by Julie Hyzy
Bennett and Deinhart stood apart from the rest of the group at the far end of the corridor. Engaged in deep conversation, neither was aware of my scrutiny. The rest of the board members were still emerging, talking among themselves as butlers herded them toward the staircase.
Reluctant to interrupt what appeared to be an important discussion, I dithered for a few indecisive seconds. The conversation between the two men intensified. Their voices rose. When Deinhart thrust a pointed finger into Bennett’s chest, all bets were off.
“What do you think you’re doing?” All thoughts of Pezzati forgotten in that snap of a second, I dashed across the room, vaguely aware of Bennett’s startled expression. Hands on hips, I got into Deinhart’s space, much the way he’d gotten into mine. “You are in Bennett’s home. How dare you assault him?”
The momentary advantage I had in surprising the man caused him to take a wary step backward, but a heartbeat later, he’d collected himself. He leaned sideways to make eye contact with Bennett. “I see why you keep her around.” He straightened. Referring to me as though I wasn’t there, he continued, “She’s certainly not bad on the eyes, but I find it hard to believe that she’s not a curse. I mean, what with all the murders here lately . . .” His lips flatlined. “Makes a man think twice about doing business with you. No one wants to be carried out feet first.”
Without another word, he spun on a shiny heel and started down the corridor at a quick clip. Theo, the butler, moved to intercept. Deinhart flung a hand in the air as though to dismiss any assistance. With a helpless shrug, Theo followed him anyway.
“Well,” I said, furious now, both for myself and for Bennett. “He’s a piece of work, isn’t he?”
Bennett chuckled. “That’s just his manner. His bark is far worse than his bite. Vandeen is out of sorts. The deal went through, exactly as we’d hoped, much to his disappointment.”
“You’re in the clear then? There would be no benefit to killing you to prevent closing this deal?”
Bennett placed a hand on my shoulder. “How did I get so lucky to have you watching my back? I hate to disappoint you, but this was just the second-to-the-last step.” He wagged white eyebrows over crinkling eyes. “If I get hit by a truck, the deal’s off. Today, however, we took an important step. Our legal teams will now finalize all the documents. Until the board and I sign and certify those documents, I’m still vulnerable.”
He must have reacted to the look on my face because he was quick to change from teasing to comforting. “Don’t worry so much, Gracie. Vandeen is no threat. At least not to my personal safety. When it comes to business, he’s a worthy adversary, but he wouldn’t stoop to such a despicable method of achieving his end.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” I said, then gasped when I remembered. “Signor Pezzati! He’s on the phone.” I explained the situation.
“My poor friend.” As we strode toward the study, Bennett asked, “Did you tell him about my suspicions about the skull?”
“I was about to, but then the meeting broke up. I thought the bad news would be better coming from you.” We crossed the threshold into the room, where the receiver still lay atop the table. “When I saw Deinhart poke you I couldn’t stop from reacting. I’m sorry.”
“No harm done, I’m sure.” Bennett said. He lifted the device. “Nico?” he said. He pulled the phone away from his head and looked at it the way people do when they’re met with an unexpected noise. “Dial tone. He must have hung up.”
“Oh no.”
“It’s just as well,” Bennett assured me as he dropped the receiver into place. “I haven’t yet had the chance to pull out my old photos of the skull. I’ve been holding out hope that I’m mistaken.”
“Except you know you’re not mistaken, don’t you?”
He gave me a look, which was answer enough.
As distressed as I was to have caused Signor Pezzati the aggravation of waiting, I was silently relieved. In the man’s worked-up state, he wasn’t in any shape to discover that one of his most prized possessions was gone now, too. From the little I’d gathered about Pezzati, he was quick to make decisions, opting to listen later, but only when necessary. Bennett, a far more methodical person, would only feel comfortable talking to his friend once he had examined the photos and could present his proof with confidence.
“Where do you have these pictures?” I asked.
Bennett’s eyes sparkled. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
Chapter 20
I FELT GUILTY LEAVING THE BUTLERS AND ASSISTANTS TO CLEAN UP AFTER THE MEETING. Bennett was clearly unfazed. The gentle sounds of china and silverware being gathered faded as we headed down the corridor, and I thought about how living one’s entire life in the company of servants sure made for a different outlook. Bennett was wonderful to his employees, generous and kind. His butlers, chauffeurs, and indeed most of the staff, would eagerly stand up for him because they knew he cared about them. For all his wealth and privilege, Bennett maintained an air of approachability. He was loved for that.
We took a sharp left into a part of this level I’d never visited before. Bennett caught my quick glance back at the busy staffers. “It makes you uncomfortable, doesn’t it?”
I didn’t understand what he meant. This part of his private rooms was illuminated less ostentatiously. The hall was narrower and all the doors on both sides were shut. “This area, you mean?”
He slowed to allow us to walk side by side. “Having servants do all the work. That bothers you.”
I gave a one-shoulder shrug. “I’m not used to it.”
His mouth twisted. “Even after the trip to Europe? You seemed to be able to relax and enjoy yourself when everything was taken care of for you there.”
