by Julie Hyzy
Carr gave me an I-told-you-so shrug. “Yeah, but it took this long for them to get here from the state crime lab.”
Two plainclothes armed men were down the hall, talking with another security guard. “Where’s the detective from last night?”
“Which one?”
“I didn’t get his name,” I said. “Fifty-ish maybe? Average height. Maybe a little paunch?”
“You’ve just described half the people in here yesterday.” He grimaced. The long hours were obviously taking their toll on Carr. “Some of them are still here. Some of them went back to the station to sweat out that fat guy, Percy. You see what I mean? I haven’t been able to establish any sort of structure here. I don’t have any control over who’s coming or going.”
“We’ve got a lot of priceless antiques here.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
I knew Carr would do his utmost to protect the mansion, its people, and its treasures so I decided to change the subject. “Did they find the letter yet?”
“What letter?”
Surprised the police hadn’t bothered to share this crucial piece of information with our head of security, I brought Carr up to date with regard to the threatening letters Marshfield had received. “I didn’t know anything about them until the most recent one arrived,” I said. “I opened it and took it to Abe. That’s when he told me he’d received several others before that one. He was taking the newest threat to show Bennett when he was killed.”
Carr swore under his breath. “No,” he said, his disgust evident. “I don’t believe any letters were found on Abe’s body. But I will look into this.”
“That’s the main reason I came up here this morning,” I said. “The detective I talked with said he had to wait until the evidence technicians cleared out.”
Carr’s brow tightened. “Hmph.”
I tilted my head toward the two plainclothes fellows down the hall. “I should probably go talk to them.”
Cubbie called to Carr.
“In a minute,” Carr said. Then to me: “You’re right. The local cops and the task force will need to talk with the entire staff. Even people who weren’t on-site yesterday. You’re going to have to make sure that everyone cooperates.”
“Got it,” I said. As he trotted toward Cubbie, I made my way to the detectives. They chose that moment, however, to head eastward down the hall toward Bennett’s room. That would be a tough interview. Deciding not to interrupt, I moved into the study’s doorway, my fingers skimming the slick, yellow tape as I stared in. Except for the large bloodstain on the area rug, and one small table that had been turned on its side, the room looked ordinary. They had removed Abe’s body last night after I’d left. The far windowed wall overlooked the south grounds, which were beginning to brighten. I sighed. Despite the low chatter of the professionals around me, I had never felt so lonely.
Shaking myself as though to dispel the melancholy, I headed toward the stairs, and my office. I had no doubt the detective I spoke with would be back for more today—which is why I’d gotten in so early. I wanted to be sure the mansion was running as smoothly as possible, before my time was no longer my own.
Chapter 5
FRANCES OUR ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANT, had arrived while I was upstairs. Wide-set, with a neck that cascaded over the top of her lavender turtleneck, she looked up when I walked in. Her carefully penciled eyebrows always reminded me of fat tadpoles. Right now they were raised high over half-moon glasses. Whether that was an expression of anticipation or annoyance, I couldn’t tell. “We’ve never closed Marshfield before,” she said by way of greeting. “This is a first. Except for Christmas and Thanksgiving every year, we don’t ever close the manor.” Making a clucking sound, she added, “There’s going to be trouble. You’ll see.”
I was perturbed, both by her tone and by her apparent lack of concern after yesterday’s murder. “There already has been trouble,” I said. “Didn’t you hear about Abe?”
For a woman who prided herself on knowing everything that went on at the mansion at any given minute, I’d pushed a button. She shot me a withering glare. “Who hasn’t?” Continuing to press her point, she said, “Just wait. I predict that by nine o’clock this morning we won’t be able to handle all the calls. People make plans, you know. They come here for their vacation. They spend good money. Why should we refuse to let them tour the mansion today? The murder didn’t take place in any of the public rooms.” She made another noise of disgust as she glanced at her watch. “Complaints to high heaven. Just as soon as we open the switchboard. Mark my words.”
