by Julie Hyzy
“I’m sorry.”
Although he said, “Not your fault,” his tone contradicted his words. He worked his jaw. “I better go.”
“Go where?”
“To my dad’s. I need to see Davey. Talk to you later, Grace.”
He jogged to his car and I called, “Let me know how it goes,” to his departing figure, but he drove off without even a wave good-bye.
Chapter 18
FRANCES FOUND ME AT MY DESK THE NEXT morning staring out the windows. “They arrested the Embers kid?” she asked by way of greeting. She was wearing a different Civil War costume, a foggy gray shift that hung straight to the ground.
“No hoop today?” I countered, surprised she was in this early. I hadn’t even heard the door open.
“I’ll wear the gown again at the ball after the battle Saturday. For now it’s going to be easier, not to mention cooler, to wear this.” She fingered the fabric then looked at me expectantly.
“No, they didn’t arrest him,” I said. “They just pulled him in for more questioning. I’m surprised you already heard.”
She lifted both shoulders as if to say, “What did you expect?” Settling herself into one of the wing chairs, she narrowed her eyes. “He didn’t do it.”
Her pronouncement surprised me. “I don’t think so either.”
We were quiet for a long moment.
“Davey is staying with their father, from what I understand,” I said, “until all this blows over. If it blows over.”
“Gordon.”
“Excuse me?”
“Their dad is Gordon Embers. Used to be a big-shot cop here in town. You ask me . . .” She paused, as though gauging my reaction.
I flipped my hand up. “Go ahead, say it.”
Wiggling herself deeper into the seat, she went on, “I think the only reason your gardener, Jack, got off last time was because Daddy pulled strings. Now, I’m not saying Jack is guilty, but I do think they cut the investigation short because Jack is Gordon’s son.”
I started to shake my head.
She drew a finger along her cheek and up toward her right ear. “Know where he got that scar?”
“Wrong side,” I said, “it’s on the left.”
With a Cheshire cat smile, she said, “He beat up the dead guy—the dead guy from thirteen years ago, I mean. Just a week later, that man was murdered in cold blood.”
I knew Jack’s side, but I let her continue.
“I know some folks up where Lyle Kincade lived,” she said. “I didn’t know the man personally, but there’s no question he was crazy and dangerous. I don’t blame the Embers family for getting their girl away from him, but the fact remains, Jack and Lyle got into a fight that sent them both to the hospital. Lyle slashed Jack with a broken bottle, and Jack kicked in Lyle’s knee.”
“I heard a little about that,” I said carefully. “But I thought three of them went there. Jack’s older brother and father, too.”
“Gordon? Never. He wouldn’t have jeopardized his career that way,” she said. “I know the man. He’s smart. He might have sent the boys to do some mischief, but he wouldn’t have stepped foot inside Lyle’s house unless it was with an arrest warrant in hand.”
Same basic story Jack had told me, shaded slightly differently.
“So why don’t you think it was the older brother who killed Lyle?”
“Couldn’t be. I talked to some folks who worked with him back then. At the time of the murder, Keith was upstate working a construction site with his team. Impossible for him to have taken off and come back for that length of time without anyone noticing.”
“Some folks,” I repeated. “You know a lot of ‘some folks.’ ”
“I make it my business to know.”
“I think the Emberstowne Police Department should have hired you instead of that Tank woman.”
Frances’s mouth twitched. “It’s their loss.”
It sure was.
When she was ready to return to the Civil War encampment for round two of her gossip-harvesting, I wished her good luck. “You did great cornering Jim Florian yesterday,” I said. “We got a lot of useful information.”
“You weren’t so bad yourself. Maybe you ought to pick out a dress from the sutlers and have a go out there, too.”
“Thanks, but I’ll leave the undercover work to you.”
“Undercover,” she repeated, shuddering.
“I thought you enjoyed this.”
“I do . . . it’s just . . .” She shook her head. “Never mind. I’ll deal with it.”
