Grace Cries Uncle (22 page)

“I don't understand what changed your mind,” Liza said for the fourth time since I'd delivered the news. From the moment she knew she was attending the reception, she turned her behavior around. Abandoning both her perch on the sofa and her woe-is-me attitude, she'd spent the last twenty minutes walking around my office, nattering about how excited she was to be allowed a little fun for a change.

“I told you. This was Bennett's idea.”

I hadn't had a chance to tell Frances the reason for the new plan. Red-faced and fidgeting with pent-up curiosity, she marched in and slammed on my desk a report I'd requested.

“I know you weren't thrilled with the idea of sitting with Liza,” I said to her. “Now that she's joining the party, I'll understand if you'd prefer to take a pass on tonight.”

“
Pheh
,” Frances said, fairly spitting the sound. “Not getting rid of me that easily.” She stormed back out.

Liza faced me again. “What I don't understand is why Bennett changed his mind about me.”

“He didn't change his mind about you. He's being nice. That's it. No hidden agenda.” Part of me hated how easily the lies spilled out. Part of me felt perversely proud.

“He didn't seem to like me very much.”

Time to put an end to this discussion. I folded my arms across my desk with a
thunk
of finality. “Liza, can you understand that this is not about you? I made the mistake of telling him how bored you've been since you came here. Bennett is a very kind soul. He's really just being nice.” I exaggerated a shrug. “What more do you want from me?”

My deadpan description of how Liza came to be invited didn't do anything to dim her spirits. “I love parties. I can't wait for tonight.”

“I can't wait until it's over.”

*   *   *

Brimming with wealthy guests, the banquet room buzzed with a very different sort of energy than it had this morning. Had it been only today that Bennett and I had learned the truth of our familial connection? That moment, and the happiness I'd felt, seemed so long ago.

Next to me, Liza sipped Champagne. “Can you
imagine
living like this?” she asked, her eyes wide as she took in the room's soaring ceiling, priceless tapestries, and fireplaces the size of small bedrooms.

Thanks to Bruce and Scott's efforts, my sister and I blended in well enough with the eclectic crowd. As promised, my thoughtful roommates had dropped off clothes. Some I didn't recognize. I imagined those—in Liza's size—had been acquired from the local consignment shop this morning.

I wore my favorite little black dress, pearl pendant, and matching earrings. Liza's bohemian ensemble—a flowing, patterned skirt to her ankles, shiny scarlet top, and oversized fringed purse—was the perfect choice for my wild-card sister. The bright red would make it extra easy for McClowery to keep tabs on her.

My sister lifted her flute in a mock toast, the gesture reminiscent of this morning's celebration in a way that made me very sad. “You've done well for yourself, Sis, landing a job that lets you rub noses with these kinds of people.”

“Marshfield is more than a job for me,” I said, in a rare, candid admission. “I love my life here.”

“Yeah.” She studied me for a moment, then took another long look around. “Staying put after Mom died was the right decision for you.” She sipped more Champagne. “I'm still waiting for my decisions to work out right.”

I had nothing to add so I moved through the groups of guests, greeting those I recognized.

Liza seemed unwilling to leave my side. “Where's our host for this gala gathering?” she asked. “I want to thank him personally for inviting me.”

“Bennett will be along shortly. He prefers to join a party once it's under way.” I was back to lying; Bennett was undergoing a last-minute mic check in a small room off the second-floor balcony.

“How many people did he invite to this thing?” she asked.

The banquet room could probably hold more than three thousand people standing shoulder to shoulder. At the moment we had far fewer than that, though enough to fill it comfortably. “Two hundred and fifty,” I said, “ish.”

“Wow.”

Frances elbowed her way through a group of people, who frowned and spoke in quiet voices. I'd taken notice of them earlier. There were fewer than a dozen of them, but they made themselves conspicuous by their antisocial behavior. None of these individuals had accepted a drink from a wandering waiter; several had, in fact, shooed servers away.

“Aren't they the life of the party?” Liza asked. With a nod toward Frances, she whispered, “She fits right in.”

I caught a glimpse of one of the men, in profile. “Hey,” I exclaimed quietly, but before I could get a better look, the group had swallowed him back up.

Frances turned around, following my stare. “Who do you recognize?”

“Nobody,” I lied. “My mistake.”

Frances fixed me with a disagreeable frown. My poor assistant still didn't know why Liza had been allowed to attend.

“I may need to disappear from the festivities for a bit,” I said. Yet another falsehood. “I always like to ensure that events like this are running smoothly behind the scenes.”

