Grace Against the Clock (A Manor House Mystery)

by Julie Hyzy

  I continued to turn pages.

  Frances made a sound like hmph. “Could be that the stolen newspaper was a red herring.”

  I turned in my chair to look up at her. “Come again?”

  “You don’t know what a red herring is?”

  “Of course I do, but I want to hear your thoughts on this.”

  “What if whoever stole the newspaper did that because he wanted you to think the newspaper was important? What if it was to tie you up in knots and keep you confused?”

  I sat back. “You could be right.”

  She struck at her chest with her fist. “Be still my heart. You admit that?”

  I didn’t bother giving her the withering glare she deserved. “You know you’re right most of the time, Frances. I’ve told you that. No need to get dramatic.”

  Sitting forward, I turned back to the page before.

  Frances inched closer, crowding my elbow. “What is it?”

  “Take a look,” I said, “David Cherk is credited with taking these touristy photographs.”

  “Is that important?”

  Cherk was credited for having taken most of the pictures that had been published in the local newspaper five years ago. That wasn’t my understanding of the man’s career path, but things change, and I thought that maybe that was the sort of job that paid the bills before he’d become so well known for his historical photography.

  “I can’t imagine why it would be,” I said.

  “Then why bring it up?”

  I shut the paper and shoved it to the side. “Because I’m an idiot. We have a suspect in custody who was caught red-handed with evidence, and for some inexplicable reason I can’t let it go.”

  Finally stepping out of my personal space, she dropped her glasses back down to hang from their chain. “You need to take a break,” she said, and left the room.

  After returning to the newspapers and studying Cherk’s shots until I could practically see them in my brain when I shut my eyes, I decided to take Frances’s advice. I called Wes to ask him if I could drop the newspapers off tonight. He told me the historical office would be open until nine, but there was no rush.

  Frances returned a little later, just as my phone rang.

  “It’s Tooney,” I said.

  She made the equivalent of jazz hands and said, “Oh, don’t keep the poor man waiting. He’s such a valuable employee now. He’s on retainer.”

  I ignored that and answered the phone. “What’s up?”

  “Hey, Grace,” he said. “Glad to catch you. Remember you asked me to find out about the tip that sent Flynn to Pedota’s house?”

  “I remember,” I said. “Did you find out anything?”

  “You may not know this, but I tried to join the Emberstowne Police Department at one time.”

  “I may have heard something about that.”

  “Oh.” He sounded disappointed. “Listen, I may have washed out, but it wasn’t because I didn’t try.”

  “What did you find, Tooney?”

  “I was trying to provide context.”

  “Of course. Now, though—”

  “Right, right. Okay, here’s what I can tell you. I made a few friends when I was working to get on the force. They got through the exam, I didn’t. But I guess they thought I wasn’t so bad. We go out and have a beer once in a while.”

  “You talked to them?”

  “I did. That’s important because I’m sharing a confidence here. They told me because of professional courtesy. They didn’t know I was asking on your behalf.”

  “So I need to keep my source quiet. Is that it?”

  “You need to not know what I’m about to tell you. You can’t mention anything about it to Flynn. Otherwise, he’ll know exactly how it got out.”

  “Go ahead, Tooney. You have my word that I won’t spill.”

  “According to the officers, that reporter who was at your house visited Flynn. He brought an envelope filled with photos of the inside of Pedota’s house. He said that his source told him that Pedota killed Keay.”

  “Who was his source?”

  “He wouldn’t say. Claimed First Amendment rights and protection via the state’s Shield Law.”

  “An anonymous tip?” It took me a second to process that. “What if it was the killer who took those pictures? He could have set it all up to frame Pedota.”

  “Yeah, but how did the tipster get into the house to take the pictures? Pedota must have let him in. Either that or that house got broken into. But would the killer risk that just to set up a photo shoot? And Pedota never reported any kind of break-in.”

  “I can’t believe that was enough for Flynn to get a warrant.”

  I could almost hear Tooney shrug. “This is a small town and Dr. Keay was a big shot. Even the judges want to see this case closed in a hurry. Flynn said it was like working with Deep Throat.”

  “It’s nothing like working with Deep Throat.”

  “I’m sorry, Grace. I’m telling you what I know.”

  “No, Tooney, I’m sorry. I’m taking my frustration out on you.” I inhaled and then let the breath out slowly. “Thanks for the update.”

  When I hung up, Frances hovered. “Photographs? Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “David Cherk?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  I rubbed my knuckles against my bottom lip. “We’ve never come up with a motive for Cherk, have we?”

  “None.”

  “This is crazy.” I stood and stretched. “I’m giving it a rest for a while.”

  “There’s something else you ought to give a rest.”

  “What’s that, Frances?”

  “You’re listening to that music too much.”

  My stomach did a little nosedive. “What are you talking about?”

  She pointed toward the iPod on my desk. “You think I can’t hear when you have that SlickBlade album playing?”

