Grace Under Pressure

by Hyzy, Julie

  Her face flushed again, more deeply this time. “Just storage.”

  “Uh-huh.” The fact that she was still standing here reluctantly answering questions from an employee, instead of ordering me to mind my own business, spoke volumes. I wanted—no, I needed—to know what was in there. “How did you get in? Do you have a key?” I asked.

  She opened her mouth, but shut it again before answering me. “Just leave it alone, okay? Just forget you saw me.”

  “Not a chance.” I crossed my arms. “What exactly were you looking for anyway?”

  She started to deny it, but I interrupted.

  “Hillary,” I said. “You were creeping around here, looking for something specific. It’s just your very bad luck that I happened to be here at the same time. When Bennett finds out . . .”

  “No!” she nearly shouted. “You can’t tell him about this. You can’t.”

  My loyalty was to Bennett, not Hillary. But no need to remind her of that fact right now, if keeping quiet encouraged her to spill. “Why not?”

  Hillary rolled her eyes, visibly frustrated. “I told him I was feeling sick, okay? I did it to get away from all the grieving and . . .” she waved her hands in the air, grimacing, “. . . funeral business. I really hate that stuff.” She shuddered again and I saw a flash of real pain in her expression. “If he hears that I was up here, he’s not going to be happy with me.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  She placed both hands on my forearm. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong. And besides,” she added, letting go and standing straighter, “this is my father’s house. I have every right to be here.”

  “Of course you do. Which is why it will be no big deal for me to mention this little conversation to Bennett.” I stepped back to allow her to pass me. “Have a nice day.”

  She didn’t budge. “What’s it going to take?”

  I feigned ignorance. “For what?”

  “Listen,” she said, her tone conspiratorial. “I’ll show you what’s in the room, okay? And then you’ll understand. I’m not supposed to show anybody, but I trust you.”

  She shouldn’t trust me. At least not if her revelation compromised the security of the mansion. If she was up to something that threatened Marshfield, I would be sure to tell Terrence and Bennett about it. I decided not to share that particular insight with Hillary, however, until after I saw what was behind the inset door.

  “I can’t find a keyhole,” I said.

  She shrugged. “There isn’t one.” With that, she ran her fingers along the panel’s wide oak molding, near the top left corner. I heard a faint click.

  Nodding to herself, Hillary then laid her hand against the door’s upper left-hand panel. The pads of her fingers rested against the intricate carvings and she felt around for a moment until a second click sounded. “There,” she said. “Now remember, this is a secret.”

  Chapter 18

  THE ROOM WAS CAVERNOUS AND DARK, WITH sliver-thin windows providing scant illumination. I would bet these skinny openings wouldn’t even be visible on the outside. Not this high on the fourth floor, at least.

  My eyes didn’t immediately adjust to the dimness and I appreciated the faint spill of light from the study doorway. At first I thought Hillary might have originally been telling the truth about the room being used for storage. Boxes piled two corners, and the room was devoid of decoration. Whereas every other room in Marshfield Manor boasted paintings and sculpture, tapestries, and handcrafted furniture, this room was barren and bland. Its sole claim to ornamentation was an enormous painting of a female I didn’t recognize. Hillary stepped in ahead of me and made her way through the shadows to stand in front of the painting.

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  “Some great-aunt, I think. Don’t remember her name.”

  Dust tickled my nose. The room was not only dirty, but stuffy and warm. I couldn’t imagine Hillary hiding out in here. No way.

  “You were . . . what?” I asked. “Just sitting here? For how long?”

  Instead of answering she shook her head and wiggled a finger indicating I should come closer. “This is the secret part.” With that, she lifted a panel next to the lower corner of the painting’s frame and turned a latch.

  I held my breath, more than half-expecting the painting to swing open to expose a secret passage, the way such things do in tales of fantasy. I was disappointed when nothing happened. “So?” I said, a little agitated.

