Grace Among Thieves

by Julie Hyzy

  I didn’t realize what he meant until I was outside in the sweltering heat again and the infamous lightbulb went on in my head. Or maybe it was the sun. Either way, I spun in a rush of belated anger, facing the doors that whooshed shut behind me. “You jerk,” I said it aloud, meaning it for Flynn. He’d believed I’d been there to flirt with Mark. And Mark, who probably assumed I had a history with Flynn, was likely convinced he was facing a jealous ex-boyfriend.

  I gave a grumble of sheer frustration. It was time to go home.

  Chapter 10

  “I SWEAR, GRACE, NO ONE COMES HOME AS OFTEN as you do saying, ‘There’s been a murder at work.’” Bruce finished seasoning the pasta, tasted it one last time, and pronounced it done, even as he shook his head. “I’m starting to get a little paranoid.”

  He placed the turquoise earthenware bowl in the center of the yellow checkered tablecloth and directed me to start serving the salad. Scott poured wine, a white this time, and we all took our places around the cheery kitchen table.

  I’d grabbed a quick sandwich when I’d first gotten home, but there was no way I was passing up Bruce’s homemade frutti di mare. My roommates usually waited to have dinner until after they closed Amethyst Cellars for the night. Because I enjoyed their company—not to mention Bruce’s cooking—I often joined them, even though that meant I had to keep from overindulging earlier.

  Scott passed me a plate loaded with bruschetta slices. “I’d say it’s better than Grace going in to work saying that there’s been a murder at home.”

  I shuddered. “Don’t even say that. Marshfield has just had a run of bad luck.”

  Bruce dug in. “I’ll say.” A moment later he closed his eyes. “Mmm,” he said, “I think I may have outdone myself this time.”

  Scott and I enthusiastically concurred. Bootsie wound her way between the kitchen chair legs to stare up at me and yowl with polite indignation. “I fed you,” I said. She yowled again and the boys laughed. Bootsie’s pupils were huge and soulful, which I’d come to learn meant a leap into my lap was imminent. “Can you wait until I’m finished eating?” I asked.

  She seemed to understand. Winding her way between the table and chair legs again, she took up a position near the door to the dining room and sprawled, watching us.

  “You seem to have gotten over your allergies,” Scott said.

  I was about to answer but instead I put down my fork. They both looked up.

  “What’s wrong?” Bruce asked.

  “Do you realize that we went from talking about the murder of a young woman to my allergies—which yes, you’re right, have abated—in the space of one minute? Doesn’t the fact that we were able to shift subjects so quickly seem wrong?”

  “You’re right.” Scott put his fork down, too. “But that doesn’t make us callous, or uncaring, does it?”

  Bruce looked a little alarmed, as though we were all about to stop eating after the first two bites. “I think it’s a coping mechanism.”

  Scott agreed. “Think about it. We don’t have any idea how to handle the fallout from a murder, yet we’ve scrambled to do our best ever since the first time you brought one home.”

  “Wow, doesn’t that make me feel good?” I said.

  Bruce chimed in again. “That’s not quite accurate. Makes it sound as though it’s your fault, and it isn’t. I think what Scott means is that there are no rule books to follow, no guidelines. Unless we strive for normal, we risk getting sucked into depression. I can’t believe that would serve anyone. Not even the memory of the recently deceased.”

  “You’re probably right,” I said. “The crime is too horrible to deal with. We aren’t cops, we aren’t psychologists. We don’t have the skills or tools to deal with this kind of trauma.”

  “Scott and I have the luxury of distance. We can separate ourselves from all that’s happening at the manor. You, on the other hand,” Bruce pointed to me with his filled fork, “have been able to use your emotion as fuel to help solve the crimes.”

  “Not intentionally.”

  “Maybe not. But don’t beat yourself up about how you handle all this. I think you’re more than living up to your name. You’ve shown grace in situations that would cause anyone else to wring their hands and run away.”

  “I had to bring Bennett up to date on all that’s happened. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to explain that we’ve suffered yet another murder?”

