Grace Among Thieves

by Julie Hyzy

  “Copy that.”

  It would take Frances a few minutes to reach my position, but I needed someone I could trust to keep an eye on John until the police arrived. Monica would be a poor choice and I needed to get up to the second floor, where I could be of more use.

  In the meantime, I tried to get more information from John. “This has been horrible. I’m so sorry. Is there something I can do for you?”

  Sitting seemed to have helped his color return. He blinked, looking upward. “My tour group . . .”

  “I’ll go up there to check on them as soon as my assistant gets here.”

  “I’m all right,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Nothing like this has ever happened before.”

  “I understand.”

  He looked up, his usually bright eyes clouded with sadness.

  We fell silent.

  Arms folded, I focused on the opposite wall, trying hard to keep from looking at Lenore.

  “You’ve had a rough go of it here at Marshfield these past few months, haven’t you?” John asked.

  I nodded. I’d been thinking the exact same thing. I hadn’t been here a full year yet and this was the third murder on Marshfield property. If I didn’t know better, I’d consider myself a jinx.

  “I know you need to be upstairs,” John said. “Go ahead. Do what you need to do. I’ll be okay.”

  “I’d rather wait for my assistant,” I said. “Just in case.”

  “I’m not a child,” he said, his voice gaining strength. “I know not to touch anything. I don’t need a babysitter.”

  “Of course you don’t,” I said, smoothly, uncrossing my arms and stepping closer. “What else can you tell me about this Lenore? Do you have any idea who might want to harm her?”

  John’s eyebrows came together. “She hasn’t been exactly tight-lipped about the fact that she’s recently divorced. I got the impression it was ugly, but I never sensed fear from her. I think she said her husband was cheating. He divorced her.”

  “That doesn’t sound very threatening.”

  “Unless she wasn’t telling the truth.” John looked frail all of a sudden. “But I doubt that. If anything, she shared too much. Drove a few of the other group members up a wall.”

  “Enough to kill her?”

  His gaze rolled up to meet mine. “That isn’t funny.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be. The police will want to know.”

  He stared at the floor and bobbed his head. “That’s true enough.”

  “That wouldn’t explain the guy in the staff uniform,” I said. “He must be an imposter. The fact that he was able to get in without being noticed, though, disturbs me greatly.” Instinctively I turned toward Lenore, then wished I hadn’t. “Do you think the killer chose her at random?”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  “Can you tell me where you were when you last saw her?”

  “The police will want to know that, too, won’t they?” He rubbed his face, thinking. “We were outside the Highland Guest Room and I was giving the little spiel on how the room got its name. That’s when the docent—or whoever he was—gestured to Lenore. I saw him. My first thought was that she’d gotten into trouble again, but the guy was smiling, so I ignored them and kept talking. When we moved on down the hall to the next stop, I noticed the guy pointing something out to Lenore. I didn’t know what.” He stopped, thinking. “Now that I look back, I believe he was pointing toward the stairwell.”

  “This is all good. Keep a mental picture of the guy. It may be our best lead to catch him.”

  Though overwhelmed, John pressed on. “I didn’t even think twice,” he said miserably. “Your staff is friendly. This all looked perfectly normal. Now Lenore is dead. What if Mark doesn’t survive? This is all my fault.”

  I heard a voice cutting through the distant basement chatter, and Frances appeared in one of the far doorways. The annoyance in her expression changed as she swept the area with keen attention. I could tell exactly when her gaze lighted on Lenore. “Oh my,” she said bringing a hand to her mouth. Recovering quickly, she asked, “She fell?”

  “Pushed,” I said. “You know John, the tour guide. Would you please stay here with him until the detectives arrive? They should be here any minute.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To talk to the man who was shot.”

  Frances’s eyes widened, but she pulled her lips in tightly and gave the briefest of nods.

  To John, I said, “I’ll get back as soon as I can. I’m very sorry.” There wasn’t much more to say and he remained silent. I didn’t expect he really cared whether I returned or not.

