Grace Takes Off

by Julie Hyzy

  He cut me off. “I apologize for showing up here without forewarning. I tried calling Irena, but she has refused to meet with me.”

  “Then there really isn’t much I can do,” I said. “This is a family issue.”

  “Ms. Wheaton—may I call you Grace?”

  I didn’t answer.

  He didn’t really care. “You don’t understand how difficult it has been for me. With my father so close, I need to try. This may be the only chance I’ll ever get to see him.”

  I opened my mouth to answer, but he cut me off again.

  “I understand the difficult position I’m putting you in, but Adam tells me . . .” He flicked a glance toward Frances. “Is there a place we can talk?”

  Not solely because it would buy goodwill with my assistant, though the thought factored into my decision, I adopted an authoritative tone. “Frances is fully apprised of the situation. We can talk here.” I gestured toward one of the open seats across from her, but with a pained expression, he ran a hand up along his temple. He began to pace. Five strides took him to the far wall.

  He turned and asked, “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve spoken with my father?”

  I didn’t hesitate. “Fourteen years?”

  His bottom lip went slack. “How do you know?”

  “Your father told us when we visited him in Italy.”

  Gerard Pezzati blinked. “Why would he tell you that?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” I asked. “He’s hurt that you haven’t been willing to connect with him.”

  Pezzati clapped arched fingers to his chest. “I haven’t been willing to connect? I?” His hands returned to the sides of his head. With his elbows out and eyes clenched, he resembled a medium attempting to contact the spirit world. “This isn’t right,” he said. “Why would he say such a thing?”

  His eyes flew open when I asked, “Are you trying to tell me that you’ve attempted to contact your father over the years?”

  “Of course.” His voice was high and thin. “Many times: when I married; when my children were born. My father has never met my wife or my kids. They are his grandchildren.”

  Fingers to my temples, I said, “Wait . . . that can’t be right.”

  Gerard Pezzati strode toward me. “I need to see my father,” he said. “I know he’s here. Adam promises me that you’re an empathetic person. He calls you a kindred spirit. Perhaps my father will listen to you. Please.” Gerard’s entire face tightened. Tears welled in his eyes. “I . . . I miss him.”

  “I’m sorry, Gerard. Your father isn’t here. Your sister came alone. Your father is too ill to travel.”

  His clapped his hands over his mouth. “No,” he said between tight fingers. “I’ve been afraid of this.” He resumed pacing, gesticulating in the air and raising his voice. “I couldn’t bear it if my father died before we have the chance to reconcile. What can I do?” He turned to me. “Perhaps you, or Mr. Marshfield, could intervene on my behalf?” He clenched his fingers together in front of his chest, pleading. “Please. My children need to know their grandfather.”

  It was a persuasive performance. But if he was telling the truth about trying to get in contact with his father, then Irena and Signor Pezzati had lied to us. Why would Bennett’s elderly friend make up such a story? I had no answer. All I knew was that I needed additional information. And time to sort it out. I wasn’t about to get either from Gerard.

  “Leave your contact information with Frances,” I said, starting for my office. “I’ll be in touch soon.”

  “Will you talk to my father? Will you ask him to allow me—to allow my family—to visit?”

  “What caused the split?” I asked. “Your father was vague when we talked with him. Why are you and he estranged?”

  Gerard stiffened. His chin came up and his expression changed. Like a curtain drawn across an open window, he closed off with a suddenness that took me aback. “He chose to believe a servant’s word over mine. My father believed that I sold one of his paintings and kept the money for myself. I would never do such a despicable thing.”

  “Was the servant Angelo?” I asked. Whoever he was, I got the feeling if he walked in right now, Gerard would tear him apart piece by little piece.

  “I don’t know Angelo,” he said, shaking his head. “No, the man who engineered this windfall is most likely gone now. I pray that he is. How he was able to frame me—to convince my father that it was I who stole one of his irreplaceable treasures and fenced it on the black market—that I will never understand. The servant set me up well—to the point of adding unexplained funds to my accounts without my knowledge.”

