by Hyzy, Julie
“I don’t plan to give you that number.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got it.”
“How—”
“I’m good,” he said with a wink. “I keep telling you that. Maybe soon you’ll start believing me.”
“SHOULDN’T WE GET RID OF SOME OF THE weeds before he gets here?” I asked my roommates.
They sat at our kitchen table, each with a glass of iced tea in one hand, and a section of the newspaper in the other. Crusts from what was left of their portobello mushroom panini sandwiches sat on discarded plates nearby. Bruce glanced up at the plastic sunflower clock over the sink. “You think of this now?” he said. “Your handsome suitor is due here in fifteen minutes.” He made a show of standing up and looking out the back screen door. “That’s not enough time to make a dent.”
Scott put the paper down. “What’s this Jack’s last name? I didn’t hear what you said at the bar.”
“Embers.”
Both of them raised eyebrows. “As in Emberstowne?” Bruce asked. “Like the local royalty?”
I laughed. “The Marshfields are the local royalty.”
“True that.” Bruce nodded. “He’s not really coming over to look at the landscaping, Grace. You know that.”
“I think he’s really coming here to give us gardening advice,” I said. “He’s always so serious about his work.”
“Is he married?”
I shrugged.
“Don’t worry,” Scott said. “We’ll find out for you.”
“Yeah, right, Mr. Suave,” Bruce chided, then mimicked him, falsetto, “ ‘Can we make it closer to six? Bruce and I won’t be home until then.’ ” He shook his head. “You’re right on top of things.”
“All I want is to shut our neighbors up,” Scott said as he waved away the tease. “I think it’s about time we got a professional opinion on the landscaping.”
A voice from the open doorway: “Then it’s a good thing I’m not late.”
I greeted Jack, hoping he hadn’t overheard much more than he obviously had, and invited him in as Bruce and Scott cleared the table. “Can I get you something to drink?” I asked.
“No thanks,” he said then glanced around appraisingly. “This is a great old house.” He turned, his attention apparently caught by something in the hallway. “You’re not moving, are you?”
I followed his gaze. “No,” I said. “Just in the middle of a cleaning project—sorting through all my parents’ and grandparents’ junk before it gets ruined in the attic.”
He looked at me quizzically.
“The roof leaks.”
“Better get that fixed quick,” he said. “Nothing good can come of waiting.”
I couldn’t get it fixed until I had the funds to do so, but I didn’t want to come across as a Debbie Downer in the first five minutes of our conversation. There was always hope of things working out.
“Yep, that’s what we’re doing,” I said. “We’re getting bids.”
Ignoring the twin looks of surprise from Bruce and Scott, I led our little party outside.
An hour later, scratched and bitten from wandering through my yard’s overgrowth, I was ready to call the concrete mixers to pave the whole property. We’d spent the entire time walking through mangled shrubbery and weeds to get a feel for what the original design had looked like.
“I remember the front of this house,” Jack said. “It was always gorgeous. Colorful and bright with blooms.” Jack pointed to a grouping of stones. “See these? There was a flower bed here, a good-sized one from the looks of it. And I’m pretty sure this area . . .” he shoved away a thick clump of branches, “. . . used to be a vegetable garden. With a little hard work, and a some cleanup, this property could be a showplace again.”
Hands on hips, I surveyed the area as the three men discussed plans for its renewal. How they could get so excited over grass, mulch, and dirt, I didn’t understand. My mother and grandmother had always grown flowers and vegetables. I remembered that. I’d apparently inherited a brown thumb rather than a green one. To my mind, herbs, veggies, and fresh-cut blooms were best harvested from a local store. Bruce and Scott took notes, chatting amiably with Jack about peonies and ground cover, while I dreamed of cement.
Jack’s cell phone rang. He excused himself to take the call out of earshot.
Bruce nudged me. “He’s a keeper.”
“Give me a break,” I whispered. “He came for the gardens. That’s it.”