  Frances found her voice again as I started away. “How come we never had any murders at Marshfield before you got here?”

  I stopped, but didn’t turn. “You’re slowing down, Frances,” I said over my shoulder. “Took you almost thirty seconds to blame me this time.”

  Halfway out the door, a thought occurred to me. I spun. “Frances,” I said. “This could have been a ruse gone wrong.”

  Understanding registered in her expression. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Call Lois. Order an emergency inventory.”

  “Scope?”

  “The entire mansion.” I’d been fooled into falling for a ruse once before when a crime had been committed elsewhere in the manor. I wasn’t about to let that happen again. “I’ll alert Terrence.”

  I called our head of security on his radio as I ran out. “This may have already occurred to you, but our killer might have another agenda. If he was—”

  “I’m on it,” he said. “The woman might have seen him steal something and he reacted in fear. Problem is, murder is still murder. But, don’t worry, as soon as I heard, I put the house on lockdown. No one gets out without being cleared.”

  After he signed off I realized he’d said, “As soon as I heard.” Which meant that there was a chance our bad guy might have gotten away. I didn’t want to think about that.

  Before I could get far, I was notified via radio that the police had arrived. An alert front desk staffer had already rushed the paramedics up to the second floor so it fell to me to escort the police to the scene.

  Detectives Rodriguez and Flynn had worked the two prior murders here at Marshfield. Rodriguez viewed the world through hooded eyes, analyzing everything with a ponderous demeanor that still drove me crazy sometimes. I’d first judged him slow and plodding, but came to understand that the portly detective absorbed far more than he liked to let on. I trusted him.

  That was more than could be said for his young counterpart. Tall, lanky, and impulsive, Flynn leapt to conclusions before ensuring the evidence supported his claims. I supposed their two personalities balanced each other out, but I was disappointed that this mismatched team was the best Emberstowne had to offer.

  I met them at the front door, where dozens of visitors had been brought to wait. “This way,” I said to the detectives, trying my best to appear unruffled.

  My efforts to avoid frightening people were in vain. All the guests I saw looked plenty shaken. Whether these people knew what had happened or were simply alarmed by the fact that armed guards were preventing their departure, I didn’t know. Nor could I worry about that right now.

  Still trying my best to keep quiet, I asked Rodriguez, “Where to first? The girl who was killed or the man who was shot?”

  The detective spoke in a low growl, close to my ear. “What’s going on here, Ms. Wheaton? A town like this shouldn’t have these kinds of problems.”

  That was twice in as many minutes that someone had made a point to mention the recent upsurge in murders. Rodriguez hadn’t called me out personally the way Frances had, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t thinking it.

  I decided not to answer that as we walked quickly across the main floor.

  “I want to talk to the shooting victim,” Rodriguez said. “Let’s hope he’s still alive by the time we get there.”

  Chap
ter 8

  WITH HIS BACK UP AGAINST THE OAK WALL, the victim sat on the floor, head hanging down. At first I couldn’t tell if he was unconscious or not, but the fact that he retained a grip his left shoulder and remained upright was encouraging.

  Terrence’s staff had managed to clear the immediate area and paramedics were working on the injured man, faces calm, expressions serious. One of them confirmed that the victim’s vitals were being transmitted to the local hospital. “You’re in good hands, sir,” he assured his patient. “Try to keep alert. We need you to stay awake.”

  Another paramedic, nearer the victim’s head, asked about allergies. Yet another set up a saline drip. The woman who had so spiritedly taken Lenore to task yesterday was now crouched on the floor conferring with the paramedics. It dawned on me that she was the doctor in the group who John had mentioned. I’d pegged her as a retired kindergarten teacher. What was her name again? I racked my brain. Marlene.

  Marlene spoke in a crisp tone, asking questions, issuing directives.

