Grace Cries Uncle (2 page)

“Fine.” He pivoted and strode away.

“What was that all about?” Tooney asked when he was gone.

“You got me.” I shook my shoulders to release the tension in them.

“You want me to be here when he comes back tonight?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Let's talk about it on the way. The FBI guy's visit put us behind schedule.”

I could have driven myself to the lab this morning, but Bennett had insisted on an escort. Afraid that I might be light-headed from the blood draw, he asked me to indulge him by allowing Tooney to drive.

When I'd first agreed to the DNA test, I'd expected Bennett would invite his personal physician to come into the office, swab our cheeks, and then—weeks later—return with results. Bennett had other ideas. We would get our cheeks swabbed today for sure, but we'd also submit blood samples. I'd tried to reason with him, reminding him that swabs were enough, but Bennett could be obstinate. “I want more information,” he'd said. “Not less. I don't plan to repeat this procedure, so let's get it done right.”

Once I'd agreed, we'd settled on the first Saturday we both had free. Today.

Tooney usually drove a rattletrap sedan that boasted more dents than an aluminum shed after a hailstorm, but today he'd arrived in a shiny Buick Enclave. There wasn't a hint
of snow on its shadow-gray exterior and it sported temporary license plates.

Tooney gallantly handed me into the passenger seat before closing my door and making his way around to settle behind the wheel.

“New car?” I asked.

He started the vehicle and put it into gear, his cheeks flushing pink as he shot me a quick glance. “Mr. Marshfield has been very generous with me, ever since . . . I mean . . .” Pulling away, his face now glowed scarlet. “First the house, and now a car . . .”

In an effort to better Tooney's standard of living, Bennett had snatched up the painted lady next to mine the moment it went on the market. On paper Bennett retained ownership of the property, but he had essentially handed the house to Tooney after hearing about the hovel our scruffy private investigator called home. Bennett had also arranged to have the place updated and renovated, despite the fact that it was in good shape to begin with. Hillary was in charge of that project.

“Mr. Marshfield doesn't need to do all this,” Tooney went on. “He doesn't have to give me anything. I wasn't looking for a reward when . . .”

I reached across to lay a hand on his arm. “You saved my life,” I said. “Bennett wants to show his appreciation.”

“But you saved
his
life,” he said.

“That was quite a busy evening, wasn't it?” I pulled my hand back as I recalled that memorable night from the previous summer.

“I don't deserve anything. He should be grateful to you.”

“He thinks of you as my guardian angel. He believes I get into too much trouble.”

Tooney's soft face twisted into a smile. “Can't argue with him there.”

“I think he rests better at night knowing you're right next door.”

“I sleep easier, too.”

I patted his arm again. “That makes three of us.”

When Bennett had arranged to have my home renovated, he'd insisted on having a burglar alarm installed. It was a reasonable suggestion and I didn't argue. At least not until Bennett's scope expanded. In light of the discovery of an underground tunnel that connected my home with what was now Tooney's, and after the catastrophic events that sent my former neighbor packing, Bennett had demanded that a second, backup, alarm be established.

The backup—on a separate circuit—would sound at Tooney's house. If he was home and the alarm went off, Tooney knew to text me immediately. If I didn't answer with the code word—
Bootsie
—he would know I was in trouble and he'd use the underground passage to get to me as quickly as possible.

I'd cajoled Bennett, bickered with him, and had argued at length that we shouldn't drag Tooney into a potentially dangerous situation without backup. It wasn't fair to ask him to come running blindly to my rescue.

Bennett had listened to my pleas and had ultimately agreed that I was right—it was unfair to require such a commitment from one of Marshfield's employees. My relief at Bennett's acquiescence had been short-lived, however, when he'd added, “We ought not to
force
Mr. Tooney to cooperate. But we can ask him if he's willing.” Bennett's smile had been smug. “What do you suppose he'll say?”

Thus, both alarms were installed. I had to admit that after having lived through a number of harrowing experiences these past few years, knowing that help was right next door reassured me a great deal.

*   *   *

We were about five minutes late getting to Lucatorto Labs. The moment we parked I alighted from the car and hurried through the biting wind to the establishment's glass door, grabbing its handle a fraction of a second before
Tooney gallantly pulled it open for me. Two steps in, I stopped. I'd expected a generic medical testing center: mass-produced artwork on pastel walls, piles of health-centric reading material, and air thick with stinging disinfectant.