  “Does he feel responsible?” Scott asked.

  “Of course he does. As do I.”

  I took a bite of pasta. No longer hungry, I was nonetheless eager to get back to normal, like Bruce had suggested. How hypocritical of me. I’d complained that we were in too much of a hurry to resume our ordinary lives and now it was I who was scurrying back to a place where comfort reigned.

  It wasn’t until we cleared the plates and began our kitchen cleanup that the subject of the murder came up again. “The man who was shot,” Bruce began as he dried a dish with a blue cotton towel, “you said he’s going to be staying at the Marshfield Hotel?”

  “The hospital is keeping him overnight for observation. I’m to pick him up around nine tomorrow. We’ll set him up in a nice room at the hotel.” I stopped in the middle of sweeping the floor. “Why did you ask about him?”

  Scott and Bruce exchanged a look.

  “What?” I asked.

  They hadn’t conversed without me in the room since they’d gotten home, yet it was clear they were communicating. “Nothing,” Scott said.

  “Not nothing. Fess up.”

  Again the shared look. Bruce threw his dish towel over his shoulder and waited as though he expected me to say something.

  I looked over at Scott. Up to his elbows in soapy water, he paid more attention to me than he did to his dirty dishes.

  “What?” I asked again.

  One of Scott’s eyebrows rose. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell us about this Mark Ellroy?”

  Completely lost, I looked from one to the other. “Not really,” I said slowly. “I told you he lives in Colorado, didn’t I?”

  Bruce cut to the chase. “You didn’t mention if he was single.”

  “I don’t know if he is or not.”

  “He was traveling as a single, right?” Scott asked.

  “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  Bruce wagged his head. “You should have seen yourself talking about him. Everything was doom and gloom until you got to the part about visiting him in the hospital. Then your face lit up.”

  “It did not.”

  “Did, too,” Scott said, picking up another dish to scour. “Like night and day. Is he good-looking?”

  I turned my back to them, resuming my sweeping job. Bootsie decided it was time to play and, with her rump up, watched with rapt attention as I navigated nonexistent dirt out of the far corner. As soon as I went back for more, she pounced, then scampered away the moment her little paws hit the bristles.

  I glanced back over my shoulder to find my roommates waiting for an answer. “He’s not bad.”

  “Aha!” Bruce said with undisguised glee. “I knew it.”

  “I thought you two were rooting for Jack.”

  “When was the last time you and Jack spoke?” Scott asked.

  “A week ago.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Things.”

  “Things like relationships or things like pruning roses and when to put down more fertilizer?”

  I bit my lip. “He’s had a rough go of it. You know that. He needs time.”

  “You had a rough go of it, too, and you’ve rallied,” Bruce said.

  “Listen,” Scott added, rinsing suds off his hands before wiping them dry, “nothing against Jack. He’s a good guy. We like him. But you’ve got to do what’s best for Grace. Right now that may mean exploring other opportunities. Nothing wrong with that.”

  “You don’t think flirting with a victim—an attempted murder victim, no less—is a little tacky
?”

  “You’re not flirting with a victim. You’re establishing a bond based on a shared experience.”

  “The shared experience in question being a murder,” I reminded him.

  Scott said, “I’m telling you, your face lit up when you talked about him tonight. We’re just saying not to close the door on any possibilities.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you guys, but you obviously missed that part about him living out West. I’m not ready for a long-distance relationship.” I gestured with the broom, causing Bootsie to jump.

  The two of them shared another glance before returning to the dishes. Bruce grinned at me over his shoulder. “Whatever you say, Grace.”

  I was about to start sweeping again when Scott asked, “When do we get to meet him?”

  * * *

  THE NEXT MORNING I LEFT FRANCES A VOICEMAIL on the office phone, letting her know I’d be late because I was overseeing Mark Ellroy’s transition from the hospital to the Marshfield Hotel. I also made a few other key calls, letting our bell captain know I’d be contacting him later once I found out where Mark was staying. I’d forgotten to get that information from John.