She stared as though daring me to disagree. After two months of dealing with Frances’s roadblock attitude, I knew better than to continue this conversation. A Marshfield employee since before I was born, she was convinced it was she who ran the place, and that the manor would be lost without her. She had no patience for those who didn’t agree with her every proclamation. Abe had cautioned me that Bennett intended to keep her on until she retired. No negotiation. Surprise, surprise.
I scratched my head. How in the world were we new people supposed to bring this business into the twenty-first century with such millstones around our necks? Frances’s grimace warned me she was poised to strike if I dared open my mouth. Rather than grant her the pleasure, I smiled and crossed the room we shared. Instead of taking a seat at my desk, however, I changed my trajectory and headed for Abe’s office. I had my hand on the doorknob when Frances stood up, tugging the sweater down over her midsection where it had ridden up. “Where are you going?”
Last time I checked, Frances reported to me, not the other way around. “Lots to get done before all those phone calls start. We need a plan for making good on all the admission tickets issued for today. Why don’t you come up with a script for our switchboard?”
Her mouth set in a line and she sat back down behind her desk, spinning in her chair to face forward—pointedly away from me.
“Run it past me before you give it to them, okay?” I didn’t wait for acknowledgment, but mused aloud. “Today’s Wednesday.”
“Uh-huh. All day,” she said sing-song.
Ignoring her tone, I continued. “Good thing. Wednesday is one of our slower days.” Being early spring meant we weren’t in high season yet. That time would come just after Memorial Day. “Chances are, most of our guests are on multiday tickets. They can still have access to the grounds and enjoy all the amenities of the hotel and outdoor attractions. We can offer to extend their hotel stay by an extra day, or we can offer them entrance tickets again at any time of their choosing.”
Arranging her already neat desk—aligning paper corners and reshuffling pens—Frances made a show of not listening. But I knew better. Despite all her guff, she excelled at her job. If a detail needed to be remembered, you could be sure Frances remembered it. She spent the mansion’s money as if it were her own, and she guarded the place and its people with unsurpassed vigor. She was not, however, a woman prone to displays of sentiment and I wondered how much Abe’s death had really hit her. They had known each other since they both started here, almost forty years ago. She couldn’t be as unfeeling as she came across.
I started toward Abe’s office again.
Frances asked, “What about guests who can’t stay or can’t come back?” I moved closer to her desk and she finally looked up. “What if this was a family’s onetime trip and they can’t extend it an extra day. What then?”
“Let’s deal with those situations on a case-by-case basis,” I said. “In the meantime, do whatever it takes to keep our guests happy.”
“Happy. Pheh.” Her mouth twisted downward. “They wouldn’t know happy if it came up and bit them. All they ever do is complain.”
I refrained from making a comment about pots and kettles, and entered Abe’s sanctuary without further resistance.
Closing the door behind me, I leaned against it for a long moment. Abe’s office was as spartan as Bennett’s room had been cluttered, but it was stunning n
onetheless. Enormous mullioned windows spanned one wall, and I gasped in awe at the endless vista before me. I had been in this room before, of course, but today—for the first time—spring had taken hold of the estate, creating a feast of color as though to dispel the mansion’s overwhelming sadness. The rain had worked wonders, creating a panorama of shocking green. Grassy fields, ornamental gardens, and a maze of evergreens were brighter in hue than they had been since I began working here. As a child, I’d walked the grounds with my hand tucked firmly in my mom’s but I had never seen the change into spring from this vantage point before.
Just as I stepped away from the door it opened behind me, smacking me in the back. Hard.
Frances’s voice was high, agitated. “Why are you standing behind the door? You scared of getting too close to the desk? Afraid Abe’s ghost will come back and haunt you for messing with his things?”
“I’m fine, thanks,” I said, massaging my left shoulder.
