Grace Against the Clock (A Manor House Mystery)

by Julie Hyzy

  “Friend with benefits?”

  He shrugged. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

  All of a sudden the flickering light morphed into a high beam, illuminating in ways I’d never imagined.

  “Sure, you may have told her you weren’t serious, but what do your actions say?”

  “My actions brought me here.”

  Frustrated, I thrust my hands out. “Jack, listen to me. You’re not being fair to her.”

  “Are you kidding? Do you know how much I’ve done for her?”

  “Yes, and that’s exactly my point. You took her in, gave her a place to live.”

  “And that’s so bad?”

  “Of course not. But look at it from her perspective. You’re her knight in shining armor. You’re taking care of her, taking care of her kids. You hang out together. You brought her as your date to the benefit. You gave her your grandmother’s dress to wear.”

  His voice was low but strained. “Is it so wrong to be a nice guy?”

  “Whether you’re intending to or not, you’re leading her down a path. Is it being a nice guy to pull her hopes out from under her the minute someone else is back on the market?”

  He ran a hand through his hair, his upper teeth tight on his bottom lip.

  “She wants the happily-ever-after with you, Jack,” I said. “You’ve let her believe that it’s possible.”

  “I’ll break it off with her today,” he said. “I promise. Then can we talk?”

  I dropped my hands at my sides and struggled to not raise my voice. “You don’t understand.” A little whisper in my head reminded me that I hadn’t understood, either. Not until this minute.

  “What I understand,” he said, “is that you and I have been attracted to each other from the very start. We’ve hit a lot of roadblocks and yet here we are, still attracted to one another. And now both of us are single.”

  “You’re not.”

  “I will be. I told you that.”

  “No,” I said.

  “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

  “Months ago, when I told you that we could talk after you settled things with Becke, I meant it. Now I’m going to tell you something else that I mean: It doesn’t matter if you break up with Becke. It doesn’t matter if she moves across the country and you never see her again.” I thought about Adam. Thought about what he’d said. “I deserve better.”

  “Better than what?”

  It hurt to say the words, but I’d finally found the truth. And the sooner it was out there, the sooner we could heal. “I deserve better than this.”

  He stared at me like I was a creature that had just crawled up from the lawn and was clapping tambourines while dancing a jig. Inside, maybe I was.

  Right before my eyes, Jack lost that edge of excitement, that rugged handsomeness that had always drawn me in. In a swift, astonishing Poof, he morphed from the man of my dreams to a scoundrel. A guy who didn’t consider another’s feelings before taking a step that would undoubtedly hurt her. If he was the kind of person who could so causally wound Becke, then what would stop him from doing the same to others? To me?

  All of a sudden, I saw him for who he really was, and not who I hoped he might be. His family troubles and his struggle to get back on his feet had been enough to keep me close, encourage me to help, and garner my sympathy. Jack had been distant from the start and all this time I’d rationalized his selfishness away.

  “I can’t believe you said that.” He opened his hands, closed them, and then opened them again.

  For the first time since I’d fallen for Jack, I felt free. Surprisingly strong. Happy.

  I could have softened the moment with a wish for us to stay friends, but it probably wouldn’t have helped.

  “Good-bye, Jack,” I said.

  He didn’t move. When I got to my front door, I turned and he was still there, still staring.

  “Good luck,” I whispered. “You’re going to need it.”

  * * *

  “You’re home,” Hillary squealed when I walked into the kitchen. “I was about to call.” She lifted her skinny wrist and spun her dangling bracelet watch around so she could check the time. “You’re usually home a little sooner than this. Why are you late? We’ve been waiting for you. You missed seeing your neighbor Todd Pedota by moments. He stopped by to ask about the passage and if we’d learned anything more.”

  I barely paid attention to what she was saying because she wasn’t alone. David Cherk was leaning his backside against the countertop near the sink, sipping from one of my mugs. Wes sat at the table, a pile of drawings spread in front of him. Even from upside-down, I could tell that he’d sketched the passage between my house and Pedota’s. A gentleman I’d never seen before had pulled one of the four chairs around and sat next to Wes, a magnifying glass in hand.

  They all looked up at once.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  David Cherk regarded me with a bored air as he lowered the mug from his lips to hold it in both hands. “Lucky me, I get to photograph your historical find.”

  “I thought the newspaper people already took care of that,” I said.

  Hillary scurried around on her tiny high heels to pat me on the arm. “That was for local flavor, this is for posterity. David has agreed to use his considerable skills to document the passageway.” She held her hands up in the air, making a frame with her fingers, like a director convincing a starlet that he sees her name in lights. “Your house will be immortalized at the historical society office. Isn’t that exciting?”

  “I don’t know, Hillary.”

  David dropped the cup next to the sink with a clunk. “This guy,” he said, pointing to the man I didn’t recognize sitting at my kitchen table, “wouldn’t let us take even a single shot without your approval.”

  I turned to the man. “I’m afraid we haven’t met,” I said, extending my hand.

