Grace Against the Clock (A Manor House Mystery) (9 page)

“I did.”

“Based on that, and knowing that our window of accuracy would be closing soon, I made the call to take a reading.”

“And?” I prompted.

“Levels are off the charts,” he said. “The coroner couldn’t believe that Keay managed to stand upright, even for that brief moment you saw him, with that quantity of liquor in his body. He took a second reading to confirm. The coroner says it was like nothing he’d ever seen before. They’ll be doing a full autopsy today.”

I’d seen Leland Keay when he’d first arrived. I’d bumped into him a few times before David Cherk had alerted me that the doctor had gone missing. The man hadn’t been drunk—not even tipsy—when I’d seen him. How could he have consumed that much alcohol in such a short period of time? It didn’t make sense. And if he had given up liquor completely the way everyone believed, then why had he done such a dramatic flip-flop? And why at a high-profile fund-raiser?

“There are too many questions surrounding this death,” Flynn said, echoing my thoughts. “I’m not letting it go until I have answers.”

“That’s a commendable attitude,” I said. “I’m glad.”

One eye narrowed.

“I mean it,” I said. “Whatever you need from me, from Marshfield, let me know. You have our full cooperation.”

“That so?” he said. “Then I’ll ask you to stay out of my way and not get involved in the investigation.”

“I never intend to.”

He got to his feet. “That’s the part that scares me.”

I stood up to walk him out. “Will you have a new partner assigned until Rodriguez returns to the force?”

He shrugged. “Right now my chief isn’t convinced this is a homicide. He wants to wait and see until the autopsy results are in. Which means I’m on my own.”

“I hope, for both our sakes, that it turns out that Dr. Keay died of natural causes.”

“So do I,” he said. At the doorway, he turned and added, “But we both know better, don’t we?”

Chapter 11

When the door closed behind Flynn, Frances folded her arms across her chest and said, “So it is a murder, after all.”

“We don’t know that,” I said.

The look on her face told me that she, Flynn, and I were in agreement, maybe for the first time in our lives.

“The guy was one of the most respected cardiothoracic surgeons in the country,” I said. “From the little bit I talked with partygoers, everybody loved him. Who would want him dead bad enough to kill him?”

“Joyce Swedburg, maybe?”

That made no sense to me. “You told me they’ve been divorced for years. Why now, all of a sudden?”

“Because he was pressuring her to sell their house. I told you she kicked him out, right? When they settled their divorce, she got to stay in the house for a specified amount of time. From what I’ve been hearing, that time was up and he wanted the place sold. She refused to go.” Frances lifted one shoulder.

“Why didn’t she simply buy him out?” I asked.

“Can’t,” Frances said. “You look at her, you see a successful attorney. She’s got to be rich, right? Not so much. A couple years ago she invested in a friend’s company that went belly-up. Her retirement accounts took a huge hit. She’s not destitute, but there’s no way she could afford to buy out half that mansion she lives in. Not with her current state of affairs.”

“How do you know this?”

Frances got a sly look on her face. “Friends.”

“Friends who share confidential information?” I said, aghast yet not entirely surprised.

Another shrug. “What else are we going to talk about around here? We thought that once you started dating that rock star guy we might have a chance for juicy gossip. Keeping an eye on you two has been as boring as watching concrete harden.”

I ignored that. “I don’t know,” I said. “That seems like a pretty lame motive for murder. Dr. Keay was very well off. I can’t imagine why he’d try to push Joyce out if he didn’t really need the cash.”

“It’s not always about money,” Frances said.

She was right about that. “I suppose if Keay felt somehow emasculated by having his wife defend him, then subsequently dump him, this could be his way to reassert power.”

She flapped her hands up. “Ooh, you’re a psychologist now.”

I glared.

“All I’m saying is that the two of them weren’t getting along so well lately,” she said.

I thought about their interactions when they’d been together in the basement before the party. “You are missing one important point.”

“I know.” Frances’s mouth twisted. “Joyce Swedburg wasn’t at the party.”

“Exactly.”

“She could have met him earlier and fed him some poison that only
presents
like alcohol when it takes effect.”

