by Julie Hyzy
“He’s single,” she said after me. “Divorced. Don’t know if there are any kids. You’re not going to be picky about a man having kids, are you?”
I didn’t break stride.
“Your clock is ticking. You know that, right?”
I crossed the threshold into my own office with both hands fisted and my jaw clenched. A second later, Frances’s outer door opened, and Rodriguez walked in.
“Good morning, Frances,” the detective boomed. He held up his palm in greeting. “How are we today?” He noticed me in the doorway. “Glad you’re here, too, Grace. We have a few updates for you on Virginia Frisbie.”
Flynn loped in behind his partner looking as though he’d prefer to be anywhere but here. “Not my idea,” he said to my unasked question. He jerked a thumb at Rodriguez. “He’s the one who insists on keeping you informed. If it were up to me, neither of you would hear a word until this case was completely wrapped up. By us.”
“Then I guess it’s a good thing it isn’t up to you,” my assistant said.
I swallowed my pique about her pushing Davenport on me and smiled sweetly at her. “Let’s not antagonize our detective friends, okay, Frances?” To them: “Good to see you. Both.”
Flynn grunted. “You got coffee?”
If there was one thing that kept Flynn coming back to Marshfield, it was the promise of steaming coffee and fresh pastries. Frances made a phone call. Whatever it took to keep our local law enforcement happy.
“Have a seat, gentlemen,” I said, indicating the two chairs in front of Frances’s desk. “Let me grab one more from my office.”
Moments later, when I returned pushing a wheeled seat to join the detectives, I realized that they and Frances were already in the midst of discussion.
Flynn leaned forward from the edge of his chair. “We’ve already talked with him. What more does she think she’s going to get?”
“That’s not the point.” Frances folded her arms and turned her attention to Rodriguez. “You know what I’m saying.”
Rodriguez scratched his head. “I don’t see any harm.” He shrugged, sending a baleful look at his partner. “He wasn’t much help. Didn’t tell us anything we didn’t already know. Maybe Grace will have better luck.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked as I positioned myself next to Flynn.
“You,” he said. “And your lunch date with the bank president.”
I shot a scathing look at Frances, who responded with a Cheshire cat smile.
“First of all, it’s not a date,” I said.
“Yes, it is,” she said.
I ignored her. “He called because of my partnership with Bruce and Scott.”
“Here you go. Coffee and treats.” One of our Birdcage Room attendants arrived wheeling in a tray of coffee and breakfast pastries. As soon as she saw that we didn’t require anything further, she left, and we all helped ourselves to a second breakfast. I opted for a fresh cup of coffee, but it was getting too late for more. Lunch with Davenport would probably turn out to be a terrible waste of time. I should have gotten the information I needed from him over the phone.
“So why are you going to lunch with him?” Flynn asked when we resettled ourselves. “Davenport, I mean.”
Had Flynn read my mind? It sure seemed as though he had. “I asked him a couple of questions about Virginia and the Granite Building that he couldn’t answer. He said he’d look into it and let me know. I assume he’ll bring information to share.”
Rodriguez had dark, hooded eyes. He studied me now, blinking slowly. “Is that all you’re interested in?”
“What? Yes. What is wrong with all of you?” I asked.
“Just want to make sure I’m not leading my friend Joe astray,” Rodriguez said. “I don’t want him to get hurt.”
“What about Grace?” Frances asked indignantly. “Don’t you think the good doctor has had more than enough time to make his intentions known? Grace is perfectly within her rights to start seeing other men.”
“Whoa,” I said, holding up both hands. “I’m right here, have any of you noticed? For your information, I’m not technically seeing anyone. So there are no ‘other men’ at this juncture. And right about now I’d appreciate it if you would all take a big step out of my personal life.”
The twin looks on Rodriguez’s and Frances’s faces let me know that they hadn’t had anything in mind beyond my best interests. But their ideas and mine with regard to my love life were apparently miles apart.
Still, these were my friends. I softened my outburst. “If anything comes of anything, you will all be the first to know. But in the meantime, how about you let me navigate by myself. Is that fair?”
Frances harrumphed. Rodriguez pulled his lips to one side and chewed on a cheek. “Maybe Joe has a good reason for taking his time,” he said.
Flynn scowled. “I thought we were here to talk about the murder.”
“So it’s definitely a murder?” I turned to Rodriguez. “Let’s hear those updates you mentioned.”
He made a show of digging out his notebook, flipping it open, and squinting at his notes. “According to the autopsy, Ms. Virginia Frisbie died of internal injuries sustained from a blow to her head and subsequent fall down the stairs. She had defensive wounds on both arms and traces of skin and blood under her fingernails.” He put his notebook down. “Coroner’s conclusion: homicide.”
“Poor Virginia.” I tried to imagine her last moments alive. I shuddered to think. “Was Joe—Dr. Bradley—able to tell if she suffered?”
Part of me wished I could ask Joe these questions myself—and not solely for the answers he could provide. All this talk about my upcoming lunch with Neal Davenport had me thinking, again, about Joe and whether he and I were on a path to a relationship or if I’d read signals wrong.
