by Julie Hyzy
“I don’t imagine Mr. Kincade would agree with you,” I said.
Tank’s eyes narrowed. “True enough,” she said, clearly surprised by my asperity. “But there’s no changing the fact that he’s dead. Now it’s up to us to set things right. If we all work hard and smart, we will bring the guilty party to justice. And we’ll do it fast.”
“The officer at the gate said Zachary had been stabbed,” I said. “Who found him?”
“Guy by the name of Jim Florian. And yeah, stabbed.” She lifted her chin toward the evidence technicians. “They’ll probably give us an idea of how many times.”
More than once? I cringed.
“You say the uniforms told you?” Rodriguez rolled his eyes and said, “We warned them to keep it quiet for now. We need to keep details out of circulation.”
Flynn kicked a rock, sending it skittering into the ravine.
“Part of the risk you run when you involve uniforms,” Tank said. “When the call came in, we should have gotten here first. Half the department had tromped through the crime scene already. Didn’t they, Rodriguez?”
Unable to meet her glare, the older detective gave the briefest of nods.
“They’re like little kids,” she went on, “everybody wants to see the dead body.”
The blanket covering Kincade’s still form was a pale shade of gray. Blood had soaked through the blanket on the left side of the corpse and I couldn’t quite tell which way it was facing. “Why did you cover him? Won’t that interfere with the collection of evidence?”
Balancing on the balls of his feet, Flynn practically danced his impatience, but it was Tank who answered. She waggled her index finger to indicate Pierpont. “One of his guys covered him up before we got here.”
“Jim Florian,” Pierpont said. “It bothered him to leave Zachary alone like that. And to be honest, it bothered me, too. I think I’m going to be ill.” He backed away from the group and started toward the ravine.
Even though he was heading the opposite direction of the corpse, Flynn shouted, “Don’t go anywhere near the body.” Under his breath he added, “This is all messed up enough already.”
Pierpont made it about fifteen feet before he was forcefully and noisily sick.
Rodriguez leaned close to Flynn’s ear. “Settle down. We’ve got work to do.” To me, he said, “You’ve got a big job on your hands, Ms. Wheaton.” He gestured back toward the encampment. “We need to question each and every one of these folks to find out what they might have seen or heard last night.” Heavy sigh. “It’s going to take a long time, but at least they’re set up far enough away from the crime scene that we won’t have to relocate them.”
Tank waited as Rodriguez reasoned their next moves aloud. He kept chancing glances at the woman as though seeking her approval as he spoke. To me, he said, “My partners and I will be in touch soon and we promise to update you, so you don’t have to go off on your own trying to solve this and put yourself at risk. Understand?”
I was about to defend myself, but this was neither the time nor the place. “You know where to find me.”
As I made my way back up toward the encampment, I realized that the damp air had cleared my nasal passages and the head cold that had wrapped its fingers around my sinuses earlier had loosened its grasp. I took a deep breath unwilling, though ready, to face the world with another murder on our hands.
Chapter 6
DESPITE THE FACT THAT SATURDAY WAS A DAY off for Frances, I decided to call my assistant and ask her to come in. We could use all the help we could get.
I let the phone ring fifteen times before I hung up. No answering machine. “Darn it,” I said aloud. It was still early. Maybe she was sleeping in and had turned off the ringer. But these days who didn’t have an answering machine?
I took a deep breath and blew it out, slowly. The next task on my to-do list was one I deeply dreaded, but I picked up the phone again and dialed Bennett’s private line. He answered immediately. “Gracie!”
“Did I wake you?”
“Are you joking?” he asked jovially, sounding as fresh and alert as if it were two in the afternoon rather than eight in the morning. “Do you think I sleep the day away?”
Any other time I would have laughed. Bennett picked up on the fact that I hadn’t.
“Why are you at the manor today?” Concern lowered his voice. “Isn’t this your day off?”
“There’s been a”—I stumbled over the words—“an incident.”
“What kind of incident?”
“May I come up?” I asked.
“Of course. In the study.”
Although there was a hidden panel in my office that opened to a stairway leading directly to Bennett’s private quarters, I opted to take one of the staff staircases instead.
I approached his study with a peculiar sense of déjà vu. This was where Abe had been killed, and now it would be here where I broke the bad news that Marshfield Manor had suffered a second murder on its famous grounds. Bennett’s portly butler smiled hello as I entered. He held a silver coffee server in his white-gloved hands and an expectant look on his face. Two breakfast settings had been laid out on the low center table. Fresh cinnamon scones were arranged on a plate of pale pink china, their fresh-baked scent filling the air. A selection of cantaloupe, blackberries, and strawberries sat on the silver tray beside them, accompanied by a tiny pitcher of cream. “Good morning, Miss Wheaton,” the butler said, stepping forward. “May I pour you a cup?”
My stomach growled my answer. I hadn’t had anything but that handful of almonds more than three hours ago. I could sure use a jolt of caffeine. “Thanks, Theo, that would be nice.”
