Grace Sees Red

by Julie Hyzy

  Eyes glazed, Bruce stared at the laptop’s screen. “Probably would have happened sooner, is all,” he said without looking up. “We knew the building was a ticking time bomb. We just didn’t realize how short of a fuse we were dealing with.”

  “We got lucky,” Scott said. “This could have been much worse.”

  “I know you’re right.” Bruce blinked himself back into the conversation and offered a weak smile. “But at the moment, I’m not feeling very lucky at all.”

  Scott laid a hand atop Bruce’s and squeezed. “No one on our staff was injured, we hadn’t opened for business for the day yet so there weren’t any customers in the place, and you and I are still here to clean up the mess. I think we need to count our blessings.”

  Bruce nodded, but I could tell he was unconvinced.

  Scott was usually the naysayer of the two, Bruce more of a Pollyanna. It was unsettling to see them reverse roles.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “What can I do to help?”

  “There’s nothing anyone can do. Not now.” Bruce went back to studying his laptop. “Our landlord should have taken care of these repairs years ago.”

  “At a minimum, he ought to be fined,” I said.

  Scott nodded. “Believe me, he will be.”

  “Not going to do us any good, though,” Bruce said. “We’re moving into tourist season with no shop and no prospects. I’m looking at our cash reserves, and I don’t think we’ll be able to make it through the summer with no income.” Again he tried to smile. “By the way, how did your meeting with Bennett go?”

  I remembered my promise to Frances to keep her situation on the down-low. “We had a nice chat.”

  Bruce glanced at the clock. “Long chat.” He nodded absentmindedly. “That’s good.”

  Scott had gone back to tapping on a calculator and scribbling notes on the papers before him. “We have enough to pay our living expenses,” he began. “But that’s about it.”

  “I can help with that,” I said. “You know that I don’t need rent from you two anymore.”

  Scott shook his head. “Didn’t you insist on continuing to work for Bennett even after you found out you were related? You could have easily stepped away and lived a luxurious life without having to work for your income,” he said. “You told him you didn’t want a handout. Neither do we.”

  “Then call it a loan, if you like,” I said. “But from now until Amethyst Cellars is back up and running, I refuse to accept a penny from either of you.”

  When they started to protest again, I said. “Please, let me do this much. It means a lot to me.”

  They exchanged a glance. Scott gave a quick nod, Bruce a small smile.

  “Thanks, Grace,” Bruce said. “But we owe you.”

  Chapter 8

  At Marshfield early the next morning, I crossed through Frances’s office into mine, dropping off my purse and hanging up my soon-to-be-unnecessary trench coat. Yesterday’s storms had passed and I took a moment to gaze out my giant mullioned window, hoping that the day’s cheery forecast bode well for both sunny skies and good news for Frances.

  Frances usually started coffee for us when she got in but I decided to take over that responsibility today. After the weekend she’d had, I wanted to do whatever I could to make life a little easier for her. I hurried back through her office and out into the corridor. Our entire floor remained deliciously deserted at this early hour. I enjoyed the morning quiet and guessed that I had at least another twenty minutes before other staffers began showing up.

  At one time, before I was born, this section of the house had been designated for overnight guests. Now as I walked along the quiet hallway, passing rooms that had been converted into staff offices, I tried to imagine what this wing had been like back during its glory days. When Bennett’s father—my grandfather—had entertained here.

  This home was Bennett’s. And now—as he’d repeatedly made clear—it was mine, too.

  Though much of the hallway’s carved oak embellishment—from the crown molding to the wainscot—remained intact, the guest rooms had been transformed over the years from opulent to utilitarian. This area was no longer a place where wealthy industrialists and their families cavorted; this was where work got done.