“Uh-huh, right,” Scott said.
“You sure I can’t get you anything?” I asked Jack when he returned. “Iced tea?”
“Nah, I need to get going, actually,” he said. “Hope I was of some help.”
“Definitely,” I said, disappointed. Maybe he really had only stopped by to talk shop. “Thanks for all your ideas.”
“No problem.”
Bruce poked me in the back, prodding me to walk Jack out front. I really had nothing more to say and the awkward silence when we got to the end of the driveway made us both uncomfortable. “Well, thanks again,” I said. “Hope you have something fun planned this evening.”
“You, too.” He gave a little wave, and started walking toward town. “See you around the manor.”
“Yeah,” I said.
Bruce met me on my way back. “Did he suggest dinner? Drinks?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
I gave my matchmaking roommate a scathing look. “Maybe he was more interested in the two of you than he was in me. Did you ever think of that?”
Scott joined us. “Nope. No way. Jack’s hetero. Definitely.”
“Maybe he’s married, after all,” I said. “You didn’t find out, did you?”
“Never got a good opening. Would have been clumsy.” Bruce patted me on the shoulder as we headed back in. “But I had the most brilliant idea. You have access to all personnel records. Why not do a little . . .” Bruce winked, “. . . snooping?”
“Sorry. He’s a consultant. No personnel records on file.”
“That’s even better,” Bruce said. “If he worked for Marshfield, you wouldn’t be able to date him because you’d be his boss.”
Chapter 22
BRUCE’S SUGGESTION TO SNOOP THROUGH Jack’s records—however inappropriate—did remind me of another plan I had.
Monday morning, I asked Frances, “Do we keep old personnel files?”
“We keep everything,” Frances said flatly. “What are you looking for?”
“I know it’s silly, but my grandmother used to work at the manor. I thought I might take a look at her file.”
“Your grandmother? Here? When?”
I told her.
“That was well before my time. Those wouldn’t up here any longer,” she said. “But we keep old files in storage in the basement. The same room with the floor plans.” She’d taken me on a tour of the storage area my first week and I knew exactly where she was talking about. “I’d try there first. You want me to look for you?”
“No thanks.” The idea of Frances grabbing a first glimpse at what was, in essence, my family history was totally unacceptable. “Have we heard from Fairfax yet on the names I gave them to check out?”
“Nope, but I’m sure the information will be here soon.”
“I’ll run down to the basement, if you’ll hold down the fort.”
“Don’t I always?”
While I was in the basement I tried to locate the exit to the study’s hidden staircase. No luck. Granted, it was supposed to be hard to find, but I paced out the approximate location based on the information Hillary had shared and tried again. I didn’t want to make my inspection obvious, so after about twenty minutes I gave up. The police would figure it out and with any luck, Rodriguez might share that knowledge with me.
My trip to the lower level was not without its reward, however. I headed back, clutching my grandmother’s personnel file folder, anticipation springing my every step. My family’s love affair with Marshfield
Manor had begun when my grandmother Sophie settled in Emberstowne in the late 1930s. She married Peter Careaux, who, according to my mother, was a ne’er-do-well and a barely functioning alcoholic. Unable to depend on her husband to provide for their first child—my aunt Belinda—Gram sought work outside the home and Marshfield was hiring. The moment she started work there, our family tradition of admiring the manor began.
In some ways, I felt as though I was bringing the family tradition full circle by working here. My gram had been a member of the housekeeping staff, and now I was in an administrative position. I liked to think she would be proud of me.
As much as I wanted to read through her file, I couldn’t squeeze that in right now. I didn’t even have time to get this file back up to my office. Not if I wanted my next plan to work.
I stepped outside the back doors into the early sunshine and made my way to the fleet of golf carts we kept for shuttling personnel back and forth around the grounds. I snagged one of the newer vehicles from the cart manager on duty and bounced my way along the narrow asphalt path that connected the mansion to the hotel. The day was warming up nicely. Puddles on the path, left over from the morning’s watering schedule, were just beginning to vanish.
