Grace Against the Clock (A Manor House Mystery) (24 page)

“Now I realize that there isn’t the substance that I expected to see, that I believed I did see.”

My roommates went silent. “You remember we vowed not to give you any more advice, right?” Bruce asked.

Bootsie circled my lap, pawing at the tops of my legs before settling down into a warm cat curl.

“I remember.”

The two men exchanged a glance.

“What about Adam?” Scott asked. “Simply asking a question,” he added quickly, even though I hadn’t pushed back. “We’re wondering how much time you need before making a decision where he’s concerned.”

“I don’t know,” I said, stroking Bootsie’s fur. “All I can tell you is that it’s good to be me, by myself, for a while. I think he knew that, and I believe that’s why he’s giving me room to breathe.”

“Smart man,” Bruce said.

The doorbell rang, preventing us from discussing my love life any further. Because I had Bootsie on my lap, Scott answered the door. Bruce and I heard him talking with a man, and a moment later, the two walked in.

Ronny Tooney stood in the doorway in a trench coat, soaking wet. He held a dripping fedora at his waist and wore a shy expression. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

I got to my feet. Not a problem, because at Tooney’s entrance, Bootsie had leaped down. Now she circled his pant legs.

“Is everything all right?” I asked. “Come on in.”

Tooney shook his big head. “I don’t want to bother you all. I came to give you this.” From inside his trench coat, he pulled an opaque plastic bag. “Here’s that copy of the newspaper you wanted.”

“Tooney,” I said with amazement. “How did you ever get your hands on this so fast?”

His cheeks went pink. “I know a gal who works at the paper. They keep a few copies of each edition. They don’t like to sell them unless it’s for a good reason. I told her it was important so she pulled a few strings for me.”

“Thank you so much. Did you page through it at all?”

He gave an eager nod. “Didn’t find much. ’Course, I’m not sure what you’re looking for.”

I clasped the newspaper to my chest. “You are the best, Tooney.”

Bruce had gotten to his feet. “Would you like to join us?” he asked. “I’ll pull out another wineglass.”

Tooney seemed embarrassed by the invitation. “No, I’d best be getting home. I may have an answer for you about Flynn’s tip soon.”

“That would be great,” I said.

He gave a little nod, said good night, and headed back out into the rain.

Delighted by the replacement paper Tooney had delivered, I scooped Bootsie up from the floor and hugged her close, the newspaper tucked tight under my arm. “You know who that was, don’t you, sweetie? That’s the man who helped me when we rescued you.”

Bruce shut the front door and returned to the parlor. “You ask me, Grace, I think you rescued
him
.”

Chapter 31

“This is the missing newspaper, then?” Frances asked the next morning. She toddled around to my side of my desk and perched her glasses on her nose to read over my shoulder. “Finding any clues?”

“Not yet,” I answered, paging through more slowly this time. “I’m beginning to wonder if the first copy wasn’t stolen. Maybe it was simply misplaced and this is a wild-goose chase.”

“Gotta chase geese once in a while if you want to keep your legs strong.”

I gave her a skeptical look.

“Old sayings have to start somewhere,” she said. “And I think that one’s pretty catchy. Just wait. Pretty soon you’ll be hearing it around town, and you’ll be able to tell folks where it originated.” She pointed to her bosom. “Right here.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Having read all of pages one and two, I concentrated on page three, again.

Still hanging over my shoulder, Frances asked, “How many issues have you gone through?”

“Five in total. I read through the others, but because this was the edition that went missing, I thought I’d give it extra attention.”

“And what have you found out?”

“Not much. To be honest, the words are beginning to blur.”

I’d already been through this entire newspaper three times this morning. I was currently on my fourth go. This was our local publication, which focused on scintillating stories about town hall meetings that established dates for festivals and awarded property variances. There was a front-page blast that covered an ongoing trouble with borer-infected trees. I could recount the score from the Little League team’s win, and knew the details of the high school’s career fair that year.

Because Emberstowne catered to tourists, there was the requisite piece on Marshfield history, which I skipped. There were also several articles that suggested other sights to see in the area. These, accompanied by photographs, didn’t hold much interest, either. I assumed most were stock photos of the nearby national park and the nightlife along Main Street.

I studied the police blotter, but nothing of note jumped out at me: a couple of reports of disorderly conduct and a shoplifting mention or two. No familiar names. We even had a society page where three couples had announced their engagement. All good, but nothing that helped me.

“And I wondered why they thought my secret passage was a big deal. Compared to the news from this date, that’s headline material,” I said.

