Grace Takes Off

by Julie Hyzy

  AS SOON AS THEY WERE GONE, FRANCES dropped the self-righteous performance and reminded me that she had more news to share. “You’re not the only one who’s had troubles these past few days.”

  “You told me about Hillary,” I said. “What else?”

  “Well . . .” She sat. I did, too. “We’ve gotten three landscape architects interested in working for us. Two of them seem particularly qualified to pick up where Jack left off.” With the sly look that accompanied this pronouncement, I took that to mean that the two in question were young, handsome, and single.

  “What about the third?”

  “She’s new to this part of the country.” Frances made an I-just-bit-into-a-lemon-face. “And she’s single.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  She stared as though the answer were obvious. “Fox in the henhouse. Reverse the genders. You know what I mean.”

  Taken aback, I said, “Excuse me?”

  “She would be competition,” she said with excruciating patience. “Right about now that’s the last thing you need.”

  I rubbed my eyebrows in frustration. “Nice to know you’re looking out for me, Frances.”

  “Anytime,” she said, totally missing my sarcasm. “I have the two other landscapers scheduled for interviews this week.”

  “With me?”

  “Who else?”

  I shook my head. “Until I get to the bottom of who’s after Bennett, I can’t allow myself to be distracted.”

  Her mouth curled downward and her familiar raised-chin defensive posture returned. “When I set up these interviews, I had no idea you’d be bringing a murder back with you. How was I to know?”

  “You couldn’t have known,” I said, absolving her. “Let’s reschedule them. And add in that female landscaper, too.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Frances,” I said, “we will not discriminate. No matter how convinced you are that this fabulous woman will swoop in and destroy my chances for personal happiness. It just wouldn’t be right.”

  She took that in with characteristic scorn. “Suit yourself.”

  • • •

  MY PHONE RANG A SHORT WHILE LATER. “INCOMING,” TERRENCE SAID WHEN I answered.

  “What happened?”

  “We’re heading back to Marshfield. Right now. Can you get a meeting room ready?”

  Confused, I found myself sputtering. “I don’t understand. Who wants to meet at Marshfield? Why are you on your way back so early? Did Deinhart try something?”

  “Deinhart pitched a fit when he saw us. He accused Mr. Marshfield of making a spectacle by bringing bodyguards. He refused to continue the proceedings with us in attendance.” I heard Bennett’s voice in the background, grumbling. “Needless to say, it made an already tense situation worse. The board sided with Deinhart, claiming that our presence would make us privy to confidential information.” Terrence sighed, then spoke more quietly. I could tell his hand was cupped over the mouthpiece. “Bennett wanted to banish us right then and there, but I reminded him how upset you would be.”

  “You’re coming here?”

  “It was the only compromise I could come up with on the spot. If we have Bennett at Marshfield, we control security. Deinhart balked at the idea—surprise, surprise—but the board overruled because some issue needs to be resolved today or else. We’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

  “How many?”

  “A dozen plus Mr. Marshfield. Lucky thirteen. You good?”

  “I will be,” I said, and hung up. My mind raced. I needed a room big enough, with a large enough table to handle thirteen business professionals. Not only that, I knew Bennett would want us to use a room that showcased Marshfield’s beauty. He was the kindest and most generous of men, but he did have a prideful streak.

  I scratched my forehead, zipping through possibilities in my mind, discounting them one by one. Finding a suitable room wouldn’t ordinarily be a problem here. What made it difficult was the fact that we were in the middle of the day and there were tourists everywhere. The only areas not on the tour that were large enough for this sort of gathering were either in the process of getting renovated, or currently being used for storage. Unless . . .

  Bennett had a gorgeous dining room in his living quarters, one level up.

  Before I could stand, I noticed Frances hovering in the doorway. She held a walkie-talkie in her hand. “I alerted the Mister’s butlers. You’re figuring to use the dining room? They’re getting it ready now.”

  The woman had read my mind. Again. “How do you do that?”

  She offered a flat smile, which was, for her, a colossal display of humor. “Part of my job description.”

  • • •

  “YOU’VE LOST WEIGHT, THEO.” I LEANED TO whisper to the formerly chubby butler as our guests spilled into Bennett’s private dining room. “You look wonderful. I wanted to say something earlier, but it was crazy here.”

  “Crazy is certainly an understatement.” Theo kept his eyes front, but allowed a small smile. He nodded to each guest as he or she filed past. “Thank you for the compliment, Ms. Wheaton. I’ve been watching my diet and exercising a bit. Doctor’s orders.”

  We’d used every free hand in the house to prepare this room in record time. Fortunately, it was a stunning setting to begin with. Paneled oak walls stretched ten feet from the floor ending with an intricately carved oak crown molding. This was topped by more wall—plaster this time—painted a gentle maize, with bas-relief Marshfield Family crests trimmed in white.

  Four tall windows draped in ocher satin overlooked the south grounds, and a massive blue rug covered most of the hardwood floor. Because Bennett used this dining room regularly, it was in perfect condition for today’s event at a moment’s notice. While it wasn’t the largest dining room in the home, it had been designed to accommodate twenty for dinner. Our group of thirteen would have plenty of elbow room.

