Grace Against the Clock (A Manor House Mystery) (11 page)

“Nope. She was taken ill,” I said. “In fact, I have no idea if she’s recovered. Nor any idea how she took the news of Keay’s death.” I made a mental note to ask Bennett how that conversation had gone. I made a second mental note to ask Flynn if he’d spoken with the woman. There was no possible way she could have killed her ex-husband, not unless she possessed magical powers that allowed her to walk through walls or move about in a crowd unseen. Still, she could have hired someone to do it for her. I wanted to talk with her if I could manage it; she might shed light on who else may have held a grudge against the illustrious Dr. Keay.

“Then I have no clue,” Wes said. “Good thing that’s not our job.” His smile grew wider. “Although it’s your job sometimes, isn’t it?”

His playful tone wasn’t exactly flirtatious, but it reminded me. “Funny you should say that,” I said. “The man I’m seeing—Adam—said almost the very same thing to me when I told him about the murder.”

It was subtle, but I caught a change in his eyes, making me wonder if Scott and Bruce had been on target. I sensed that Wes didn’t know what to say next. The slight tension in the air kept me talking. “Believe me, I’m happy to let the police take care of this one.”

Teasing again now, but in a more relaxed way, he said, “From what I hear, they should put you on the payroll.”

I laughed, the awkwardness gone. “No, thanks. I’ve had more than my fair share of adventure.” Taking a look around, I said, “I should be getting back to work. Thanks for letting us borrow the plans.”

“Anytime,” he said. “Happy to help.”

I waved a hand in the direction of the drawer where he’d replaced the blueprints. “With this newly discovered door, it looks like I’ve got a mystery of my own to solve at home. I’ll leave murder to the professionals.”

“Speaking of your secret door, I’d love to know what you find down there when it’s finally unlocked.”

“Hillary promised to call me home when that time comes. I’ll let you know and if you want, you can come by and see for yourself. I have a feeling we’re going to have quite an audience.”

He smiled again and this time I read it as friendliness, nothing more. Part of me was glad I’d mentioned Adam. Part of me wondered if I should have waited.

“I’d like that a lot,” he said.

Chapter 15

“Strolling in late again, are we?” Frances said when I walked in.

“Dropping off blueprints at the historical society. I thought I told you that.”

“The Mister was looking for you,” she said with a sharp glance at the clock. “You might want to let him know you finally showed up for work.”

“Gee, thanks, Frances.”

I was about to cross the threshold between her office and mine when I stopped. “David Cherk,” I said.

Her neck wobbled when she turned to make eye contact. “What about him?”

I folded my arms, resting my hip against the door frame. “This morning when I talked with Wes down at the historical society, he told me that Flynn had been asking to talk to Cherk in connection with Keay’s death.”

That got her to raise an eyebrow. “Oh?” she said as calmly as anything, yet I could see possibilities racing behind her placid expression. “What does Flynn want to talk with him about?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” I said. “Think about it. We didn’t know that Keay was missing until Cherk told you. We have only his word that he checked behind the stage and that no one was there when he looked.”

Frances’s whole body straightened. “So what you’re saying is that he might be lying. And why would he lie unless he’s the one who murdered Dr. Keay?”

“I’m not suggesting that—”

“Oh yes, you are.” Her hands tapped her desk blotter absentmindedly as though she was working out a particularly complex problem. “And you say Flynn is looking for him?”

“Wes assumes that Cherk is out on a photo shoot.”

“Hmph,”
she said. “Pretty convenient, don’t you think?”

“Let’s ask Ronny Tooney to see if he can find him.”

Frances held her tongue, and for that I was grateful. My assistant’s opinion of the would-be private detective was far from complimentary, but she’d grudgingly come to accept that he had helped us, more than once. To Frances’s deep disappointment, the hapless man was slowly worming his way into our Marshfield Manor family.

“I’ll call him soon,” I said. “You said Bennett wanted to see me?”

Frances had already lifted the handset of her phone. “I’ll talk to Tooney, get him started on the search for Cherk,” she said. “You go on upstairs. The Mister is waiting.”

*   *   *

Bennett invited me into his office and sat behind his massive desk. This room was dimly lit and intimidating, smelling of old leather, faded books, and stale cigars. The walls were rich mahogany and the draperies dark and heavy, blocking out most of the day’s sunlight. Bookshelves lined three walls, but fiction was relegated to the study. In here all the titles dealt with contracts, law, economics, and investments.

“Have a seat,” he said.

We made small talk as I lowered myself into a bloodred chair that was at least twice as old as I was.

