by Julie Hyzy
“Have you met that . . . that . . . Tank? All she wants is to toss us into a cell and walk away whistling. We tried to tell her about what a jerk Kincade was but that woman had no sympathy whatsoever for poor Muffy. Probably never had a man in her life so she can’t understand what pigs they can be.”
“She’s happily married,” I said. “Two kids. One grand-kid she’s crazy about.”
Rani gave a dainty shrug. “Whatever,” she said again. “We just don’t like her, do we, girls?”
Tamara shook her head vehemently. Muffy looked ready to die where she stood.
“Fine,” I said, despite the anger I sensed building in Terrence. “What’s so important?”
“Go ahead, Muffy,” Rani prompted.
After much sniffling and false starts, Muffy began. She had a deep Southern drawl that pulled you in and made you want to do something to help. Her tears began to subside with the telling of the story. “Zachary talked about this hobby of his—this military playacting—all the time. Now, he always called it his Civil War games, but as you know around here we refer to that time as the War Against Northern Aggression. Zachary and I sometimes had words about that.” She sniffled.
I nodded. “Go on.”
“Zachary was always so worked up about his playacting. I was afraid he was more interested in this pretend stuff than he was in me.” Her voice cracked. “I guess I was sure right about that, wasn’t I?” she asked with a self-deprecating smile.
“Be strong, Muffy,” Rani said.
She nodded, not looking strong at all. “Well, now, it had to be right like two or three weeks before he . . . died, Zachary told me that he was pretty sure he was goin’ to be elected to be the top man of the group. He was a Union soldier, you know. I don’t understand why he’d choose the north, but that was his business. Anyway, I think maybe he said he’d be the general. But that some people were against it.”
I thought about how Jim Florian, now running unopposed, was expected to be elected to that position. “Did he say anything about the man he was running against?”
“I have to be honest about this part. When he got to talking about his war games, I lost interest and started thinking about wedding plans instead.” She sniffled again, loudly. “I probably should have paid better attention. There wasn’t even ever goin’ to be a wedding, was there?”
I waited until she settled herself before asking, “Why do you think this is important now?”
“Because Zachary told me he was worried about one fella in particular. When he said that, I started listening more closely. He said he was worried because this man had it in for him.”
I thought about Jim Florian again. “Did he say why? Was this guy jealous that Zachary was going to be elected and he wasn’t?”
“I don’t know,” Muffy said. “Just that Zachary said he was worried about one of the men coming after him, but he didn’t say any name that I recall. What he said was, ‘This guy’s not going to be satisfied until I’m dead.’ ”
We talked a little longer with Terrence asking additional questions, but there was not much more information to be had. As we escorted them out, I turned to Rani. “I don’t get it. Why did you make the effort to come out here when you hated Zachary Kincade so much?”
Her eyebrows arched. “We hated him, sure, but we never wanted him dead. In fact, we wish he was still alive.”
“You do?” I asked.
Tamara bobbed her head. “He got off too easy. We wanted to Taser him.” She gave a wicked smile. “For a couple of hours or so.”
Chapter 19
FRANCES WAS IN HER OFFICE WHEN I GOT there. “You’re back early,” I said.
She fanned herself. “It’s getting warm.”
The day had been fairly mild. “I would have thought it would have been hotter under that heavy dress yesterday.”
“It was.”
Pointing out the obvious, I said, “But the temperature is lower today. And you’re wearing a much lighter garment.”
She fixed me with a look. “I know that.”
Deciding to try a different tack, I lowered myself into one of her visitors’ chairs. “What’s wrong?”
She had been standing behind her desk, but now sat down hard, making the seat creak in protest. I’d be the first to admit I had trouble reading my assistant. Other than perpetually cranky, she didn’t seem to have a wide range of emotions. To buy her time, however, I told her about our recent visitors and Muffy’s “clue.”
She listened with interest, her small eyes sparking when I mentioned that Zachary believed one of his Civil War mates was out to get him.