“Is there a problem?”
“Nothing I can’t handle. I’ll catch up with you later.”
MID-MORNING WHEN THE OUTER DOOR TO Frances’s office banged open I jammed a finger to hold my place on the massive spreadsheet that tracked the mansion’s past twelve months’ expenses for paper goods. I looked up to see who my visitor was, thinking again how much I needed to persuade this staff to go green. Bennett rushed in. “It’s here,” he said.
“What is?”
Joy suffused his features and he threw his hands up in the air. “The auction item, of course. What else?”
He wasn’t carrying anything. “Where is it?”
“Come on, come on,” he said, urging me to hurry.
I placed a Post-it note on the expense sheet and stood. I doubted whatever it was would disappear if I didn’t show up in the next two minutes, but Bennett’s enthusiasm was contagious. Taking on Abe’s directorship in addition to being head curator wasn’t working out exactly as I’d hoped. Rather than traveling the world to discover exciting relics and historically significant pieces to add to the Marshfield collection, rather than spending blissful hours cataloguing the hundreds of pieces we already had in storage, I mostly found myself poring over minutiae in order to keep the mansion running smoothly. I hadn’t had a chance to flex my curator muscles in some time and an opportunity to experience something new—or old, as it were—would be a breath of fresh air. I grabbed my walkie-talkie and followed him. “Lead the way.”
The manor was buzzing with tourists. They took no notice of us despite the fact we were walking against the normal flow of traffic. Most visitors wouldn’t recognize the owner of the manor if they ran into him, and certainly no one would recognize me.
Bennett led the way with long strides. I kept up, trying to calculate where he was taking me. We took the central public stairway down to the main floor. I wondered, not for the first time, how much longer the carpet here would hold out. Stairways always took a beating and although the thick red runner wasn’t yet showing wear, the color had faded ever so slightly where the sun beat through the windows. I had no idea how long this particular floor covering had been in place. Another task for me to add to my to-do list.
Bennett strode toward the front entry. The docents recognized “the Mister,” of course, and rushed to open the giant doors for him, eagerly greeting him with a cheerful “Good morning, sir.”
He nodded acknowledgment and thanked them but didn’t slow his pace. I was long-legged enough to stay next to him, but I couldn’t help but be impressed with the man’s power. I hoped to have his strength and stamina when I reached that age.
The sun warmed our skin as we walked, a faint breeze carrying the sweet scent of flowers. I smiled, thinking that Jack would probably recognize the fragrance immediately and be able to name the plant that produced it.
Jack.
Remembering his abrupt departure last night, I bit my lip. This wasn’t the time to dwell on disappointment, however. I resolved to keep upbeat for Bennett’s sake.
Just outside and to the east were the manor’s former stables. Off-limits to guests until we refurbished the area, this section had seen plenty of use in the early 1900s when the Marshfield family entertained guests. U-shaped like a mini castle around a courtyard, the two-story structure originally housed about fifty horses and to this day remained in good shape, structurally.
I had ideas for future ch
anges. Plans to maximize this space and to ramp up the manor’s income while we were at it. Not that Bennett needed the money.
At the gate to the courtyard, he stopped. “You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
Eyes sparkling, he grasped the gate’s handle and swung it open. “Then let’s go.”
I followed him past the thick stone walls of the passageway. Bennett stepped back to allow me to proceed first, and as I did, my breath caught. In the very center of the courtyard, sparkling in the sunlight, was a dazzling cream-colored antique car. So huge, it was almost as big as my first New York apartment. A convertible, with its top down. “Oh my,” I said.
Bennett swept the air with both hands, shooing me closer. “It’s a 1936 Packard Phaeton.”
That meant nothing to me. “This looks like the kind of car you’d see in The Great Gatsby.”
Bennett laughed. “You’re a few years off. And I think he drove a Rolls.”