  Perhaps reacting to the expression on my face—such a move seemed unlikely for a thief whose goal was to accumulate wealth—Gerard hurried to explain.

  “The cash he added was a fraction of the painting’s worth,” he said. “But it sealed my guilt. I suppose the thief considered it a small price to pay for getting away with the theft. All fingers pointed to me. My father’s was the one that counted.” Gerard gave a sad laugh. “I couldn’t tell what was more disappointing to him: that he believed I’d cheated my own family, or that I’d gotten so little for his prize.”

  “Didn’t the insurance company investigate?”

  Gerard shook his head. “My father was mortified by my supposed thievery. Refused to file a claim. Instead, he disowned me.”

  “If it wasn’t Angelo, who was it?”

  “His name was Rudolfo. Close to my age, but cunning and ruthless.”

  “Rudolfo. Rudy?” I exchanged a glance with Frances, who sat behind her desk, wide-eyed with surprise.

  Gerard picked up on that. “You know him?”

  I raised both hands, placating him while my mind raced. “I don’t know. Perhaps.”

  Frances grabbed the phone. “I’ll call Detective Williamson,” she said.

  Gerard was beside himself. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  I made eye contact, trying my best to steady the upset man with the calm demeanor I was working hard to maintain. “I will be in touch with you. Very soon.” When he inched forward, I placed both hands on his forearms. “I promise. Leave your contact information with Frances and I swear that as soon as I discover anything for sure, I will let you know.”

  “This Rudolfo,” he said, “he’s still working for my father?”

  “I don’t think so.” He relaxed slightly, so I went on, “I don’t even know if the man I’ve encountered is the same one you’re speaking of. Give me a little time.”

  Gerard glanced over to Frances, who was talking quietly on the phone. She picked her head up. “The detective would like to meet and talk about all this. He’s not in town yet. Should I have him come by tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow?” Gerard’s impatience teetered on explosive.

  “You’ve waited this long. Let me talk with Irena. Let her know what’s going on.” To Frances, I said, “I never told Irena about Rudy. The guy on the plane, I mean.”

  Gerard’s gaze bounced between us, utterly confused. “Plane?”

  “Irena must know that it wasn’t you who stole from your father,” I said, trying in vain to come up with a reasonable excuse as to why Gerard’s sister and father would claim that it was Gerard who refused to make contact after all these years.

  “She has been the one person on my side through this ordeal. She’s my staunchest supporter,” he said. “If only she could make my father understand.”

  Alarm bells rang yet again. While the original family drama had nothing at all to do with the theft of the Picasso skull, I wanted to understand what was really going on. “Let me take care of a few things,” I said again. “I promise to be in touch.”

  The moment he was gone, Frances stood. “Do you believe him?”

  “I don
’t know who to believe at this point.” I headed into my office and picked up the phone, not at all surprised when Frances followed me in.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “Bennett,” I said. “I’d like to visit with Irena again. We know Gerard’s side of the story. Now I’d like to hear hers.”

  Chapter 32

  BENNETT SOUNDED CONFUSED ON THE phone. “You’re telling me Nico’s son is in your office?”

  “Was,” I corrected. “He left a few minutes ago.”

  “I don’t understand. How did he know to show up at Marshfield? What’s his game?”

  I regretted not keeping Bennett better informed about the SlickBlade/Pezzati association. “It’s a long story. I’ll explain when I come upstairs. Is Irena willing to talk? I have a few issues I need cleared up.”

  “She’s arranging for her flight home, but I’ll see if she has a few minutes . . .” Bennett put the phone down and I waited. A moment later he was back. “Come right up,” he said. “We’ll be here.”