Bennett’s study was a bookcase-lined, sun-kissed room of overstuffed furniture and carved oak, and always smelled faintly of pipe smoke and coffee. Bennett waited on the small persimmon sofa at the center of the room, with his back to the windows. He patted the cushion next to him and I sat. Theo came around to pour, making sure to add a small measure of cream to both cups. Bennett and I took our coffee the same way, and there was something very comforting about having the manor’s butler know that.
The decision to return to Emberstowne to care for my mom in her last few months had changed the trajectory of my life. When I’d relocated here to be with her, I’d hoped and believed that my relationship with my fiancé, Eric, would survive the temporary detour. It hadn’t. In fact, it had failed. Spectacularly.
When Mom was in her final days, my sister, Liza, had finally breezed in. Liza stayed long enough to say her good-byes, collect her share of the modest inheritance, and breeze back out—with Eric in tow. Last I had heard they were out west, married, and probably broke.
I wished them both all the happiness they deserved.
Their abrupt departures combined with the loss of my mom had left me in a terrible place emotionally. I had no family beyond an aunt in Florida, who called from time to time to ask how Liza was doing. I no longer belonged anywhere. I no longer belonged with anyone.
Making Emberstowne my home had been a challenge, but it was starting to feel right. Although my house needed constant repair, and although I needed to take in roommates to keep myself afloat financially, it was home. Scott and Bruce were the best things to happen to me in a long time and I appreciated their company even more than I did their rent check.
Theo handed me my coffee and served me a scone. I sighed with a tiny bit of pleasure when I realized it was still warm. “Thank you.”
“Very good, miss,” Theo said, then left the room.
Taking a sip of his coffee, Bennett watched me with interest. I got the impression, as I often did, that he could read my mind.
Of all the people at Marshfield Manor, I felt the closest kinship to Bennett. Although he had initially been reluctant to accept me in Abe’s role, Bennett and I had eventually forged a bond. Tied by history and possibly by blood, we now interacted not just as employer and employee, but more like uncle and niece. After so long, after
so much heartbreak, I actually believed I belonged here. Bennett seemed to think so, too.
I’d waited long enough to share the morning’s bad news. “I have something to tell you.”
“From the look on your face, I think I should be worried.”
I placed the scone plate down on the low table. Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes for a brief moment. “You know the Civil War group that rented out the south grounds?”
Bennett nodded.
“A man died there last night. Possibly this morning,” I said. “He was . . . murdered.”
Coffee cup halfway up to his lips, Bennett stiffened. Blinking several times, he returned the cup and saucer to the table and leaned back. I watched him. While my tendency was to rush into a reaction, Bennett’s responses were usually more measured. He took his time to process information before speaking. I could learn a lot from him.
“I see,” he finally said. “The police are investigating, I take it?”
“They’re there now.”
Bennett’s eyes took on a faraway look and he seemed to focus on a spot just over my head. When he lowered his gaze to meet mine, he asked, “Who was killed?”
I explained everything that had happened the day before, including the Taser incident with Tamara and Rani, and the subsequent scuffle between Kincade and Davey Embers. When I told Bennett what Kincade had said about Jack having killed Kincade’s brother, Bennett flinched.
“What happened between them?” I asked. “Jack didn’t actually kill anyone, did he?” My voice rose and I tried, without success, to slow my words down. “It must have been an accident, right?”
Bennett didn’t answer.
“You know what happened, I can see it in your eyes,” I said.
He returned his attention to the spot over my head.
I forged on. “Whatever it was had to have been a big deal. Everyone seems to know about it but me. Tell me. Please?”
Again Bennett took a long time before speaking. “Are you and Jack romantically involved?”
The question took me by surprise. “Not exactly. I mean, no. Every time we set a date to go out, something gets in the way.”
He nodded absently, as though he’d anticipated my answer. “I don’t know Jack’s brother, Davey, very well,” he began, “although I understand the boy has problems.” He didn’t elaborate. “Jack, however, is a good soul. I never believed the rumors.”
My heart thudded against my chest as I echoed, “Rumors?”
Bennett leaned forward, picked up his coffee, and took a thoughtful sip. I could see a decision playing across his features. His eyes again took on that distant look and the clock on the mantel ticked about twelve times before Bennett finally spoke again. “I think,” he said, “it would be best for you . . . for both of you . . . if you talked to Jack about this directly. This is not my story to tell and . . .” Bennett’s eyes tightened. “I may not get the facts straight. Yes,” he said, focusing on me again, “this is important. Jack needs to tell you himself.”
My mouth was so dry I couldn’t speak. Although I had to admit I didn’t know Jack all that well yet, I agreed with Bennett on one count: Jack was a good soul, a compassionate person. There was no way he could have killed anyone. Not on purpose, at least. It must have been a tragic accident. I swallowed with difficulty, wanting to beg Bennett to please tell me the whole story right now—this minute. But from the expression on his face, I knew my pleading would be futile.
Bennett worked up a smile, clearly eager to change the subject. “How’s the roof?”
“Better now, thanks to you.”
I’d come home one day about a month ago to find workers on my roof, repairing the leaks and adding bright new gutters and downspouts. As much as I’d needed the repair, I couldn’t afford the expense. I’d tried to stop the workers, convinced they’d begun work on my home in error. That’s when I discovered that I had a benefactor in Bennett. I’d called him immediately. “This isn’t your responsibility,” I’d said.