  Terrence stood just inside the far entrance door, guiding the group to seats around the rectangular oak table that sat at the room’s center. My powers of deduction zinging into high gear, I scanned each and every face, trying to determine which of these people might be Vandeen Deinhart. Of the twelve newcomers, five were women. Of the seven males, four were of ethnicities that wouldn’t likely match the surname. That left three potential suspects.

  The group milled about, talking among themselves in the way people who have worked together do. Polite, stilted. Theo approached each member asking what he or she would prefer to drink. He was joined by another butler, who took orders on the other side of the room.

  The group was dressed conservatively: dark suits and crisp white shirts; bright ties for the men. Bennett spotted me and made his way over just as I zoomed in on a gentleman in his sixties who stood at the far window, hands clasped behind his back, scowling. He wore his middle-aged paunch with confidence and style. Taller than my five-foot-eight, he had a full head of dyed red hair, sideburns tastefully left white. It had to be Deinhart.

  I made my way toward Bennett, noting belatedly that he wasn’t alone. With him was a thin-to-the-point-of-emaciated man with deep-set, haunted eyes and a bit of a limp. I judged him to be a few years older than me, and a few inches taller, too. His dark suit coat would have looked more filled out on a wire hanger. I hoped he was wearing suspenders because that drooping belt couldn’t be working.

  Bennett made introductions with a cheerful glint in his eye. “Grace, I’d like you to meet Vandeen Deinhart. Van, this is Grace Wheaton. She runs Marshfield Manor and is my most trusted advisor.”

  Though taken aback by the fact that Deinhart looked nothing like I’d imagined, I offered my hand, resisting the urge to wince as his cold, sweaty palm crushed against my warm one. Deinhart’s voice matched his physique—high and raspy. “Pleased to meet y
ou. Bennett speaks of you often.” From the unmistakable aroma that rolled out as he spoke, he had to be a four-pack-a-day guy.

  Before I could say a word, he stepped a little closer. His eyes were set so deeply I couldn’t even make out their color. “I hope you know you aren’t allowed in this meeting. Board members only.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said as though he hadn’t just been extraordinarily rude. “I’m here to ensure you have everything you need before the meeting begins.” I indicated the far wall of the dining room, where appetizers were being set out atop one of the antique sideboards. “We’ve prepared a few offerings for all of you to enjoy.” Turning to Bennett, I asked, “Will your guests be staying for a late lunch? Early dinner?”

  “Unfortunately not,” he said, eyes still glittering with amusement. “These important people have busy lives. We don’t want to delay them unduly.” I could practically read his mind. Get them out of here as soon as possible.

  “Very good.” To Deinhart, I said, “It was nice meeting you.”

  The other board members were beginning to choose seats. I hurried over to Theo and let him know that as soon as he and the rest of the staff had taken care of our guests’ needs, they should take their leave. “But you’ll want to stay nearby just in case.”

  “What about you?” he asked. “Will you return to your office?”

  “I think I’ll remain up here. I can get some work done in the study. I’ll ask Frances to bring my laptop.”

  He nodded, finished rearranging the buffet’s display, and gestured for the other servers to follow him out. I trailed behind.

  Deinhart crossed the room at a quick enough clip to cut me off before I reached the door. “Ms. Wheaton,” he said, with a clammy hand to my forearm. “A moment?”

  I glanced around for Bennett, but he had his back to me, in deep conversation with the dyed red–haired man I’d originally believed was our quarry. I shifted my attention to the question at hand. “Is there something you need?”

  “Your assistance.” I felt surrounded by his personal cloud of smoke as he stepped closer, invading my personal space. “As Bennett’s trusted advisor, you need to inform him that this business venture he’s attempting is a terrible mistake.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “You wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to Bennett, would you?”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Don’t be silly.” His brows came together and he stepped even closer as though to encourage me to keep my voice down. I stepped back. “I’m merely trying to help.”

  “Of course you are.”

  My sarcasm was not lost on this man. “Mark my words, Grace,” he said. I hated that he used my name with such easy familiarity. “I’m giving you good advice.” He turned to leave, but threw one more comment over his shoulder, in a whisper. “Don’t underestimate me.”

  • • •

  I WAS DEEP INTO CRAFTING A STAFF MEMO about changes from our health-care provider when the phone rang. I’d set up a workstation of sorts in Bennett’s study and had asked Frances to route any important calls to the phone there, so I shouldn’t have been surprised. Still, I jumped.

  “Grace Wheaton,” I said.

  Frances was on the other end. “The Mister’s friend Signor Pezzati is on the line. Wants to talk with him.”

  “Bennett is still in the board meeting.”

  Her tone took on an impatient air. “I know that. But Signor Pezzati is beside himself. Extremely agitated. I asked if he’d be willing to talk with you, and after some convincing, he agreed.”

  “Agitated? About what?”

  “How would I know?” she asked in a huff. I wanted to remind her that she supposedly knew everything, but maybe her powers didn’t reach across the Atlantic. “I’ll put him through.”