  When I finally left my bedroom, dressed and ready to go, Bootsie bounded down the stairs ahead of me. She took the steps double-pawed, her rear white legs bouncing like a jackrabbit’s. I usually fed her before leaving in the morning. The poor thing probably thought I’d forgotten.

  She crawled around my ankles, mewing pitifully while I opened a fresh can and scooped out two tablespoons. “Yum,” I said as she started in on her breakfast, “you like that, sweetie?”

  I left her making little smacking noises, and thought about how much fun it was to have her as part of the family. I remembered Ronny Tooney’s involvement when she’d first arrived, and how much he’d helped me with the last murder on Marshfield grounds. As much as I’d appreciated his assistance, I sincerely hoped he hadn’t heard about this new problem. If so, he’d be on my doorstep in no time.

  The thought gave me pause as I let myself out the back door and made sure the lock held. We’d been having troubles with it popping open lately, and I always worried about Bootsie getting out. After I ensured the lock was secure, I checked our yard and driveway for some sign of Tooney. Coast was clear. Good.

  Today would be another warm one. Barely eight-thirty in the morning and already my skin had gone clammy in the damp heat. I pushed my bangs back, knowing I’d fight that battle all day. One of the worst things about having blond hair—or at least the kind that I had—was the fact that when the temperature and humidity rose, my tresses went stringy and flat. I’d spent time with the blow dryer this morning, but I knew that after five minutes in this heat it would look as though I’d just stepped out of a shower.

  Not that it mattered. Despite Bruce’s and Scott’s contentions, I wasn’t eager to see Mark Ellroy for anything other than professional reasons. Yes, I thought as I opened the driver’s side door, he was handsome. He seemed nice. But that was the extent of it. I’d noticed his dimples. I was a sucker for dimples, and when he’d smiled—which had been only once, given the circumstances—I’d been treated to a truly handsome view indeed.

  I lowered myself into the driver’s seat and reached to pull the door shut. As I did, a hand grabbed the top of the window and yanked. I screamed, nearly toppling sideways, as my grip instinctively tightened on the door handle.

  “Tooney!” I didn’t care that I shouted. “What is wrong with you? Why did you sneak up on me like that?”

  “Oh, Grace, I’m sorry.” He instantly let go and stepped away from my car as though to demonstrate he was no threat. “I called out to you. I thought you heard me.”

  Still furious, my heart beat like a mad thing. “I didn’t,” I said, and slammed the door.

  My rage was so hot it took me three tries to get the key into the ignition. The moment I did I started up the car, jammed it into reverse, and turned to make sure I was clear to back up.

  It wasn’t until I’d gotten onto the street that I chanced a look back.

  Tooney stood there, hat literally in his hands, looking sheepish and hurt. He mouthed, “I’m sorry,” and started for the sidewalk. I heaved a resigned sigh. Mere moments ago, I’d thought fondly of this man. When would he learn not to startle me like that?

  I pulled back into the driveway and lowered my window without shutting off the car.

  “Just once, Tooney, can you give me a little forewarning before you pop up in front of me and scare me half to death?”

  He returned to the car, face suffused with relief. “I did, Grace, I swear. But you seemed really preoccupied. I shouldn’t have stuck my hand in the door like that. I was wrong. It’s just that I heard you had another problem at Marshfield yesterday, but nobody will tell me exactly what happened.”

  With a start, I remembered Terrence’s story about Tooney having rescued Lenore. I could afford to be generous with the man. He deserved that much.

  “I have to go to the hospital to pick up one of the victims from yesterday.”

  Tooney’s eyes lit up. “Can I come along?”

  “You really haven’t gotten any updates, have you?”

  He must have noticed the hesitation in my voice. “What happened out there, Grace? They’re not releasing any names yet. It must have been pretty bad.”

  “Where’s your car?”

  He shrugged. “In the shop again. I walked.”

  I gestured toward the passenger side. “Get in, I’ll drive you wherever you want to go.” When he brightened, my heart lurched. I was about to kill his happy spirit.