“I hope you’re not expecting me to knock every time I come in. Abe never did. Of course, he never stood right behind the door either.” She made a face. “Were you spying on me?”
“What did you need, Frances?”
Thrusting a sheet of paper at me, she cocked one of her tadpole eyebrows. “Here’s that script you wanted.”
“But I asked you for it less than a minute ago.”
With an exaggerated shrug she turned back to her desk. “Guess maybe I knew exactly what you needed before you did, huh?”
She was absolutely right. She had anticipated our exact needs. I watched her settle herself back at her desk, squirming into her seat with a self-satisfied grin. We would get along so much better if she could pair her expert efficiency with a smidgen of friendliness, but today wasn’t the best time to suggest that. I read over the transcript she’d prepared. “Thanks,” I said, “this is great.”
She glanced up. “Anything else you need right now?”
“I’ll let you know.”
This time when I closed the door, I crossed the room immediately. Abe’s massive oak desk was set at an angle in the far corner so that the windows were to his left and the fireplace to his right. A coffered ceiling of carved teak provided a mix of beauty and gravitas—the perfect setting for serious curator and directorial work.
Right now, however, instead of appreciating the view or the décor, I needed to find the threat we’d received yesterday afternoon. Since the police hadn’t found the letter Abe intended to show Bennett, it had to be here. Unless, of course, the killer had taken it with him when he fled.
Either way, we now knew the threats were real. Bennett had pooh-poohed that idea, but he had been proven horribly wrong. I stared upward at the ornate ceiling, thinking about Bennett one floor above. I hadn’t seen him since leaving him in the doctor’s care yesterday.
Returning my attention to the desk, I flipped through Abe’s calendar and searched through the papers on his blotter. There were so few, it didn’t take long. No letter. The one that had arrived yesterday wasn’t the first we’d received, so I decided to think like Abe. He would have created a file. And he would have kept it nearby.
Taking a seat in his soft leather chair, I bit my lip. “Sorry, Abe,” I said aloud. “But I need to see what you’ve got here.”
The man was organized. His desk, an antique from America’s colonial era, had relatively small drawers, and in them he had chosen to store items most people keep on top of their desks. Paper clips, tape, stapler, pens. All these were tucked away in neat, sectioned compartments.
I twirled to my left to face the windowed wall. Under the wide sill at the base of the paned glass were filing cabinets that had been custom fitted to utilize the space. These were relatively new and had been designed to accommodate everything from letter- to legal-sized documents. Most of the mansion’s files were stored in the office I shared with Frances, but I imagined Abe kept a great deal here, out of the nosy assistant’s curious reach.
“Good morning, Grace.”
I spun. Bennett Marshfield stood before me, looking as though he hadn’t slept much. While he generally favored pastel blues and khakis, today he wore black slacks and a matching long-sleeved shirt with an open collar. The dark color accentuated the shadows under his eyes.
I stumbled over my return greeting as I stood.
“Frances tells me you’re eager to take over Abe’s position.”
Frances stood in the doorway, gloating.
“I thought it would be helpful to find that letter,” I said. Feeling like a kid caught Web-surfing when she should be doing her homework, my face flushed hot and my words came out fast. “Abe intended to bring you the latest threatening letter. I know he must have had it on him yesterday when he . . . when he came to see you.”
Bennett rubbed his eyebrow. “That letter is long gone. I’m sure of it. Whoever . . . whoever . . .” He worked his jaw. “That letter is gone.”
“Yes,” I began, “but—”
“You young people are always in such a hurry.” His voice was low but emotion trembled behind it as he continued. “Abe hasn’t been gone for twenty-four hours yet. Is it too much to ask that we wait a respectable amount of time before we erase all that he was?”
“I’m not trying to erase anything—”
“Oh no?” Bennett tilted his head toward the office I shared with Frances. She’d remained in the doorway. The better to listen in, I supposed. “I can see no reason for you to be rooting around in here.”