  I’d made it into Frances’s office when my desk phone rang. “I’ll get it,” she said. I stood in front of her desk as she held up a finger, indicating for me to wait. “Yes, yes,” she said. “I’ll tell her.”

  When she hung up, she said, “That was the Mister. He says that he’s been thinking about it and it may be safer to give Irena the original photos of the skull to take with her now rather than send them later. He says he’s afraid they’ll get lost in transit.”

  “He said that?”

  “Word for word.”

  I twisted my lips. “They’re his pictures, he can choose to do what he thinks best, but . . .” I let the thought hang. “I can’t help but think Irena might have had a hand in this decision.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  I hurried to my office, grabbed the album, and placed it on Frances’s desk. “Either Gerard or Irena lied to me about their family history. I can’t imagine why.” I opened the album and turned to the pages featuring the Picasso skull. Working gently, I plucked out the photos I’d given Irena copies of. “Here,” I said to Frances. “Hold on to them for me. I’d like to keep them out of harm’s way for a while.”

  “And you think Irena might cause harm?”

  “She doesn’t seem the type, but I’m not about to take chances.”

  • • •

  I KNOCKED ON THE DOOR TO BENNETT’S rooms a few minutes later, abridged album in hand. “Gracie,” he boomed as he stepped aside to allow me in. “You know you don’t have to knock. Come right in.”

  “It’s weird not to have Theo or another one of the butlers answer the door,” I said. “But it does feel more homey when you do it.”

  “I prefer it this way, myself.”

  I followed him back into the study. “Where’s Irena?” I asked.

  He pointed toward the wing with the guest rooms. “Her flight has been delayed. Mechanical issue. She’s on the phone with them now to pin down a scheduled departure. No sense in leaving here until she gets the all-clear. I know Nico will be relieved to have her back.” He reached for the album and lifted it out of my hands. “And he’ll be especially glad to have these.”

  “About that,” I began, but was interrupted by Irena’s return.

  “Oh Grace, I am so happy to see you here. What a turn of events! My flight is back on schedule,” she said, barely taking a breath. Spying the album in Bennett’s hands, she walked over to him, still talking to me. “I can’t believe my brother came to see you. He was here, in this house?”

  “He left a short while ago.”

  “And this is the album with photos of my father as a young man,” she said. “I am excited at the prospect of seeing all these wonderful pictures. I know these will give my father a thrill. I can’t wait to show this to him.”

  She started to open the book, but I stopped her. “Your brother told me that he’s tried in vain to reconnect with your father over the years. Yet you and your father claim that he hasn’t even made an attempt in the past fourteen.”

  She gave me a patient smile. “I’m not surprised.”

  “What happened fourteen years ago?” I asked.

  Irena walked over to the sofa and sat. The fake skull still watched us from the low table next to Irena’s purse. She inched it to the side to make room for the album and looked up at me. “What did he tell you?”

  “He seems to be doing well for himself. Not at all the picture of the destitute, desperate man you painted.”

  “Your tone, Grace,” she said with an inquisitive air, “has changed. Are you doubting what I told you?”

  Bennett touched me on the elbow. “What’s going on, Gracie?”

  Addressing Irena, I said, “Your brother tells me he wants nothing more than to see your father again. He was very convincing. Maybe if you told me your side, I’d be able to connect the dots.”

  “It is a long, ugly story.”

  I sat next to her. “I have time.”

  “I do as well,” Bennett said. “Perhaps it would be best if you started at the beginning.” He came around to the other side of Irena as she pulled the album onto her lap. The three of us sat there, Irena like the mom preparing to read a story to her two eager kids.

  Her purse chirped. Looking grateful for the delay, she reached in and pulled out her cell phone. “My flight,” she said by way of explanation. “Excuse me.”

  She checked her text, replied, then returned the device to her purse. “Everything is set. They’re ready whenever I am.”

  I placed my hand on the album. “Before you go, please: We’d like to know why you told us Gerard refused to talk to your father, when the opposite is true.”