  It would be nice to see these rooms returned to their former splendor. To rip out the harsh lighting and replace fluorescent fixtures with vintage accessories or, at a minimum, high-quality reproductions. I ran my fingertips along the top of a metal filing cabinet that had been relegated to the hallway because we’d run out of office space. Squat, gray, and ugly, the cabinet was nonetheless sturdy and did its job well. Whoever had outfitted the work areas, sometime in the middle of the last century, had done so with an eye to durability but with little regard for aesthetics.

  The high-ceilinged employee lunchroom had, at one time, served as a guest parlor. Now the space featured a linoleum floor, 1960s-era kitchen cabinetry, bronze appliances, and a mosaic tile backsplash in three shades of ochre. Over the sink, two unadorned windows faced north, and I stared out over the front of the estate—a very different view from that in my office—while I turned on the faucet to fill the coffeepot’s reservoir.

  As the water splashed in, an idea began to formulate. What if we relocated our personnel outside the mansion and kept only necessary staff on the premises? Assuming a suitable office location could be found nearby, the move itself could be accomplished with relative ease. We could even build new, if need be. We had acres of open space.

  Except for a few key players, our office workers were never required to put in an appearance in the public part of the mansion. The docent staff, of course, was always present, but there was no need for accounting, marketing, or outside sales staffers to be on-site every day.

  The world had changed a great deal since these rooms had been repurposed into offices. With the advent of e-mail and the ability of personnel to work remotely, we could probably bring this area back—restore it to its former brilliance. I’d have to remember to mention the idea to Bennett one of these days. But not until after we got Frances through this current crisis.

  “What in the world are you doing?”

  I spun to find my assistant glaring at me from the doorway. Hand on her hips, she wore an expression of surprised disbelief.

  I shut off the faucet. “You still have your coat on.”

  She still had her purse, too, and it swung from the crook of her arm as she marched across the small room. “You didn’t run the water ahead of time, did you?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, hefting the reservoir, which was now pretty weighty. “How could I have filled this without running the water?”

  She shook her head as though annoyed, snatched the reservoir from me, and upended it, sending its contents glugging down the drain. “This is an old building. A very old building,” she said as she placed the empty container to the side and turned the faucet back on, full force. “There’s most likely lead in the pipes. I let the water run for a full minute each morning before I start the coffee.” She yanked up one sleeve of her coat, frowned at her watch, and said, “Lead accumulates in a body, you know. I read that on the Internet. Can’t be too careful.”

  My first thought was to argue that the small amount of lead that we might be ingesting—and there was no proof for certain that we were—probably wasn’t enough to cause harm. But the truth was I knew nothing of toxic lead levels. And I didn’t want to start out the day bickering.

  “Good plan.” I leaned a hip against the speckled Formica countertop and asked, “How did your talk with Lily go?”

  She continued to study her watch. “Stupid.”

  “You don’t like her? Or you don’t believe she’s an effective lawyer?”

  “She’s competent enough, I’m sure,” Frances said without looking up. “But I don’t understand why she needs to ask me so many p
ersonal questions. It’s like a body can’t have any privacy anymore. Some of the things she wanted to know . . .” Frances shook her head.

  “What did she say about your situation?” I asked. “How soon will you be in the clear?”

  “Time’s up,” Frances said, raising her eyes from her watch and turning back to the sink.

  While she refilled the reservoir, I pulled out a coffee filter and began spooning in grounds. “There’s nothing special I need to know at this step, is there?”

  She glanced over. “Three rounded scoops, and a half-scoop more.”

  When we finished setting up, I gestured toward our offices. “Let’s talk while we wait for it to brew.”

  She made the typical Frances face of disapproval. “I don’t plan to tell you any more than you need to know,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t dream of prying.”

  I led the way and as she fell into step behind, I heard her mutter, “Not that you don’t already know it all now, anyway.”

  Back in our offices, she waved me away. “Go ahead, get started on whatever you need to do. Once I get myself settled, I’ll come in and tell you everything Lily and I talked about. Will that satisfy you?”

  “Completely,” I said.

  “And I suppose you expect me to bring in the coffee when it’s ready.”