“Oh?” I knew my expression conveyed my skepticism. “What kind of poison does that?”

“How should I know? You’re the one who finds answers when people get themselves killed around here.” She pointed to the computer monitor. “You should look that up. Figure it out. Whatever she fed him would have to have been a time-release kind of drug.”

“I don’t think such a thing exists.”

“What, you’re a pharmacological expert now?” She rolled her eyes. “However do you find the time?”

I pulled in a deep breath. “What about the mistress, the woman who was in the accident with Keay?” I asked. “I understand that was five years ago, but could she have harbored a grudge all this time? Maybe she was one of the attendees Saturday night.”

Frances shook her head. “That ship has sailed. Once the story was out, her husband filed for divorce. She left Emberstowne as soon as it was final. Haven’t seen or heard from her since.”

“One night of carousing resulted in two divorces,” I said. “Sad.”

“One night?” Frances repeated with a snort. “It was that woman’s bad luck that she’s the one who got caught. The way he ran around town womanizing, it could have been almost anybody.”

The way she said it made me think, for one second, that Frances might be speaking from experience. I tried to imagine what she’d been like five years earlier. I doubted the woman would have ever kept company with a married man, but I couldn’t resist the urge to needle her a little bit. “Anybody?” I asked. “Don’t tell me you fell under the handsome doctor’s spell?”

“Certainly not,” she said with a haughty glare. “I’ve got good sense enough to know better than to go for those smarmy types. How could you even suggest such a thing?” Without waiting for me to answer, she shifted gears. “You may find this interesting: The woman from the accident used to live in the house next to yours. Her husband still lives there, though why he keeps such a big place for only one person is beyond me.”

“Next door?” I had neighbors on both sides, but only one was a divorced man living alone.

Frances and I said the name together: “Todd Pedota.”

*   *   *

That night, in my basement at home, Scott, Bruce, and I unloaded all the dust-covered supplies that had accumulated on the workbench through the decades. When that task was complete, we toasted the structure a fond farewell.

“So it’s coming down tomorrow.” With a glass of Malbec held aloft, Bruce used his other hand to push sideways against one of the now empty inner shelves, making the whole contraption wobble and squeak. “I think there’s mold growing in there.” He regarded his fingers then wiped his hand on his jeans. “This demolition project’s coming not a moment too soon.”

I sipped my wine and then took a few steps back, tilting my head to look at the warped monstrosity from another angle. Turning my back to it, I looked at the rest of the basement and wrinkled my nose. “Doesn’t this seem like an odd place to put a workbench?” I asked.

I turned back to face them. Bruce and Scott looked confused.

Bootsie took that moment to join us, coming around the far corner with an air about her that seemed to ask what the three of us were up to.

“If it were me,” I said, reasoning aloud, “I’d position the workbench closer to the rear of the house, nearer to the steps and back door. I mean, if you’re going to make the effort to create a work space, wouldn’t you situate it more conveniently?”

My roommates appeared either unconvinced of my logic or unsure of where I was going with this. I continued, my thoughts flowing full force as I put them into words. “I can’t imagine why a person would put a workbench all the way at the home’s front, when there was plenty of space in the area at the bottom of the stairs.”

Scott ran a hand across his chin. “You know, now that you mention it, I always accepted that this was just here.” He waved a hand toward the rotting wood construction. “I never questioned its existence.”

He handed his glass of wine to Bruce and moved to examine the bench more closely. “What?” I asked after a few silent moments.

“What if it
wasn’t
a workbench?” he asked. “Originally, I mean.”

“What else could it be?” I asked.

He walked back and forth again. “Maybe I’m second-guessing it because of what you said about its placement here, but when I was a kid, I spent a lot of time with my dad around his workbench and I’m starting to wonder about this one.”

He reached into one of the shelf spaces and pressed his fingers against the back of the unit.

“Why?” he asked.

“Why, what?” Bruce and I asked in unison.

“This is old, I get it,” Scott said. “But look around. The basement walls are sturdy. Put up a couple of studs and they do a fine job of supporting shelves.” Bruce and I scanned the perimeter, where random shelves had been installed over the years. “Here, though, everything is anchored to a wooden backing. Why do extra work to build a back when it wasn’t necessary? In fact, I’d go as far as to say that it’s a detriment.”