“Not much happens around here,” she agreed. “Which is why Dr. Keay’s scandal kept the newspapers flying for days. They really milked that story for every cent it was worth.”

Turning my attention back to the newspaper, I tuned her out. The advice columns and restaurant reviews were probably not worth my time, and I glossed over the pictures. There were three of the town hall meeting and one of the Little League team. In the touristy section there was a shot of a happy group posed outside of Marshfield’s front gates, under the mini-headline “Mansion Welcomes German Visitors.” There was a night shot of a couple posed beneath the Promise Clock with the headline: “All the Time in the World.” And another Emberstowne moment captured forever: “Preparing for Fall Festival,” which featured a group of shopkeepers displaying autumn-themed wares. I had to imagine the season’s oranges, golds, and purples, because the paper had been printed in only black-and-white.

I continued to turn pages.

Frances made a sound like
hmph
. “Could be that the stolen newspaper was a red herring.”

I turned in my chair to look up at her. “Come again?”

“You don’t know what a red herring is?”

“Of course I do, but I want to hear your thoughts on this.”

“What if whoever stole the newspaper did that because he wanted you to think the newspaper was important? What if it was to tie you up in knots and keep you confused?”

I sat back. “You could be right.”

She struck at her chest with her fist. “Be still my heart. You admit that?”

I didn’t bother giving her the withering glare she deserved. “You know you’re right most of the time, Frances. I’ve told you that. No need to get dramatic.”

Sitting forward, I turned back to the page before.

Frances inched closer, crowding my elbow. “What is it?”

“Take a look,” I said, “David Cherk is credited with taking these touristy photographs.”

“Is that important?”

Cherk was credited for having taken most of the pictures that had been published in the local newspaper five years ago. That wasn’t my understanding of the man’s career path, but things change, and I thought that maybe that was the sort of job that paid the bills before he’d become so well known for his historical photography.

“I can’t imagine why it would be,” I said.

“Then why bring it up?”

I shut the paper and shoved it to the side. “Because I’m an idiot. We have a suspect in custody who was caught red-handed with evidence, and for some inexplicable reason I can’t let it go.”

Finally stepping out of my personal space, she dropped her glasses back down to hang from their chain. “You need to take a break,” she said, and left the room.

After returning to the newspapers and studying Cherk’s shots until I could practically see them in my brain when I shut my eyes, I decided to take Frances’s advice. I called Wes to ask him if I could drop the newspapers off tonight. He told me the historical office would be open until nine, but there was no rush.

Frances returned a little later, just as my phone rang.

“It’s Tooney,” I said.

She made the equivalent of jazz hands and said, “Oh, don’t keep the poor man waiting. He’s such a valuable employee now. He’s on
retainer
.”

I ignored that and answered the phone. “What’s up?”

“Hey, Grace,” he said. “Glad to catch you. Remember you asked me to find out about the tip that sent Flynn to Pedota’s house?”

“I remember,” I said. “Did you find out anything?”

“You may not know this, but I tried to join the Emberstowne Police Department at one time.”

“I may have heard something about that.”

“Oh.” He sounded disappointed. “Listen, I may have washed out, but it wasn’t because I didn’t try.”

“What did you find, Tooney?”

“I was trying to provide context.”

“Of course. Now, though—”

“Right, right. Okay, here’s what I can tell you. I made a few friends when I was working to get on the force. They got through the exam, I didn’t. But I guess they thought I wasn’t so bad. We go out and have a beer once in a while.”

“You talked to them?”

“I did. That’s important because I’m sharing a confidence here. They told me because of professional courtesy. They didn’t know I was asking on your behalf.”

“So I need to keep my source quiet. Is that it?”

“You need to not know what I’m about to tell you. You can’t mention anything about it to Flynn. Otherwise, he’ll know exactly how it got out.”

“Go ahead, Tooney. You have my word that I won’t spill.”

“According to the officers, that reporter who was at your house visited Flynn. He brought an envelope filled with photos of the inside of Pedota’s house. He said that his source told him that Pedota killed Keay.”

“Who was his source?”

“He wouldn’t say. Claimed First Amendment rights and protection via the state’s Shield Law.”

“An anonymous tip?” It took me a second to process that. “What if it was the killer who took those pictures? He could have set it all up to frame Pedota.”

“Yeah, but how did the tipster get into the house to take the pictures? Pedota must have let him in. Either that or that house got broken into. But would the killer risk that just to set up a photo shoot? And Pedota never reported any kind of break-in.”

“I can’t believe that was enough for Flynn to get a warrant.”