The doorman outside the hotel welcomed me, and a second doorman inside did the same. Both wearing long-sleeved white shirts, black ties, and crisp black slacks, they smiled and wished me a good morning. Shining marble, fresh flowers, and the scent of clean gave the hotel an elegant feel. Any time I walked in here, I felt like a rich person.
My heels clicked brightly along the floor to the cherrywood reception desk. The on-duty representative, Zoe, a young, tiny thing with a red pixie, seemed surprised to see me.
“Has Geraldine Stajklorski checked in yet?” I asked.
“No, but it’s still early,” Zoe said. “Check-in isn’t until three.”
“Ms. Stajklorski requested early check-in. I thought it might be good for me to be here when she arrives.”
Zoe checked her records. “You’re right. I have it all here.” Glancing up at the clock, she said, “But she isn’t due for another hour.”
“I didn’t want to chance missing her.” Pointing toward the seating area near the window, I held my file aloft. “I’ve got this to read while I wait. Let me know when she arrives.”
I took a seat in an overstuffed chair ready to delve into my grandmother’s records, but the moment my backside hit the cushion, a ruckus at the front door grabbed my attention. A shrill voice shouted, “When is this place going to invest in automatic doors?”
Although the doormen had opened a path for her, the woman’s oversized wheeled suitcase jammed sideways as she fought to get it through the second set of doors.
“What is wrong with you?” she demanded of the young red-faced bellboy who rushed to help right her luggage. “Can’t you see you have to back it up first?”
No doubt this was Geraldine. Not only was her voice unmistakable, her manner—brusque and demanding—gave her away on the spot. She was not at all like I pictured. About five-foot-five, she was attractive, trim, and wore a glittering cluster of diamonds on her right wrist. I’d expected someone older, but Geraldine was only in her late thirties. Dark, shiny hair in a blunt, chin-length cut swung when she whipped her head around.
I made my way toward the angry woman who was still berating the poor bellboy. “Ms. Stajklorski,” I said. The bellboy looked up at me, but Geraldine didn’t respond. I raised my voice and waited for a lull in her diatribe. “Ms. Stajklorski.”
She turned away from the boy and spotted me. Puzzlement battled with entrenched anger for control of her face. Too bad. She would have been pretty if she smiled. Her eyes—pale brown—sparked with energy and intelligence. Nothing at all like I pictured from the voice on the phone. “Are you the manager here?” she asked.
As much as it pained me to be nice to this woman, I extended my hand. “In a matter of speaking. I’m Grace Wheaton. You and I spoke on the phone.”
“Oh, sure.” She tugged her suitcase closer as she sized me up. “I got the impression you worked in the mansion,” she said with a little flick of her head. “Not here.”
“That’s true. But I knew you were arriving this morning and I wanted to be sure to welcome you personally.”
“Oh?” She thought about that for a moment. “You’re not changing your mind about my stay here this time? Everything is on the house, right?”
“For three nights, yes,” I said before she could finagle anything else out of me.
“I’m on the concierge floor?”
I nodded. “That’s right.”
“Free dinner, right?”
Again I nodded. “For three nights.” I stepped aside, allowing her a clear path to Zoe, who looked poised to kill with kindness. “I’ll be happy to accompany you up to your room to ensure it’s satisfactory.”
Geraldine squinted at me. “No thanks.”
“As you wish,” I said, handing her a business card. “If you encounter anything amiss during your stay here, be sure to contact me right away so we can correct it promptly.”
She took the card, but didn’t seem too happy about it. Maybe because it gave her less wiggle room for complaints later.
We chatted briefly as she checked in. I directed her to the elevators and asked again if she needed assistance. With a pointed look she said, “No.”
The moment she was gone, I turned to Zoe. “Was it my imagination, or was she in a hurry to get away from me?”
“Like you were an ogre or something.”
I raised an eyebrow.
