Grace Among Thieves (12 page)

“But what about you? I’ve monopolized the conversation, talking about myself. Tell me about you. I know you’re the woman in charge at Marshfield, but that’s the extent of it. What are your goals, your aspirations? Have you ever been married?” He asked this lightly. “What do you do for fun?”

I gave him a brief synopsis of how and why I’d returned to Emberstowne after more than twenty years away. I told him about the huge Victorian home I’d inherited—and all the maintenance and repair work that came with it. I talked a little about my roommates, Bruce and Scott, and their wine shop.

“You miss your mom, don’t you?”

“Every day.”

He nodded. “I understand.” Changing the subject, he said, “I stopped in at Amethyst Cellars my first afternoon in town. It’s great.”

“I’m lucky. Bruce and Scott are like brothers to me. I don’t know what I’d do without them.” I made a sharp turn onto the hotel property and started up the driveway to the front gate.

“No other roommates, or significant others?” he asked.

I’d specifically avoided any mention of my former fiancé, Eric, and declined to share any more about my current situation with Jack. “There is someone special in my life . . .” I said with a grin. “I have a little tuxedo cat. She’s actually still a kitten. Bootsie.”

“I love cats,” Mark said. “Except I’m allergic.”

“That’s funny, so am I.”

“You’re allergic, but you have a cat?”

I thought about Bennett’s reaction when I’d told him about my allergies. I shared with Mark the same advice Bennett had given me. “I seem to have developed a resistance. Keeping hydrated, changing my bedsheets really often, and washing my hands a lot helps. It’s really not so bad.”

We reached the canopied front door, where uniformed bellboys unloaded vacationers’ vehicles. I spotted Arthur waiting just inside the vestibule, standing next to Mark’s luggage. I pulled to the curb and stopped the car.

Mark laughed. “Bootsie is a lucky kitten.”

I remembered all I’d been through from the time Bootsie had shown up on my driveway until the day I knew she was mine to keep. “I’m crazy about her.”

“I’d love to . . .” He seemed about to say, “meet her,” but apparently thought better of it, “see a picture. Do you have any?”

I didn’t. “Do you have pictures of your dogs?”

“You know,” he said, “I don’t. We’d both better get that rectified before our beloved pets disown us.”

We alighted from the car and I accompanied Mark through the sweeping front doors, across the bright marble floor. “This way,” I said, walking past the collection of tourists waiting to check in.

“Wow,” he said, looking around. “This is a far cry from the Oak Tree.”

“It’s a wonderful hotel. I hope you’ll enjoy yourself here.”

“I know I will.”

I led him to the concierge desk. “Hi, Twyla,” I said to the woman behind the tall counter. “Is everything ready for Mr. Ellroy?”

It was. We’d taken pains to ensure that Mark’s transition from the Oak Tree to our hotel would progress without mishap. She had the key ready to his suite on the top floor, and handed him a linen packet of information, which she took time to explain. “You may dine in any of our restaurants on property. Just charge it to your room.”

When she was finished, Mark thanked her then turned to me. “This is too much,” he said. “You’re being far too generous.”

“Mark,” I said, using his name for the first time, “let us do what little we can to help.” In an impulsive flirtatious move of my own, I placed a hand on his arm. Despite the hotel’s air-conditioned bliss, he was warm. I liked that. “Okay?”

“Okay,” he said, treating me to another dose of dimples.

“We’ll get your bags up to your room. No need to tip Arthur. He’s been taken care of.” The bellman had been waiting at a discreet distance. I gestured him forward. “Everything will be taken care of.” I thought it would be awkward for me to accompany Mark to his room, so I pulled out one of my cards. I started to hand it to him, but drew it back when I remembered I’d given him one already.

“Hang on.” It was time to stop worrying about Jack and start considering what might be good for Grace. I grabbed a pen from the top of Twyla’s desk and scribbled my cell phone number on the back of the card. “Arthur will help get you settled, but if there’s anything else you need that the staff can’t assist you with, let me know.”

Mark took the card and smiled. “What if everything is great and the staff caters to my every whim?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Can I still call you?”