Not having an answer, I crouched to the ground and peered underneath. “It looks like the backing goes all the way to the floor.”

“Odd,” Scott said, reclaiming his glass.

Bruce asked, “What now?”

Scott leaned in again, this time tapping the wall behind the bench. “Does that sound hollow to you?” he asked. We shrugged. Turning to face us both, he added, “My imagination may be running wild here, but what if whoever built this bench used it to cover up something?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. An old painting?”

Bruce laughed. “What, like an Italian fresco?”

“You never know,” Scott said. “We may discover that a famous artist lived here once and behind that workbench is that artist’s greatest creation of all time.”

“I like the way you think, Scott.” I lifted my wine, clinking it against my roommates’ glasses.

“To tomorrow’s unveiling.”

Chapter 12

Bennett paced the auditorium, hands clasped behind his back. “What now, Gracie?” he asked. “How do we stop the madness?”

I didn’t have an answer for him. I’d brought him up to speed on the fact that Flynn believed that Dr. Keay’s death was a homicide. “Remember, nothing has been confirmed yet. Maybe . . . ” Words dissolved in my throat. Was I really about to say that perhaps we’d be lucky this time? That felt wrong, no matter how it came out.

“I appreciate the optimism,” Bennett said, “but you believe Flynn is right, don’t you?”

I couldn’t lie. “I suspect he is, yes.”

The auditorium room was empty now. All the chairs had been carted away, the stage disassembled, and the temporary back and sides long gone. The room was a bare, bricked-in space.

I ran my hand along the wall that had been hidden by the stage and curtains. “David Cherk said he looked for Dr. Keay, but there was no one back here at the time.”

“And we both know that Dr. Keay didn’t leave the party. There are only the two exits, the main staircase to the room—”

“And the emergency exit,” I finished. “Which would have sounded an alarm.”

Bennett scanned the area exactly as I had a moment earlier. “It’s a conundrum.”

Thinking about Scott’s intriguing comment regarding hidden treasures last night, I asked, “There aren’t any secret passages to this part of the basement, are there?”

Bennett squinted, as though working to remember. “None that I’m aware of.”

I watched as he continued to think, and I could tell he was ticking off locations on a mental checklist.

“How many are there? You’ve only shown me one or two.”

“A little mystery never hurt anyone,” he said. “You’ll know them all. In time.”

The man, and this house, never failed to surprise me. “I look forward to that. In the interim, however, we have to figure out what happened to Dr. Keay in that space of time he went missing.”

“The question, as I see it,” Bennett said, picking up my train of thought, “is whether David lied about not seeing him here, or he lied about checking.”

“Exactly. To what end, though? I know the man is eccentric, but he certainly doesn’t strike me as the murderous type.”

Bennett sighed. “They never do, do they?”

“You’d think we’d have gotten better at sniffing them out by now.”

He smiled. “You’re doing fine. Better than anyone else on the job, I might add.” Looking up, he whispered, “Speak of the devil.”

I turned. “Flynn,” I said, tamping down a smile as Bennett’s comment registered, “I’m surprised to see you back so soon. Any news about Rodriguez?”

The detective crossed the long room in a few quick strides. “He’s scheduled for an aortic valve replacement tomorrow. His wife is convinced that he’s not a good candidate for surgery, even though the cardiologist assures her otherwise. The woman is a wreck.”

“Of course she is,” I said. “This has to be frightening for her.”

“Everything is frightening if you let it be,” he said.

I didn’t know how to respond to that.

Bennett stepped in. “Grace told me that you ordered an autopsy—”

“Of Leland Keay, you mean?” Flynn asked.

“Certainly not of Detective Rodriguez,” Bennett said with a touch of exasperation before continuing, “Have you gotten any word from the coroner? I must confess that I’m eager to hear that Dr. Keay, rest his soul, died on his own and not at the hands of another.”

“Well, then,” Flynn said, drawing out the words, “I’m afraid you’re about to be disappointed. As of today, this is officially a homicide investigation.” His eyes clenched and he worked his jaw. “Why couldn’t the guy have gotten stabbed, or shot, or something?”