“Hmph.” Her brows came together. “That fits with what I’ve pieced together,” she said. “Zachary Kincade was having an affair with one of the wives.”
“Was making enemies his favorite hobby?”
Frances crinkled her nose. “Who knows? Some people are just like that.”
I kept my mouth shut on that comment. “So you think the woman’s husband is a suspect. Who is it, by the way?”
“Guy named Jeff. I met him. He’s either drunk or sleeping it off all day every day. Nobody blames the wife for stepping out on the guy. Can you believe it?”
“So this is common knowledge?”
“Talk about circling the wagons,” she said, leaning forward. “I highly doubt anyone thought to mention this illicit little tête-à-tête to the police.” She lifted her shoulders when I exclaimed my disbelief. “The re-enactors don’t believe Jeff could have done it. He’s incoherent most of the time. Plus, the consensus is he doesn’t really care.”
“That’s sad.”
She shifted in her seat. “There’s more.”
“About Jeff and his wife?”
She wiggled again. Sniffed. “No.”
I waited.
“You know how I’m sharing space with the soiled doves?” Frances’s face darkened as she looked to me for acknowledgment. I nodded and she went on. “All those women have husbands participating in the re-enactment.”
I had no idea where this was going.
“Their husbands get into the game and pretend they’re . . . hiring their wives. They come by and flirt and make eyes. It’s ridiculous.”
“That has to make you a little uncomfortable.”
“Pfft! Tell me about it. At least they have the common decency to consummate their little game elsewhere. But . . . these people have worked and played together for years so they don’t think twice about . . . well, about getting into their roles.” Disdain dripped with every word.
“I’m sorry, Frances. Aren’t there any other women who are willing to share a tent with you?”
“The soiled dove tent is the only all-female spot I’ve found. All the other women at camp share tents with their husbands. If I want to change clothes or even just get out of the sun for a few minutes without some man skulking inside, I have to stick it out with these soiled doves.” Frances shot me with a piercing look.
“I’m sorry to hear that you’re having issues.”
“There’s one more thing.”
I couldn’t decipher the look in her eyes. “Go on.”
“One of the Confederate soldiers—a man named Hennessey—has been following me around.”
“Ah,” I said, “he’s figured out what you’re up to, I take it? Do you consider him a suspect?”
“No,” she said slowly, “he’s not even aware of my investigation.” She blushed again more deeply this time. “He keeps following me around. Keeps trying to get me to visit his tent.” She wagged her tadpoles. “You know . . .”
My jaw dropped. “He came on to you?”
“With gusto.”
“I definitely do not want you uncomfortable out there. Would you prefer to give it up?”
Her eyes widened. “Don’t you think I’m bringing you good information?”
“Great information. In fact, I plan to share this with the police.”
“Then why are you trying to take me off t
he job?”
My head spun. What convoluted logic led her to that conclusion? “I don’t want you off the job. I just assumed—”
She squared her shoulders. “I can handle myself, thank you very much.”
“Okay then,” I said, perplexed but not willing to argue, “just let me know if you need anything.”
She made an unladylike noise. “Saltpeter, maybe.”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed out loud. To my surprise, Frances chuckled, too.
I STOPPED BY AMETHYST CELLARS ON MY WAY home. The cozy tasting room was practically humming with cheerful customers. Scott was behind the bar pouring samples while Bruce chatted up the clientele. They looked far too busy for me to bother them, so I caught Scott’s eye and waved hello, indicating that I’d see them later at home.
To my surprise, he looked alarmed and quickly beckoned me forward. Excusing himself from a couple of thirty-somethings sampling a red, he spoke quietly. “Just a heads-up,” he said, “that Tooney guy was here looking for you a little while ago.”
“He didn’t know I was at work?”
Scott laughed quietly. “I’m sure he did, but you and I both know how welcome he is at Marshfield.”