I tingled from fingertips to toes. How long had it been since I’d interacted so playfully with a handsome man? I felt like a teenager, wordless and tongue-tied. “Sure,” I said so quickly it sounded like a bird chirp. I backed away from Mark, Arthur, and Twyla, grinning like a lunatic, and waved. “See you all later.”

Chapter 12

BACK AT THE MANSION, I MADE MY WAY UP TO the office, reliving my conversations with Mark. I’d felt all gangly and obvious when I’d left him there, but for some reason, I wasn’t embarrassed. I got the sense that Mark liked me enough to see through such awkward moments. I felt comfortable around him. The story he’d told me about his parents and his wife had touched my heart. The poor man had suffered. And yet he remained kind, likeable, and quick to put me at ease. I especially appreciated what he’d said about always telling the truth.

I stopped before opening the door to Frances’s office. The only reason Mark and I had met—the only reason we’d been afforded this chance to get to know one another was because someone had died. Lenore hadn’t deserved such a violent end to her short life. I didn’t know the woman well, but from what I’d heard about her recent divorce and the little she’d told me about the voice in her head forcing her to touch and do things, I sensed that her life hadn’t been particularly easy.

I pushed aside the sadness and opened the door, but before I could say hello, Frances was on her feet, her expression panicked, her eyes wide. She held up both hands, then placed a finger to her lips, rolling her eyes with animated drama, clearly communicating there was someone in my office.

“Oh, hello . . . Lois,” she said to me, delivering the line like a sixth-grader trying to win elocution points in her school play. More eyeball gesticulations. Still using her stage voice, she continued the spontaneous performance. “I’m sorry. Ms. Wheaton isn’t in the office . . . right now.” Using both hands she scooted me toward the door. “Why don’t you try again in about an hour?”

If Rodriguez and Flynn were here I’d want to talk with them. I needed to know more about this great lead they were pursuing. I started to ask, “Who . . .” but Frances slammed me with a look.

“I said you should come back later. Got that? Later.” I watched an idea spring to her mind. “Why don’t you call me, Lois?” Again she pointed to the door, ushering me out. “Go back to your office and give me a call.” Frantic nods. “Okay?”

Hillary appeared in the doorway between Frances’s office and mine. “For goodness’ sake, Frances, anybody with half a brain could tell you were faking it.” She bestowed a smile that was as phony as my assistant’s performance. “Why don’t you want Grace talking with me? Have something to hide, do you?”

Frances glared, first at Hillary then at me. There was a difference, however. I detected deep-seated loathing with Hillary. With me it was mere impatience. A silent chide: “Why didn’t you leave when you had the chance?”

“Hillary,” I began. “How can I help you?”

Frances sent me a baleful look and went back to work, muttering to herself.

Hillary bit the insides of her cheeks as she faced me. “I don’t know why you keep that woman on staff,” she said, talking as though Frances wasn’t there. “She’s a menace.”

“I’m not about to discuss Marshfield personnel with you,” I said. Then, because Frances was listening, and because I rarely got the chance to give her kudos, I added, “Not that it’s any of your business, but Frances is a major asset to Bennett’s organization. We’re lucky to have her.”

It wasn’t a lie. Frances was a gossip, a stickler for the old rules, and unpleasant more often than not. But she tackled every one of her responsibilities with unrivaled tenacity. I knew that when I left her in charge—which I’d done on occasion—the manor ran smoothly as long as no major decisions needed to be made. She annoyed most of her colleagues, but not one could claim she didn’t do her job well. Despite the fact that her negativity drove me up a wall, I’d reluctantly learned that I could depend on her.

I’d flabbergasted Frances with my declaration, but Hillary continued as if I hadn’t said a word. “You’d better watch yourself,” she said in a low voice. “I could take your job over in a heartbeat. All I’d have to do is mention the idea to Papa Bennett and,” she snapped her fingers, “you’d be gone like that.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. Talking with Hillary was like walking through a minefield. While there were a number of ways to push her buttons on purpose, there were also a million hidden explosions just waiting to happen. I never knew exactly what might set her off.

“Let’s start again. What brings you in today?”

“You.” She pointed toward my office. “Can we talk in there? I prefer not to share my grievances in front of the rank and file.”

I glanced over at Frances, who rolled her eyes. Hillary had come to the manor as a teenager back when Frances had already been working here for a decade or so. There was history between them, none of it pleasant.