  I felt my cheeks warming. With no defense to that, I said, “I’ll try to keep the volume down in the future.”

  * * *

  After work, I went home and changed into jeans and a T-shirt. The workers had called it quits for the day, and Hillary had left a note that she’d see me bright and early the next morning.

  Home alone, I picked Bootsie up, snuggled her close, and said, “It’s just you and me tonight, sweetie.”

  She struggled to get out of my arms and jumped to the floor, quickly disappearing around the corner and out of my room. I slipped on a pair of flats, went downstairs, and had leftovers for dinner.

  I sat at the kitchen table and fired up my laptop. Bootsie crawled around the corner to see what I was up to and sat on the chair next to mine as though she understood and approved of me looking up SlickBlade’s schedule. They were playing tonight, warming up again for the Curling Weasels.

  Not that it mattered. I wasn’t expecting to hear from Adam. He’d made it clear that any move had to come from me. I missed his friendship and our easy banter, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to invite him back into my life.

  I clicked through an exhaustive array of band promo shots, listened to a few of their songs, and checked out their Wikipedia listing, among other things.

  “Why do I always seem to make the wrong choices?” I asked Bootsie. “And better yet, how do I start making the right ones?”

  I shut the laptop and blinked in surprise, discovering that my kitchen was almost dark. I flicked on the overhead light and remembered, belatedly, that I’d planned to drop the newspapers back at the historical society tonight. I glanced at the clock. Almost eight. Wes had said there was no rush, but I suddenly craved human conversation. I chucked Bootsie under the chin. “No offense,” I said.

  Gathering up the newspapers, I considered giving them one final perusal, but I didn’t have it in
me. I packed them into a bag, tucked it under my arm, and took off out the back door.

  My kitchen had been dark, but outside it was merely dusk. The air was crisp and clear. It was a perfect late-summer evening with the spicy promise of fall.

  I decided to walk. Lights had come on in the houses down my block, and trees cast long shadows on the spacious front lawns. Kids, back at school for a week or so now, were probably sitting at kitchen tables doing homework, while parents stood close by ready to help, hoping not to have to step in.

  Even though it had been a number of years since I’d been in school, I remembered those days well. I closed my eyes for a moment to appreciate the smoky scent of wood burning nearby. A bonfire, maybe. As much as I loved my roommates, their business kept them busy most nights and I found that lately I craved more. That was part of the reason why I’d decided to make the trip tonight and why I’d enjoyed my time with Adam as much as I had. Companionship.

  I shook myself to stop that train of thought. I needed time to consider everything Adam had told me. He was right in so many ways.

  When I arrived at the historical society’s offices, it was fifteen minutes before closing time. “Too late?” I asked as I walked in.

  “Never,” Wes said from behind the counter. “How’s it going?”

  I placed the package on the countertop between us. “I’ve been better,” I said. “But I’m not here to complain. I’m here to return these.”

  “This might help your mood: I have some information on those poison bottles for you. One of them looks like it might be worth more than we expected. A lot more.”

  “That’s great news.”

  “You don’t sound very happy about it.”

  I allowed a sigh of self-pity to escape. “I’m sorry. I am happy about that. Other things on my mind.”

  When he opened his mouth to say something, I held up a hand.

  “Got it,” he said. “I won’t ask.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  He opened the bag and began removing the newspapers. “Did you find anything in these that might help you?”

  “Not a darned thing,” I said. “Total waste of time.”

  He began sorting them in date order. “Hey,” he said. “You found it. The missing issue.”

  “Got a replacement, actually,” I said. “Marshfield Manor’s P.I., Ronny Tooney, managed to procure it for me. So we’re all straight again.”

  “You’re amazing.” He gave me a smile. “It’s a good thing you got here when you did,” he said. “I’m closing up right on time tonight. Joyce Swedburg called a little bit ago. Wants me to stop by.”

  “Joyce? What’s up with her?”

  “It’s about the Promise Clock again. She said that the workers who are refurbishing it found some cache of documents hidden in a secret compartment beneath the actual mechanism. She wants me to come to her office to take a look at them.”

  “Why doesn’t she bring them to you?”

  “That was my suggestion, but she swears I have to come to her.”

  I didn’t like that. “Don’t you think that’s odd?”

  “Joyce is odd.”

  “What time are you meeting her?” I asked.

  “Ten.”

  “That’s late.” All of a sudden I was getting a very strange feeling about this meeting. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “I think I can handle her,” he said. “Although I’ll admit that Joyce can be a spitfire sometimes.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I can read exactly what you’re thinking on your face,” he said. “But remember, it’s Joyce we’re talking about. She believes the sun rises and sets based on her schedule.”

  “What exactly does she want you to look at?”

  “I wish I knew. She’s being coy.”

  “Maybe you should alert Flynn.”