Had I not known Bennett as well as I did, a first glance at this space would have led me to believe the room belonged to a stuffy, elderly lawyer, rather than this energetic septuagenarian. Because Bennett used this room for conducting business, he showcased no personal items whatsoever. There were a number of beautiful and important antiques decorating his shelves, including a celadon jar from the Jin Dynasty and a Picasso skull sculpture that was fake but held sentimental value known only to a few of us. Nothing on display gave insight into the man, himself.

Bennett was, and had always been, a force to be reckoned with in the business world. Colleagues invited to this room would find no clue as to what made Bennett tick. There were no photographs of his late wives, none of his family. He had no awards on the walls or the shelves that spoke of his prowess—years ago—in polo, target shooting, or swimming. Bennett preferred it that way. He didn’t like the idea of giving others an edge or providing insight by sharing personal details. Bennett believed that knowledge was power and he preferred absolute control.

Still, I thought the room was too empty.

Bennett owned more antiquities and priceless objects of art than most museums did. Hundreds of his treasures were on display in the public rooms of the mansion, for guests to
ooh
and
ahh
over as they wandered past during their tours. The bulk of Bennett’s belongings, however, were stored out of sight, some here in his private apartment, others elsewhere in the house or on the grounds, away from tourist traffic.

Now he caught me looking around. Reading my mind, he said, “You can’t wait to get your hands on this room, can you?”

“You’re taunting me again,” I said. “Maybe someday we’ll get started on that inventory you keep promising.”

I longed to catalog everything he owned, both for potential display purposes and for insurance concerns. Mostly I wanted to touch these treasures, smell them, and immerse myself in their history.

“And I’m willing to deliver, Gracie. I’m simply waiting for a quiet time when we’re not up to our ears in murder.”

“Is that what you wanted to talk with me about?”

“That,” he said, “and . . .” He ran the tips of his fingers along his neck and I noticed he was avoiding eye contact. “I would like to know how things are going with Hillary.” I’d never known Bennett to be sheepish, but at this moment he came close. “Working on your house, I mean.”

I waited until he met my gaze. “You really want to know?” I asked with a stern expression. I could tell he didn’t know I was teasing.

“That bad?”

I smiled. “Believe it or not, Hillary is doing a wonderful job.”

Relief whooshed out of him. “Really?” he asked, leaning forward now. “You’re not just saying that to make a foolish old man feel better?”

“You are neither old nor foolish,” I said, “but no, I’m not just saying that. I have to admit that she surprised me. Hillary is on top of things, constantly. She runs things efficiently and she takes good care of my home and of Bootsie.”

Again, he let out an audible breath. “You don’t know how happy I am to hear that.”

“Maybe I do know,” I said with a smile. “Want to hear what’s even more astonishing?”

“What?”

“She’s been in a good mood throughout. I’d even go so far as to say she’s been pleasant to be around.”

“Hillary?”

“You had a gut feeling that this would be good experience for her, didn’t you?”

He nodded.

“So far, I’d have to say that things are going far better than I’d expected. In fact, she’s supposed to call me later.” I told him about the locked door we’d discovered in the basement, and how we were waiting for Larry to figure out the best way to open it without breaking the mechanism. “It seems as though my house has its share of secrets, too.”

His lips pulled to one side. “Let me know what you find there.”

“I will.” I scooched forward. “Now, let me bring you up to date on the investigation.”

*   *   *

Frances wasn’t at her desk when I returned. A bit later, hearing the unmistakable sounds of her arrival coupled with furious huffs of indignation, I got up to talk with her. She must have had the same idea, because we nearly bumped into one another in the doorway. I held out my hand toward my desk. “Have a seat. Were you able to get in touch with Tooney?”

“That man,” she said.

“Problem?”

“About a year ago he was down on his luck, trying to shoehorn his way in to Marshfield Manor.”

“I remember,” I said.

“You gave him a chance to make something of himself. He should be grateful.”

“I believe he is. Very.”

Frances gave a pursed-lip frown. “Sure he is. Do you know what he said when I called?” Without waiting for my response—not that I had one—she continued, “He said that he’d fit us in. Told me that business has picked up and that he has a few new clients.”

“That’s great news.”

She sniffed unpleasantly. “The man doesn’t know which side of his toast is buttered.”

“We don’t pay him a retainer,” I reminded her. “And even if we did, I’d want him to know that he’s free to take other jobs.”

“Jobs he should drop like a hot charcoal when
we
need him,” she said with a proprietary huff. “Who does he think he is?”

