by Julie Hyzy
“By your own account, you said your glance was fleeting.”
Was he doubting me? “So?”
“Do you think it’s possible that your fears are making you skittish? That you may have only thought you saw the man in the window?”
“Why don’t you believe me?”
Rodriguez rubbed his chin. “Ms. Wheaton, with your history, we can’t help but believe you. The thing is, Flynn and I were out front here minutes before you allegedly saw the man. We were watching your house.”
“You were?”
He nodded. “Nothing amiss. Nobody walking by. Complete quiet. We must have taken off a minute before you got home. We’d decided to take a break and get some food when the call came in.”
“How can that be?”
“He’s either very good at avoiding detection or you didn’t see anything after all.” Before I could protest, he added, “No one is blaming you. If I were in your shoes I’d be scared out of my mind, too.”
Bruce and Scott arrived home to chaos. “What’s going on?” Scott asked. “Where’s Bootsie?”
“She’s fine,” I said, tapping the basement door, “but I know she’d love it if you picked her up and gave her some attention. I’m sure she’s confused right now. All these people.”
Before they could rescue the kitten, Mark approached. Flynn had turned his attention to another matter, thereby freeing Mark to return to my side. He extended a hand to Bruce first, then Scott, introducing himself. “What a shame to meet under these circumstances,” Bruce said.
As we explained everything that had happened, Scott grabbed Bootsie from the basement. “She’s a little rambunctious tonight,” I said. “She doesn’t want to be carried around.”
“No problem,” he said and pulled out her harness and leash. We’d tried taking her outside on the leash, once. Ears flattened, she’d belly crawled along the driveway, as though looking for a place to hide. She wasn’t terribly fond of being tethered, or of being controlled via the harness, so we’d never tried it again. But tonight I was glad we had the option.
Flynn pulled me into the adjacent dining room, where he and Rodriguez asked me a few more questions. “One thing doesn’t ring true with your story,” Flynn said, adopting that condescending tone he was so fond of. “There’s no illumination in that part of your property.” He gestured toward the windows in the next room, where Mark was retelling the sequence of events to Bruce and Scott. “I put one of our guys out there and I stood right where you said you were standing.”
He walked into the parlor and turned sideways. “When I look out I see nothing. I even told my guy to cup his hands around his eyes and press up against the glass. At that point I could make out that he was there, but there was no way to recognize his face.”
I waited for him to finish. “Were the lights on in this room?”
“Of course.”
“They weren’t when we were in here,” I said, “maybe you should try your experiment again.”
“Why were the lights off?” Flynn asked angrily. He must have answered his own question because he flushed bright red and stormed away, calling for assistance.
While Flynn re-created his little experiment, Mark, the boys, and I took up a position in the kitchen to wait. “Can I get anyone anything?”
Bruce made me sit. “We’re the ones who should be waiting on you,” he said.
Mark didn’t want to sit. He paced. “I don’t like this,” he said. “I want to get out there and find this guy. Rip his head off.”
Scott and Bruce exchanged a look that Mark didn’t see, but which I read as approval.
“Listen, Mark, I think the police are finished talking with you. Why don’t you head back? There’s not much else either of us can do,” I said.
He stopped pacing long enough to look at me. Rubbing both hands up his face and into his hair, he said, “You’re probably right. Walk me to the car?”
The place was teeming with police inside and out so I didn’t worry about the killer jumping into the fray to have another go at me. “Sure.”
We made it to the driver’s side of Mark’s rental car. “I’m really sorry about all this.”
“Not your fault,” he said. He pulled me into a hug. “But I do want to ask you something. It’s hard for me to put it into words . . .” I tried to pull back to see his face, but he kept me close to his chest. “Do you think we were rushing things?”
I didn’t answer immediately. “Maybe.”
“Don’t get mad at me, Grace.”
“For what?”
“What I’m about to say.” He breathed in deeply, then said, “I think it’s possible that you thought you saw the killer. I turned the minute you screamed and I didn’t see anyone there.”
I tried pulling back again, but he held tight.
“Just listen,” he said. “Maybe, just maybe, you didn’t want to take that next step and your subconscious invented a distraction.”
This time I pulled away hard enough to make him let go. “Absolutely not.”
His eyes were sad. “Okay, I believe you.” But I could tell he didn’t. He got into his car and rolled down the window. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Chapter 22
AFTER REPLAYING OUR LAST CONVERSATION in my head all night, I wasn’t quite ready to talk to Mark Sunday morning, so I wandered around the house, nervously checking the front and back doors and every single window to ensure I wasn’t being watched.
Scott and Bruce had already gone in to Amethyst Cellars, but only after they’d argued at length about one of them staying home with me. I knew their income was tied directly to how much business they brought in and that every minute at the store counted. As did every customer. Both of them needed to be there, so I shooed them out with the promise that I’d stay safe.
Bootsie followed me around from room to room until even she grew bored of my impatience and promptly fell asleep on the couch.
