready to hit the sack. The day had tired me out, but the evening had, too. At some point in the conversation, things had shifted from my roommates trying to cheer me up, to me trying to convince them I was sufficiently cheered.

  Scott took my wineglass. “I’ll clean up. You take care of you.”

  “Thanks,” I said, grateful to head upstairs and put my spinning head to rest. I couldn’t even blame it all on the wine. There was just too much in there for one brain to keep straight.

  With a hand on my carved oak banister I took a moment to stare up the wide staircase, wondering if life would look brighter when I headed back down. Poor Abe. There would be no tomorrow morning for him. “I have to go in early,” I called over my shoulder. “Try to beat the reporters in, y’know. So
I probably won’t see you guys until evening.”

  Scott had two wineglasses in his hand and was just about to walk past me.

  “Oh my gosh,” I said, suddenly remembering. “Today was the interview!” I felt like a jerk for forgetting. I often stopped by their Amethyst Cellars shop on the way home, but after today’s events, it just wasn’t possible. Spinning to face them, I spoke fast, as though to make up for lost time. “Did the woman like the store? How did it go?”

  Scott’s face lit up and Bruce stepped up behind him, the two looking the happiest I’d seen them all night. Scott’s voice held unmistakable glee when he said, “It went . . . well.”

  Bruce boomed, “That’s an understatement! The woman spent over two hours in the shop sampling things and asking questions. Good questions, too. She kept complimenting us on our displays and especially on our wines. She was pretty sure that she’ll be able to convince Grape Living to feature us. She said they would send out a photographer and everything.”

  “That’s wonderful! Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

  Scott shrugged. “We thought about it. But we didn’t want to step on Abe’s grave with our good news. Bad karma, you know?”

  I smiled at the two of them. Having Grape Living do a feature on their wine shop was a coup beyond their wildest dreams. Such national exposure could drive lots of new business to their little store, where they were currently just making ends meet. A boost like this would be a godsend.

  “No bad karma,” I said. “Good news is good news. Now let’s just hope it can carry us into a better day tomorrow.”

  Chapter 4

  MY WINDSHIELD WIPERS BEAT A SOLEMN rhythm as I made the early drive in to Marshfield the next day. Each blade swipe cleared the blurry window so briefly, I didn’t dare blink. I concentrated on the shadowy road as I drove—at half the speed limit—hoping for relief from this relentless rain. Dark gray clouds somersaulted overhead and I glanced at my dashboard clock just to reassure myself that it was, indeed, morning. The sky cracked with lightning, and thunder shook my little red car, the only vehicle on this twisty highway at five A.M.

  I could have turned on my radio for company but at times like these I preferred to focus without distraction. How strange life was. Abe had been murdered in what should have been a safe place on a bright sunlit day, as different from this one as could be imagined.

  Lightning zinged in front of me and I jerked away, swerving instinctively. The car’s back end fishtailed and its tires hydroplaned as I fought to steer out of the oncoming lanes. My heart beat louder and faster than the wiper blades and I was glad there had been no one else on this narrow stretch of road.

  Today seemed more appropriate for murder than yesterday had. And this lonely stretch of forest seemed a far better venue. This was the sort of setting I might expect for so vile a crime. And yet I knew from personal experience that life was never exactly as we expected it to be. Why should death be any different?

  Involuntarily, I shuddered. Emberstowne was a sweet, safe haven. At least, it had been up until recently. Among us, we now not only had a swindler who targeted friends. We had a murderer in our midst.

  We all felt safe, I supposed, until we didn’t. When tragedy struck, it shattered everything. The trick was learning to put the pieces back together again.

  By the time I pulled up to the employee gate, the rain had lessened enough for me to decrease my wiper speed. I reached up to press the remote clipped to my visor and the cyclone gate jerked to life, rolling open to allow me entrance. For the first time I saw this barrier for what it was: nothing. The Marshfield estate was so sprawling that a mere fence—even with its barbed-wire crown—was no match for an intent trespasser. Heck, whoever had killed Abe could very well have been a guest at our hotel. I hadn’t considered that last night when I gave my statement, but I imagined the detective I’d spoken with had. I hoped so.

  I followed the employee road to the mouth of the underground parking lot. The red-and-white-striped barrier tucked between trees looked a lot like the entrance to the Batcave. I pressed my remote again and the arm raised to admit me. Years ago, when staff members no longer lived in and began driving themselves to work, this underground lot was created to keep the landscape clear of unsightly vehicles. Now golf carts, and the occasional limousine, were the only motorized means of transport allowed above-ground in the mansion’s perimeter.