“Vacations are different.”
“Are they now? Good to know.”
The hallway opened into a wide expanse. I’d studied as many of the floor plans as I could get my hands on, though I knew from personal experience that not all the building’s secrets were recorded on paper.
Years ago—during Marshfield’s era of live-in servants—this area had been one of the spots staffers gathered at the end of their shifts, to share stories, complain about their days, or sit in rocking chairs and do mending. There were other, similar spots throughout the mansion. This one, new to me and a good distance from Bennett’s regular living quarters, appeared to have been abandoned a long time ago. While there was no apparent dust, nor cobwebs—every room was kept clean—the creaky-floored expanse felt lonely and desolate.
Bennett seemed charmed by my fascination with the forgotten space. I wanted to take a moment and breathe in the memories that had been created here. When my grandmother had worked at Marshfield, had she been part of the crowd? Or was she off on one of her secret rendezvous with Bennett’s father?
Not that I believed I’d be able to conjure up any spirits or know for certain what life here had been like, but even as my hand grazed the curved beauty of the wainscot rail, I felt the power of the past.
“We’ll come back another time. For now, this way.” He made a right into an even narrower hall, which came to an abrupt stop after about ten feet at a munchkin-sized door set into an A-shaped wall. Crouching, he grabbed the doorknob. “I have no idea why they made this entry so small,” he said as he pushed his way in.
I ducked and followed him, finding myself in an attic that—despite the short door—had high enough ceilings to allow us to stand. Like so many other attics, it was full of hot dust and cobweb-filtered sunlight. Airborne motes, disturbed by our arrival, shot upward and slowly floated to silently land atop the furniture, steamer trunks, hundreds of boxes, and other echoes of the past that were stored here.
My breath felt thick as I said, “Wow.”
“Indeed.”
The exposed wooden eaves, the piles of . . . stuff . . . were l
ike my attic at home. Like any attic, really. But this one went on and on. Bennett kept moving forward, pulling lightbulb chains to illuminate the area as we progressed. While the windows and occasional skylights helped, there were many hidden corners that were too dark to see into clearly.
I couldn’t stop myself from pointing to all the boxes, “This is all your stuff, too?”
He turned to give me a penetrating look. “Are you suggesting I have too many possessions?”
“Far from it. I’m thinking about what a treasure trove this is. I could spend a month up here.” Rotating in place, I took it all in then amended, “More like three months.”
“I’m glad you approve,” he said, then gestured. “Over here.”
Bennett led me to a giant oak bookcase that was at least eight feet wide and six feet tall with glass doors every twelve inches or so. He moved to access one of the shelves, but I stopped him. “How in the world did something this huge get in here?” I asked. “There’s no way it fit through the door we came through.”
Bennett winked. “I’ll tell you later. For now, let’s have a look.”
The oak-trimmed door opened with a goose-pimpling squeak. “It’s been a while since you’ve been up here, I take it?”
Bennett didn’t answer. He reached in to pull out a faded red leather album, the cover of which had been tooled in gold with the family crest. “I used to keep scrapbooks for each year,” he said, giving a self-conscious shrug. With the side of one hand, he wiped off some of the dust.
“Why is it up here?” I asked as I peered around him. “Are there more of them?”
He half turned to give the bookcase an appraising glance. “Probably twenty, I’d say.”
“But why—”
“Marlis didn’t like anything around to remind her of Sally,” he said. “Most of these scrapbooks are from the years before she died.”
“Ah.” That explained a lot. I’d heard about how jealous Marlis had been of Bennett’s relationship with his first wife.
“I’m glad I didn’t bend to her demands that I throw them away.”
“What?” I asked, incredulous. “She wanted you to dump them?”
“Burn them, to be precise.” He scratched the back of his head. “I should have realized,” he said absentmindedly, “this was a compromise. One of many.”
I bit my tongue. It wouldn’t do well to speak ill of Marlis. She’d been gone for many years, although her personality apparently lived on in her daughter, Hillary.
Bennett dusted off the side of a steamer trunk and sat down. I joined him, taking another quick glance around before turning my attention to the album on his lap. What other priceless mementos from Bennett’s life were stored up here, forgotten over the years?
He paged through the early part of the scrapbook, running his hand along every entry as though caressing it. He lifted and turned each thick page without comment, but as his gaze lit upon old black-and-white photos, postcards, and clippings from newspapers, he alternately smiled and looked wistful.
Dust settled around us, grit baked into my skin. Amid the occasional whispers of paper being flipped, Bennett heaved deep sighs. He still said nothing.
My nose itched. I wiggled it instead of scratching, hesitant to make a move that might spoil the moment.
Tiny corners had broken off the edges of several pages and as Bennett turned them, I could see how brittle the paper had become. These albums needed to be returned to the main floors where they could be preserved. They were, after all, Bennett’s history.
“Here we are,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper.
