by Julie Hyzy
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 . . .
Unable to help myself, I tried calling Bennett again, both on the phone and on the walkie-talkie. Still no luck. I tried reaching him elsewhere. Terrence hadn’t seen him, nor had anyone else.
On a hunch, I took a walk down to the Birdcage room. I looked around the bright area—searching—and coming up empty yet again. The sun filtering through the topmost shades, and the harpist plucking out notes of a soft song gave the area a quiet calm. Tourists sat at tables, drinking tea and enjoying finger sandwiches. This is where it had all begun. Where Percy had started us down a tragic spiral. Where Bennett had warned me that I was on probation.
Just today—just an hour ago—I’d been willing to give up this job, to cave in to the pressures surrounding me. But now, the idea of losing my place here made me physically ill.
With no way to reach Bennett, I returned to my office, determined more than ever to figure out who might have killed Abe. For the briefest of moments, I was tempted to use the hidden staircase by the fireplace and confront Bennett in his rooms. I knew, however, that accessing the secret passage—a tangible example of his trust in me—would send the wrong signal at this point. I needed to give him the time he needed to cool off. Then I’d approach him, through normal channels. He was a rational man, wasn’t he? He had to listen to me. He just had to.
Chapter 27
FRANCES DID HER BEST TO MAKE ME FEEL UNCOMFORTABLE Friday morning. Shooting me scathing looks whenever I crossed her path, she whispered into the telephone at every available opportunity, switching to stony silence whenever she spotted me. No doubt she was eagerly spreading word of my impending release.
Bennett still wouldn’t answer his phone. Worried for his safety, I checked with Terrence and discovered that Bennett had dismissed his bodyguards. “You’re kidding,” I said. “With Percy being shot, it’s obvious the killer is still out there.”
“You’re preaching to the choir,” Terrence said with steel in his voice. “He and I have gone ’round and ’round with this. He’s sick of being treated like a child—his words—and he refuses to cooperate. Tell you the truth, Grace, I think he believes that if he ignores the problem, it will go away.” Terrence heaved a deep sigh. “He wouldn’t be the first.”
“If you see him, please ask him to call me.”
“Will do.”
That afternoon, I looked up from my Taft project, bleary-eyed, when my cell phone rang. Liza again. I silenced the ring, and waited for the chirp of a voicemail. Nothing. Good. I had nothing to say to her. Not now. Maybe not ever. When the phone rang again moments later—Liza—I shut it off completely.
I stood up to stretch then wandered to the window. Tomorrow night was my “date” with Jack at Hugo’s. What had put me in such a good mood just yesterday was causing me angst today. Although I very much wanted to go out with him, my mood was so dark that I feared I would be miserable company.
Grabbing my walkie-talkie, I decided to check in with some of the staff. Jack had told me that my visits had been helping morale and that people felt good knowing their efforts were appreciated. Attempting to put Bennett’s displeasure with me out of my mind, I headed out to do my job.
Frances stopped me. “Where are you going?”
“Is there something you needed?”
“It’s just . . . I’m leaving early today.” She glanced at the grandfather clock. “In about five minutes. I left a note on your desk last week.”
She had, and I’d forgotten. But I wasn’t about to admit that. “No problem. If anyone needs me, they can reach me here.” I held up the walkie-talkie.
“Taking it along this time, are you?”
I ignored her and left the room.
LOIS AND TWO OTHER ASSISTANT CURATORS were in the process of acquiring an antique paperweight that had recently become available through one of our European channels. They updated me, and while there Lois and I discussed the ultimate placement of the Raphael Soyer painting. I suggested a location in the former Smoking room, but Lois preferred one of the second-floor bedrooms. We both looked forward to making that decision upon the painting’s return.
Outside, I made my way over to visit Earl. “How’s it going?” I asked him.
He pulled a Starlight mint out from his deep pocket and handed it to me. “Well enough for a Friday.”
I took a moment to gaze out over the grounds. “Just beautiful,” I said. “You’ve made spring come alive.”
“Nah,” he said, “Mother Nature takes care of that. I just make sure we give her ’nuff to work with.”
“Is Jack around?”
“Took off,” he said. “Always leaves early on Fridays.”
A tall young man hustled over, his blond hair dripping sweat, his coveralls stained down both sides as though he had a habit of wiping dirty hands on his legs. Out of breath he said, “Hey, Earl,” and jerked a thumb eastward. “The damn tractor died on me again. Mind if I go scare up some help from maintenance?”
“You go ahead,” Earl said. “Tell them I’m warning ’em, they better fix it right this time.”
The young man was about to take off when Earl grabbed his arm. “Hang on, Kenny.” The elderly gardener turned to me. “You think maybe you could help us out, Grace? Maintenance keeps telling us that old tractor is fine, but it breaks down about once a week. Maybe if you talk to them?”
“Sure,” I said but my mind was not on heavy equipment. “You’re Kenny?”
“Kenneth to my mom, but yeah.”
“Are there any Kennys on staff?”
“No, ma’am. We got two Bobs and two Jims, but I’m the only Kenny.”