I took a slow walk around the car, admiring the wide curved fenders, fat white walls, and stately silver grill. “You bought this at auction?”
“Outrageous, isn’t she?” he said as he ran a hand up and along the front fender. “I’ve never before seen one in such pristine condition. Just over three hundred thousand miles.” He must have caught my expression. “That’s very low for a vehicle of this age,” he said. “And this was a steal, if I do say so myself. I’m lucky. This was quite the whim. I couldn’t believe how few people bid on it.”
There were times I wondered if Bennett had any idea how the rest of the world lived, worked, and did their best to get by. In this economy I was surprised anyone had bid on it. “It’s just wonderful,” I said. I rested my hands atop the passenger door and peered in, then thought better of it. “Oops, sorry,” I said as I yanked my hands back. “Fingerprints.”
“Don’t worry.” Bennett’s grin was as big as I’d ever seen it. “I thought you’d like to drive it.”
“Me? No way. But I’d be thrilled if you’d take me for a ride someday.”
“That’s not what I had in mind.”
Bennett didn’t drive much anymore, so I clarified, “I meant that Grant or one of your other drivers could take us.”
“As you know, we don’t allow staff cars up near the manor where they can be seen by guests.”
“Right. It ruins the illusion.” What did that have to do with him taking me for a drive?
Still grinning, he said, “But this car, even if parked out front, wouldn’t look out of place at all.”
“No,” I agreed, “it would fit right in.”
Bennett’s cheeks flushed a pale shade of pink. “I thought you might like to have this car to travel back and forth between the cottage and work every day.” As though he expected me to interrupt, he hurried to add, “There’s plenty of space at Abe’s cottage for the car you own, too, but I’d like to think you wouldn’t need it anymore if you had . . . this one.”
Speechless and dumbfounded, I alternated glances between Bennett and the car, trying to come up with an appropriate response. “Bennett,” I began, “you’re too kind.”
“I’m not kind at all. This is a bribe. I want to be up-front about that. You can’t imagine how much it would mean to me to have you move into the cottage. So much so, that if you like I’ll sign a deed that makes it yours for life.”
“But . . .”
“This feels right, Gracie. You belong here. And I’m determined to convince you to take advantage. Just think about how much easier it would be without having to worry about the roof falling in, or replacing broken pipes. Not to mention the short commute.”
The happiness on his face had shifted to one of great concern and I could practically read his thoughts. He was worried he’d overdone it in trying to change my mind. He had. Completely. I stood there mute for what felt like a long time. I wanted to tell him no. To tell him definitively. But doing so would hurt Bennett. I couldn’t do that. So I hedged.
“I told you I needed time to think about it, right?”
He nodded guardedly.
“I still need more. Can you give me just a little more time to think? Please?”
“Gracie, I know you feel as though I’m pressuring you, but the loss of Abe makes me appreciate the importance of family. I want you to always feel as though you’re part of Marshfield Manor. A real part. How can you do that if you live so far away?”
I knew how lonely Bennett was. He’d cocooned himself in the mansion for so long he didn’t know how to break out. His solution, instead, was to pull me in.
To buy time, I ran my hand along the car’s sleek fender, but the truth was I had a very different life planned for myself. I didn’t want to live on Marshfield property. Not now, maybe not ever. I loved my house despite the work involved to keep it in shape.
“I do understand,” I said, but I couldn’t disappoint Bennett at this moment. Not when he was staring at me with that hopeful expression on his face.
I felt my resolve waver, but giving in wasn’t the right answer. “Just a little longer, Bennett. I still feel like that’s Abe’s cottage after all.”
He didn’t argue this time, but the look on his face about broke my heart.
My walkie-talkie buzzed and I answered. “There are some women to see you, Ms. Wheaton,” one of the attendants at the visitors’ desk said. “Shall I show them to your office?”
“I’m outside. I’ll be there in a minute.” Turning to Bennett, I said, “I have to go.”