I decided enough was enough and pulled up the phone book to look up Larry the locksmith’s number again. He wasn’t thrilled with my Sunday-morning phone call.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’ve got my grandkid’s first birthday party this afternoon. Besides, I haven’t even been able to order the parts yet. Nothing I can do until they arrive. Remember, as long as you make sure the door is secure, you’re fine. It’s when it doesn’t catch that you might have a problem.”
The logical part of my brain that didn’t lend weight to the scary noises I heard every five minutes, reminded me that I had plenty of work to do. But Tooney’s and Flynn’s words haunted me. There was a missing piece to this puzzle. A big one.
Why did the killer appear to be targeting me? Why had he followed me to the wine shop, and why had he spied on me here at home? It didn’t make sense. He had gotten into Marshfield, stolen a few items, and gotten away with it. Whether he’d intended to kill Lenore and Mark was beside the point. He was wanted for murder and attempted murder. There was no good reason for him to stay in town.
Unless his job wasn’t finished.
The thought popped into my brain again. I paced, mulling it over. What could be left for him to do? And how on earth did I figure into it? I remembered Nadia telling me that there had been a series of smaller robberies before the big one. Our early robberies had triggered the decision to reschedule the DVD filming to hours when the mansion was closed. If, by making that change I’d thwarted the killer’s plan for a bigger haul, he could be seeking vengeance. Still, getting away with murder ought to trump any aspirations for doing me harm. At least it would in my world. But then again, I didn’t think like a criminal.
I stopped pacing, heart in my throat. Would Lenore still be alive if I hadn’t changed the schedule? The thought that I may have played an unintentional role in her murder made it difficult for me to swallow. Even more, it made me determined to do whatever I could to bring the killer to justice.
Pacing again, I remembered the idea I’d come up with at dinner last nig
ht and decided not to wait until Monday to send Nadia the photo. Who knows, maybe she occasionally came into her offices at the Kane Estate on weekends, the way I did. No matter, I could at least get things moving on my end. I had to. Maybe then I’d feel as though I was doing something worthwhile.
“Duh,” I said aloud as a new thought occurred to me. I’d texted the photo to Rodriguez and to Tooney, but I hadn’t sent it to my home or work computers where it would be easy to pop it into an e-mail.
Bootsie was lying on her back in one of the parlor’s wing chairs, her rear white paws braced up against one arm, her body curled outward toward the seat, one paw over her nose. She opened her eyes for a moment to see if I’d been talking to her. Assured I wasn’t, she closed them again.
I raced over to my purse and pulled it up from its spot hanging over the back of one of our kitchen chairs. All I needed to do was send the photo to myself, either to my computer here at home or to the one at work. Then I’d be able to forward.
I opened the Velcro strap that kept my phone in place, so engrossed in thinking about this new possibility that I didn’t look down until my fingers came up empty. The phone was gone. I straightened, remaining in place as I scanned the room, trying to remember when I’d used it last.
I looked under the table, on the countertop. I checked every horizontal surface in the room and in the dining room. Nothing.
I thought about having dialed 911 last night, but I’d done that from the house phone. The boys and I had made the decision to maintain a landline despite the added expense. This morning I’d called Larry the locksmith. Again from the house phone.
Why not use it again? I picked up the kitchen receiver and dialed my cell, walking into the parlor to listen for its ring. But the house was completely quiet.
Wait. I snapped my fingers. Yesterday I’d e-mailed the photo to Tooney while I was getting ready to go out. I might not be able to hear it from here. I bolted up the stairs to look for it, getting halfway up before I remembered pulling it out at dinner to show the photo to Mark. I also distinctly remembered returning the device to my purse. But I’d done so without looking. Could I have dropped it instead?
I immediately looked up the phone number for Bailey’s and called. Their recording informed me that they wouldn’t open until three o’clock. “Great,” I said aloud.
The only other possibility was that I might have lost it in Mark’s car. It had to have fallen out at some point, and I closed my eyes trying to remember. When I’d gotten into the passenger seat on the way back from Bailey’s I’d put my purse down by my feet. When I’d grabbed it again at home, it had been upside down. I’d righted it immediately, but had never thought to double check for my phone.
I growled my displeasure and started for the house phone to call Mark.
That’s when I realized I didn’t know his cell phone number. I’d programmed it into my own cell but had never made the effort to memorize it.
This was turning out to be one of those mornings, wasn’t it?
“Fine,” I said to no one.
I lugged the phone book up again, thinking about how Bruce, Scott, and I had debated even keeping the thing, but I’d won out. This time I turned to the residential pages; I was certain I’d find a landline for the listing I sought. Scanning down the page with my fingers I read . . . yes, there!
Tooney, Ronald, and his phone number.
He picked up after one ring, saying, “Grace?” with puzzlement in his voice. “Is anything wrong?”
I explained about my lost cell phone and the fact that I didn’t have Mark’s number memorized. He asked, “Why don’t you call him at the Marshfield Hotel? He’s still staying there, isn’t he?”
I could have smacked myself in the head. “Good idea. In the meantime, do you remember that photo I sent you? The one I took at Amethyst Cellars?”
He didn’t need me to explain. “What do you need me to do?”