With its cushy chairs, soft lighting, and slow-tempo Bach, however, Lucatorto Labs more closely resembled an upscale spa. Walls were a warm brown accented by icy aqua and white trim. At the room's center was a trickling stone waterfall, providing both soothing sounds and the faintest whiff of chlorine.

To my left, cushy window seats overlooked a snowy courtyard. To my right and ahead, a group of business-clad individuals stood in small clusters, talking softly, sipping from ceramic mugs. All were attorneys from Hertel and Niebuhr, the firm that had handled Marshfield affairs for as long as the family had lived in Emberstowne.

A statuesque woman in natty professional attire stepped forward. I recognized her as one of the senior partners at the law firm. I'd spoken with her once, but only briefly. “Nice to see you again, Ms. Wheaton,” she said, extending her hand. “As you can see, my colleagues and I are all very excited to be here for you and Mr. Marshfield today. Come on in.”

“Good to see you too, Ms. Inglethorpe” I said to her, “but please, call me Grace.”

“Of course. And I'm Maggie.” She directed one young man to take my coat and another to escort Tooney to the window seats. “Joe will see to your comfort, Mr. Tooney.” Indicating a table across the room, she added, “Lucatorto Labs has been wonderful about allowing us to commandeer the premises for the day. We have coffee, tea, and pastries set out. Help yourself. If you need anything else—some reading material, perhaps?—please don't hesitate to ask.”

Cheeks pink from either the cold or the attention, Tooney handed his coat to Joe and mumbled that he was fine.

Returning her attention to me, Maggie offered a warm
smile and led me toward the gathered group. “We're very eager to get this process started.”

“Where's Bennett?” I asked. There were far more people here than I'd expected. The lab was open only to us today, and even though I'd known Bennett's lawyers would be present, I hadn't anticipated such a crowd.

“He's definitely here,” she said.

I caught sight of him the same moment he spotted me. Bennett, with his electric blue eyes, athletic build, and full head of brilliant white hair, put other septuagenarians to shame.

“You made it, Gracie,” he said, pulling me into a hug. “Knowing how punctual you are, when you weren't here precisely at eleven I feared you'd changed your mind.”

Despite the fact that I shared Bennett's confidence that he and I were, indeed, related by blood, I'd always harbored misgivings about obtaining proof. I didn't believe it necessary. Not to me, at least. I would have been perfectly content to maintain the status quo. Test or no test, Bennett would always be more to me than an employer; he was a beloved uncle. Half-uncle, if you wanted to get technical.

Bennett, however, wanted ironclad evidence and had insisted on today's gathering in order to cover every legal, moral, and ethical base he could come up with. Such formalities were important to him. From the first moment we learned of our possible connection he'd made no secret of how happy the prospect made him. I hoped he understood how much joy this relationship brought to me as well. For the first time since my mother passed away I had family. Bennett loved me and cared for me as much as I did him.

“I wouldn't miss this for the world,” I said.

The group of lawyers, witnesses, and what have you opened their circle to allow me in. One of the senior partners, Ted Hertel, grasped my hand in both of his. “Wonderful to see you again, Grace. Today is a big day. We're thrilled to be part of it.”

“Thank you,” I said, feeling a little overwhelmed. The fact that conversation had ceased the moment I'd joined them set me on edge. “Sorry I'm late. I had an unexpected visitor at my front door right as I was leaving.”

“Visitor?” Bennett asked, picking up on the disquiet in my tone. “Who was it?”

With the exception of the assistants who kept to the sidelines, the people gathered here today were all middle-aged or older. Every one of them dignified, polished. There were men and women in different shapes, sizes, and colors, but they all bore intelligent, curious expressions as they waited for me to answer. Even though I wore a perfectly presentable sweater and skirt ensemble I felt young, underdressed, and out of place.

I tucked my hair behind one ear. “A gentleman from the FBI, believe it or not,” I said with a little cough-laugh.

If I'd suddenly pulled out flaming sticks and begun juggling them, the lawyers couldn't have expressed more surprise. The group—almost as one—reacted with arched-brow, openmouthed expressions of concern.

“What did he want?” Ted asked.

“I don't know, exactly. I told him I had an appointment and didn't have time to answer his questions.”

Bennett's brow had tightened, so I hastened to add, “I'm sure it's nothing important. He let me go.” Another little laugh. “It's not like he had a warrant for my arrest or anything.”