No. I hadn’t read anything incorrectly.
“I’m sorry,” I said, shaking my head when I realized Rodriguez had answered me. “What did you say?”
“Dr. Bradley is convinced she died almost instantly after she hit the basement floor. But based on his observations, he believes she was repositioned shortly after her death.”
“The killer moved her?” I asked.
Flynn rolled his eyes. “Who else could it have been?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the squatter? Haven’t you found anything about the person living there?”
Flynn scowled again.
“Not yet, Miz Wheaton,” Rodriguez said. “But we’re following up.”
“Of course you are,” I said in a kindlier tone. I knew the two men were doing their very best. I just wasn’t in the mood to handle Flynn’s attitude at the moment. I decided to change tactics. “Have you spoken with the building inspector?” I asked. “From what I understand, Cynthia Quinn came highly recommended.”
Flynn snorted. “Yeah? By who? She’s a flake, that one.”
Rodriguez shot him a pained look, then answered me. “We spoke with her on the phone but haven’t interviewed her yet. She’s been a little difficult to pin down.”
“Oh?” I said.
Frances sat up straighter. “Do you think she could have killed Virginia? Is she a suspect? She’d have had the means and opportunity, right?”
Rodriguez waved a hand. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, okay? We have no reason to suspect Ms. Quinn at this point.”
“No reason to assume she’s innocent, either,” Frances said.
“Except—I don’t know—because everyone is innocent until proven guilty under the law maybe?” Flynn said. He gestured with his mug, which fortunately he’d almost drained.
Frances gave an indignant head waggle. “Since when has that ever stopped you?”
“That’s enough,” I said as I got to my feet. “Frances, the detectives came here to update us of their own free will. Let’s not make them sorry they
included us, all right?” I tapped my wrist where a watch would be if I’d been wearing one. “As for me, I’d love to stay and chat, but I have a bank president to meet.”
“Rodriguez could be right. Davenport may open up to you,” Flynn said. “Let us know if he has anything important to say.”
“Of course I will,” I said as I hurried into my office to grab my purse.
Rodriguez had gotten to his feet by the time I came back. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
Frances folded her arms and grunted. “You go right ahead and do whatever you like. Time to leave the slowpoke behind.”
Because they meant well, I bit back a snarky reply. Instead, I opened the door, turned back, and winked. “Don’t wait up.”
Chapter 8
Thank goodness for Bluetooth. On my drive to meet Neal Davenport, I had the car dial Joe’s cell. My call was immediately routed to voicemail and I reasoned that he must still be busy with hospital rounds or patients. I left a quick message asking him to call me whenever convenient. Even though Rodriguez and Flynn had already delivered the news that Virginia’s death was now a homicide, I wanted to hear Joe’s insights.
The restaurant Neal Davenport and I had agreed on was a spacious yet homey place. A fixture in Emberstowne since my grandmother had lived here, Myrtille sat less than a block away from the Granite Building. Myrtille was a two-story corner structure with bright red awnings lining both street-facing sides. Its upper level featured a steep roof, pitched gables, and a half-timbered construction, reminding me of the picturesque homes at Marie Antoinette’s Versailles farm. I had no problem finding a parking spot on Main Street because we were still a few weeks ahead of our tourist season and it was a bit early for lunch.
With its high tin ceilings and black-and-white patterned tile floor, the restaurant gave off a lovely empty and cool vibe. The air inside carried the faintest whiff of garlic. A mahogany bar ran the length of one wall. Two men sat at it, three seats apart. They both glanced up at my entrance, watching me via the bar’s mirror.
The sixty-something bartender came around from behind to welcome me. I’d met her before, several times, but couldn’t remember if her name was Barb or Deb. All I knew was that I hoped to look as good when I got to her age.
“Good morning, Grace. Nice to see you again,” she said as she pulled up a tall, black-edged menu from the hostess stand. “One for lunch today? Would you like a seat at the bar or would you prefer a table in the back room?”
“I’m meeting someone,” I said. “I’m a little early.”
“That’s fine. Feel free to sit at the bar while you wait.”
“Ms. Wheaton?”
At the whoosh of air and the sound of my name from behind me, I turned.
“Yes.” I extended my hand. “You must be Neal Davenport.”
Though there was no doubt in my mind, I wasn’t about to let on that I recognized him from Frances’s online Google ogling. I did my best to tamp down a blush of surprise that threatened to warm my cheeks. Wearing a trim, charcoal gray suit and a warm smile, he was even better looking in person than he had been on my assistant’s screen.
“Wonderful to meet you,” he said as we shook hands. To the bartender/hostess, he said, “Nice to see you again, Deb. We have reservations.”
“Of course, Mr. Davenport,” she said with a smile as she grabbed a second menu. “Follow me.”
When Deb seated us, she shot me a surreptitious eyebrow waggle that needed no translation. “Ooh-la-la,” it said. “This one’s a hottie.”
And he was. Frances would be licking her chops if she could see him. I shuddered to think about how she might commandeer the conversation had I brought her along.
“Looks like we have the place to ourselves,” Neal said when Deb left. “Mostly.”