I leaned closer. A thick portrait of Bennett and Nico—they were instantly recognizable—sat centered on the brown page. The black-and-white photo’s edges were worn and rounded, and below their grinning shot, with their arms across one another’s shoulders, a caption was scrawled: First week in Paris.
“Looks like you two had fun.”
“It was quite a year.” Blinking, he turned to me. “I would love to explain the story behind every photo, but that’s not what we’re here for, is it?”
“I wouldn’t mind.”
With a wry smile, he kept turning pages. “The skull adventure happened right about . . .” He pointed. “Here.”
The two young men posed for a shot in front of the gallery they’d spoken of, the skull held between them. “Who took the picture?”
Bennett laughed. “Nico approached a couple of girls who happened to be walking by. Wound up with one of their phone numbers, too, if I recall correctly.” He flipped another heavy page. “Here is where we took a few ourselves.”
There was one of Bennett posing with the skull in his “Alas, poor Yorick!” pose. Then a similar one of Nico doing the same.
“The girls had moved on by then,” Bennett offered. “We took turns with the camera. I took this one”—he pointed to a shot of his friend studying the skull in deep concentration—“when Nico wasn’t looking. That’s when he found the mark.”
“And you took a picture of it?”
Bennett pulled reading glasses out of his breast pocket and placed them on his nose. “Several.” He pulled the album closer, scrutinizing every shot. “Here,” he said, lowering the book onto my lap. “Those three. Take a look.”
I brought the album closer because, although the photos were clear, they were relatively small. “I see it,” I said, half in delight, half surprise. “The mark. It’s as clear as anything.” It was. There was a deep gouge in the skull’s right side, roughly resembling the P shape Bennett had mentioned. My turn to point. “Right there.”
“You sound shocked. Did you doubt me?”
“Not for a minute,” I said sincerely. “But seeing the mark so vividly after handling the actual skull myself makes it more real.” A new weight settled on my shoulders. “You are the only person who can prove that the skull has been stolen and replaced.”
“How would anyone know that I even suspect it happened?”
I thought back to that moment in Pezzati’s gallery, when Bennett had called me over to examine the sculpture. “Whoever stole the original had to have been in the room at that time.”
Bennett grumbled, skeptical. “I can’t believe I reacted in any way that might have drawn attention to my surprise.”
“Think about it,” I said. “What if the thief was in the room with us? That person would know that the skull was fake, and as you and Nico talked about finding it, they would realize there was a chance you might have noticed the replacement. They’d be hyper-aware.” He nodded as I went on, “Could you imagine their terror when you picked it up and examined it?”
“I wish I would have paid closer attention to everyone’s reaction.”
“Me too,” I said, trying to remember. “It was you, me, Nico, Irena, Angelo, and Cesare. I didn’t think to notice them—I was so focused on you.”
He patted my hand. “Who can we eliminate? Besides ourselves, of course.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Nico. He’s the only one.”
Bennett was silent for a thoughtful moment. “Unless my old friend is disposing of his possessions in an effort to collect the insurance money, I’d have to agree.”
The comment took me aback. “You don’t think that’s possible, do you?”
He hesitated. “Nico has always been less . . . scrupulous, shall we say . . . than most in regard to legal matters. Where others see lines that shouldn’t be crossed, he sees technicalities and loopholes.”
“Insurance fraud is a lot more than a technicality.”
“It is,” he said. “I highly doubt that Nico would stoop so low, even if he were having financial difficulty. I’ll find out more when I talk with him. He’ll be honest with me.”
If I were running a scam, the last thing I’d want to do is admit t
o it over a transatlantic phone call where I couldn’t be certain who was listening in on the other end.
Bennett continued, almost talking to himself now. “I shouldn’t have spoken ill of my friend. He’s been known to play fast and loose from time to time, but this . . .” He let the thought hang as he heaved a deep breath. “This is not his style. I’m sure he’s the victim here. I’ll call him later and let you know.”
“I’d appreciate that,” I said. Closing the album, I stood. “And I’d appreciate something else as well.”
Bennett waited.
Holding the album in one arm, I gestured with the other. “How about we bring these treasures back down into your rooms where they belong?”
“Who am I to argue with the manager of Marshfield?” He made his way over to the bookshelf and began removing albums, one by one. There were thick ones and slimmer versions, and it became clear that we wouldn’t be able to carry all of them in one trip.
I offered to come back later and carry the rest.
“On one condition,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“That you and I make a date.” He eyed the piles in my arms and his, and the remaining books on the shelves. “Several dates,” he amended. “To go through these. I’d love to be able to share some of our family history with you.”
Shifting the weight in my overloaded arms, I said, “I couldn’t think of anything I’d like more.”
Chapter 21
“ARE YOU STILL WORRIED ABOUT BENNETT?” Scott asked me that evening.
The three of us sat together in the parlor—me in my favorite wing chair with Bootsie asleep on my lap, and Scott sprawled across the long sofa while Bruce sat squeezed into the end nearest me, eyeing his partner’s comfort with bemused envy.
“Of course,” I said. “I can’t very well sit with him day and night, though. Not that he’d allow me to.”