“But,” I stopped myself before the words came out. Jack had said that he saw a man running from the mansion at the time Abe was killed. He’d also said that he’d originally thought it was Kenny. This young man standing in front of me was tall, lanky, fair-haired, and no more than twenty-five years old.
Rodriguez was looking for a man between thirty-five and fifty, under six feet tall, and a little bit overweight. Not like Kenny here. Not at all.
“But what?” he asked.
“Nothing.” I scratched the side of my head. “I’ll talk with maintenance,” I said. Distracted, I thanked them both for their time and walked away.
If only I’d had a chance to talk with Percy. He’d all but admitted he’d given the police an erroneous description. What had the killer really looked like? From the description Rodriguez had, I was surprised he hadn’t ever seriously considered Ronny Tooney as a suspect. Because unless I’d received bad information from Rodriguez, Ronny Tooney fit.
Fit exactly.
But then, who had Jack seen running from the mansion? Should we be looking for an accomplice? Rodriguez had gotten the description of the middle-aged man from our housekeeping staff. Had Tooney been involved from the very beginning?
I walked quickly, but my mind raced faster.
Rosa might very well have known about the secret room and staircase adjacent to the study. In fact, with all her years in service to Marshfield, I would have been surprised if she didn’t know. What if she’d shared that information with cousin Ronny? That could easily explain how he had been able to get in without being seen—and get out without being caught.
Back inside, I knew better than to confront Rosa directly. If my suspicions were correct, the moment she smelled my interest she’d report it to Tooney. My heels clicked down the tile steps as I formulated a plan. So much information had been provided by hearsay. The only person who told me himself that the killer looked like Kenny was Jack. Now that I’d met Kenny, I needed to
get the rest of my facts straight.
If Rosa was somehow protecting Tooney, I intended to find out. And the only way to do so was to exploit the weak link.
Making my way to the basement, down through the labyrinthine hallways, the cacophony of busy washers and dryers and the scents of hot cotton and bleach were my guides. Three women folding gold-crested navy blue towels chatted as they worked.
“Excuse me,” I said over the din of the laundry machines. “Is Melissa around?”
Yvonne tapped one of her companions on the shoulder and pointed. When Melissa spotted me, she gave a nervous wave. Would my presence always inspire such trepidation in the staff? If Frances had her way, I might never find out.
I gestured for Melissa to follow me to a quieter location. “I’d like to ask you a few questions,” I said. The staff break room was two doors away from the laundry room, and empty. I ushered Melissa close to the windows. That way, we would be far enough from the door so no one could overhear.
Melissa looked ready to throw up. “What’s wrong?”
“You and Rosa were upstairs when Abe was killed, right?” I knew that already, but I wanted to ease into my interrogation.
She nodded.
“And you told the police that you saw a man up there.”
A quick nod.
“What did he look like?”
She shook her head. “I try not to think about that.”
“I understand,” I said softly. “But there is a killer out there. Someone who might have killed again.”
Her hand flew to her chest. “Who?”
I held up a finger. There was a flash of fear behind her eyes that told me she was hiding something. I wanted to find out if Rosa had asked her to keep quiet. I wanted to find out if it was, indeed, Ronny Tooney who had disappeared from the room so quickly after shooting Abe. My instincts told me to push, but the last thing I needed was for Melissa to go running to Rosa. So I chose my words carefully.
“I know about the secret room,” I said.
She flinched.
I thought, Bingo.
Too late, she tried to deny comprehension. “I don’t know—”
“Sure you do,” I said keeping my voice low.
She swallowed.
“It’s never too late, Melissa,” I said, “to make things right.”
“I have to go,” she said.
I tried to stop her, but she was out of the room before I could react. I followed, but only halfheartedly. Cornering her would do no good right now. I decided to try again later after giving her a chance to realize I was right. I circled back to the laundry room. Yvonne looked up.
“Where’s Rosa?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Gone for the day, I think.”
Frustrated, I returned to my office.
As promised, Frances was gone. “Does everybody here leave early on Fridays?” I asked aloud. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked, but that was no answer at all.
I refused to give up, despite the fact that I seemed to do no more than perpetually spin my wheels. Despite the fact that most of the staff saw me as an ogre. Despite the fact that my assistant loathed me. Despite the fact that Bennett was probably planning to fire me first thing Monday morning.
Returning to my inner office, I pulled out the hefty Taft file again. If I came up with a clue that brought Abe’s killer into the limelight—if I was able to help bring that person to justice—then maybe Bennett would realize what a gem he had in me.
Ronny Tooney didn’t strike me as a billionaire in disguise, but he might have invested with Taft just the same. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. While most victims of the Taft scam had lost millions, the vast majority of those people had maintained their standard of living.
Tooney was not a wealthy man. If he had invested with Taft—a question I planned to have answered tonight, if it killed me—he’d probably invested a modest sum. To someone like Tooney, a hundred thousand dollars was a fortune. What if he’d lost it all? Was that reason enough to kill?
