Grace Against the Clock (A Manor House Mystery)

by Julie Hyzy

  Scott ran a hand across his chin. “You know, now that you mention it, I always accepted that this was just here.” He waved a hand toward the rotting wood construction. “I never questioned its existence.”

  He handed his glass of wine to Bruce and moved to examine the bench more closely. “What?” I asked after a few silent moments.

  “What if it wasn’t a workbench?” he asked. “Originally, I mean.”

  “What else could it be?” I asked.

  He walked back and forth again. “Maybe I’m second-guessing it because of what you said about its placement here, but when I was a kid, I spent a lot of time with my dad around his workbench and I’m starting to wonder about this one.”

  He reached into one of the shelf spaces and pressed his fingers against the back of the unit.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Why, what?” Bruce and I asked in unison.

  “This is old, I get it,” Scott said. “But look around. The basement walls are sturdy. Put up a couple of studs and they do a fine job of supporting shelves.” Bruce and I scanned the perimeter, where random shelves had been installed over the years. “Here, though, everything is anchored to a wooden backing. Why do extra work to build a back when it wasn’t necessary? In fact, I’d go as far as to say that it’s a detriment.”

  Not having an answer, I crouched to the ground and peered underneath. “It looks like the backing goes all the way to the floor.”

  “Odd,” Scott said, reclaiming his glass.

  Bruce asked, “What now?”

  Scott leaned in again, this time tapping the wall behind the bench. “Does that sound hollow to you?” he asked. We shrugged. Turning to face us both, he added, “My imagination may be running wild here, but what if whoever built this bench used it to cover up something?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. An old painting?”

  Bruce laughed. “What, like an Italian fresco?”

  “You never know,” Scott said. “We may discover that a famous artist lived here once and behind that workbench is that artist’s greatest creation of all time.”

  “I like the way you think, Scott.” I lifted my wine, clinking it against my roommates’ glasses.

  “To tomorrow’s unveiling.”

  Chapter 12

  Bennett paced the auditorium, hands clasped behind his back. “What now, Gracie?” he asked. “How do we stop the madness?”

  I didn’t have an answer for him. I’d brought him up to speed on the fact that Flynn believed that Dr. Keay’s death was a homicide. “Remember, nothing has been confirmed yet. Maybe . . . ” Words dissolved in my throat. Was I really about to say that perhaps we’d be lucky this time? That felt wrong, no matter how it came out.

  “I appreciate the optimism,” Bennett said, “but you believe Flynn is right, don’t you?”

  I couldn’t lie. “I suspect he is, yes.”

  The auditorium room was empty now. All the chairs had been carted away, the stage disassembled, and the temporary back and sides long gone. The room was a bare, bricked-in space.

  I ran my hand along the wall that had been hidden by the stage and curtains. “David Cherk said he looked for Dr. Keay, but there was no one back here at the time.”

  “And we both know that Dr. Keay didn’t leave the party. There are only the two exits, the main staircase to the room—”

  “And the emergency exit,” I finished. “Which would have sounded an alarm.”

  Bennett scanned the area exactly as I had a moment earlier. “It’s a conundrum.”

  Thinking about Scott’s intriguing comment regarding hidden treasures last night, I asked, “There aren’t any secret passages to this part of the basement, are there?”

  Bennett squinted, as though working to remember. “None that I’m aware of.”

  I watched as he continued to think, and I could tell he was ticking off locations on a mental checklist.

  “How many are there? You’ve only shown me one or two.”

  “A little mystery never hurt anyone,” he said. “You’ll know them all. In time.”

  The man, and this house, never failed to surprise me. “I look forward to that. In the interim, however, we have to figure out what happened to Dr. Keay in that space of time he went missing.”

  “The question, as I see it,” Bennett said, picking up my train of thought, “is whether David lied about not seeing him here, or he lied about checking.”

  “Exactly. To what end, though? I know the man is eccentric, but he certainly doesn’t strike me as the murderous type.”

  Bennett sighed. “They never do, do they?”

  “You’d think we’d have gotten better at sniffing them out by now.”

  He smiled. “You’re doing fine. Better than anyone else on the job, I might add.” Looking up, he whispered, “Speak of the devil.”

  I turned. “Flynn,” I said, tamping down a smile as Bennett’s comment registered, “I’m surprised to see you back so soon. Any news about Rodriguez?”

  The detective crossed the long room in a few quick strides. “He’s scheduled for an aortic valve replacement tomorrow. His wife is convinced that he’s not a good candidate for surgery, even though the cardiologist assures her otherwise. The woman is a wreck.”

  “Of course she is,” I said. “This has to be frightening for her.”

  “Everything is frightening if you let it be,” he said.

  I didn’t know how to respond to that.

  Bennett stepped in. “Grace told me that you ordered an autopsy—”

  “Of Leland Keay, you mean?” Flynn asked.

  “Certainly not of Detective Rodriguez,” Bennett said with a touch of exasperation before continuing, “Have you gotten any word from the coroner? I must confess that I’m eager to hear that Dr. Keay, rest his soul, died on his own and not at the hands of another.”