Liza shrugged her indifference.

Frances barely moved her lips. “Need any assistance?”

“I'll be fine, thanks.”

Liza tugged my arm. “Tell me a couple of important things about collecting antiques.” Her face was alight with anticipation. “Or give me the names of expensive pieces so I can make small talk with these people.”

“Liza, don't even try. You wouldn't last thirty seconds faking a conversation about antiquities. Not with these people. They'll eat you up and spit you out. If you're uncomfortable mingling, stay close to Frances. She'll help you out.”

I pretended not to notice Frances's pinpoint pupils and gritted teeth. I couldn't help but catch the glow of excitement in Liza's wide eyes. I placed a hand on her shoulder. “Do you understand? These people are way out of your league. Don't make a fool of yourself by pretending to be someone you're not.”

She slid out of my grip, downed the remainder of her Champagne, and dropped the glass onto a passing waiter's tray. “You've got nothing to worry about from me.”

Liza's assurances did more to unnerve than settle me as I made my way out and up to the FBI's control center.

Even though Marshfield security personnel manned the door, I was not allowed to pass until a federal agent confirmed my identity.

The moment I stepped in, I gasped. This former bedroom-parlor combination, with its close proximity to the family's
personal quarters on the second floor had originally been designated to accommodate favored guests. These people would have been delighted by the high ceilings, expansive living space, and modern (for the time) attached lavatory. They may have overlooked the fact that the room lacked windows. Which is probably why McClowery picked it.

Even though the room's overhead lights were off, the quarters felt close and confined, warm from the heat of too many bodies and too much humming machinery crammed into a location designed for a single guest. Maybe two. Furniture had been removed, replaced by a dozen oversized monitors, a collection of collapsible metal desks, and as many rolling chairs. Illumination from the screens provided enough light to see clearly: lots of quiet people wearing headsets, tapping keyboards, and staring at images of the banquet hall crowd below.

McClowery and Bennett stood inside the door. They both glanced up at my entrance, but McClowery, wearing a headset around the back of his neck, didn't stop talking. “Remember that we will be watching and listening every minute,” he said to Bennett. “Our goal tonight is simple: allow the thieves to make contact and when they do, express your interest in acquiring the jeweled key. Try not to be overanxious. If they suggest meeting later for a private exchange, agree to it, but don't let them think you're nervous.”

“You've made all this abundantly clear, Agent McClowery,” Bennett said. “I understand my instructions. We can go over them again if you like, but we're wasting time.”

McClowery fitted the headset over his dark hair and adjusted the microphone near his lips. “Don't forget that we have agents at the party, too.”

“I know,” Bennett said with a trace of exasperation. “I will know who to trust by use of our code word.”

McClowery slid a glance toward me as though worried I might overhear.

All I cared about was Bennett's safety this evening. “Is
Malcolm Krol one of tonight's attendees?” I asked. “I think I spotted him down there.”

McClowery didn't answer.

Bennett's smile was grim. “I think it's time I went downstairs and greeted my guests, don't you?”

I fully intended to accompany him, but McClowery stopped me. “We'd prefer you stay in the control room for a while.”

Before Bennett left, I gripped his arm. “Be careful.”

“Are you afraid I can't handle myself, Gracie?” he asked with a playful lilt, but I caught the seriousness in his question.

“Of course not,” I said. “But we're both so much stronger together than we are alone.”

His eyes glistened. He opened his arms and I stepped into a hug. He kissed the top of my head. “Don't worry, Gracie. We'll stand together another day.”

When he released me, McClowery frowned. “Careful. Those microphones are delicate.”

Unsettled, I shifted my weight for the third time in as many minutes. McClowery and I stood behind a seated FBI agent who paid us no attention whatsoever. She spoke quietly into her headset, saying things like “Segment delta-four, zoom,” and, “Alpha-three, pull out,” as she clicked through alternating views of the room.

Down the line, five other agents maintained surveillance over the banquet hall, studying images from five different vantage points. I craned my neck to see what the agents across the room were doing. They, too, studied their oversized monitors with sights on key spaces outside the big hall: exits, nearby washrooms, the mansion's front door, and the gate where visitors signed in before being allowed access.

“Wouldn't that be the perfect spot to apprehend Eric?” I asked, pointing. “As soon as he gives his name to the guard, you'd have him.”

McClowery gave me a withering look. “Eric will know better than to provide his real name. And I wouldn't be surprised if he's changed his appearance in some way. That's
another reason why we want you here. You and your sister probably know him better than anyone else in attendance. If he's incognito, you're our best bet to see through his disguise.”