Chianti bottle candles sat at the center of each table in this dining area. I wondered what stories their tall, multicolored layers had heard over the decades.
Except for a middle-aged man sitting alone at a far corner table, we were the only ones here. At our arrival, he’d glanced up disinterestedly, then returned his attention to his newspaper and coffee.
Leaning toward Davenport, I indicated the man with my eyes. “I don’t want anyone to hear details about Virginia’s death investigation that they shouldn’t be privy to.”
“Good thought,” he said. He gave a small, wry smile, smoothly acknowledging my point without making light of the subject. He leaned forward. “And I have those answers you wanted.”
“That’s great,” I said. “I’m looking forward to whatever information you can share with me.”
After a few social niceties where we agreed to call each other by our first names, we made small talk about the restaurant and about how often we each visited here. I learned that this was one of his favorite haunts. Deb came back to check on the man in the corner before taking our orders. When she left again, Davenport told me that Deb had been a fixture here since he first started working at the bank.
“She’s the best,” he said. “I moved here after I got divorced and Deb was one of the many folks in town who made me feel welcome. It’s tough to start over.”
“I know what you mean,” I said. “I relocated here from Chicago a few years ago, too.”
“So I’ve heard. But life is better now, I’d imagine.”
And here we were again. Ever since my blood relationship with Bennett had been established, people in Emberstowne had learned far more about me than I knew about them. Not only did it put me at an immediate disadvantage when I encountered these folks, it made me feel as though I were living in a fishbowl. Everything on display.
“Much better now,” I said. “After my mother died, I was afraid I’d never have family. But for the first time in a long time, I feel as though I belong.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” He smiled.
It was a perfectly lovely smile. Nothing strange, nothing wrong, yet I fought the odd sense that I didn’t belong here with him right now. I couldn’t explain why I felt a rush of discomfort, but I did. And the oddest thing was, the feeling didn’t emanate from him, but from within me. It was as though I felt the need to be somewhere else. I had no idea where.
“So tell me about Virginia,” I said. “She was obviously already employed there when you started. But you were her boss, is that right?”
He broke a breadstick and used one of the halves to gesture. “Virginia basically ran the place. I’m going to be lost without her.”
“I’m very sorry,” I said. “I imagine this is hitting everyone hard.”
“It is.” He tapped the two broken ends of the breadstick together, causing a faint crumb shower. “She was the heart and soul of the bank.”
I didn’t like having to ask, but I plunged forward. “Was there anyone at the bank—a coworker or customer perhaps—who didn’t like Virginia? Who may have wanted to do her harm?”
“The police asked me that, too.” Neal sat back and took a big bite out of one of the breadstick ends. He shook his head as he made short work of the snack. “But no. Virginia was like everyone’s favorite aunt. If anyone had a problem, they came to her and she fixed it. She knew everything about the banking industry. Even though she was close to retirement, she stayed on top of updated regulations and new trends.”
“I understand she was the only bank employee with access to the Granite Building,” I said. “Is that right?”
“Technically, I had access, too. Banks need to maintain dual control over everything, even something big and bulky, like a building.”
That squared with what Tooney had told us.
He leaned both elbows on the table. “But Virginia never needed me to do anything. Now that all this has happened, I wish she had. Maybe if I’d been more involved with the building, the killer wouldn’t have gotten to kn
ow her schedule and she’d still be alive today.”
“You think this was a robbery gone bad, then?” I asked.
“What else could it be? The problem is that there was almost nothing worth stealing there.” He finished off the half-eaten breadstick and chewed thoughtfully.
“Did the detectives ask you about the missing equipment?” I asked. “I assume you saw the dust markings. Do you know what may have been stolen?”
He shook his head. “The bank did an inventory when it first took possession of the property and removed items that could be sold or otherwise utilized by our location. Whatever was left was sold to your partners as part of the deal. The police and a staff member are comparing notes right now to see if they can identify what’s missing, but to answer your question directly: no. The police showed me photos of the dust markings, but I have no idea what’s missing.”
Deb returned with our lunch choices. BLT for him, turkey and avocado on garlic bread for me. House-made kettle chips and slaw on the side. Before she left again, she shot me an inquisitive glance that seemed to ask, “How’s it going?”
I smiled back blandly.
“Back to the Granite Building,” I said. “Was there anyone else at the bank who could have gained access? Is there a spare key? Was there any mechanism in place to keep track of who came and went?”
He’d taken a healthy bite of his sandwich, but downed it quickly. “To be truthful, I don’t know. We should have had tighter controls, I suppose, but one never expects this sort of thing. It was a vacant building and Virginia seemed happy to check on it herself two or three times a week.”
“Two or three times a week?” I repeated. “Doesn’t that seem excessive?”
His brow furrowed. “It didn’t at the time. Maybe I should have asked her about it. Virginia said that she liked to check regularly so that she stayed on top of potential problems. She worried about vandals mostly.”
“Did she mention a squatter?”
He finished off the first half of his sandwich as he shook his head. “The police suggested that someone may have been living there, but Virginia never said a word. I wonder if she simply missed the evidence.”