“Of course.”
I gave the Packard a long look before I took off. “She is beautiful,” I said. “Have you named her yet?”
Looking depressed, Bennett ran a hand along the driver’s side door. “No.”
“My grandmother’s name was Sophie,” I reminded him.
His expression brightened. “Sophie,” he repeated, “yes. That’s it.”
“SOMEONE TO SEE ME?” I ASKED WHEN I GOT back inside.
The elderly docent behind the desk pointed to three women gathered behind velvet ropes along a far wall.
“Thanks,” I said and started toward them. I hadn’t taken five steps when I recognized one, then another. Rani and Tamara, the two women who’d come to Taser Zachary Kincade the day he’d been killed. What on earth were they doing here today?
I approached them with caution. “Welcome back to Marshfield,” I said keeping my tone light and friendly. We had at least six security guards in this area, so I knew I would be safe. “What can I do for you?”
“Hello again, Ms. Wheaton,” Rani said. This time, instead of all black, she was head-to-toe in buttercup yellow. Linen pants, silk shell, and matching jacket. On any other woman the effect might have been amusing, but this gal carried it off with style. Tamara wore a shapeless dress of pale blue and blue flats. Their companion, a stunning woman of about forty, had the purest, clearest skin I’d ever seen in a woman her age. She had wavy red hair that fell to her shoulders and eyes so tragically blue there left no doubt she’d been crying. Wearing silver sandals and a sage green form-fitting dress that accentuated a body most women would kill for, she gripped a deeper green sweater in one hand and a silver purse in the other.
“This is our friend Muffy,” Rani said, pointing. “The one we told you about.”
Muffy’s cream-colored cheeks blushed bright red.
“Nice to meet you, Muffy,” I said. “Is there something I can help you with?”
She stole a glance toward Rani. “No, I just . . .”
“Muffy might have a clue about who killed Zachary,” Rani said.
Muffy sniffled. She pulled out a tissue and wiped her nose.
Suddenly aware that we’d attracted the attention of the staff behind the visitors’ desk, I suggested we take this conversation elsewhere. “There’s a small room off the library where I think we’d have more privacy,” I said, and called Terrence Carr on my walkie-talkie, asking him to meet us there.
“I DON’T UNDERSTAND,” I SAID WHEN WE we
re all gathered.
This room was only about one-third the size of the mansion’s library but it housed almost as many volumes. Treasures crammed every corner, filling the space with the musty scent of a used bookstore. Coupled with a faint trace of pipe tobacco, it was as though a ghost returned here every evening to enjoy a book and a smoke. The adjacent library was two stories tall and large enough to entertain a hundred guests if the need arose, but this side room was much more intimate. Bennett’s grandfather had purportedly kept this as his private room, off-limits to everyone but immediate family. If we did indeed have a pipesmoking ghost, it would be Warren, Sr.
Four caramel-colored leather chairs circled a round coffee table near the tall stone fireplace but the five of us—including Terrence—remained standing.
“We’re here to help you,” Rani said. She placed a hand on Muffy’s arm and spoke for her. “We told you about how Zachary jilted our friend here, right?” She turned to her and said, “I’m sorry, Muffy, but we had to explain.”
Terrence interrupted. “Last time you were here, you mean? As in, when you attempted to assault Mr. Kincade?” His chin rose. “That being the same Mr. Kincade who was recently murdered?”
Muffy choked back a sob and held the green sweater up to hide her face.
Rani gave Terrence a dismissive glare. “Assault? Hardly. You exaggerate.”
“You tried to Taser him,” I said.
She waved a hand. “Whatever. What’s important now is that the police stop hassling us. I mean, they obviously still consider us suspects in the murder. How silly is that?” she asked rhetorically. “Muffy has some information we’d like to share with you. Information we think could help the police catch the real killer instead of wasting their time investigating us.”
“If it’s such good information,” Terrence said, “why not take it directly to the police?”
