by Julie Hyzy
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?”
That was too much. Flynn leaned forward and banged on my desk. “We were given bad information. From you.”
“Me?”
Behind Flynn, Frances appeared in the doorway. “Do you need help?” she asked.
Flynn must not have heard her. “Not you precisely,” he said with enough wiggle in his voice to undermine his righteous indignation. “Your people.”
I looked to Rodriguez for confirmation.
The older detective seemed worn out, ready to abdicate all responsibility. Ready to let Flynn have his way with me—interrogatingly speaking. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here,” he said.
From behind them, Frances piped up. “I heard that you were going after the dead woman’s ex-husband. Is that right?”
Flynn’s head whipped around. “How did you hear that?”
I allowed myself a smile. “Frances knows everything.”
She marched forward, wagging a finger. “Word gets out if you’re not careful. And I daresay you’re loose with the lips, young man.”
I expected Flynn to spring out of his chair like Wile E. Coyote popping from a high-powered ejection seat. The guy clearly had anger management issues. Didn’t they administer psychological tests to potential cops anymore?
Frances kept going, unfazed. “Now, I don’t know this ex-husband fellow from a bum on the street, but it seems to me that if you’re here hollering about getting bad information, then maybe you jumped the gun on your little news conference this morning?” She looked up at me over the top of Flynn’s head. “I think that makes a good case for thinking first, acting later, don’t you?”
After delivering her final line with an emphatic head shake, she turned and stormed out of the room.
I usually heard my clock tick when the office dropped silent. This time the sound was drowned out by Flynn’s breathing, fast and furious from between clenched teeth.
Rodriguez cleared his throat. “An understandable mistake.”
I waited.
Flynn resumed his purposeful pose, trying again to look relaxed. He spoke in a deceptively soft voice. “One of your staff members noticed a man leaving the grounds yesterday with an oversized briefcase.”
Large bags, backpacks, and briefcases were not allowed inside Marshfield Manor. “Could he have been escaping with the stolen item?”
Rodriguez looked at Flynn, signaling his intent to resume control of the conversation. “At first that’s what we thought. One of your staff stopped the man, who claimed he was here on business. Your staffer called security to examine the briefcase, but they found nothing suspicious inside and allowed the man to leave. A moment later he disappeared into a crowd and was gone. You have to understand, all this transpired shortly before anyone was alerted to the shooting upstairs. There was no reason for your staff member to sound an alarm.”
“But you think he’s the killer?”
Flynn’s jaw tightened. Rodriguez glanced over at him, then answered, “We only have a description at this point. No name. But the man’s description matches that of Lenore Honore’s ex-husband.”
“That’s good news.”
“No,” Rodriguez said. “We thought it was good news.” He ran his bottom teeth over his top lip. “This morning we expected to be able to issue a warrant for Lenore Honore’s ex-husband’s arrest.” Another huge sigh. “But the man has an airtight alibi. He’s in the hospital with appendicitis. In New Mexico.”
“Oh.”
From the look on Flynn’s face, he wanted to be anywhere but here. “So who is this mystery businessman?” I asked. “Seems to me if you find him, you’ll be a lot closer to finding answers.”
Flynn shifted position, delivering the unmistakable message that he didn’t care to be discussing the issue with me.
“That’s one of the reasons we’re here,” Rodriguez said, ignoring Flynn’s behavior. “We wanted to ask you if you’d had any visitors yesterday who fit the description. This situation could be cleared up very quickly if we find that the individual in question did indeed have business with you.”
“Not me,” I said. “Except for the film crew and tour groups, I didn’t deal with anyone other than Marshfield staff members yesterday.”
Rodriguez perked up. “Then maybe this is a valuable lead to follow. We’ve asked the staffer who stopped the man to go over security recordings. There’s a chance he’ll show up on the tapes.”
Even Flynn lost his bored expression for a few seconds. “Did Bennett Marshfield have any appointments yesterday?”
“I don’t know of any. He’s out at an auction today, but I’ll find out for sure and get back to you.”
“Quickly,” Flynn said.
“That reminds me.” I’d debated bringing the subject up, but it wouldn’t do any harm. “I had an odd interaction with a man today.”
“What does this have to do with the murder?” Flynn asked.
I faced Rodriguez. “You know the film crew is staying at the Oak Tree Hotel, right?”
He nodded.
“I was there this morning to help Mark Ellroy transition to the Marshfield Hotel; while I waited for him downstairs, I saw a guy who didn’t seem right.”
I explained about the man’s interest in the morning’s news conference, and how he’d glared at me when I’d absentmindedly corrected Flynn’s pronunciation of Lenore’s last name. The younger detective glowered. I plunged on, explaining how the man in the lobby hadn’t looked at all familiar, but that he’d seemed to recognize me. And I told them about the anger. “He wanted to put distance between himself and me,” I said. “That much was abundantly clear.”
“And you got all that from a glare.”
I wasn’t about to let Flynn badger me. “It wasn’t simply a glare. It was malevolence staring straight at me.”
Rodriguez had pulled out his notebook and was scribbling as I spoke. “What can you tell me about him?”
I described the guy as best I could, mentioning that he looked ready to work out or head toward the pool. “He was shaved-head bald,” I said, then stopped.
“What?” Rodriguez asked.
“It didn’t dawn on me until this minute, but his head was a different color than his face.”
Flynn made an unpleasant noise.
“Explain,” Rodriguez said.
Rodriguez’s heavily lidded eyes widened slightly. “Hmm,” he said as he continued to write notes.
“Nothing against the law about that,” Flynn said.
“The man Mark Ellroy and John Kitts saw,” I said, my train of thought gaining steam, “what did they say about him?”
Rodriguez licked his thumb and paged back in his notebook. “Middle-aged. Slim. Head full of graying hair. Light complexion, though tan. Possible tattoo or birthmark on neck.” He looked up. “You see any kind of birthmark?”
“No, but . . .” Now I was really convinced I’d seen the murderer. “He was wearing a towel around his neck. I’ll bet he shaved his head so that no one would recognize him.”
Rodriguez didn’t share my enthusiasm, but he didn’t dismiss my concerns either. “Would you recognize this man if you saw him again?”
“Absolutely.”
“And you say he’s staying at the Oak Tree Hotel?”
“I assume so. He was there, at least.”
“Worth a look.” He hoisted himself to his feet and gestured toward the door with his chin. Flynn followed his partner’s lead. “You’ll get back to us about Mr. Bennett’s appointments?” Rodriguez asked.
“Right away.”
Chapter 13
I HAD A LOT OF WORK AHEAD OF ME, NONE OF which had anything to do with the latest murder, yet I nonetheless found myself staring out my office windows trying to piece the puzzle together. My mind wandered, as it often did, and I recalled this morning’s interaction with Jack. I didn’t know what it was about him that kept me hoping for more.
I wondered what Jack was thinking right now about the alleged tryst I knew he imagined I’d had with Mark Ellroy. In the Oak Tree Hotel, no less. Jack’s erroneous assumption disturbed me more than I cared to admit. Unfortunately, there was nothing I could do about it unless I called him to explain and, oh, wouldn’t that be awkward?