I took a breath, keeping my gaze steady and my voice calm. “Abe was very thorough. You know how thorough he was. Even if the original is gone, I’m sure he would have kept a copy.”
I could tell the thought hadn’t occurred to him. He gave a brief nod. More acknowledgment than apology. “You’re right, of course. I should have thought of that.”
“I can help,” I said. “Abe taught me a lot. I can keep things running here the way he would. That is, if you’ll let me.”
Silence hung between us for a long moment. Finally, he nodded. “For now I will expect you to act as liaison between the manor and the police.” This was a directive, not a request. I nodded, and he turned toward the door.
There was a flash of lavender behind him—Frances scurrying back to her desk before he could catch her eavesdropping.
“Before you go . . .” I said. “Could you tell me just a little more about the letters you received before the one yesterday?”
Aiming for one of the office’s red leather chairs, he took a faltering step. Instinctively, I started around the desk to help, but he warned me back with a look. While he had always been the picture of vitality and could have been a poster boy for AARP, today his height made him look gaunt and his black clothing rendered him pale. “Sit,” he said as he settled himself in one of the two wing-back chairs. I sat.
Bennett stared out the mullioned window. “I have a similar view from upstairs.”
Not knowing what else to say, I murmured, “It’s gorgeous.”
He kept his attention on the grounds. “Yes.”
For a moment I was afraid Bennett might break down. He wasn’t just seeing the grounds outside this window, of that I was certain. Abe had been hired here a long time ago, back when he and Bennett were young. From what I’d heard, Abe’s parents worked on the estate, too, so just like Bennett, Abe had grown up here. Losing Abe had to be like losing a best friend.
As Bennett’s eyes grew red and he worked his jaw again, I realized that that was probably exactly what had happened. As an only child of privilege, he may have had friends among the children of his parents’ friends, but here at home, who did he have?
I stared out the window to give Bennett time to compose himself.
No wonder Abe had become the curator-director. Of all positions on staff, this was the most prestigious, the most important. In other countries, such a position is referred to as the “palace manager,” because in addition to maintaining all the museum-quality artifacts, the “palace” m
ust be managed, like a business. Whoever is in charge must be able to wear ten hats and juggle a hundred crises at once.
Although Abe took care of Marshfield Manor to the best of his ability, there was no doubt he had not kept up with new and better efficiencies. As a result, the place had developed a patina of neglect. From what I understood, Bennett had initially fought the idea of bringing on someone new—he preferred to promote from within. A great concept, except for the fact that most of those qualified to take over the position at Marshfield were near retirement age themselves.
Bennett’s anger at seeing me invade Abe’s space made sense. I understood how important it was to him to keep things static—for now. But I wanted this job. I wanted it more than anything else in my life.
Even Eric? My brain taunted me with the question and the sudden, unbidden memory of his departure made me frown.
“What are you thinking about?” Bennett asked.
I gave a wry smile and a vague reply. “It’s a day for sad memories, I guess.”
He seemed to understand my reluctance to share. Straightening his shoulders, he asked, “What did you want to know about the other letters?”
“You don’t happen to have copies, do you?”
He shook his head.
“I’m sure I’ll find them here somewhere,” I began. “Do you remember when they started?”
“No. When Abe showed me the first one, I laughed. Told him to throw it away. Just silliness, I was sure. People are always trying to get something from me.” He ran his gaze around the room, as though seeing it through new eyes. “I suppose I don’t blame them.” His voice grew soft. “They believe I have so much more than they do.”
Frances was probably having a hard time hearing our conversation. I liked that thought.
Keeping Bennett on topic, I asked if they had taken the letters to the police.
“I told Abe not to,” he said, swallowing. “Maybe if I had—”
“It’s possible the letters have nothing to do with . . .” Why was it that none of us could say the actual words? “Nothing to do with what happened yesterday. We may find that the letters were just silliness and whoever . . . whoever broke in yesterday was completely uninvolved with that.”