  Hillary moved to the southeast corner of the room where she revealed a pocket door that hadn’t been there before. “That’s just how you get it to open,” she said pointing toward the painting. “This,” she slid open the door, “is where it goes.”

  I peered inside to see a narrow set of stairs leading downward. Again, the only light came from slits in the outside wall, and I suddenly recalled the decorations outside that obscured the windows. Genius. “Where does this go?”

  “It leads all the way to the basement. You know, where the employee parking lot is,” she said very matter-of-factly, “with a couple of extra openings along the way. I used to use it to sneak out of the house when I was a kid.” She started in. “Want to see?”

  “And you don’t think this is a security risk?” My voice trembled. “You don’t think maybe this is how the killer got in? Do the police know about this?”

  “I doubt it. Not unless Papa Bennett told them. This was never to be shared with the staff—just a family secret.” Shrugging, she added, “But Abe knew about it, so I guess it’s okay I told you.”

  My mind was spinning. I wasn’t about to take the trek downstairs at this moment and compromise any evidence. “Don’t you understand, Hillary? This has to be the way the murderer got up to the study with nobody seeing him.”

  She was vehemently shaking her head even before I finished talking. “Couldn’t be. Nobody knows about this except me and Bennett.”

  I was convinced she was wrong. “We have to tell the police about this.”

  “You can’t. Then Papa Bennett will know I didn’t go straight home.” Her voice wavered. “He’ll be really angry with me.”

  For a moment, I felt as though I was arguing with a stubborn toddler rather than a woman ten years my senior. “Hillary, this is very important. This could make the difference between catching the killer and letting him go free. There might be evidence in there.”

  “There isn’t. I swear. I would’ve seen something, right?”

  My patience snapped. “You wouldn’t know a clue if it came up and bit you.”

  Stunned by my tone, Hillary sucked in her cheeks. I watched her swallow back frustration as tears welled in her eyes. “Please,” she said. “Can’t we just keep this between us?”

  I moved out of the doorway and crossed the dark storage area, to return to the study where daylight made everything seem sane again. The less we messed with what could possibly be part of the crime scene, the better. Hillary trotted after me, her voice whiny and thin. “Please. You don’t understand.”

  I turned. “Then enlighten me. What was so important that you had to sneak in to look for it?”

  “Honestly, all I wanted was to get away from the funeral.”

  “We’re going to get along much better if you tell me the truth.”

  She looked away, then back at me. “Okay,” she said slowly. “Let’s sit down.”

  I’d been up here for nearly an hour already. Rosa and her cleaning team would arrive soon and I hadn’t had any chance at all to do the exploring I’d hoped for. “When do you think your stepfather will be back?”

  Her eyes widened and she seemed genuinely distressed by the thought.

  “Maybe you should talk quickly if you don’t want to run into him,” I said.

  “Okay,” she said, her voice cracking. She took a deep breath, then let it out. “I was here. The day Abe was killed.”

  “What?” A thousand thoughts ran through my mind at once. “No one told the police you were here that day.”

  �
��Shh,” she said, although no one was anywhere near. “That’s because nobody knew.”

  My hands clenched in frustration. “Tell me,” I said.

  We were standing behind the persimmon sofa. Hillary reached out her right hand to grip its back, steadying herself. I couldn’t believe no one had noticed her on the grounds Tuesday. Hillary stood out.

  As though answering my question she said, “I didn’t come in the regular way, okay? I drove in through the tourist entrance. I even paid a one-day fee. And I was . . . wearing a hat.”

  I cocked an eyebrow. “You were in disguise?”

  “Listen,” she said, talking excitedly. “You have to swear you won’t say a word about this to anyone.”

  I didn’t swear, but she didn’t notice.

  “I came in like a tourist, but I know all the back doors and empty hallways. Hell, I was teenager here. I know all the place’s secrets. I had to get up to this room because I needed to put something back without anyone knowing.”