Whoops. Mustn't joke with lawyers
, I thought, as the attorneys exchanged uneasy glances and began discussing this among themselves. One of them turned sideways and spoke softly to Ted, though loudly enough for me to hear. “Could this be related at all to today's tests? Should we delay until we have answers?”

“We aren't delaying another moment,” Bennett said over the din. Turning to me, he asked, “Gracie, what did he say?”

My discomfort level was high, but I didn't hesitate. “He
knew my name, but wanted to know who lived in the house with me. I didn't tell him anything.”

“Did he show you identification?” Maggie asked.

“Yes, right away.”

The lawyers were apparently aware of Bruce's and Scott's presence in my life, because this new piece of information got them chatting again, this time musing about my roommates and their business interests.

Wishing I'd never opened my mouth, I said, “I'm sure it's nothing. Otherwise, why would he be willing to come back later?”

Bennett still wore an anxious expression. “When will that be?”

“He asked if I'd be home after five.”

Maggie spoke up. “If you like, Bennett, I'll be there with Grace when the agent returns.” She sent a pointed look around the rest of the assembled group. “Let's not get worked up about this. For all we know one of Grace's neighbors may be under suspicion for illegal activity.” To me, she asked, “Would you mind my involvement?”

“Not at all,” I said. “That's very generous of you.”

“My pleasure. Five o'clock then?” She pulled out her phone and began tapping notes into it.

“I'm not even certain he'll return tonight. He asked about tomorrow, too.”

She nodded, as though this was of no consequence. I appreciated her direct, businesslike attitude. “Here,” she said, handing me her business card. She'd written her cell phone number on the back. “Call me when he shows. I'm not that far from you; I can be there in ten minutes. Don't answer a single question until I get there.”

“Thank you,” I said.

She nodded. “Shall we get started, then?”

Two technicians led us through mahogany-paneled doors into the functional area of the building, where glaring fluorescent fixtures illuminated shiny white and blue walls. Our shoes snapped against the navy tile floor and the smell of Pine-Sol was so intense I would have bet that the maintenance folks had finished swabbing only moments earlier.

Bennett and I followed directly behind the two techs, and I wasn't surprised when the rest of the entourage crowded in after us. We trooped past tiny examination rooms on either side of the quiet hallway, taking several maze-like turns until we arrived in what appeared to be the heart of the place.

The white-and-blue theme carried into what had to be the main lab. Stainless steel fixtures lined the perimeter and two islands sat at the expansive room's center. Chilly and clean yet cluttered, the space was chock-full of microscopes, refrigeration units, computers, what looked like incubators, and machines I couldn't begin to identify. An emergency shower and drain took up one corner.

Two men and one woman in lab coats stepped forward to greet us.

The older of the two men took point position. He wore heavy-framed glasses and a magnifier/lamp contraption perched atop his bald head. “I'm Dr. Lucatorto,” he said before introducing his colleagues. Indicating the smiling, dark-skinned man behind him, he said, “My partner, Dr. Rabbat.” He shifted to point toward the woman. “And, per your request to have a second laboratory process your specimens, this is Dr. Lyon, from Sarear Labs.”

Bennett and I shook hands with all three of them. Dr. Lucatorto sent an appraising glance over the others. “These measures are a bit excessive,” he began, “but as I've assured your counsel, Mr. Marshfield, Lucatorto Labs is AABB accredited. As is Sarear Laboratory.” Waving a benediction over the passel of lawyers gathered behind us, he added, “While we appreciate your generous compensation for our time, I can promise that there is no need for this level of involvement.”

Bennett's expression was mild. “Perhaps not,” he said. “But I make it a habit to over prepare rather than be caught short.”

Dr. Lucatorto used a knuckle to tap his glasses higher up his nose, as though to convey that it made no difference. “Well then,” he said, “shall we begin?”

The two techs who had led us in, Wanda and Valerie, turned out to be phlebotomists, one from each of the two labs. After Bennett and I were seated in identical swing-out armchairs across from each other, Valerie began to prep my arm as Wanda ministered to Bennett.

“Do you know your blood type?” Valerie asked me.

“B-positive,” I said.

Bennett smiled. “Same as mine.”

“We will, of course, confirm that information,” Dr. Lucatorto said.

They did. We matched.

Bennett said, “We're off to a good start.”

Maggie pulled out a small camera and snapped several pictures. “Documentation.”

