Grace Under Pressure

by Hyzy, Julie

  Until now I hadn’t met the woman, and from all accounts that made me one lucky girl.

  Extending my hand, I said, “I’m Grace Wheaton—”

  She and I shook. “So you’re the new Abe.”

  “Uh,” I said, momentarily thrown, “I doubt anyone could replace him—”

  “But you intend to try, don’t you? Now that he’s gone.” Her smile fell flat. “I’m here for the wake this afternoon.”

  Frances gasped.

  Hillary Singletary had clearly expected that reaction. “My father told me I had to come,” she said, sounding more like a recalcitrant teenager than a woman of the world. “I don’t know why. I hate these things.”

  Regaining her composure, Frances cocked her head. “Your father told you?” she asked, her voice an elongated exaggeration. “Your father? I could have sworn he passed away last year.” She affected a confused look. “Whose wake did I go to then?”

  I watched their little interplay, realizing much had gone on between these two over the years.

  Hillary rolled her eyes. “You know what I meant.” Sighing, she continued. “My stepfather, Papa Bennett, called me and told me I needed to be here today. And whatever my fath—Papa Bennett asks of me, I do.”

  Frances made a noise that could have been anything, but sounded to me like a snort. “Yeah, right.”

  “Excuse me?” Hillary said.

  Frances didn’t answer. She was out the door in seconds, slamming it behind her.

  Hillary turned to me. “Why on earth do they keep that woman on staff? She’s always been a total b—”

  “Can I get you something?” I asked before she could get the word out. “Coffee, tea?”

  She took a seat without being invited to do so. “How long have you been here?”

  “Just a few months.”

  “Mmm.”

  I had no idea what that meant, so I changed the subject. “You must have known Abe pretty well. You grew up here, didn’t you?”

  “More or less.” She leaned back in the chair and crossed her legs. All she needed was a diamond-encrusted cigarette holder and her image as an aging spoiled brat would have been complete. Except . . . every movement was too studied, too careful. From her rapid blinks, to her shifting attention, to the way she repeatedly clasped her hands, she was far from relaxed. She should have come off as a woman of power, withering the new girl with a mere glance. But this chick was nervous.

  Her discomfort emboldened me. “I understand the memorial will be held at Forest Lawn,” I said. The small cemetery was technically on Marshfield property, but its location did not appear on any tourist map, nor was anyone allowed in without proper authority.

  “You’re not going?” she asked.

  “I wasn’t invited.”

  She sat up, interested. “Why on earth not?”

  I shrugged, choosing to sidetrack rather than answer. “Do you live in Emberstowne?”

  “God, no.” She waved a finger northward. “I’m about a hundred miles from here. Still no hotbed of excitement, mind you, but at least I’m not half a day away from the nearest major airport.” Pressing her lips together, she seemed to consider me for a moment. “So, are you married?”

  “No.”

  One perfect eyebrow arched. “Kids?”

  “No.”

  Shifting forward, she leaned her elbows on the desk. “Then what in the world are you doing here working with old geezers? You’re young, you should be out enjoying life in a big city like New York or Chicago. Someday you’ll be sorry you didn’t sow your wild oats when you had the chance.” She made a clucking sound, then narrowed her eyes. “Unless of course, you’re here because of a man. Is that it?”

  Hillary Singletary delving into my private affairs made me wholly uncomfortable. Part of me wanted to knock down her assumptions and let her know that I’d spent a good number of years in New York City. And any oats I’d sown were my business. I started to ask if she needed me to arrange a room for her at the hotel this evening, when Bennett walked in.

  “Hillary, how nice,” he said, his expression belying his words. “Frances said you’d arrived. Thank you for coming.” He crossed the room and took the wing chair next to Hillary’s. Turning his attention to me, he smiled. “How are we doing?”