“Why on earth would you say something like that?” I asked. “Would that make investigating it easier for you?”

“As a matter of fact it would, Miss Priss. Remember that everybody—including my chief—believed that Keay suffered a heart attack in the middle of a party. Because it looked like he died of natural causes, nobody bothered to protect the crime scene.” He paced away from us then turned back. “Look at this place. Cleaned like nothing happened. You guys probably had maids rush in to spiffy it all up, didn’t you?”

We had, but I decided not to answer.

He continued to rant. “You think we’re going to be able to find a single clue here anymore?”

“My apologies,” Bennett began.

Flynn waved a hand. “Not your fault. Mine. I should have taken steps to secure the scene, no matter how ridiculous it seemed at the time. With Rodriguez’s real heart attack and the fact that no one suspected foul play, everything went crazy. You guys have been good about those kinds of things in the past. No, this one was our screwup.”

Flynn not blaming us at Marshfield for a misstep? I couldn’t believe it.

“What did the coroner say?” I was probably pushing my luck, but I had to know. “How does he know this was a homicide?”

Whether it was because he was on his own and no longer following in the more seasoned Rodriguez’s shadow, or whether we’d simply caught him at a weak moment due to his irritation with his own department, I didn’t know. Either way, he answered me without his usual antagonism.

“First thing: defensive wounds. Keay struggled with whoever killed him. There’s enough bruising on his face, neck, and hands to make it unmistakable that he fought back.”

I remembered the last thing I’d heard Keay utter. “He said the word
injection
,” I said. “Was he poisoned?”

“In a way,” Flynn said. “The guy who killed Keay—and we are operating under the assumption that the killer was male—did more than overpower the man. He definitely injected him. Twice. One of them here.” Flynn pointed to a spot inside his own thigh. “The other here.” He pointed again, this time to his neck.

“He was able to subdue Dr. Keay long enough to get two injections in?”

Flynn was on a roll. I almost got the impression he was enjoying his chance to hold court. “Keay wasn’t a young man, remember. Even though he was a famous surgeon, that didn’t mean he lived a perfect, healthy lifestyle. You guys heard that he was a recovering alcoholic?”

We both said that we had.

“Keay came close to dying back in those days. More than once. A body can’t take that much punishment without there being long-term consequences. We figure that in a fight, he didn’t stand a chance against a younger man, or even an older gentleman if, say, he was in the kind of shape you’re in.”

This last part was directed to Bennett, who nodded acknowledgment, then asked, “Do you know what Dr. Keay was injected with?”

“That’s the most interesting part,” Flynn said.

We waited.

“Keay was shot up with liquor. That’s why you smelled it on him. Tests are still running, but the coroner suspects pure grain alcohol, the kind you can’t find in a store. Moonshine.

“Moonshine?” I repeated. “Isn’t distilling illegal in the United States?”

“Unless you’re licensed—and that license is not easy to get—yes, it most certainly is.”

“Does the coroner know how long it was between the time Keay was injected and when he died?” I asked, hoping against hope that this had all transpired well before the party began. Of course, if it had, why wouldn’t Dr. Keay have alerted anyone?

“Best guess, twenty minutes. Maybe less, maybe as much as a half hour. He can’t be exact. Injected alcohol takes effect much faster than when it’s consumed. Our digestive systems have the capacity to work off some of the poison, but when you inject the stuff, it can be deadly. And this time it was.”

Clearly perplexed, Bennett asked, “How could anyone have smuggled moonshine into our party? And how did no one notice a scuffle between two men?”

“I’m hoping you two can help with that. I’ll need the guest list and I’ll ask you both to write up as much as you can remember about the evening.” To me, he said, “Get that Frances woman to write something up, too, okay?”

“Sure,” I said, still trying to understand how any of this could have happened without anyone noticing.

Flynn rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. “You know what this means, don’t you?” he asked.

I had a sense of what the detective was about to say, but kept quiet. Bennett did, too.

“Two things.” Flynn held up fingers. “One, this was premeditated. And two: This was personal.”