“True enough. What did he want?”
“He said to tell you he might be stopping by tonight. Around seven.”
I groaned. “Remind me not to answer the door.”
Scott’s expression tightened. “He says he found Bootsie’s owners.”
My heart dropped. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” Scott said, “that’s pretty much the reaction I expected.”
TOONEY SHOWED UP AS PROMISED JUST AS the parlor clock chimed the hour. Wearing an open trench coat over a dress shirt and pants, he removed his hat the moment I opened the door. “Good evening, Ms. Wheaton.” Glancing at the bundle of fur in my arms, he added, “I see you got my message.”
He was alone. “I thought you’d be bringing the owners with you,” I said.
“May I come in?”
Reluctantly I pushed open the screen door and stepped aside, leading him into the parlor to talk. This was his first time inside my home and he made no effort to disguise his curiosity, his gaze taking in the high ceilings, threadbare furniture, and photos I’d arranged on the mantel. He pointed to one of them. “Family?”
I ignored the question. “What proof do you have that Bootsie belongs to these other people?” I asked. “I don’t intend to give her up until I’m sure.”
Tooney was not a particularly attractive man. Fiftyish, bloated, and pale, his appearance, coupled with his scheming personality, made for one unpleasant package. But his face transformed whenever he smiled, which he did now, clearly proud of himself. “I’m sure they’re the cat’s owners,” he said, “but I understand your concern.” He pulled a small digital camera from his coat pocket and wrapped the strap around his wrist. “That’s why I’m here tonight. I’ll take a few shots of your little charge there and see if this is Mittens after all.”
“Mittens?”
“That’s her name,” he said, nodding toward the kitten, “because of her white paws. There’s even a reward out for her return.”
I took a step back, clutching Bootsie so tightly she squirmed. My nose began to run again, and I loosened one hand long enough to pull a tissue from my jeans pocket and blow. “How do you know they won’t claim this is their cat when it really isn’t? Don’t I get to see pictures of the cat they lost to compare for myself?”
Tooney watched as I shoved the tissue back into my pocket. “I thought you’d be happy to be rid of her.”
“It’s one thing to give her back to the family that lost her,” I said, fighting my runny nose. “But I have to be sure. And anyway, how did this ‘Mittens’ get out? Weren’t they watching her? How old is the cat they’re missing? This one is just a kitten.”
He shot me a sad smile. “Mittens has only had one vet appointment so far. She was too young to be spayed and she got out when the kids’ grandmother opened the door to accept a package delivery. That was about a week ago. The family figures Mittens was too young to know her way home.”
“Are they nice kids? Responsible, I mean?”
“Yeah,” Tooney said, “the youngest one is nine. They’re heartbroken that Mittens disappeared.”
I swallowed my disappointment. “Where do they live?”
He tilted his head. “Westville.”
“That’s awfully far.”
Tooney held up the camera. “That’s why I want to snap a few shots before we arrange to hand her over.”
I wasn’t about to hand her over without more proof. I raised my point again. “What about pictures they took of Mittens? Don’t I get to see those?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know if they have any.”
“Well, ask,” I said to him. “If they have kids, I’m sure they have pictures of them with their cat. That’s just the way people do things, you know.” I caught myself muttering and stopped immediately. “They will have pictures,” I said more confidently, “and I want to see them.”
Raising an eyebrow, he focused and shot four pictures in a row. “Can you shift her so I can see more of the white?”
I complied and sneezed.
As he continued, he said, “I thought you wanted to find her family.”
I shrugged.
“Especially with you being allergic and all. I thought this was what you wanted.”
Feeling cross, I looked away. “Just doesn’t seem right, that’s all. How do we know they won’t say this is their cat? I mean, if they only had her a week, they may look at your pictures and think it’s Mittens. But maybe it isn’t.”
Tooney gave me a thoughtful stare before thanking me and starting for the door. “I’ll be in touch,” he said, “real soon.”