There was no music in this part of the building and the entire audience of attorneys remained breathlessly quiet. Except for the humming of equipment, and the occasional directive from our phlebotomists, the place was awkwardly silent. I wished for privacy. Getting my blood drawn didn't bother me; the scrutiny of our wide-eyed onlookers did.

I watched as the deep red liquid from my veins streamed into the first vacuum tube.

“You aren't squeamish?” Bennett asked.

My nerves were so taut that the absurdity of his question hit me hard. I began to giggle. “After all we've been through these past few years?”

His mouth twitched. “Good point, Gracie.” He raced his gaze along his extended left arm and the needle protruding from it. “This really is nothing, isn't it?”

Nervousness, being in the spotlight, and the awkwardness of it all, built a bundle of hilarity in my chest that jounced around my insides, desperate to escape. I giggled again.

The vials filled quickly. Bennett and I were required to sign identification labels for the samples before the two techs switched positions to repeat the process. The attorneys murmured among themselves and Maggie continued to take pictures.

Wanda and Valerie had us sign the second set of samples before Valerie said, “That's it. We're done taking blood.”

Dr. Lucatorto explained the next procedure for obtaining DNA, which involved collecting samples from the insides of our cheeks. He also reminded us that this step was redundant. His detailed description took longer than the swabbing itself. Like the techs had, Drs. Rabbat and Lyon administered the test to us one at a time, then switched positions to test the other.

“All done,” Dr. Lyon said when she and Rabbat completed
their sampling. “Sarear Labs should have results to you within about a week or so.”

“That long?” Bennett asked.

Dr. Lucatorto gave him an indulgent smile and knuckled his glasses again. “If you recall, Mr. Marshfield, you opted for the more comprehensive analysis, involving a greater number of genetic markers. Such excessive measures require more time.”

Bennett knew this. I knew this. Bennett's impatience was getting the better of him.

Dr. Lucatorto addressed the entire group. “I admonish you all to remember that the tests we have administered today may either prove the likelihood of kinship between Mr. Marshfield and Ms. Wheaton with a high degree of statistical probability, or they will ascertain that they share no family ties whatsoever.”

It wasn't until after I'd finally agreed to Bennett's request to be tested that I'd realized how much I was anticipating a positive result. How much I wanted it to be true. I'd considered going through my mother's belongings—most of which remained packed away in the attic and garage—to find something of hers that could have been used to lift her DNA. We had plenty of paperwork, photos, and circumstantial evidence to presume the truth. I had no doubt that my mother and Bennett were half-siblings. Yet I'd chosen to forgo searching for my mom's DNA. Once I'd made the decision to move forward, I knew I wanted the test results in my name, wanted confirmation that Bennett and I were, truly, uncle and niece.

We'd been in the utilitarian section of the lab for less than twenty minutes—and if we hadn't had to sign so many documents, it could have been fewer than five—but the room's chill began to make me shiver. I got to my feet and inspected the bandages on the insides of both my elbows before pulling my sleeves back down to my wrists.

Their responsibilities complete, the doctors released us. The lawyers crowded close, conferring among themselves and taking turns to shake our hands and express hope for positive results.

In the midst of this, Bennett turned to me, taking my hands. His were warm and steady. His eyes were, too.

“Whatever the outcome, Grace,” he began, effectively silencing the cheerful chatter, “whatever these tests confirm or dispute, you are my family and you always will be.”

It was as though we were the only two people in the room. He continued to stare down at me and I got the impression he was trying to convey more than he had words for.

“I know,” I said softly. Heat gathered behind my eyes and in the back of my throat.

“No matter what,” Bennett said very quietly.

I nodded. “No matter what.”

Lifting his gaze to encompass those surrounding us, he let go of my hands and said, “Did you all hear that?”

Maggie answered. “We did.”

“Bennett,” I said, keeping my voice low, “you know I didn't agree to the test for any reason other than to keep you happy.”

He continued to speak loud enough for everyone to hear. “And what will make me happiest of all is to make you my heir.”

“No, Bennett, no,” I said, tugging at his arm. “You know that's not what this is about.”

“I know that, Gracie. This is about family.”

One of the men in back wagged a finger. “It will be so much more straightforward, so much easier for us to rewrite your will if DNA tests prove kinship. Who knows what sort of challenges we may encounter if you bequeath your estate to a young woman who is not related by blood.”

Bennett offered the man a cool smile. “I certainly hope for proof,” he said. “But I don't pay you for easy.”