  “Well, then,” Flynn said, drawing out the words, “I’m afraid you’re about to be disappointed. As of today, this is officially a homicide investigation.” His eyes clenched and he worked his jaw. “Why couldn’t the guy have gotten stabbed, or shot, or something?”

  “Why on earth would you say something like that?” I asked. “Would that make investigating it easier for you?”

  “As a matter of fact it would, Miss Priss. Remember that everybody—including my chief—believed that Keay suffered a heart attack in the middle of a party. Because it looked like he died of natural causes, nobody bothered to protect the crime scene.” He paced away from us then turned back. “Look at this place. Cleaned like nothing happened. You guys probably had maids rush in to spiffy it all up, didn’t you?”

  We had, but I decided not to answer.

  He continued to rant. “You think we’re going to be able to find a single clue here anymore?”

  “My apologies,” Bennett began.

  Flynn waved a hand. “Not your fault. Mine. I should have taken steps to secure the scene, no matter how ridiculous it seemed at the time. With Rodriguez’s real heart attack and the fact that no one suspected foul play, everything went crazy. You guys have been good about those kinds of things in the past. No, this one was our screwup.”

  Flynn not blaming us at Marshfield for a misstep? I couldn’t believe it.

  “What did the coroner say?” I was probably pushing my luck, but I had to know. “How does he know this was a homicide?”

  Whether it was because he was on his own and no longer following in the more seasoned Rodriguez’s shadow, or whether we’d simply caught him at a weak moment due to his irritation with his own department, I didn’t know. Either way, he answered me without his usual antagonism.

  “First thing: defensive wounds. Keay struggled with whoever killed him. There’s enough bruising on his face, neck, and hands to make it unmistakable that he fought back.�
��

  I remembered the last thing I’d heard Keay utter. “He said the word injection,” I said. “Was he poisoned?”

  “In a way,” Flynn said. “The guy who killed Keay—and we are operating under the assumption that the killer was male—did more than overpower the man. He definitely injected him. Twice. One of them here.” Flynn pointed to a spot inside his own thigh. “The other here.” He pointed again, this time to his neck.

  “He was able to subdue Dr. Keay long enough to get two injections in?”

  Flynn was on a roll. I almost got the impression he was enjoying his chance to hold court. “Keay wasn’t a young man, remember. Even though he was a famous surgeon, that didn’t mean he lived a perfect, healthy lifestyle. You guys heard that he was a recovering alcoholic?”

  We both said that we had.

  “Keay came close to dying back in those days. More than once. A body can’t take that much punishment without there being long-term consequences. We figure that in a fight, he didn’t stand a chance against a younger man, or even an older gentleman if, say, he was in the kind of shape you’re in.”

  This last part was directed to Bennett, who nodded acknowledgment, then asked, “Do you know what Dr. Keay was injected with?”

  “That’s the most interesting part,” Flynn said.

  We waited.

  “Keay was shot up with liquor. That’s why you smelled it on him. Tests are still running, but the coroner suspects pure grain alcohol, the kind you can’t find in a store. Moonshine.

  “Moonshine?” I repeated. “Isn’t distilling illegal in the United States?”

  “Unless you’re licensed—and that license is not easy to get—yes, it most certainly is.”

  “Does the coroner know how long it was between the time Keay was injected and when he died?” I asked, hoping against hope that this had all transpired well before the party began. Of course, if it had, why wouldn’t Dr. Keay have alerted anyone?

  “Best guess, twenty minutes. Maybe less, maybe as much as a half hour. He can’t be exact. Injected alcohol takes effect much faster than when it’s consumed. Our digestive systems have the capacity to work off some of the poison, but when you inject the stuff, it can be deadly. And this time it was.”

  Clearly perplexed, Bennett asked, “How could anyone have smuggled moonshine into our party? And how did no one notice a scuffle between two men?”

  “I’m hoping you two can help with that. I’ll need the guest list and I’ll ask you both to write up as much as you can remember about the evening.” To me, he said, “Get that Frances woman to write something up, too, okay?”

  “Sure,” I said, still trying to understand how any of this could have happened without anyone noticing.

  Flynn rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. “You know what this means, don’t you?” he asked.

  I had a sense of what the detective was about to say, but kept quiet. Bennett did, too.

  “Two things.” Flynn held up fingers. “One, this was premeditated. And two: This was personal.”

  Chapter 13

  “That was probably the longest conversation Flynn and I have ever had,” I said to Bennett when the detective left. “He’s not as abrasive when he’s on his own, have you noticed?”

  “I have.” Bennett adopted a thoughtful expression. “Perhaps we’ve overlooked this young man’s potential.”

  I wasn’t about to go that far. “He hasn’t helped his own cause in the past,” I reminded him. “But I’ll try to keep a better attitude where he’s concerned. He seems determined. I sincerely hope he comes through.”

  “And I sincerely hope you don’t get pulled into this mess. Let’s leave it to our man Flynn this time, shall we?”