  “Oh,” I said, startled, when the man on the floor looked up. Spotting me, he tried to straighten, and I could tell he was trying to place who I was. Just then, however, Marlene lifted the man’s arm to examine his wound, causing him to stiffen and wince.

  I winced, too. So much blood from one bullet hole. The victim clenched his eyes and turned away.

  “You know him?” Rodriguez asked from over my shoulder.

  “Not really,” I answered. “He was part of the tour group that came through here yesterday when we had that altercation. I remember seeing him. The tour guide says his name is Mark Ellroy.”

  The man on the floor focused mad, dark eyes on me now. He tried to get up but the paramedics held him down. “Lenore,” he asked, voice cracking. “No one will tell me anything. Is she all right?”

  I turned to Rodriguez. “He doesn’t know.”

  Whispering served only to stir the man’s agitation.

  “Oh no,” he gasped, his gaze frantically bouncing between my face and Rodriguez’s, “she’s not okay, is she?”

  The concern in his expression gripped me. I had no words of consolation, but I was moved with pity. “I’m so sorry,” I began, realizing by the widening of his eyes that that was probably the worst way to begin. “Can you tell us what happened?”

  Flynn, who up until now had been mostly silent, gave a grunt of displeasure. “Since when are you in charge of questioning witnesses?” he demanded under his breath.

  Rodriguez had placed a restraining hand on my arm. His voice was gentle. “Let us handle this. You can help by gathering all the other potential witnesses. Is there somewhere they can wait until we’re ready to question them?”

  “I’ll find a room.” I thought about it. “Or two.”

  “Evidence technicians will be here soon,” he added. “We’ll need your help coordinating.” He started to move away, then stopped and turned back. He heaved a sigh so deep his protruding gut lifted and dropped with a bounce. “What am I saying? You know the drill.”

  Unfortunately, I did.

  “John’s downstairs,” I said, adding, “The tour guide,” when Rodriguez looked confused. “I’ll make sure he’s okay. He saw the man who did this.”

  The rest of the tour group had been staged in a corridor down the hall; they were now being herded downstairs. I caught up with the guard who was bringing up the rear. “Where are you taking them?” I asked, sneaking a discreet look at his badge. I’d met him once before, but until I saw “Cornell,” I couldn’t come up with his name.

  Tall, solid, and with military-cropped short hair, Cornell kept close watch on the trudging tourists as he answered, “Carr wants them held in the entrance hall until further notice. Not as much chance for them to get into trouble.”

  The group shuffled forward as directed, murmuring among themselves. A few shot backward glances toward where we’d left Mark Ellroy. They wore expressions of fear and disbelief. Couples held tight to one another. Others cast wary glances at their peers. I was happy there were no children in this bunch.

  Cornell continued, “We’ve got everything under control. No one’s getting out until we say so.”

  I knew his words were meant to reassure, but I also knew of secret passages that had helped another murderer escape.

  “You’re joining us?” he asked when I continued to accompany the exodus.

  I shook my head. “I’m heading back . . . down.” I caught Cornell’s glum look of understanding, so thankfully didn’t have to explain that I would be returning to where Lenore had met her death. “I need to relieve Frances. As soon as I can, however, I’ll be up to help in the entrance hall.”

  I inched past the group when they turned down the next corridor. I reached the yellow staff stairway and trotted down as quickly as I could, my entire body pinging with awareness. My hands balled into fists as my pace picked up. I was angry—so angry—that another murder had been committed on Marshfield grounds that I felt almost eager to spring into action if I happened to cross paths with the killer.

  In a twisted way, I almost wished I would. Whoever had killed Lenore and attempted to kill Mark Ellroy was not a member of the Marshfield staff. I was sure of it. Whoever it was must have posed as a docent, probably as he plotted his next major theft.

  I was furious. Frustrated. My head buzzed with the need to do something. Adrenaline pumped under my skin, flushing me with a sense of invincibility. “Come on,” I wanted to scream. “Let me at him.”