  I caught sight of several squad cars parked along the walking path. Well, today was an exception, I guess.

  I parked and got out. A single tunnel ran between the garage and the house. I waved hello to Ned, a security guard standing at the tunnel’s entry. This was a change since yesterday. We all usually just came and went without notice. Ned nodded acknowledgment from his new station. The tunnel ahead, with its low, curved ceiling and concrete walls, reminded me of the ones in movies where rats scurry and the hero sloshes through puddles, a fiery torch his only means of illumination. The difference here, however, was though the tunnel was dank, the floor was dry. Fluorescent lights buzzed above, more than adequately lighting my path. My heels skip-tapped my nervousness as I hurried through. After yesterday, nothing felt safe.

  Another new addition: a guard at the basement entrance. He stopped me long enough to check my ID. We planned to eventually install ID card readers throughout the mansion, but retrofitting such a system into an historical building took a great deal of effort and planning. I knew Carr had already begun seeking bids for the job, but the added security would come too late for Abe.

  I made my way across the building to the far west wing, then up three flights to the anteroom I shared with my assistant, Frances. The room was dark and though the thunder was fading, rumbles from outside still shook the glass in the next room. There were no windows in this anteroom—we were landlocked here, with Abe’s quiet office just beyond the carved oak doors. At one time, this combined space served as sitting room and bedchamber for Marshfield guests and I appreciated the opulence that remained from that more genteel time. Winged cherubs floating in a pastel sky graced the ceiling. I wondered what the little chubbies thought when they looked down and saw the filing cabinets, the copier, and assorted business furniture that replaced the gracious living of yore.

  Leaving my purse and jacket at my desk, I headed back out to the corridor, passing other similarly outfitted offices to get to the back stairway and up to the fourth floor.

  One of Carr’s deputies—a young man of about twentyfive—met me at the top landing. “No admittance,” he said.

  I held up my badge. “I’m . . . I was Abe’s first assistant,” I said. “Now that he’s gone, there’s no one to oversee management of the estate. Until they appoint someone else, that responsibility falls to me.”

  He looked skeptical, until I added, “That means I’m your boss. At least for now.”

  Carr had come up behind the young man and placed a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “She’s right, Cubbie. Let her through.” To me, he said, “I wanted to talk with you anyway. Glad you came early.”

  “Cubbie?” I asked, when we were out of earshot. “Is that really his name?”

  Carr’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Nah. We call him that because he’s this huge Chicago Cubs fan. His locker’s covered with stickers and he’s always wearing a jersey or jacket and talking about how many days until their opener.”

  “What did you want to talk about?”

  “We’re going to have people in and out all day. My team has been on duty overnight and they’re starting to fade. I called in everybody, but we’re still going to wind up shorthanded for this kind of coverage.”

  “The mansion is closed to visitors today,” I said.

  He nodded, as though he’d expected as much. Lowering his voice, he stopped walking. “This team wasn’t ready for an emergency of this magnitude. They need training, support, and . . .” he glanced around the area to make sure we weren’t being overheard, “. . . sophistication. I knew when I started here that I had a
big job ahead of me, but I never expected this.”

  I started to say that no one had, but he interrupted. “I got caught unprepared. My fault.” The smile was long gone. “And I’m going to need your help.”

  “Of course.”

  “As the detectives clear my team for duty, I want to put them to work up here and in other key areas of the residence. We’re going to need all the eyes and ears we can get. I can only work with a skeleton crew at the moment; security personnel I can vouch for myself, but as soon as I get relief for them, I’m going to take it.”

  “What about the local police? Aren’t they willing to help out?”

  Carr frowned. “Their resources are limited, too.”

  “I thought they were bringing in a task force.”

  He started walking again, gesturing me to follow. “Did you see the news last night?”

  “Part of it.”

  “You heard about the bank robbery in Springfield?”

  “No . . .”

  “Five people shot.” His face was grim. “And the guy got away with less than ten thousand dollars. What a waste.” He shook his head. “Any task force we might have hoped for has been pulled away to handle that. We’re stuck with what we have. Between you and me, a little hamlet like Emberstowne doesn’t have the kind of police force you’d find in a big city because we don’t usually get big-city crime. The detectives assigned to us have probably never even investigated a murder before. Couple of robberies, some assaults, but nothing as big as this.”

  “Well, just let me know what you need,” I said.

  “Thanks.”

  We stopped outside Bennett’s study, which was cordoned off with bright yellow crime scene tape. There were two uniformed officers standing guard at the door; inside the restricted area, two evidence technicians were cataloging samples and taking pictures.

  “I thought this was supposed to be done last night.”