Even though our conversation had been over the phone, I’d heard the smile in his voice. “This is a small thing, Gracie. Besides, I always loved the old Careaux house. Let me help out while I can. I’m not getting any younger, you know.”
Staring at me now, he continued, “Your house needs a lot more work. You know, it could be a real showplace.”
I knew where this conversation was going and I wasn’t prepared to deal with it yet. I smiled, easing back into discussion of the recent murder. “The detectives have a consultant with them this time. A woman named Tank. She’s supposed to help bring the department into the twenty-first century.”
“Just like your job is to bring Marshfield Manor into the twenty-first century.”
“Something like that,” I admitted. “In any case, she seems very capable and I’m sure the police department is grateful for your generosity.”
“Another small way to help,” he said. To my dismay, he immediately returned to the subject I most wanted to avoid. “Have you given any further thought to my offer?”
I bit my lip to buy time. “I’m not ready,” I finally said. “My roommates . . .”
“They could stay there for as long as they need to,” Bennett said, “no one will try to force them out before they’re ready.”
My predecessor, Abe, had lived in a cottage on Marshfield property the entire time he’d worked as curator/director. One of the perks of the job. The house—which I’d seen from a distance but had never visited—was a sweet, two-story home with an adjacent garage converted from its prior life as a stable. Surrounded by mature trees far off the visitor access roads, it promised privacy, quiet, and stability. Best of all, being part of Marshfield grounds, it boasted round-the-clock maintenance and security. I’d be a fool to turn down Bennett’s offer to live there rent-free. But the house I lived in now was my own, and had been my mother’s before me. I wasn’t ready to leave it. Nor was I ready to leave Bruce and Scott.
Bennett wanted to renovate my dilapidated Victorian with a vision of opening it to visitors during Emberstowne’s annual summer house tours. And once Bruce and Scott decided to leave, Bennett pictured turning it into a minimuseum featuring the history of Emberstowne. I knew in my heart he wouldn’t force my roommates out, but these changes—however excited Bennett was by them—felt wrong to me. He’d told me about walking past the old house as a child, when the gardens were well-tended and the flowers were in bloom. He said that his father, Warren, had often talked about what a magnificent structure it was.
It wasn’t until much later—until I started working here—that Bennett discovered the reason the house stayed so pristine. Warren had taken care of its maintenance, at least while my grandmother was still alive. Bennett’s life and mine were intertwined in more ways than one.
But moving into Abe’s cottage at this time would mean leaving the only “family” I had. The idea of coming home each night to an empty house—however well-tended—made me feel sad whenever I thought about it. “I can’t.” When I read the disappointment on his face, I amended, “Not now. I can’t leave now.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “We’ll talk again,” he said.
I knew that when Bennett wanted something, he usually got it. Maybe we’d both inherited a stubbornness gene because, at this point at least, I wasn’t about to back down.
Chapter 7
I STILL COULDN’T REACH FRANCES AT HOME, so I tried her cell. It went right to voicemail. I decided not to leave a message about the murder. Chances were, my acerbic assistant would hear about it on her own anyway. Of all the individuals I’d met in my life, no one could touch Frances when it came to being nosy. I’d say she wrote the book, but doing so would have taken time from snooping. The woman was fearless and tenacious. To her credit, however, she was also usually right.
I assumed Frances knew Jack Embers’s story. Why wouldn’t she? Frances always seemed most cheerful when she had a particularly lurid tale to share. Which is why I was surprised she h
adn’t forced Jack’s history down my throat yet.
Right now however, I didn’t have time to ponder. I needed help. I called one of the assistant curators, Lois, at home. I brought her up to date on the situation and she promised she’d be right in. “I’m sorry to bring you in on your day off,” I said. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “I wasn’t doing much today anyway.”
Just as I replaced the phone in its cradle, I heard the door to Frances’s office open. From the sound of it, several people walked in before the door shut again. By the time Detective Rodriguez called, “Ms. Wheaton?” I was already coming around my desk to see who it was.
“In here,” I said.
Rodriguez, Flynn, and Tank strode in, Tank taking in the office and its furnishings as she crossed the threshold between my room and Frances’s. I understood the awe on Tank’s face and wondered if she’d ever visited the mansion as a tourist. Judging from her expression, this was her first experience. Marshfield Manor housed wonderful collections of priceless treasures, and every room was a minimuseum decorated with care. A feast for the eyes. I’m sure she was having trouble absorbing it all.
I gestured them into the office and urged them to take seats. Tank and Rodriguez took the two red leather wing chairs across from me. I returned to my spot behind the desk. I had a small sofa against the north wall and Flynn started for it, apparently changing his mind when he realized how far that would take him from the heart of the conversation. Instead, he opted to stand next to my desk and fidget.
Rodriguez flipped open his notebook. “So here we are again.”
Tank lifted an eyebrow but said nothing. She sat back in her wing chair, watching, her right ankle resting on her left knee, her fingers laced across her stomach.
“Do you have any idea who killed Kincade?” I asked.