  She shook her head and took time to make eye contact with both of us before she sat back and sighed. “My brother is a compulsive liar. He’s very good at it. Very practiced. I’ll bet he told you about his wife and children, too.”

  “He did,” I said.

  Bennett exclaimed, “What is this? He has a family? Does Nico know?”

  “There is no family,” she said with profound sadness. “He lies. Believe me when I tell you that every time I have attempted to facilitate discussion between the two men it has resulted in disappointment for my father. I now refuse to try anymore.”

  I’d believed Gerard. I’d been so certain. My heart heaved.

  “What I don’t understand . . .” I began, but was interrupted by familiar voice down the hall.

  “Yoo-hoo,” Hillary called. “Are you up here, Papa Bennett?”

  “In here.” Bennett stood. I followed. Irena fumbled with the album, but then got to her feet, too.

  Hillary came around the corner all smiles, wearing a tight skirt and stiletto heels that had to be murder to walk in. In her arms, she carried what looked like a giant photo album. “I brought my client here to see the rooms for himself.” Her high-pitched voice evidenced her eagerness to impress as she tiptoed into the room. “He was so enraptured by my portfolio.” She patted the book in her arms for emphasis. “I know you won’t mind.”

  Bennett thundered his disapproval. “My rooms are not a showplace.”

  He’d barely gotten the words out before Hillary’s companion followed through the doorway after her.

  I gasped. “Rudy.”

  Chapter 33

  I TURNED TO FACE BENNETT. “CALL SECURITY,” I said. “It’s Rudy.”

  From behind Hillary, the would-be flight attendant smiled. “Why are you so afraid of me, Miss Grace? Didn’t I save you from that terrible fanatic on the airplane?”

  Hillary’s head twisted back and forth between us. “You know each other?”

  Bennett hadn’t hesitated when I sent him to the phone, but Irena had grabbed his arm and was holding tight. “Rudolfo,” she said. “There must be some
mistake.”

  “No mistake,” I said. There wasn’t time to explain about how Rudy had killed Pinky on the flight over. There was no longer any doubt in my mind that the two of them had started out working in collusion, but when Pinky wavered and looked ready to spill her secrets, Rudy had taken her out.

  I started for the phone myself.

  To my surprise, Rudy didn’t stop me. Instead he gripped Hillary’s upper arm and pushed her farther into the room. “Go ahead,” he said to me. “But you may want to reconsider before you pick up that phone . . .” Using two fingers of his free hand to resemble a gun, he pointed to Irena.

  I spun. She held a hypodermic needle to Bennett’s neck.

  “If only you hadn’t meddled on the flight, Grace,” she said, shaking her head. “What were you thinking?”

  Hillary was making little squeaking noises, sounding like a teenage girl who’d spotted a hairy spider. The logical part of my brain wanted her to shut up. The rest of me went into immediate shock. Irena was almost as tall as Bennett, and she held him in a powerful hold. The needle running alongside his neck made a sick indentation.

  Irena’s eyes were bright. “You’re going to follow my instructions now. Do you understand?”

  “What’s in the needle?” I asked.

  “Thorazine. Same drug Pinky tried, but in a different form. This dosage should take your boss out permanently. This time, I’m making sure it gets done correctly.”

  “What good will it do you?” I asked. “I’m here. Hillary’s here. You’ll never get away with it.”

  “Don’t worry. We came prepared for contingencies.” She guided Bennett backward around the sofa and gestured toward the low table with her chin. “Pick up the album and give it to Rudolfo.”

  “They’re not in there,” I said.

  “What’s not in there?”

  “The pictures of the skull. The originals.” I thanked my lucky stars that I’d pulled them out. It bought us time. To do what? I didn’t have a clue.

  I moved to the table, reached over the skull and picked up the album. I paged through. “See?” I said when I got to the page with the missing photographs. “This is where they belong. They’re not here.”