Wanting to get off the phone in a hurry so I could reach Mark at the hotel, I decided not to tell Tooney the story of my visitor last night. “Could you send me the photo?” I rattled off my e-mail address even though I knew he already had it.
“Sure,” he said and I heard clacking in the background. “Doing it right now.”
“Thanks, Tooney. I owe ya.”
“Done. Hey, don’t forget I’ll be going around to the secondhand stores first thing tomorrow,” he said. “The minute I hear anything I’ll let you know.”
“I appreciate that.”
After we hung up I opened Tooney’s e-mail. I was about to send it to Nadia at Kane, when I had another idea. I could ask Corbin to take a look at the photo, too. With all the filming they’d been doing at the manor—including the day of the murder—one of his team may have caught the culprit on film. It was a long shot but worth pursuing.
Why hadn’t I thought of that sooner? Yesterday’s fright had left me more frazzled and scatterbrained than I’d realized. Unfortunately, I didn’t have Corbin’s number here at home. It was, again, on my cell phone.
I stood, clenching my fists for a long moment to try to regain control.
I dialed the Marshfield Hotel and asked for Mark’s room. No answer, but our hotel offered a high-tech messaging system so I left a voicemail asking him to call me at home. “I may have lost my phone in your car last night. Would you mind taking a look? Here’s my home phone number. I’ll be here all . . .” I thought quickly and changed my mind. “I’ll be here for a little while longer, then I’m heading into Marshfield for a bit. Here’s my number there.”
I hung up, blew my bangs out of my face, and decided to head out.
Flynn appeared on the driveway as I pulled my back door closed. “You get that lock fixed yet?”
“I’ll spare you the boring details, but Larry the locksmith can’t get to it for a few more days.”
He rolled his eyes. “You’d think a town this size could afford more than one locksmith.”
“He said it requires special parts.”
Flynn made a noise of disgust. “An excuse to overcharge, I’m sure.” He watched me secure the back door and walked me to my car. “Where are you going now?”
“Marshfield. I thought of a few more people I want to show that photo to.”
“Stay out of trouble.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
WHEN I SAT BEHIND MY DESK AT MARSHFIELD I finally relaxed. I felt safe here, safer than I did at home. I doubted the killer would skulk around my house during daylight hours, but as a precaution, I’d set up a soft bed for Bootsie in the basement with her litter box, food, and water all handy. The house would be vacant until I got home tonight and I didn’t want to take any chances.
Within moments of my arrival, I’d located Nadia’s contact information, sent off a concise, clear e-mail explaining what had gone on, and asked her to take a look at the attached photo. I decided to do the same with Corbin. I checked my files, pulled up his phone number, and was delighted when he answered on the second ring.
“I hope I’m not bothering you, Corbin,” I began.
“On the contrary, you’re just the person I wanted to talk to.”
“What about?”
“You first,” he said.
I explained about the photo I’d taken and asked if he wouldn’t mind having a look. “You never know. He may have shown up in some of the guest footage you shot before we changed schedules.”
“Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll get my guys to take a look at that picture of yours on one condition.”
Warily I asked, “Condition?”
“I’ve got a free afternoon and I still need to film you and Bennett.” He hesitated. “And Hillary, if you two don’t mind. The shutdown last week screwed up our schedule and time is so tight it’s squeaking. If I can get you three together today I can cross at least one big task off my list.”
“I don’t really think I belong in the Marshfield video—”
“Not my decision. Not your
s either, from what I gather. I’ll get back to you. Stay put.”
The phone rang seconds after I’d returned the receiver to its cradle. It couldn’t be Corbin. A glance at the caller ID let me know it came from within the Marshfield property. “Grace Wheaton,” I answered.
“Grace,” Mark said. “I got your message. I am so sorry. I’ve been on the phone all morning.”
“Everything okay?”
“No,” he said, making my heart sink. “Problems back home. One of my employees called. I may have been the victim of identity theft.”
This was too much of a coincidence. “You don’t think it’s tied to what’s going on here, do you?”
“I don’t know what to think. All I know is that I have to get this squared away. I can’t reach my bank today because they’re closed. I can’t access my accounts online because I’m blocked. It’s like someone changed all my passwords.”
“Oh my gosh, Mark. I’m so sorry.”
“I promise to check for your phone as soon as I can,” he said.
“Do not make that a priority. Take care of yourself first, okay?”
“My head is swimming,” he said. “I’ll keep you updated.”
When we hung up I felt worse than I had before. How could so much bad luck happen like this all at once?
I wasn’t able to ponder long. The phone rang again. Corbin. “Bennett and Hillary can’t make it until tomorrow. We’re meeting at eleven. Can I count on you?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Sure.”
Chapter 23
CORBIN CALLED ME AGAIN LATER THAT evening. I’d given him my home number just in case. “You’re still coming in tomorrow for filming?” he asked again. “You promised.”
“I didn’t forget,” I said.
“I know you aren’t thrilled about it—”
My patience was at an all-time low. I hadn’t heard from Mark in hours, the boys were at the shop until ten tonight, and Bootsie seemed to sense my unease because she squirmed out of my arms whenever I picked her up, preferring to spend the day batting her pink felt mouse all over the wood floor.