  He burst out laughing at that. “And tell him what? That I’m going to visit one of the wealthiest socialites in Emberstowne? He’d probably accuse her of being a cougar and wish me the best of luck.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “Trust me, everything will be fine. Flynn arrested the guy who killed Dr. Keay. And you probably heard that charges against Joyce have been dropped. You and I both agreed that she’s hardly the murderous type. I’m safe.”

  I started to interrupt.

  “Beside, I’m not going alone,” he added quickly. “David Cherk’s going with me. What could possibly go wrong?”

  “Wait. What? Why?”

  “She wants him to photograph the box of documents as we open it. It’s not quite as dramatic as the door in your basement, but as the head of the historical society, I ought to be part of it. More important, I want to be a part of it.”

  “I don’t disagree with that, but every bit of this is crazy. Who calls meetings at ten o’clock at night?”

  His voice rumbled. “Rich people who don’t care about other people’s schedules or needs. We know that’s an accurate description for Joyce.”

  He was right about that and I could tell I wasn’t going to sway him. “Cherk won’t be much help if you get into trouble. I’d bet he’d run. Or try using you as a shield.”

  “Would it make you happier if I rescheduled my meeting with Joyce for another day? I’ll do it if you want me to.”

  “It would,” I said, massaging the bridge of my nose. I’d never seen Joyce as the killer and I still didn’t. The Cherk twist was what had me most concerned. “I’m probably being foolish.”

  “Then I’ll reschedule for a saner time of day.” He glanced up at the clock. “I’ll call her in a minute. Let me go in the back and get the storage box for these first. I won’t be long.”

  He disappeared through the same door Adam and I had gone through when we were here looking for the newspapers in the first place. I’d been so sure that they would hold a clue. And when the one edition had been stolen—or more likely misplaced, as it appeared to have been now—I’d been doubly convinced.

  I wandered behind the counter to take a closer look at the wall of drawers, imagining all the secrets they held. As I edged past the desk that had been tucked into the nook, I caught another look at the photograph Wes kept there. His wife, he’d said. I picked up the picture. He clearly missed her. I remembered the day he talked about how she’d—

  I felt the zing up my back first. I’d seen this photo. Recently. I pulled the framed picture closer to my face. The shot had been cropped. Studying it closely, I could see that another person had been cut out and only a shoulder was visible. The top of the photo had been cut out as well. Very little of the background had made it into the frame, but what remained was distinctly recognizable.

  Above Wes’s wife’s smiling face was the edge of the arch on the outskirts of Emberstowne. The arch that housed the Promise Clock.

  I raced back to the newspapers, pulling out the one I’d studied over and over, the one that had been misplaced. I turned to page four.

  There she was. Wes’s wife and another man standing together, their arms around each other, smiling big. “All the Time in the World,” the mini-headline read. I took a closer look at the caption. “Lynn Reed and her husband, William, pose beneath the Promise Clock. ‘We’re so happy to be here,’ Lynn said. ‘After my surgery Tuesday, Dr. Keay says I’ll have all the time in the world.’”

  No.

  No, it couldn’t be.

  I needed time to think this through. But Wes would be back any second.

  He’d told me that his wife had died of an aneurysm. He’d never mentioned Dr. Keay. The picture of Wes’s wife was in color. So, who was this man in the black-and-white version in the newspaper? I pulled it closer. Thin, lanky, clean-shaven. It took a long few seconds, but I recognized Wes. Five years younger, forty pounds lighter, no beard.

&n
bsp; Had Wes killed Dr. Keay? Could this simply be some weird coincidence? Why was his name different in the caption?

  My heart thudded so loud that my ears hurt. I struggled to steady my breath. I could hear him moving about in the other room. In a moment he’d be back through the door and—

  The photo burned in my fingers. I spun and raced over to the desk, dropping it back onto the surface in such a hurry that my shaking hands knocked it over, making it clatter. Biting my bottom lip to keep from whimpering, I righted the frame, straightened it as best I could, and made for the open space between the counters.

  The newspapers. I’d left them open. I spun back, reaching over to slam the paper shut. I didn’t want him to know I’d put it together. Maybe there was a perfectly good explanation. Maybe I was overreacting.

  I could worry about that later. All I knew was that I had to get out. Now.

  The EMPLOYEES ONLY door opened and Wes emerged. He dropped the box onto a nearby table and hurried to my side. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  My face was flushed, sweat burst forth from every pore, and my breath came in short bursts. I opened my mouth to answer, but no words came out.

  In a heartbeat, I watched his gaze dart from the messy pile of newspapers to the photo on his desk. Comprehension washed over his features. “Oh, Grace,” he said. “You couldn’t have waited one more day?”

  “One more day?” My words came out high and limp. “Sure.” Reaching to gather the newspapers, I mustered a cheery tone. “I can bring these back tomorrow. No problem.”

  “Grace.” He took a step closer. “That’s not what I mean and you know it. I can see it in your eyes.”

  I was still between the countertops. Holding up a finger, I said, “Don’t make it worse. Don’t compound the crime.”

  “I was afraid this might happen,” he said. “Don’t move, Grace. Please.”