“Go ahead,” Frances said. “There’s nothing I care to hear anyway.”

Hillary’s voice was strained. “I don’t need your permission.”

“To make a nuisance of yourself? No, you seem to accomplish that feat well enough on your own.”

Hillary didn’t shriek, but her gargled exclamation bespoke pure fury. “I deserve . . . no, I
demand
your respect. Don’t forget, I am Bennett’s daughter.”

Frances had been writing while Hillary bellowed. Now she looked up, put her pen down, and smiled. “Stepdaughter.”

Hillary sucked in a breath, then continued with forced calm, “We’re family. That’s all that matters.”

Frances perked up, looking like the cat that ate the canary. She sent me a meaningful glance and for the briefest moment I knew what she was thinking: Frances was one of the few who knew my secret. She was aware of the fact that my grandmother and Bennett’s father had been in love. She knew that chances were strong that my mother was an illegitimate child born of that affair.
Don’t say it
, I pleaded silently.
Please
.

The light in Frances’s eyes dimmed ever so slightly. I breathed again.

Frances turned her back to us. “I have work to do.”

* * *

HILLARY SETTLED HERSELF INTO ONE OF THE wing chairs opposite my desk and folded her arms across her chest. “Who gave you the right to halt the DVD filming?”

“Is that what this is about?”

“I came here to star in the DVD. Papa Bennett all but promised me that I would be part of the filming. Who better to be the face of Marshfield?”

She didn’t wait for me to answer. Give her credit for that.

“When I showed up ready to work this morning, I found out that you’d cancelled everything.”

“Postponed,” I corrected. “Didn’t you hear about the woman who was killed here yesterday?”

“Of course I heard,” Hillary said in a snit. “Who hasn’t?”

“Don’t you think we can show a little respect . . .”

“The manor isn’t open to visitors today. Nobody’s going to know what goes on behind closed doors. And the woman was killed in one of the staff stairways, right? Corbin isn’t filming there, so what’s the big deal?”

“What’s the big deal?” I repeated in disbelief.

“This was a perfect opportunity for you to let the film crew have the run of the place all day.”

“Even you aren’t that callous.”

“You blew this one. You had a chance to make things easy for Corbin, for his team . . .”

“For you?”

“Yes, for me. What’s wrong with that?”

I wasn’t about to debate the subject. “The DVD team stays out as long as the police are here. I think they’ll be packing up soon. It usually . . .” I caught myself. Usually? Did I really know that much about police procedure now that I could spout such proclamations with authority? I began again. “I think they should be wrapped up today. Maybe tomorrow. The evidence technicians need to be certain they’ve gotten all they need and the detectives want to make sure they’ve questioned everyone who was here that day. By the way, is there anything you care to share regarding your whereabouts when Lenore was killed?”

She blinked. “Absolutely not.”

“Where were you?”

“Does it matter?”

Rather than push one of Hillary’s buttons to send her flying into a rage, I picked a careful path around the prickly topic instead. Hillary wasn’t a murderer, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t above lying to protect her own interests.

I trod carefully. “I know you couldn’t have been a witness to the crime because you’re a good person and if you had seen anything suspicious you would have reported it to the police immediately.” She relaxed, visibly. I thought about Mark’s “white lie” proclamation, but didn’t feel a trace of guilt. I wasn’t lying. Hillary wouldn’t knowingly withhold evidence in a crime of this magnitude. Would she?

“Of course I would have reported it,” she said. “I don’t like the idea of a murderer in my father’s house.”

I wanted to be like Frances and correct her by saying “stepfather,” but I held my tongue, my eyes on a bigger prize. “The thing is, if you were anywhere near the stairwell, or even nearby, you may have seen something you don’t even recognize as relevant. That’s why it’s imperative you think back.” I decided to give her an out—an opportunity to amend her claim that she wasn’t anywhere in the vicinity of the murder. “In all the excitement, you may have forgotten where you were at the time.”

She squirmed in her seat, looking so much like an uncomfortable teenager that I had to remind myself she was more than a dozen years older than me. “I may have,” she said. “Forgotten, that is.”