  He stood to shake it and was about to speak when Hillary interrupted. “Oh, silly me. That’s right, you haven’t met Frederick. You remember me telling you about him, right? My business partner?”

  Frederick was a lump of a guy. Balding and short, he wore a gray suit and a silky red bow tie. He squinted hello at me from behind rimless, round glasses. He had pasty white skin and blond brows. I guessed him to be around fifty-five.

  “Nice to meet you, Frederick,” I said. “Hillary speaks very highly of you.”

  “And of you,” he said. He had a nice face and a friendly smile. Of course, he might be lying through his teeth.

  David waved a hand between us. “Hello-o—? The pictures? I’ve been waiting for you. Patiently, I might add. Can we get started here?”

  Frederick let the rude intrusion roll right off his back. He sat down and returned to working side by side with Wes. They had two of the poison bottles on the table in front of them, and Wes was indicating where in the passage we’d found them.

  I wasn’t keen on the idea of photographing the passage. Not yet. Maybe I was still feeling the effects of my interaction with Jack, but I wasn’t in the mood to be particularly agreeable.

  “I don’t think this is such a good plan,” I said.

  Cherk threw his hands in the air. “Oh, brilliant. I come out all this way and she changes her mind.”

  “I haven’t changed my mind,” I said with more than a little oomph. “I never agreed to it in the first place.”

  “Oh, um,” Hillary interjected, tapping my arm. “I thought it would be helpful.”

  “You agreed to it?”

  She nodded. “When he got here, though, Frederick told me that we really needed to wait for you to approve, first. I thought it would be a mere formality. Why wouldn’t you want to do this?”

  “Thank you for letting me have a voice in the matter, Frederick,” I said.

  He smiled up at me then r
eturned his attention to the drawings.

  “Are we too much in the way?” Hillary showed teeth when she smiled. “We should have done all this before you got home. We could have had the shoot finished and have been out of your hair before you even got here.”

  “Her house, her decision,” Frederick said without looking up.

  Hillary bounced her head from side to side. She turned to me. “What can I say to convince you this is a good idea?”

  “I don’t know that you can, Hillary,” I said, but I could feel my resolve waning. There really wasn’t any reason the passage shouldn’t be photographed for the historical society’s archives. Maybe someday a future owner of the house would look for the records. These pictures could help them like the Marshfield blueprints had helped me.

  “Please, Grace? I know that David is eager to get started.”

  “Her house, her decision,” Frederick said again, this time a little more forcefully.

  “You’re right, Frederick,” Hillary said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t push.”

  I don’t know if I was more taken aback by Hillary’s acquiescence or by David Cherk’s unkind glare.

  “So I made the trip for nothing,” he said.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “This came out of the blue. I need a minute to think about it.”

  “It’s an easy yes or no,” David said.

  “What, exactly, do you plan to photograph?” I asked.

  David rolled his eyes dramatically. “The entrance, the pathway. A couple of locations where artifacts were found. From what I understand, the walls are solid brick. I’d get a few shots of those. This is good for the town’s history, for helping to bring the past alive for our citizens.” He pushed himself off from leaning against the countertop. “Or maybe you don’t care about stuff like that.”

  Wes looked up at me, silently apologizing with his eyes.

  “Fine,” I said. “But be careful. The doors lock automatically, and if they close behind you, you’re stuck.”

  Hillary squeaked her delight.

  I was frustrated, tired, and annoyed. By all of them.

  “It looks like you’ll be here awhile,” I said to David. Glancing at the rest of the people gathered in my kitchen, I said, “I’m going upstairs to say hello to Bootsie. Then I’m grabbing dinner out.” To Hillary, I added, “Please be sure to lock up when you leave.”

  She gave me a chipper smile. “I always do.”

  Chapter 28

  “Frances,” I called from my office late the next morning, “did you take any papers from in here?”

  My assistant came into view at the doorway. “What are you looking for?”

  I’d gotten up from my desk and was now searching around the rest of my sizeable office. Enormous mullioned windows spanned one wall, above built-in filing cabinets. I sorted through papers that I’d left atop the cabinets, my back to the fireplace. Tilting my head upward to stare at the coffered teak ceiling, I tried to mentally retrace my steps.

  “I borrowed old newspapers from the historical society the other day,” I said. “I started to go through them at home, but I didn’t have time, so I brought them in today. I thought I might have a chance to read here at work.”

  Her brows came together. “What kind of old newspapers?”

  Except for these papers on the filing cabinets, I kept a relatively clutter-free office and knew I hadn’t put anything away in the past couple of hours. Walking over to my desk, I picked up the newspaper with the headline “Esteemed Surgeon Faces Charges.” “I picked this one up the other day, along with a couple others from that time—a day before and a few after the scandal hit. I had five different full editions in all. Now I have only four.”

  “And you brought them in today?”

  I massaged the bridge of my nose. “I was in a hurry this morning and didn’t notice that anything was missing. I couldn’t have left it at home.” Talking aloud now, I brought up a mental image of my kitchen. “They were on top of the microwave when I grabbed them. I would’ve noticed if I’d left one behind.”