I could almost hear Tooney shrug. “This is a small town and Dr. Keay was a big shot. Even the judges want to see this case closed in a hurry. Flynn said it was like working with Deep Throat.”

“It’s
nothing
like working with Deep Throat.”

“I’m sorry, Grace. I’m telling you what I know.”

“No, Tooney, I’m sorry. I’m taking my frustration out on you.” I inhaled and then let the breath out slowly. “Thanks for the update.”

When I hung up, Frances hovered. “Photographs? Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“David Cherk?” I asked.

She nodded.

I rubbed my knuckles against my bottom lip. “We’ve never come up with a motive for Cherk, have we?”

“None.”

“This is crazy.” I stood and stretched. “I’m giving it a rest for a while.”

“There’s something else you ought to give a rest.”

“What’s that, Frances?”

“You’re listening to that music too much.”

My stomach did a little nosedive. “What are you talking about?”

She pointed toward the iPod on my desk. “You think I can’t hear when you have that SlickBlade album playing?”

I felt my cheeks warming. With no defense to that, I said, “I’ll try to keep the volume down in the future.”

*   *   *

After work, I went home and changed into jeans and a T-shirt. The workers had called it quits for the day, and Hillary had left a note that she’d see me bright and early the next morning.

Home alone, I picked Bootsie up, snuggled her close, and said, “It’s just you and me tonight, sweetie.”

She struggled to get out of my arms and jumped to the floor, quickly disappearing around the corner and out of my room. I slipped on a pair of flats, went downstairs, and had leftovers for dinner.

I sat at the kitchen table and fired up my laptop. Bootsie crawled around the corner to see what I was up to and sat on the chair next to mine as though she understood and approved of me looking up SlickBlade’s schedule. They were playing tonight, warming up again for the Curling Weasels.

Not that it mattered. I wasn’t expecting to hear from Adam. He’d made it clear that any move had to come from me. I missed his friendship and our easy banter, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to invite him back into my life.

I clicked through an exhaustive array of band promo shots, listened to a few of their songs, and checked out their Wikipedia listing, among other things.

“Why do I always seem to make the wrong choices?” I asked Bootsie. “And better yet, how do I start making the right ones?”

I shut the laptop and blinked in surprise, discovering that my kitchen was almost dark. I flicked on the overhead light and remembered, belatedly, that I’d planned to drop the newspapers back at the historical society tonight. I glanced at the clock. Almost eight. Wes had said there was no rush, but I suddenly craved human conversation. I chucked Bootsie under the chin. “No offense,” I said.

Gathering up the newspapers, I considered giving them one final perusal, but I didn’t have it in me. I packed them into a bag, tucked it under my arm, and took off out the back door.

My kitchen had been dark, but outside it was merely dusk. The air was crisp and clear. It was a perfect late-summer evening with the spicy promise of fall.

I decided to walk. Lights had come on in the houses down my block, and trees cast long shadows on the spacious front lawns. Kids, back at school for a week or so now, were probably sitting at kitchen tables doing homework, while parents stood close by ready to help, hoping not to have to step in.

Even though it had been a number of years since I’d been in school, I remembered those days well. I closed my eyes for a moment to appreciate the smoky scent of wood burning nearby. A bonfire, maybe. As much as I loved my roommates, their business kept them busy most nights and I found that lately I craved more. That was part of the reason why I’d decided to make the trip tonight and why I’d enjoyed my time with Adam as much as I had. Companionship.

I shook myself to stop that train of thought. I needed time to consider everything Adam had told me. He was right in so many ways.

When I arrived at the historical society’s offices, it was fifteen minutes before closing time. “Too late?” I asked as I walked in.

“Never,” Wes said from behind the counter. “How’s it going?”

I placed the package on the countertop between us. “I’ve been better,” I said. “But I’m not here to complain. I’m here to return these.”

“This might help your mood: I have some information on those poison bottles for you. One of them looks like it might be worth more than we expected. A lot more.”

“That’s great news.”

“You don’t sound very happy about it.”

I allowed a sigh of self-pity to escape. “I’m sorry. I am happy about that. Other things on my mind.”

When he opened his mouth to say something, I held up a hand.

“Got it,” he said. “I won’t ask.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

He opened the bag and began removing the newspapers. “Did you find anything in these that might help you?”

“Not a darned thing,” I said. “Total waste of time.”

He began sorting them in date order. “Hey,” he said. “You found it. The missing issue.”

“Got a replacement, actually,” I said. “Marshfield Manor’s P.I., Ronny Tooney, managed to procure it for me. So we’re all straight again.”