I saw Tooney out, still holding Bootsie, wishing the PI wannabe had never gotten involved. As I shut the door after him, I snuggled my face into the kitten’s fur. “Oh, Bootsie,” I said. Then sneezed again.
Chapter 20
NOT HAVING FRANCES TO RUN INTERFERENCE for me was becoming a problem. I was getting little done during the day because phones rang off the hook, the media kept demanding answers, and staffers needed guidance when faced with unexpected decisions. I began to think that my irritable assistant might deserve a raise. I pushed that thought aside for the moment, because I didn’t have time to think about that now. I had work to do.
The back of my brain nagged that I had more to worry about than running the mansion. I had Bennett’s plea for me to move into Abe’s cottage and Bootsie’s future on my mind. Not to mention the ongoing murder investigation. Investigations. Plural. That was enough for one day. Heck, that was enough for a year.
I found myself spending more time in Frances’s office than in my own. We kept most of our records in there, although I hated having to find anything. Frances had a very personal method of organization, one that no one could figure out. I supposed she considered our dependence on her a form of job security.
Phone receiver crooked tight on my shoulder, I was talking with Lois about where to temporarily house Bennett’s new 1936 Packard until its final spot was decided, when Tank and Rodriguez ambled into the office. They waved a greeting and sat down in the chairs across from me without my inviting them to do so.
“Let me call you back, Lois,” I said quickly. “I’ve got company.”
“Before you go, Grace, let me just share one little tidbit. Mr. Marshfield ordered a special keychain made.”
“For the Packard? I don’t understand.”
“GLW. Your initials. Is he giving the car to you? Some kind of bonus?”
“No,” I said trying to be truthful without actually spilling all the beans, “but he, uh, thinks it’s a good idea for me to use it on-site.”
“Gotcha,” she said, buying it. “Makes sense.”
When I hung up, I turned to the two detectives in front of me, trying to read their expressions. “How is the investigation com
ing?” I asked.
“We’re getting closer to an arrest,” Tank said. Rodriguez grimaced.
I addressed him. “You don’t agree?”
He waved a hand dismissively. “We’re here as a courtesy call.”
I directed a questioning look at Tank then shifted back to Rodriguez. “What is it you need?”
Tank lifted her hand toward her partner. “Go ahead.”
Rodriguez rubbed his neck, then ran a finger inside his collar, as though to loosen it. “Ms. Wheaton, we know you went out with Jack Embers the other night. On a date. Am I right?”
I sat up, startled. “Am I being investigated?”
He shook his head slowly. “Like I said, this is a courtesy. We just want to make you aware that Jack Embers is a person of interest.”
“In Zachary Kincade’s murder?”
The two exchanged a glance.
“You have evidence?” I asked, hearing my voice go up a few notches.
Another glance. “Nothing we care to share at this point,” Rodriguez said.
“What does that mean?”
Tank again held her hand toward her colleague. “Detective Rodriguez was not part of the Emberstowne force thirteen years ago so no one holds him responsible for any mistakes that were made back then. Nor for any instances of bad judgment.”
My temples throbbed and my vision narrowed. “Your point?”
“Gordon Embers was a high-ranking cop on the Emberstowne force. We think he pulled strings to get his son out of trouble.”
“But . . . but . . .” I realized I was sputtering. “The murder happened in a different town. There’s no way he could have pulled strings with them. Is there?” My question trailed off with such a pathetically hopeful lilt I could have bitten my tongue.
“As you’re no doubt aware, Ms. Wheaton,” Tank began, “Lyle Kincade was a contemptible individual. No one disputes that. His murder saddened no one beyond his immediate family. I think Emberstowne’s finest banded together. They realized that Jack Embers wasn’t a threat to society at large, so they managed to finagle him a get-out-of-jail-free card.” She turned to Rodriguez, who looked like he’d like to be anywhere but with Tank, and added, “That is, until I got here.”