  I wanted to ask Bennett about some of the names I’d uncovered during my perusal of the Taft files, but not in front of his stepdaughter. I got the distinct impression that the less I divulged in her presence, the happier we all would be. She had a rapt, eager look to her, as though waiting for some tidbit to snatch up and devour. It was rare I had such an instantaneous negative reaction to someone, but Hillary oozed insincerity.

  Answering Bennett, I mentioned a few small housekeeping issues then added, “Other than that, we seem to be doing well today, all things considered.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. “As we discussed,” he said, handing them to me. “Have you spoken with the detectives?”

  These were, no doubt, the keys to the private residence, but Bennett’s expression led me to believe he didn’t intend for Hillary to know that. “Not today, not yet,” I said. “Has something happened?”

  He waved my concerns away but leaned forward in his chair. “I want to know that the manor’s interests are not being ignored. You’re keeping up on things, aren’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good girl.”

  Hillary watched our interchange with keen interest, much like a spectator at a tennis match. “ ‘Good girl?’ ” she echoed, a peculiar smile on her face.

  I thought she might be making a comment regarding Bennett’s use of the word girl. While I might have issues being referred to in that manner by a contemporary, it seemed wrong to impose such politically correct sensibilities on a man of Bennett’s age. He’d grown up in an era where girl was not only inoffensive, but complimentary. He meant well and that’s all that mattered to me. I tended to cut elderly men a little slack. Especially when that older man happened to be my boss.

  I was about to deflect what I expected to be Hillary’s feminist rant, but she cut me off.

  “Good girl,” she said again, this time very slowly. “Huh.” Her eyes flicked from me to Bennett and back again. “I had no idea.”

  It took me a split second to understand her meaning. Speechless, the best I could manage was, “Excuse me?”

  Hillary eased forward on her chair. “I understand now,” she said, her voice dripping with derision. “Of course. Now it all makes sense.” She licked her lips and stood. “I’ll leave you two alone to discuss Marshfield . . . affairs.”

  She was about to give Bennett’s arm a condescending pat, but he grabbed her wrist and twisted her back to face him. “Stop it, Hillary.”

  When she tugged away, he immediately loosened his grip though he clearly kept hold of his anger. “I’m tired of your insinuations. It’s bad enough you constantly badger me, but I will not have you attacking members of my staff. Is that understood?”

  If I’d expected Hillary to rise to the argument and challenge Bennett, I was mistaken. She rubbed her wrist, despite the fact that her stepfather’s quick grasp could not possibly have hurt. “I was just making a joke.”

  Bennett worked his jaw. “One of these days you may finally realize that jokes at the expense of others are not humorous.”

  Squaring her shoulders, she made a moue of distaste. “What time does this memorial thing start?”

  Bennett rose. “Noon.” He took Hillary’s elbow in a more fatherly way and started leading her out of the room. “But I have some preparations to see to beforehand. You can help me.” At the door, he turned back. “Will you have any time tomorrow?” he asked me. “There are several items we need to discuss.”

  “Absolutely,” I said even though I hadn’t planned to come in on Saturday. “I can be here whenever you like.”

  He blinked a couple of times, realization dawning. “Ah, the weekend. I’d forgotten. Don�
�t worry. This will keep until Monday.”

  Although the manor was open for tourists every day of the week, and my workdays were only Monday through Friday, I was on call 24/7. “Are you sure? I’d be happy . . .”

  He held his free hand up, halting me mid-sentence. “You’re young. Go out and enjoy yourself. Go . . . dancing.” And with that, he and Hillary left.

  Dancing? I thought about what sort of dancing Bennett might have in mind and smiled, picturing men in bow ties and tails and women wearing chiffon dresses that swirled when they spun. Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. A happy thought.

  I was at a wedding the last time I’d danced, and it had been in a circle with my girlfriends including the bride. I’d been elated, joyful, carefree. Until I’d spied Eric checking his watch again. Although he had agreed to accompany me to the event, he’d hated every moment of my friend’s celebration. And he’d refused to get up on the dance floor, preferring to glower at me from the table where he sipped his soda water and counted the minutes until it was time to go home. Eric didn’t drink, which, at the time, I thought was quite charming. I’d also thought it quaint that he was so frugal, especially when he told me he was saving up for our future together.