  “Maybe one of your roommates took it?”

  I doubted it. “I’ll check, but they knew why I’d brought these home. I can’t imagine they would have removed one from the pile without telling me.”

  “Has anyone else been in your house since you brought them home?”

  I nearly barked a laugh. “Only half the town,” I said, then sobered. “You don’t think someone would have stolen an old newspaper, do you? What could they possibly want with it?”

  Frances held up three fingers. “One, you may be dealing with a kleptomaniac. Who knows why any of them steal? Two, whoever took it didn’t know it was important and they needed an old newspaper to line a birdcage, or maybe clean windows. Or, three, you’re on the right track and the killer doesn’t want you to read what’s in that missing paper. Of course that would mean that the killer—or her hit man—was in your house recently.”

  “I need to call Hillary,” I said, pulling up my cell phone and dialing her number. The call went to voicemail, so I hung up.

  “Why didn’t you leave a message?” Frances asked.

  “She’ll see a missed call and call me back.”

  “But she won’t know why you were calling.”

  “I’ll tell her when she gets in touch.”

  “I don’t understand. If her voicemail comes on, why not leave a message?”

  I was about to explain how accessing recordings on cell phones was far more trouble than returning a call, when Flynn walked in. He usually wore pale button-down shirts, dress pants, and a jacket. Today, however, he’d donned blue jeans, a gray Henley with the first few buttons undone, and a leather shoulder holster. The biggest change to his appearance, however, was his hair. Or, I should say, the lack thereof. He’d shaved himself bald.

  I struggled to find something to say.

  Frances had no reservations. “You’ve been watching too many Die Hard movies. Looks like you’re channeling Bruce Willis.”

  He scowled at her. “I have a lead on that moonshine,” he said. “Your hired detective did some good this time.”

  Still shocked by the change in Flynn’s appearance, I couldn’t even manage a reply.

  “Turns out your guy, Tooney, may not have been the only local who knows where to get moonshine.”

  “You found out who bought the alcohol from them?” I asked.

  When Flynn nodded, his newly shiny head caught the light. This was going to take some getting used to.

  “Well, who?”

  “Dr. Keay.”

  Frances sat. “He injected himself?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Flynn said. “My department is investigating the moonshiners so I can’t tell you the specifics of how we found out, but Dr. Keay was one of their regular customers.”

  “But,” I said, “he was sober. For years.”

  Flynn shrugged. “People lie. I see it every day. Seems he was one of their best customers.”

  I was still digesting that when Flynn continued, “The theory we’re going with right now is that whoever killed Keay knew that he was still on the sauce and threatened to blackmail him.”

  “Then why kill him?” I asked. “You said the attack was personal.”

  “Blackmail is personal.”

  “Injecting him and poisoning him doesn’t make any sense if the killer was looking for money,” I said.

  “You got a better theory?”

  It wasn’t much, but I held up the newspapers and explained what I’d been looking for. “I think that whoever killed Dr. Keay did it because of something that happened around the time the scandal hit. Because of something Dr. Keay did back when he was a raging alcoholic.”

  Flynn shook his smooth head. “Doesn’t fit. If Keay was buying moonshine, he never stopped being a raging
alcoholic. He just got better at hiding it, is all. Whoever killed him knew how to do it, and they knew because they knew his habits.”

  “What if it wasn’t blackmail? What if it was a personal vendetta?”

  He waved both hands at me in an attempt to shut me up. “I didn’t come here to discuss theories with you. I came here to tell you that Joyce has been released. We didn’t have enough to hold her.”

  “You let her go?” Frances asked. “How could you? She did it. I know she did.”

  “There’s this thing called the law,” he said with heavy sarcasm. “I’m charged with upholding it. We had to let her go due to lack of evidence.”

  Frances turned her cheek to him. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you people. The answer is staring you right in the face and you unlock the jail cell and set it free.”

  Flynn’s mouth pulled to the side. “We did get another tip that we’re checking out right now. Can’t say more than that without jeopardizing the investigation. I’ll tell you this much, though: We’re working on a warrant. Don’t be surprised if we announce an arrest before the week is out.”

  “Another arrest? For the same crime?” Frances brightened. “You think Joyce had help? Like a hit man?”

  Flynn gave her a weary look. “Didn’t I say that I can’t tell you more without compromising our work?”

  I wanted to ask him why he’d bothered offering that much information if he didn’t expect questions, but I already had my answer. The man desperately needed to prove that he was ahead of us this time. He was here to show off.

  “Good luck, Detective,” I said, even as Frances scowled. “Thanks for the update.”

  * * *

  My cell phone rang later that afternoon, while Frances was in my office. Hillary’s name blinked on the device’s display.

  “You see,” I said, right before I answered. “Better than leaving a message.”

  Frances didn’t say anything.

  “Grace, I have the best news,” Hillary said when I answered. “Have you heard? You must have, otherwise why would you have tried to call me earlier?”

  “The reason I called—”