  “You’d stolen something?”

  “Not exactly,” she said. “It belonged to me. I thought it did, at least.” She frowned. “Don’t ask me that. It wasn’t like that.”

  I was shaking my head, but she continued so emphatically, the phrase confession being good for the soul came to mind.

  “Mom had a very special music box my stepdad gave her when they were first married. I used to play with the music box when no one was looking. My mom caught me a couple of times and made me promise to be careful. I was, too.”

  As she explained how much she enjoyed listening to the music and how there were little drawers that opened and closed, I groaned inwardly. This was getting me nowhere. I wanted to suggest she cut to the chase, but she seemed determined to tell the whole story.

  My attention perked up when she said, “After my mom died, I asked Bennett about the music box, and he said that he’d put it away with her things. I told him that I would really like to have it, but he refused. Said that it held too many memories.” She gave a one-shoulder shrug. “I kept asking him about it, but eventually he got mad so I gave up. Then last time I was here, in this room, I saw it again. Bennett had put it back on display.”

  “And you took it.”

  She started a denial, stopped, then admitted, “I took it.”

  “When was that?”

  “Papa Bennett invited me over about three months ago. But at the last minute, he didn’t show. While I waited, I noticed the music box right there.” She pointed. “When Abe left the room, I picked it up and took off.” Hearing herself, she tried desperately to make me understand. “It was my mother’s. I expected it to come to me when she died.”

  “I’m sure your mother had a will.”

  Hillary bit the insides of her mouth again. “Yeah.”

  I guessed: “The music box wasn’t part of her estate.”

  “No.”

  “Explain to me why you decided to bring it back the day Abe died.”

  “Well I certainly didn’t plan it that way. I didn’t know somebody was going to kill Abe, for crying out loud.” She sighed with exasperation. “I decided to put it back because Bennett stopped talking to me.” Her mouth turned down so tightly, I thought she might cry. “It dawned on me—too late—that he put the music box there to test me.” She swallowed. “And I failed the test.”

  “So why not just give it back to him?”

  She blinked. “Then he would know I took it.”

  I was confused. “He already knew.”

  “No, you see, if I put it back in the study where I found it, then it would look like it had just been misplaced for a little while.”

  Her childlike logic took me by surprise. Did she really believe that bringing the music box back would make everything right again? That it would negate the fact that she’d taken it in the first place? That Bennett would pretend nothing had happened? From what I knew of the man, this double deceit would only make a bad situation worse. “You should have just admitted what you’d done,” I said. I looked around the room. “I don’t see the music box here anywhere.”

  She followed my gaze. Miserably, she nodded. “I know.”

  Jack had seen a man running from the house carrying something. At least now we could assume what that something was. I had so much to share with the detectives. “Describe it for me. What does the music box look like?”

  “Just a music box,” she said. “Nothing special.”

  “Hillary.” My voice was stern. “Unless I know what it looks like, there will be absolutely no chance of getting it back.”

  “Okay,” she said, making a face. “It was round, about so big.” Her hands worked an invisible ball, about eight inches in diameter. “The top opened on a hinge. When I was little I used to call it my mom’s Pac-Man, because it looked like one with its mouth open. Inside was black velvet and it played three different songs.”

  “What were the songs?”

  “I don’t know.”

  That struck me as odd. If she were so enamored of this trinket, why wouldn’t she have known the songs it played? “What about the outside, what did it look like?”

  “Well,” she said slowly, “it was mostly gold.”

  “Real gold?”

  She nodded. “It was like a lot of gold string that had been solidified into a ball. With a few diamonds and some other, you know, gems.”

  The light began to dawn. “Diamonds,” I repeated. “And other gems.”

  She didn’t meet my eyes.

  “How much is it worth?” Before Hillary could feign ignorance, I added, “You had it appraised, didn’t you? That’s why it took you three months to find your conscience.”