  My beer-swilling sister had derided Eric as boring and uptight. “A teetotaler?” she’d said when I’d mentioned him to her. And then she’d laughed. “Only you would latch onto a stiff like that. Somebody needs to loosen him up.”

  I swallowed over the knot in my throat. Had Liza done just that?

  Too painful to dwell on, I dealt with the fear that my sister might have taken up with my fiancé the same way I had since the day she’d left. Channeling my inner Scarlett O’Hara, I decided to think about it another day.

  THE PERSONNEL FILES I’D REQUESTED FROM Frances turned up nothing suspicious. She’d been asked to provide them all to the police. They’d finished with the files, but before returning them to their proper place in the drawers, I’d decided to take a look at them myself.

  Keeping alert for any mention of employees who might have cause to be disgruntled or others who might have some personal vendetta against Bennett, I studied them. Truthfully, I skimmed. Most of the files held little more than the employee’s original application and a record of scheduled pay increases. I was appalled to find out there was no set procedure for annual reviews, and I tacked another big job onto my to-do list.

  By the time I was done, I knew that Earl Bloomquist, the gardener, had taken time off two years ago for a triple bypass; housekeeper Yvonne Morton ran a home-based jewelry business on the side and had agreed not to sell products to guests; Twyla Lowell, the hotel manager, had a gambling problem and required time off to attend support meetings every week; Melissa Delling’s husband, Samuel Jepson, was still covered on her health insurance despite Frances’s assertions that he was out of her life; and on and on. All in all not much, but I appreciated the chance to get to know a little background on my employees.

  Packing up the files, I returned them to her desk and went back to my quest to find unhappy investors in the Taft files. I was eyeball deep in them when a noise in front of my desk caused me to look up. “Jack,” I said, surprised, instinctively glancing toward the outer office.

  “Frances must have stepped out,” he said, answering my unasked question. “Did you need her to announce me or something?”

  “No.” Remembering my manners, I stood to greet him properly. “Sorry. I was just so deep in concentration that I didn’t hear you come in. You’re . . .” I was about to say he was a sight for sore eyes but a half second before the words escaped I realized how forward that would sound. Improvising, I smiled. “You’re here at the perfect time. I need a break. What can I do for you? Please sit.”

  He hesitated, then lowered himself into the chair across from mine. I settled myself and wondered what was up.

  The last time I’d spoken with Jack, he’d been sweaty and sprinkled with dirt. He obviously hadn’t yet begun any outdoor projects today because his forest green T-shirt and khaki pants were crisp and clean. His hands, relaxed on his knees, were pink, the nails tidy and even.

  I waited until his eyes met mine. What lurked in those dark depths?

  “I know you have your hands full,” he began, “but I had an agreement with Abe about my contract.”

  I knew nothing about this. Heck, I hadn’t even known we kept a landscape architect on retainer until Earl told me. “Go on.”

  Jack shifted in his seat. “We had a handshake agreement, and it served us well for the past couple of years, but now . . .”

  He let the thought hang as though expecting me to pick it up. I didn’t know where this was going. “But now?” I repeated.

  “Listen, I’m sure if I kept billing you at the rate I have been, nobody would even notice. But I don’t think it’s right to expect you to honor an agreement you didn’t make. I’ve sent reports up to this office—you probably haven’t seen them yet. What I’d like to propose is that we come up with something permanent in writing. A contract protects you and it protects me. If tomorrow you decide you no longer need my services here, I’m out. But if we have an agreement, we could stipulate that either party needs to give thirty days’ notice.” He shrugged as though it was nothing, but his words were well rehearsed. “That sort of agreement.”

  “I understand,” I said, buying time to consider what all this meant. The message was clear: He didn’t trust me at the same level he trusted Abe. Who could blame him? I was an unknown variable in this equation. “Out of curiosity,” I said, “how much of your business does Marshfield account for?”