  “Home would be best, I guess. If you won’t let me go with you to the hospital.”

  I waited for him to get in. “Where do you live?”

  He provided an address that wasn’t far out of my way. “Before we get moving, I think I’d better bring you up to date on what’s going on at Marshfield.”

  Surprise registered on his face. “Sure, I’d like that. Do you need help?”

  I was about to shut down that idea, but thought better of it. “I don’t know yet. What I do know is that you may be called in for questioning.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “It’s unlikely, but possible.” Oh smooth, I chastised myself. I’m trying to break bad news and I start by telling him he may be brought in for questioning. “What I mean to say is, there was a murder at Marshfield yesterday. Again. This time it was someone you met.”

  “Who?”

  I told him about Lenore.

  “Aw, that poor kid,” he said. Staring out the windshield, he blinked rapidly. “Stupid shame. What’s the world coming to when a little thing like that can’t even go on vacation and be safe?”

  I didn’t have an answer for that. Worse, I hated that it had happened on Marshfield grounds. “I thought you ought to know.”

  “I appreciate it,” he said.

  I still hadn’t put the car in gear. “You okay?”

  He scrunched up his face and stared out the front windshield. “I think I’d prefer to walk home, if you don’t mind.”

  “I understand. I’m so sorry.”

  He didn’t look at me as he nodded acknowledgment and alighted from the car. “You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can help with, won’t you?”

  This time I didn’t feel as though it was Ronny Tooney wannabe detective asking. This time the request felt personal. “Sure, Tooney.”

  Again, the nod. He gently closed the car door and walked away.

  * * *

  I MADE IT TO THE HOSPITAL A BIT AFTER NINE. Because they’d admitted Mark the night before, they’d moved him into a regular room and I was able to snag a visitor’s card without any drama this time.

  I knocked and he called for me to enter. When I did, I found him fully dressed in a blue polo shirt and gray Dockers. “What do you think?” he asked, using his uninjured arm to point toward his chest. “My slacks were fine, but my shirt was completely ruined. They have a liaison person her
e who helped me pick this out from the hospital’s shop.”

  “You look great,” I said, and when he smiled at the compliment—full dimple alert—I wished I hadn’t sounded so enthusiastic. “That is, except for that.” I pointed to the sling. “Otherwise, you look completely recovered. Yesterday I thought you were a little pale.”

  “Losing a lot of blood will do that to you.” Mark’s voice dropped a notch. “I hope you know how much I truly appreciate you taking care of everything. The police suggested I stay in Emberstowne for a while longer. You’re making the transition that much easier.”

  “How did the questioning go yesterday?” I asked.

  “Your friend Flynn came at me with guns blazing,” he said, watching my reaction. “I felt more like a suspect than a victim.”

  “That’s Flynn.”

  “What’s his first name?” Mark asked.

  I didn’t know. For that matter, I’d never learned Rodriguez’s first name either. A new mystery. This time, fortunately, an innocuous one.

  I was about to answer when a chipper middle-aged nurse came in carrying a clipboard. “We still do our discharges on paper,” she said to Mark. “These are instructions for your follow-up care. I’ll need to go over them with you and your wife before you’re released.”

  My first thought was, Oh, he is married, but my second thought—inspired by Mark’s openmouthed surprise—was the more correct one. The nurse assumed we were married.

  “Oh, I’m not—” I began.

  “She isn’t my wife,” Mark stammered, then added, “That is, I don’t have a wife. I mean, I’m not married.”

  The nurse made an “Oops” face.

  “I’ll wait outside,” I said.

  Mark waved down the suggestion. “No big deal. You can stay.”

  The nurse continued smoothly as though she hadn’t just embarrassed us both. “Most important is that you call us immediately if you run a fever, or if the site of the wound gets hot or red. If you see any signs of infection, you’ll need to come in right away . . .”

  As she went through every warning and talked Mark through the steps for keeping his injury clean and germ-free, I moved toward the window and stared out. The parking lot view was uninspiring, the asphalt so hot it shimmered.