  My cell phone rang at that moment, preventing me from answering. The truth was that as soon as Flynn had confirmed that Dr. Keay had been murdered, I knew I had to be involved. Not enough to annoy Flynn or worry Bennett, but enough to satisfy my curiosity. There were far too many “impossibles” surrounding Keay’s death for me to let it go. This murder had happened on my watch and I felt responsible.

  “It’s Adam,” I said to Bennett. “Do you mind if I take this?”

  “No, please. Go ahead.” With a wink, he headed for the door. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

  I could hear the smile in Adam’s voice when I answered the phone. “Hey, Grace,” he said. “How are things going?”

  “I’d rather know how you are.” Not finding the right words, I hesitated. “And how’s your aunt?”

  “She—” I heard a hitch in his voice. He took a long three seconds before continuing. “She had a good life, a long life, and died peacefully surrounded by people who loved her.”

  “You can’t ask for more than that,” I said. “But I’m sorry, Adam. Truly.”

  “I wish you could have known her.”

  “I wish I could have, too.”

  We were silent for another uncomfortable few seconds until Adam said, “Her wake is tomorrow, funeral Thursday. It’s been a rough time here so I thought maybe I’d take a few days before returning to rehearsal. What would you think if I came out there on Friday? You could show me more of the area or we can take a drive? I did homework and there’s a national park with a whole lot of great historical sites only a few hours away from you.”

  The hope in his voice was palpable and I felt bad about that. He’d pursued me and, despite untold obstacles, had hung in there. After other recent troubles had been resolved and the guilty parties identified, I’d begun to see Adam for who he was, rather than who I thought he might be. I liked him. Very much.

  The problem between us—if there was one—was all mine. I’d had my heart broken in the past. I’d been played for a fool in the past as well. I fought the attraction I had for Adam because I couldn’t let myself be pulled in too soon. And, after all I’d been through during the past year and a half, it was most definitely too soon.

  “Friday?” I could hear the anticipation in my own voice as the possibility danced in my brain. “That would be great—” I stopped mid-sentence. “Oh wait, maybe not.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to see you,” I assured him quickly. “Or that I don’t think your idea to spend a few days together is a good one.”

  I heard him release a breath of air that could only be disappointment. I knew he thought I was blowing him off. “Okay,” he said. “Some other time.”

  “No, you need to understand. It’s not that. It’s—I’ve got a little problem here.”

  Alert again, he asked, “What’s up?”

  How to explain? “You remember the fund-raiser Saturday night?”

  “Jack was there.” Adam’s voice was flat, disheartened.

  I took a deep breath. “Yes, he was.” Before Adam could respond, I added, “But you need to know that he brought Becke as his date and that’s not the problem I’m talking about.”

  “Then tell me. What’s going on, and is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Remember I told you about the people in charge of organizing the fund-raiser? How one of them was a well-known surgeon?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, he collapsed in the middle of the event Saturday night.”

  “Oh, no. That’s terrible. Is he all right?”

  “He’s dead.” I heard Adam’s sharp intake of breath. “What’s worse,” I continued, finding it tough to put all that had happened into words, “is that Flynn believes he was murdered.”

  “Not possible,” Adam said with vehemence. “Absolutely not. You can’t be involved in another murder. What’s going on there? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  I waited for him to calm a bit before continuing. “It looked like a heart attack at first,” I said, “but the coroner believes otherwise. As of today, it’s of
ficially a homicide. In fact, Flynn delivered that news moments ago.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Complicating the situation,” I went on, “the older detective, Rodriguez, really did have a heart attack. Right there, right then. At the scene of the crime.” I thought to add, “Even though no one realized it was a crime scene at the time.”

  “Grace,” Adam said, “I’m going to ask this again. What in the world is going on there? Are you safe?”

  “Of course I’m safe. Flynn thinks that Dr. Keay’s murder was premeditated and personal. I have to believe that none of us here at Marshfield are in any danger.”

  “I don’t know—”

  An incoming text interrupted. “Hang on a minute, Adam,” I said, then clicked to check. Hillary had sent an imperative: Can you get away? Come home ASAP.

  I clicked back to my conversation with Adam. “Looks like I have to run. Hillary needs me back at the house.”

  “No problems there, I hope.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing,” I said, but fought a quiet sense of unease. Hillary hadn’t ever asked me to come home during my working hours. I wondered what was up.

  “Keep me updated?” Adam asked.

  “I will.”

  I told Bennett and Frances that I was running home for a bit, explaining that Hillary needed me. Neither of them commented, but Frances clucked her disapproval. I wasn’t sure what she found more distasteful: my leaving the office during the day or Hillary summoning me home. Not that it mattered right now.

  I pulled up and parked across the street from my house, trying to imagine what the emergency was. Workers were there, as always, some on scaffolding, others busy on the lawn, sawing, drilling, and hammering pieces of house. None of them appeared troubled or overly concerned.

  I hurried up the driveway, walking around to the back door, saying hello to some of the workers, feeling less apprehensive as I made my way in. When I’d responded to Hillary’s text, letting her know I was on my way, she’d replied simply: Okay.