  He looked taken aback by the question. Now it was his turn to buy time. “What do you mean?”

  “You have X number of clients who require your services,” I said. “What percentage of your business comes from us?”

  He opened his mouth and took a breath. The apples of his cheeks pinkened. “Well,” he said, staring upward as though making calculations. “I’d have to guess . . .” He faced me again. “Hard to say.”

  I leaned forward. “Are we your only client?”

  He sucked in a deep breath through his nose, looking annoyed. “No,” he said, adding ruefully, “but you might as well be. I have one other client. Unfortunately, all my work there is pro bono. I just charge them for material—stuff I have to pay for myself.”

  “Who’s this other client?”

  He named a local charitable organization.

  “That’s nice,” I said.

  “It feels good to help out.” Standing up, he started for the door. “I’ll have a preliminary contract to you by next week.”

  Chapter 17

  FRANCES RETURNED WEARING HER FUNERAL clothes. Her black sleeveless shift was piped with gray, and she carried a matching jacket over her arm. The dress fit her like a tent. “I’ll be off for the rest of the day,” she said, gesturing in the direction of the cemetery with her eyes. “The memorial, remember?”

  “Before you go, would you give me the number of that agency that we sometimes hire for discreet investigations?”

  Her eyes lit up. “Sure,” she said with more glee than someone so solemnly dressed should exhibit. “Who did you come up with?”

  I showed her the list of ten names. “This is just a start.”

  Shoving her reading glasses up her nose, she went over the list slowly. “Hmm,” she said.

  “You know any of them?”

  “This one.” She pointed to the name Jeremy Litric at the top. “His family runs that big furniture business just a little downstate. Heard they’re in trouble these days.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Financial,” she said with a meaningful glance. Handing the list back to me she said, “If you want, I’ll call and get the investigation started Monday.”

  “I don’t want to wait.”

  “That’s fine,” she said absentmindedly and I followed her to her office. Within seconds, she’d unearthed the information from her cavernous files and scrib
bled names and numbers on a piece of paper. Handing it to me, she stared, turning in a slow circle, taking in the office as though to make sure everything was in place. Her desktop was clear again, her eyes bright. “Is there anything else you need before I take off?”

  “No . . . er . . . yes.” Shaking my head, I waved her off. “No, it’ll wait.”

  “What is it?”

  “Jack Embers told me that he sent reports up here for Abe, but I haven’t seen them.”

  Frances got a gleam in her eyes, prepared to dive into one of the far cabinets, but I stopped her. “This can wait until Monday. I just was curious.”

  Frances made a noise of disapproval. “That Embers kid. I don’t trust him.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Something about that boy . . .” She made a tsking noise. “He’s trouble. Always has been, always will be.”

  Boy? Jack was at least two years older than I was. I wondered what cheerful musings Frances held about me. Maybe it was better I didn’t know.

  She was inching toward the door. I knew the memorial would begin soon and I didn’t want to hold her up. But I wanted to know more about Jack. “What kind of trouble?”

  “Just stuff I’ve heard.” Frances arched her brows. “Word to the wise: Don’t get too close to him. He’s a bad seed.”

  The moment she was gone, I went back to studying the list of investors. The information, as presented in dense, eye-numbing format, did not lend itself to careful analysis. And yet, here I was, trying to find a killer in a haystack of possible suspects. I wondered if Rodriguez and Flynn were following up on this angle. I wondered if they were following up on anything at all. As their liaison to all of Marshfield Manor, I expected them to be in more frequent contact. As their point man, shouldn’t I be more involved than this? Of course, I’d never been this close to a murder investigation before, so maybe events were unfolding exactly as they should.

  While I was intensely curious, I didn’t want to hamper their investigation by constantly badgering them for updates. I placed my Post-it note on the line I’d been reading and picked up my walkie-talkie.