If.
I thought the whole setup was flimsy. Eric showing up tonight was a real possibility. No argument there. But having me up here, instead of next to Bennett, where I could be of real assistance, felt wrong.

The crowd in the banquet hall formed itself into a loose receiving line, as guests queued up to greet Bennett. Most of them offered the sort of small talk one might expect from wealthy antique collectors. Among these were Daisy and Jim Tuen. As they introduced themselves, Jim said, “My wife and I are pleased to be able to join you here this evening. This is the highlight of our trip.”

Daisy asked, “Is Ms. Wheaton here? We haven't seen her yet tonight.”

“That's right,” Bennett said. “I'd forgotten that you've met Gracie. She and I were very sorry to be unable to spend time with you when you visited earlier.”

The Tuens were quick to
tut-tut
his apology. Daisy assured him that they understood completely.

Bennett gave the room a cursory scan. “I'm sure Gracie will return soon.” He seemed to want to prolong the conversation, but the Tuens thanked him again for the invitation and stepped away.

Among those waiting to get a word with Bennett was another familiar face. The red hair and body-skimming clothes would have drawn my attention even if I'd never met her before. Near the end of the line that continued to grow, Phyllis Forgue seemed more interested in assessing those around her than in getting closer to Bennett. At the same time, her body language screamed impatience. Finally, she stepped away and snagged a drink from a waiter. I pointed. “Looks like Ms. Forgue wants to wait until Bennett is alone.”

I took McClowery's grunt as affirmation.

When I opened my mouth to ask a question about the woman, McClowery sliced the air with his finger. He cocked an ear toward the display. One of the attendees, an older gentleman, had leaned in close to speak softly to Bennett. It took me a moment to realize that this was the same man we'd run into at the restaurant after the DNA testing— the Texan Bennett hadn't introduced me to. The man he'd claimed he wanted to avoid. I searched my memory for the man's name.

“If I didn't know better, Bennett, I'd think you've been dodging me.” As the two men talked I was amazed at how well the hidden microphone picked up their conversation without being drowned out by crowd noises. “What is this rumor I hear?” the man asked.

The woman seated before us clicked her mouse. Immediately, four different angles of the interchange came into view. We could see this man's face in profile from both directions and a slightly obstructed view of him from up and behind Bennett's right shoulder.

Bennett feigned confusion. “There are always rumors, Neal,” he said. “Which one are you talking about?”

Next to me, McClowery raised his voice. “Neal,” he called to his subordinates. “What do we have on him?”

Seconds later the reply came. “Neal Coddington. Age sixty-seven. Married. Lives outside Houston. Former owner and CEO of a pharmaceutical company. No priors.”

McClowery continued to stare at the screen. “Any travel to Asia in the past year?”

The same agent called back, “Working on it.”

Onscreen, Coddington smiled enigmatically and lowered his voice further, speaking directly into Bennett's ear. “My sources tell me that you may be interested in acquiring a certain”—he glanced about quickly—“missing artifact? Is this true?”

Bennett spoke softly. “Why do you ask?”

Emboldened perhaps by Bennett's open-ended question,
Coddington straightened and said, “Very unlike you, my friend.”

McClowery had one arm across his middle, the other hand up at his mouth, fingers tugging at his bottom lip. “Careful,” he said. Addressing the group again, he raised his voice. “Where are we on the Asia travel?”

“Nothing's coming up.”

“Check private transport. Look at next of kin.”

“On it.”

Bennett held the man's gaze. “You find it unusual for me to attempt to procure one-of-a-kind treasures?” He offered a nonchalant wave, encompassing the mansion. “What I have on display is a mere fraction of my private collection.”

Coddington shook his head. “Don't play coy with me, Bennett. We've been around too long for games. If the rumors are true, you're opening up a dark door.” He waited, but Bennett didn't say a word. “Mind you, I do understand how a particular piece can drive one to explore options one might never otherwise consider.”

“Are you speaking from experience?” Bennett asked.

“I admit nothing,” Coddington said with a sly smile. Again he leaned in close. “I suggest you proceed with caution. If you are after the missing jeweled key, as I have been led to believe, know that spies are everywhere. You were wise to limit your exposure by entertaining here. I wish you luck, my friend.”

He shook Bennett's hand and was about to move off, but Bennett held on a moment longer. “If you happen on information, you will let me know?”

Coddington's smile was melancholy. “This one is out of my league.”

When Coddington broke away, McClowery's shoulders relaxed and he let loose with an audible sigh of disappointment.