“Frances,” I said, in a calming voice, “I don’t even know if this job is worth Tooney’s time. This could be a wild-goose chase. I only suggested asking him for help because I want to talk with David Cherk. Maybe ask the photographer a few questions. It isn’t critical.”

“But it could turn out to be. When you say, ‘Jump,’ Tooney ought to ask, ‘How high?’”

I laughed, then sobered. “How’s Rodriguez? Any news?”

She gave a brief nod. “Out of surgery. He’s expected to make a full recovery.”

“Do you know if he got the flowers we sent?”

“Haven’t ordered them yet.” She shook her head. “Flowers aren’t allowed in ICU and he’ll probably spend a few days there. I’m waiting until he gets the all clear.” Her lips curled downward. “Of course, he could take a turn for the worse and then we won’t need to send anything at all.”

“Frances!”

“You never know,” she said without malice. “I don’t want to waste the Mister’s money on a gift if Rodriguez won’t ever see it.”

Her logic astounded me.

She must have read my mind because she added, “Nothing wrong with being pragmatic.”

My phone rang. I reached for it instinctively, then hesitated. “It’s Hillary,” I said to Frances.

Her always-expressive brows conveyed her surprise. Taking a look at her watch, she said, “Do you think they’ve gotten that secret door open so quickly?”

“I suppose I’m about to find out.”

*   *   *

A half hour later, I pulled up to my house and parked the car. Frances had been right as to the reason for Hillary’s phone call. Larry the Locksmith had worked his magic.

The secret door had engendered more interest than I’d expected. As I pulled up, workers who had been crawling up scaffolding or hanging from open windows hurried to join me as I made my way to the basement. Every one of them expressed interest in what we might find.

About halfway down the stairs I detected the hum of conversation—much heavier and deeper than Hillary and Larry could possibly conjure together. Hillary must have invited a few extra people to join in the fun.

I worked to keep the look of shock off my face when I finally made it down to the basement landing. Someone took my picture, but I wasn’t sure who. Practically half the population of Emberstowne was gathered there. Okay, that was an exaggeration, but it seemed as though there were at least a dozen extra people milling around, a couple of whom I didn’t even know. Conversation stopped and they all turned to face me at once.

I raised a hand. “Hi,” I said, thinking that I should have invited Frances along. She would have loved this.

Hillary elbowed her way from the back to greet me. “I hope you don’t mind. I thought it might be fun to bring in the local newspaper and a videographer.” She held her hand out toward two people: a young woman holding a couple of cameras and a young man pushing a small recorder into my face. Like Cherk’s assistants, they were both dressed in head-to-toe black. His clothes were too big, hers too small.

“What do you expect to find inside the door?” he asked me.

“Not much, to be perfectly honest.” I wasn’t quite sure what to make of their presence. The woman hung back behind the guy, looking as though she longed to be anywhere else. “This may turn out to be nothing at all. I can’t believe the paper sent you both out here for this.”

The young man shrugged. “I’m a freelancer. If you open that up and find a couple of dead bodies in there, then I’ll have a story I can sell to the local news.” He thumbed backward toward the woman. “That’s my girlfriend. She’s a film major.”

I looked over to the young woman, noticing for the first time the streaks of royal blue in her dark hair.

She lifted her chin, offering a weak smile. “’S’up?”

I couldn’t believe Hillary had brought these kids in. Even if they weren’t mainstream media, I worried that this would be a huge bust and we’d have wasted everyone’s time. Not to mention the fact that there were strangers in my house photographing my cluttered basement. Visions of the Geraldo Rivera debacle danced through my brain. Except I don’t remember there being this many spiderwebs in Capone’s vault.

“What if there’s nothing in there?” I asked, hearing the wildly plaintive tone in my voice. “What if everyone has come out here for nothing?”

“Don’t be such a pessimist,” Hillary said, flicking her fingertips against my forearm. “What if there’s treasure? You might turn out to be as rich as Papa Bennett.” She cocked one eyebrow and moved closer, whispering, “Uncle. Niece. Both independently wealthy. Wouldn’t that be interesting?”

I wanted to remind her that a familial link hadn’t been proved, but this was neither the time nor the place. I wanted to tell her that having toddler reporters here made me uncomfortable, but she’d already begun dragging me toward the far end of the basement, flapping her free hand at the others as we passed them. “You know everyone else, of course.”

I did. The project foreman was there, along with a couple of his assistants. I exclaimed my surprise when I saw Bruce. “I’m so glad you’re here.”