  I hurried through a narrow basement corridor toward the spot I’d left John and Frances, but all I could see were the backs of staff members from the laundry and maintenance departments. They clustered in the doorway, jostling one another for a better look as they all peered at the meticulous process of evidence collection.

  Excusing myself as I made my way through the four-deep throng, I realized that despite their curiosity, they’d been effectively held back from trampling the scene by a slim band of crime scene tape. Bright yellow, flimsy plastic, it nonetheless worked like magic to keep everyone out of the stairwell. It kept me from entering the area as well.

  I was grateful to see that our local law enforcement was on the scene much faster than they’d been in the past, but I hated the fact that we here at Marshfield had provided so much practice. I spotted Frances just out of the evidence technicians’ way, a few steps up from the ground level. I called out to her. “Where’s John?”

  She’d glanced up at the sound of her name, her expression at once both annoyed and relieved. “There you are,” she said. To the technician closest to her position, she pointed at me. “You can let her in. She’s my boss.”

  The tech gave the briefest of nods then turned to me. He wore gloves and booties and carried a clear plastic bin full of items I couldn’t begin to recognize. “You can walk in up to here.” The tech drew an imaginary line on the ground about a foot from the doorway, where I ducked under the tape. “You can join your friend on the stairs,” he said, “but don’t come any closer than this.”

  “Got it.”

  He turned to the gaping group of staffers who had resumed staring. “Okay, enough. Everybody scatter. We’ve got work to do here and we don’t need an audience.”

  “Where’s John?” I asked Frances when I reached her.

  “One of our security guards said he was needed for questioning and took him out.” Pointing, Frances indicated upward. “He’s waiting on the first floor.”

  “Who?”

  “John,” she said, with a look and a tone meant to deride me for asking.

  “No. Who took him? Which of our guards?”

  “Oh,” she said, face flushing. “I missed looking at his name badge. One of the new guys.”

  “Was he dressed like a guard or a docent?” I asked.

  Frances hesitated long enough to send me into a panic.

  “But it was someone you’ve seen before?” I asked, desperate for answers.

  “Sure, of course,” she s
aid. “I’d recognize him instantly.”

  I turned to the tech who had let me in. “I’m going up,” I said.

  He looked at me sharply. “Stay away from the second floor. That’s a crime scene, too.”

  “First floor only.” I was pointing even as I ran. What if the guard who had taken John was actually the killer, trying to keep from being identified?

  Frances was right on my heels, apparently reading my mind. “You’re not going to rush in there without help, are you?”

  I didn’t answer.

  She tried again, a little more breathless now, as I reached the first-floor landing. “I’m sure he’s one of ours. I’m sure of it.”

  I bolted through the door to find John alone in a soft chair, his face in his hands. He jumped to his feet as we burst in. “What else? What’s wrong?”

  There was no one with him. This room—another one that was off-limits to guests, in a section of the house they probably didn’t even realize they were missing—had become one of our many storage rooms. With one door that we’d used to come in from the staircase and another across the room leading into the hallway, it offered excellent accessibility. Shelves lined two walls, wooden chairs stacked on them, neatly flip-flopped one atop another in sets of two.

  “Where’s the guard who brought you here?” I asked.

  John twisted to face the door behind him, indicating as he did so. “He told me to wait right here. He needed to get someone.”

  “Did he say anything?” I asked. “Did you catch his name?”

  The concern in my voice must have been apparent because John’s already troubled expression grew even more alarmed. “I didn’t know I needed to.” He peered around me to look at Frances. “You know him, don’t you?”

  “I can’t recall his name,” she said stiffly. “But he works here. I’m sure of it.”

  I crossed the room and opened the oak door, peeking out into the quiet corridor. No one.

  Angry anticipation danced in Frances’s eyes when I turned back to them. “Say it,” she said. “I know what you’re thinking: that I should have accompanied John. But then who would have waited for the technicians, hmm? I can’t be in two places at once, you know.”