Zoe put her hands up. “You’re not. I mean, I just got the sense that Ms. Stajklorski was afraid of you. Isn’t that weird?”
It was weird, but it also felt good. Maybe next time, Geraldine would think twice before demanding ridiculous restitution.
Finally back at the office, I sailed past Frances, who was on the phone. I waved my grandmother’s file in the air to let her know I’d found it. Frances gestured animatedly to me and I concluded the investor reports were on my desk.
Just as I sat down, I heard the outer door open. Frances hung up the phone and said, “Good morning,” but before I could even guess who she was speaking with, Bennett strode into my office.
“What the devil are you trying to do?”
Instinctively I stood, desperate to decipher his question. “What happened? Is something wrong?”
“I’ll say it is,” he said. Turning to the doorway where Frances stood, patently curious, he said, “Get out and close the damn door.”
Her tadpole eyebrows shot up but she did as requested. The moment I heard the knob click shut, I tried to cut the tension. “Why don’t you sit—”
Bennett ignored me. “You told the police about the side room!” His voice rose. “About the staircase!”
Flabbergasted by this unexpected attack, I couldn’t find words fast enough.
“That information was private,” Bennett continued. One hand gripped the edge of my desk, as he leaned forward, spittle forming in the corners of his mouth. “You had no business sharing that information with anyone outside the family.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Please, Bennett,” I said in a calming voice. “Let’s talk about this. Why don’t you—”
“I will not sit down!” His voice gurgled. “Not until you explain to me why I shouldn’t fire you on the spot.”
Blood rushed to my face, making my limbs tingle and my throat tight. I knew I’d been right to take that information to the police. I would defend that decision no matter what. But Bennett was so worked up at the moment that any attempt to explain would simply incur further wrath.
I sat.
He stared down at me, eyes bulging.
“You don’t want to fire me.”
Impossible as it should have been, his eyes widened.
I gestured to the empty seat behind him. “Please sit.”
Color returned to his white knuckles as
he released the edge of my desk and lowered himself into one of the red wing chairs with an audible whoosh. He sat very rigid with his chin up. Waiting. But at least he’d calmed enough to let me speak.
I took a deep breath. “It’s only been a week since Abe died, but this office is dealing with hundreds of important issues. Whether it’s been coordinating with the detectives, dealing with complaints from guests, approving purchase orders, displaying a new acquisition, or overseeing the authentication of one of the mansion’s treasures, we have been very busy in this office.” I paused for another breath, crossing my fingers under the desk. While I had been handling all of the above to the best of my abilities, I’d been flying by on good guesses and a fair share of luck. “Abe isn’t here, and I’m doing the best I can. I’m managing because I have Frances to help me. You take me out of the equation and it will be you running the estate. Unless, of course, you believe Frances could handle it on her own.”
His bright blue eyes lost some of their steely anger. “Not Frances,” he agreed reluctantly.
“I’m not suggesting I’m indispensable,” I continued, as though we were just having a pleasant conversation, and not like he’d stormed into my office to yell at me. “But I do think this is a particularly vulnerable time for the estate. I think the less upheaval in the staff right now, the better.” His shoulders relaxed—just enough for me to notice—so I pressed on. “I understand that I’m still in my probationary period, but I hope you can understand that although I’m doing my best, I may make a mistake here and there.”
“Mistakes I understand.” A tiny bit of the fire returned to his eyes. “But an intentional act meant to hurt is altogether different. Hillary is furious. She trusted you and you betrayed her. She says she only showed you the room because you begged to know what was behind the panel. But she said you swore you’d keep the information confidential.”
“She said what?”
His eyes clouded momentarily, then narrowed. He waited.
From the time I was a little girl and Liza had told our mom that I’d been searching for that “treasure map,” I hated snitches. Divulging Hillary’s confession to Bennett now, to get myself out of this jam, seemed wrong. But I had no intention of losing my job because Hillary had itchy fingers and a late-to-the-party conscience.