  A moment later I thrust the receiver away from my ear. Frances had put the call through, all right, but Pezzati had taken that very moment to shout orders—or complaints, it was hard to tell—in aggravated Italian. From what I could tell, the recipient of his anger was the bearlike Angelo. I waited for Pezzati to finish his high-octane harangue before bringing the phone closer.

  “Signor Pezzati?” I began. “Are you there?”

  “Ah, Grace! I am so sorry to bother you. My good friend is in a meeting, yes?”

  “He is; I’m sorry I won’t be able to disturb him. Is there anything I can help you with?”

  He made a noise in his throat. “He trusts you. I suppose I must.”

  I tried again. “I’ll do whatever I can.”

  He mumbled something unintelligible. “Perhaps I should not share a confidence, but my dear friend Bennett explained more about the nature of your relationship.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “He told me about his father. With your grandmother.”

  In a rush, I remembered how Pezzati’s attitude toward me had changed after my return from the washroom that first day. Bennett certainly hadn’t wasted any time. “A blood relationship has never been proved.”

  “Only because you haven’t yet agreed to a test.”

  I took a breath. “It seems you and Bennett have no secrets from one another.”

  “This is precisely why I am willing to talk with you in his absence. I have a problem. I need his help.”

  Chapter 19

  “WHAT HAPPENED?” I ASKED.

  “I believe my son is stealing from me again.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. “How can that be?” I asked. “He lives here in the States and you’re—”

  “Who else could it be? I have recently discovered that he has been in contact with one of my employees. Secretly.”

  I thought about how Bennett believed he might have seen Pinky working at the villa but I kept that to myself for the moment. “What’s missing?”

  “Money, of course. My accountant noticed discrepancies in the household finances. Funds have been drained over a considerable length of time. Small enough amounts to escape scrutiny. I was lucky my accountant thought to look more deeply. It is obvious to me that my son didn’t want me to suspect.”

  “How could he have—”

  Pezzati’s ire flashed. “By working with Antoinette, how else? She lived here as my trusted cook, which gives her full access to my home. Who knows how much she has stolen for Gerard? How much she kept for herself?”

  Antoinette? I didn’t know whether I was more relieved or distraught over the fact that Pezzati apparently had no clue about Pinky, or about his missing skull. Well, not yet at least.

  “Bennett will want to talk with you about this the minute he gets out.” I eyed the door, wondering how much to share with Signor Pezzati. “He had an inkling . . .”

  “Of Antoinette’s deceit?”

  “No,” I said quickly. “He . . .” Stalling, I said, “He . . . wasn’t sure your possessions were secure. He wanted to ask you about that, but there were always others around.”

  Pezzati was silent for several long seconds. I could hear him breathing—a soft, yet labored sound. “What was it he wanted to know?”

  The news about the skull being stolen—or, more accurately, the news of it allegedly being stolen—shouldn’t come from me. After all, Bennett hadn’t yet proven the switch. “Signor Pezzati,” I began, “you and Bennett have been friends for a long time. You should wait for him to explain it to you.”

  I could practically see him shaking his head. “I do not accept that. What if Antoinette was not working alone?”

  Even though Rodriguez and Flynn believed my theory was a long shot, I couldn’t discount the nagging suspicion bouncing around in my brain. With Pezzati already aware of theft in his home, how much would it hurt if I told him about the skull?

  “First, I need to ask you a few questio
ns.”

  From the noise on the other end of the line, it was clear Pezzati wasn’t happy with the delay.

  I started with the question uppermost in my mind, “Who—that is, who specifically, arranged for our chartered plane home?”

  “I do not understand. What does your flight have to do with my son?”

  “Bear with me, Signor Pezzati.” I wiggled forward in my chair, lowering my voice even though there was no one nearby. “When our original flight was canceled, someone in your home located that replacement flight. Do you know who made those arrangements?”

  “I assume one of my servants.”

  “Which one?”

  “How should I know? Was there a problem? If so, let me know and I will chastise whoever is responsible.”

  “There was a problem on the flight,” I said in a hurry, doing my best to keep Pezzati calm. Failing. “I wanted to talk with whoever it was, to warn them that the police may be visiting as they investigate.”

  “Police? What sort of problem did you have?”

  “Is Irena there?” Surely she would be easier to communicate with. Calmer, too. “May I speak with her?”

  “What does she have to do with any of this?”

  I would have loved to have asked if she’d noticed Angelo talking with SlickBlade while we were at Troppo or if she could recognize Pinky from a description. Trying to pry that information from Nico Pezzati would prove challenging to say the least.

  “Nothing, really,” I began.

  “Then stop stalling and tell me what I need to know.”

  I drew in a deep breath at the rumbling anger in his voice. “Perhaps it would be better if you spoke with Bennett first.”

  “Young woman, you are trying my patience.”

  Just as I resolved myself to recounting Bennett’s theory to Pezzati as gently as possible, I heard the unmistakable sound of the meeting breaking up. Layered chatter and boisterous blurts brought me to my feet. “I think Bennett may be available,” I said. “If you wouldn’t mind holding on for just a minute . . .” I didn’t wait for him to reply. This room’s phone was an old-fashioned corded model. I put the receiver down before hurrying out into the hallway.