“You’ve been staying here for about a week,” I began in an attempt to guide her memory back to yesterday’s events, “and you’d probably already had lunch . . .”

“Why do you care?”

Because, I wanted to say, if we find out who killed Lenore and injured Mark, we may have our thief on our hands. And if we do, then you, Hillary, will no longer be under suspicion for stealing from your stepfather. What I said was, “The sooner we get this thing solved, the quicker we can bring the killer to justice. We can’t bring Lenore back, but we can make Marshfield Manor safer. For our visitors and for the people who live here.” This last part I delivered with a meaningful look.

“I don’t plan to live with Papa Bennett permanently,” she said with undisguised pique.

“I didn’t think you were. He told me you were only staying with him for a week or two.” He’d actually told me he wasn’t sure how long Hillary planned to remain on property, but this was my chance to dig.

“Do you know that Papa Bennett actually suggested I get a room at the Marshfield Hotel?” She pointed to the floor. “This is my home. This is where I grew up. Why would I want to give all this up to stay in some shabby hotel?”

“I’d hardly call it shabby.”

She waved my comment away as though it meant nothing. “What I mean is, until I find my own place, I prefer to live with
family
.” Again, she stressed the word.

“I thought you had a place near the coast.”

To say her demeanor morphed from annoyed to flustered was understatement. “Well, of course there was that,” she said, using the past tense. “But you know how things are these days.”

Uh-oh.
“What are you saying? You still have your home, right? You haven’t sold it?”

She laughed, but it was forced. “Sold it? No, of course not.”

We both turned at the sound of conversation from Frances’s office. A moment later, my assistant appeared in the doorway. “The detectives are here,” she announced.

Hillary jumped to her feet. “I’d better go.” Was it my imagination or was she in a hurry to get out of my office?

At least I’d get a chance to ask Rodriguez about the news conference this morning. I stood up. “Send them in.” To Hillary, I said, “You’ll excuse us?”

She was already crossing paths with them at the door, mumbling a quick greeting and ducking out under Frances’s watchful gaze. My assistant locked eyes with me. “What’s up now?”

I shrugged, then ushered the two detectives in. “You can keep the door open, Frances,” I said as my assistant made a move to grab the knob. She glanced up at me in surprise, nodded, and took her leave.

Flynn had already flopped into one of my wing chairs. He leaned his head back, his right ankle perched on the opposite knee, fingers laced across his chest, the picture of relaxation. Or at least the picture of a person trying to look relaxed.

In contrast, the more polite Rodriguez waited for me to offer him a seat. “Thank you,” he said as he lowered himself into the open chair. “How are things going?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” I said.

Flynn’s right foot shook hummingbird fast, and he sucked his lower lip as though trying his darnedest to keep from spouting off. I wanted to ask him directly about his announcement this morning on TV, but the man looked ready to blow.

Focusing on Rodriguez, I asked him about the killer wearing a Marshfield blazer. He assured me they were following up on that lead, but encouraged me to continue checking on my end as well. I said I would, then brought him up to date about Mark Ellroy’s move to the Marshfield Hotel and how we were keeping the mansion closed to visitors today. He nodded slowly as I spoke, in quiet agreement.

“Well done,” he said when I finished. “We spoke with Mr. Ellroy yesterday, as you know. We plan to visit him again today in the hope that he’ll be able to remember more about the circumstances. Humans have a great capacity to shut out unpleasantness, and until a person relaxes, his mind protects him. There may be more he’s able to tell us now that he’s settled.”

Flynn cut into our conversation. “Quit psychoanalyzing. That’s how we’ve let too many killers get away. Instead of thinking, we should be doing.”

“I can’t believe you actually said that,” I said.

He sat up, both feet on the floor. “We need you to answer some questions, so you can quit getting all snippy on me.”

“Snippy? You want to see snippy?” Just being in the same room with Flynn got my blood boiling. “What was up with that news conference this morning?”

Rodriguez heaved a sigh. “You saw that, eh?”

Flynn shot his partner a look of contempt. The concept of teamwork was lost on this man.

“I did.” I directed my glare at the younger man. “You’re on the verge of making an arrest?”

Flynn worked his jaw but remained silent.

“Who is it?” I prodded. “Who are you about to charge? Or do you already have a suspect in custody?”