“No Asia travel in the past five years for Neal Coddington,” one of the agents reported.

McClowery waved the air. “Never mind.”

“Didn't you have a guest list ahead of time?” I asked. “Wouldn't you already have all that information?”

McClowery didn't try to hide his annoyance. “Of course we performed a preliminary investigation on all prospective attendees.” His right hand shot out toward the active displays. “Do you have any idea how many of these people fit our profile? Nearly all of them. If it were a matter of simply tracing steps or examining business dealings, we would have arrested the guilty party years ago.”

I didn't say anything.

“The entire reason for tonight's setup is to flush the black market organization out into the open. Mr. X has been savvy enough to keep his tracks covered. With few exceptions, every single person down there is a suspect. The only way we're going to find Mr. X is when he makes a move.”

The FBI agents manning the displays paid no attention as McClowery and I strolled back and forth behind them. Each of the six silent agents studied his or her assigned section of the banquet hall. I meandered, doing my best to keep tabs on Liza while at the same time looking for either Eric or Nina Buchman.

More guests made their way to Bennett, most of them offering little more than vapid small talk and forced chuckles. In separate instances, however, two guests, one man, one woman, made mention of “recent rumors” about a “priceless treasure” that might become available. Their follow-up questions and veiled references were enough to prompt Bennett to use these guests' names in conversation, thereby triggering McClowery's shouted demands for information.

“Say that again,” he said to the tech across the room. “What was that about her preferences for Asian influences?”

The agent read from his screen. I tuned him out.

Instead, I watched Liza circumnavigate the room. Even though I'd encountered Eric mere days ago, I counted on Liza
being able to recognize him faster than I would. I also counted on the fact that she'd be unable to mask her reaction.

Frances had been dogging Liza's every step, ignoring my sister's repeated scathing glances, until a guest insinuated herself between them. From Frances's surprised, then relaxed, body language, I deduced she recognized the interloper.

McClowery picked up on my scrutiny. “The agent is telling your assistant to back off. No one will approach Liza if she's not alone.”

Liza wound through the gathered guests, occasionally stopping to chat. She didn't appear to quibble when it came to age or gender. One of the people she spent more than a few minutes with was Neal Coddington, whose body language suggested his delight in having caught the attention of an attractive young female. After that, she moved on to engage an elderly woman, even going so far as to help her into a seat and fetch the woman a drink.

Through it all, I continued to catch snippets of conversations. The woman who'd captured McClowery's interest had moved on, and whoever Bennett was speaking with now didn't command the agent's full attention.

Liza had moved on as well. Her body language suggested that she was eager to talk with Bennett. The moment he was free, she made a beeline for him. In her haste to connect, she collided with Phyllis Forgue. From my vantage point it seemed that Forgue had anticipated Liza's move and intentionally blocked her. With no microphones covering either of them, I was left to determine my own soundtrack for their silent performance. Perfunctory apologies. Insincere smiles. Two wary felines, sizing each other up.

Phyllis's interception smugly complete, she steered Liza one way and took off the other—headed straight for Bennett.

Her goal was so apparent that when Bennett—oblivious to the drama—took that moment to stride across the room to talk with someone else, I almost laughed out loud.

After a prolonged period of quiet, I asked McClowery, “Is Malcolm Krol dangerous?”

I got the impression the agent had forgotten I was there. He took an extra beat to collect himself. “We are all dangerous, Ms. Wheaton.”

“You know what I mean. Does he pose a threat to Bennett?”

The dark metal doors behind McClowery's eyes slid shut yet again. “There should be no reason for Malcolm Krol to cause Mr. Marshfield harm.”

Should be.
“Wouldn't it be better if I went down there?”

“You're to stay here, Ms. Wheaton. That is the plan.”

“And if I refuse?”

McClowery glanced toward the door. As if obeying some silent signal, the agent stationed there stepped in front of it, blocking my exit. McClowery's placating smile chilled me. “We strongly urge you to stay.” He gestured toward the monitors. “Please resume watching the crowd, Ms. Wheaton. And don't distract me again unless Eric Soames shows up.”

Chastised, I bit my bottom lip. Wouldn't Eric have arrived by now? My gut told me he wasn't coming. A straightforward approach wasn't really his style. No, he preferred to lurk in the background, sneak in, take whatever he wanted, and skulk back out. He might send Nina Buchman, of course, but that was starting to feel like a long shot, too.

I didn't really care about catching Eric. All I cared about was keeping Bennett safe. And the only way to keep him safe, it seemed, was to remain vigilant as I studied the activity below.