Suspicions dancing in my mind, I opened the record report to the last page, to work my way up from the bottom. One thing bothered me and that was Tooney himself. Except for his sudden appearance in the passenger seat of my car, and his propensity to skulk around, he didn’t strike me as a killer. He didn’t have an edge. In fact, he seemed rather pitiful.
But it was Tooney who had sent me to meet Percy. And from what I understood, the shooting had occurred less than an hour before I got there. What if I hadn’t been running late? Had the killer planned to take me down, too?
I turned the page, working backward, not finding Tooney’s name among the smaller investors. There were about four thousand people who lost less than fifty thousand dollars each—small change in this business. I finished going over that list and moved up to those who had invested less than one hundred thousand, then those who invested less than two hundred and fifty thousand. As I moved up in dollar amount, the number of names grew smaller.
I leaned back and stretched, wondering if my efforts were as futile as they felt.
When my desk phone rang, I let out a little yelp of surprise. I let it ring one additional time to allow my nerves to unjangle, then blinked to try to make out the clock across the room. I couldn’t tell the time. After nine. Maybe even close to ten. I’d been at this for hours and hadn’t come across any Tooney in the list. Nor for that matter, any Brelke either.
I answered. “Grace Wheaton.”
“Ms. Wheaton?” A man’s voice. Soft drawl. “This here’s Bo in security.”
“Good evening, Bo,” I said, trying to place his face. Unfortunately, I still hadn’t learned all our employees’ names.
“Well, I can’t say rightly that it is a good evening. We think there might be an intruder on the property. Have you heard anything out of the ordinary?”
“Not at all,” I said. I stood, ready to spring into action. To do what, I had no clue. “Where was the intruder seen?”
“Take it easy, ma’am. This might be a false alarm. But we need you to stay tight in your office ’til we give the all-clear.”
“What about Mr. Marshfield? Have you alerted him?”
“Already done.”
“What about the rest of the staff?”
“Pretty much everybody’s gone home,” he said. “ ’Side from you, a few maintenance guys, and us in security, there’s almost nobody here. So you just stay there in your office and wait ’til you hear from me again.”
As soon as he hung up, I locked the outer door.
Back at my desk, I stared at the phone. Bo had called rather than raise me on the radio. Could that mean that the intruder had somehow compromised our dispatch system?
The idea of a stranger trespassing in the mansion unnerved me more than I cared to admit. I felt helpless and alone, not to mention frustrated. I wanted to ensure Bennett was safe, but calling him at this hour just to satisfy my curiosity was out of the question. Not that he would answer anyway.
Pacing my office didn’t do any good, so I forced myself to return to my task. I opened the next section of investors: those who lost less than five hundred thousand. Just like the millionaires, this bunch numbered in the dozens rather than the hundreds. Again, I worked my way up from the bottom, looking for Tooney—a needle in a haystack.
And then I came across “Jepson, Samuel.”
Jepson? Where had I heard that name before? I repeated the name aloud. Closing my eyes and whispering the name again, I willed my synapses to make the connection I knew was there. Backtracking through the days since Abe’s murder, I tried to re-create my activities. Why did I equate this name with housekeeping?
I sat up. Samuel Jepson was Melissa Delling’s husband. The one Frances claimed had left her. The same husband who remained on Melissa’s health insurance. I traced my finger along the report, which listed him as a Taft investor. Samuel Jepson had lost $358,000 in the Taft Ponzi scheme.
A fortune for almost anyone
. I remembered Frances gossiping about the always downtrodden Melissa. Her husband had told Melissa to quit Marshfield to start a family. Then, without explanation, Melissa was back at work.
I bolted from my chair to pace the office.
Frances had assumed Melissa’s husband had left her, but what if that wasn’t the case at all? What if he’d given all their money to Taft? Had Taft promised him millions?
I stopped at the window. I’ll bet he had.
For the first time, I wished my gossipy assistant was here. She would know the best way to find answers to all these questions. And she’d get them in a heartbeat, I had no doubt.
My impulse was to race out of here—to take this information to Detective Rodriguez—but the security staff’s warning tamped down that urge. That didn’t mean I couldn’t call him, though. I picked up the phone, my mind still sorting through the jumble. Percy hadn’t been saying “same,” he’d been saying, “Sam,” after all.
Fingers tingling, I tapped the detective’s number. I got Flynn. “This is Grace Wheaton at Marshfield Manor,” I said all in a rush. “Where’s Detective Rodriguez?”
“Gone for the day. We’ve been splitting shifts. Trying to cover more ground that way.”
“I think I know who killed Abe Vargas.”
“Oh, do you now?” he drawled.
“I do. I’ve been going through the list of investors. Remember that girl who was outside the study when Abe was shot?”
“Ms. Wheaton, I know you believe you’re helping . . .”
“Listen to me,” I shouted. “I think her husband killed Abe.”
He sighed deeply. “I’ve been on duty for less than two hours and already I’ve got three disturbances reported. Friday night gets busy ’round here, you know? Maybe you can come in Monday and we’ll talk about it.”
“Are you kidding me? I am not waiting until Monday.”
“Well then, I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Wait, did you say disturbances?” I asked. “You mean the one here at Marshfield?”
“Nope. Couple of the bars in town—”