  She sighed again, more exasperated than ever. “It would probably go for three hundred thousand at auction,” she said. I was stunned by the figure, but even more so by her next pronouncement. “But without proof of ownership, I couldn’t get more than ten for it.”

  “It appears to be gone, now. We have to assume the killer took it with him.”

  She came around the paisley chair and dropped into it, belatedly noticing the bloodstain in front of her. She tucked her feet close and sighed. “Now Bennett will always think that I stole the music box.”

  I wanted to remind her that she had, indeed, stolen it, but from the look of abject despair on her face and the clear conviction that she was the wronged individual in this situation, the message would be lost.

  “So now you know,” she said finally. “And I told you the truth.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “There’s no reason to tell Bennett, is there? I mean, you see that none of this has anything to do with Abe’s death.”

  I leaned forward. “What time were you up here that day?”

  “The morning. Maybe ten, ten-thirty.”

  Too early. But I didn’t like to leave any loose threads. “Did you see anything suspicious?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Anything wrong. Out of place. Different.”

  “Everything seemed normal to me.”

  I didn’t know what I expected, or hoped for, but I wouldn’t get any further with Hillary. “Maybe you’d better get going,” I said. “Before Bennett gets back and catches you here.”

  “You’re not going to tell him?”

  I was spared answering by the arrival of two maids, Melissa Delling and a young woman named Beth. “Where’s Rosa?” I asked.

  The two women exchanged a glance. “Rosa thinks that Abe’s ghost is up here looking for revenge.” Melissa shot furtive glances around the room as though she expected an apparition to jump out at her. “She sent us up to do the cleaning because she’s afraid to.”

  Taken aback, I didn’t know what to say.

  Beth added, “Rosa thinks we ought to send for a priest to chase the ghost away.”

  I rubbed my temples. “She’s serious?”

  “Dead serious,” Beth grimaced. “Sorry, didn’t mean it that way.”

  I loo
ked at the two of them. “What about you? Are you okay being up here alone?”

  Melissa bit her lip.

  “Do you want me to call someone?”

  Before Melissa could answer, Beth said, “Would you?”

  I pulled up my walkie-talkie and asked Terrence to send two security guards up as soon as possible. He said he would.

  “Great,” I answered him. “I’ll stick around until they get here.”

  Melissa and Beth set to work, apparently relieved not to be left up here alone.

  “Two?” Hillary asked when I terminated the connection.

  “One to keep our staff company,” I said, “and the other to escort you back to your car.”

  ONCE HILLARY WAS GONE AND THE MAIDS were safe, I decided to visit Terrence. “There’s what?” he said when I told him about the secret room and staircase. “You’d think they would tell the security staff something like this, wouldn’t you? I have floor plans from Bennett, but there was no indication . . .” Shaking his head, he started walking away, then stopped and turned. “Thanks, Grace. I’ll look into it right away.”

  When I got back to my office, I found a message from Rodriguez. “Just the man I wanted to talk to,” I said when he answered my return call.

  “My partner and I need to speak with you,” the detective said. “May we stop by for a few minutes to chat?”

  The careful, yet oh-so-casual tone of his voice put me on edge. “Of course,” I said, injecting warmth into my words. “I’ll be here the rest of the afternoon.” I glanced at the clock. It was almost four.

  “Good. Don’t leave.”

  He hung up before I could reply. Temple rubbing was becoming a new habit of mine. What a day. I hoped whatever the good detectives had to say wouldn’t take a lot of time. I hoped to share my new insights with him and hear their thoughts. Most of all, I longed to put an end to this terrible week.

  Chapter 19

  WHILE I WAITED FOR THE DETECTIVES, I DECIDED to call our “discreet” investigation agency and give them the names of the investors who had lost a lot with Taft and who might blame Bennett for their demise. Ten minutes later I’d identified myself to Fairfax Investigations, explained my needs, and provided all the information I had on file. The woman on the other end of the phone promised me results by Monday morning.