  “I’ll be happy to get it.”

  She glowered. “Why? Am I suddenly incapable of doing my job?”

  I opened my mouth to argue that getting coffee for me was not actually part of her job description, but then thought better of it. “Of course not.”

  “Pheh.” She hung up her coat, sat at her desk, placed her purse in a drawer, and began studying papers on her desk. “I’m not accused of anything yet, you know. I’m not an official suspect. Just a person of interest.”

  None of this had anything to do with getting coffee. “I know that.”

  “Don’t start treating me differently.”

  “Not a chance, Frances.”

  “You’d better not,” she said gruffly. Then she met my eyes. Though her brows were as carefully penciled in as ever, they were lifeless and flat, no longer bouncy tadpoles. Her eyes held none of their usual sassy sparkle. My heart lurched. Frances was far more frightened than she was letting on.

  “Bring me up to speed whenever you’re ready, then,” I said with all the breezy calm I could muster. I knew instinctively that the less pressure I put on her, the easier it would be for her to open up. “You know where I’ll be.”

  Chapter 9

  Seated at my desk with my fingers clasped atop my head, I swiveled to stare out the window at the sunny landscape. More than anything, I wanted this cloud of suspicion to go away. And I wanted it gone now. The best way I could think to accomplish that was to track down as much information about the situation as I could, using every means available.

  My first instinct had been to alert our favorite private investigator, Ronny Tooney. Catching myself, I silently mouthed, “Bronson.” It was taking me a long time to get used to using his real first name. The man had provided invaluable assistance to us over the years. Even if nothing could be done to dissuade the police from investigating Frances, Tooney—I was sure—would be able to come up with some interesting way to help prove her innocence.

  Even though I knew he could be trusted to keep our confidence, Frances’s admonishment to keep the story to myself prevented me from alerting the resourceful detective. But I had to do something. Deep in thought, I bit my lower lip. We couldn’t let Frances twist in the wind until the police cleared her. I knew from experience how long that could take. Though perennially cranky, and quick to criticize others, Frances was not nearly as indestructible as she pretended to be.

  “I know you’re a lady of leisure these days, but do you think you could pretend to be working instead of daydreaming?”

  I sat up, dropping my hands to my lap. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  Frances crossed my office carrying a tray. On it were two steaming mugs of coffee, a pitcher of cream, and two plated croissants as well as necessary silverware and linens.

  She placed the tray on my desk, took one of the mugs, one of the croissant plates, and sat down across from me. “Help yourself. I’m not going to spoon-feed you.”

  “Thanks, Frances.” Gentle heat radiated off the golden-brown pastry and I got a warm whiff of yeasty deliciousness as I brought the croissant to my side of the desk. I added cream to my mug then took a sip of the brew. “Excellent coffee.”

  “Three-and-a-half scoops of grounds. After you let the water run for a full minute.” She held her cup so close to her face that I could only see her eyes over the top of its rim. “Remember that in case I get hauled off to prison and you’re stuck making it yourself.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” I said. “You do know that, don’t you?”

  “I know that the two geniuses who run Emberstowne’s homicide department are always ready to jump at the obvious answer. If it weren’t for you and me, there’s no telling how many innocent people they’d have locked up and how many murderers would still be running free.”

  “Rodriguez and Flynn aren’t that bad.”

  “They’re not that good, either.”

  “Regardless,” I said, “we aren’t dealing with them this time. I’m sure that the officers in charge of the investigation at Indwell will either determine that Gus died of natural causes, or that—if someone did kill him—it wasn’t you.”

  She gave an indignant snort. “I almost wish it had happened in Emberstowne. At least we can handle those two goofballs. We have history with them.”

  “I was thinking,” I began gently, “of bringing Tooney in on this.”

  “No.”

  “You know he wouldn’t breathe a word.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  She placed her mug on my desk with a thud. “It’s bad enough you and the Mister are involved. When I said that I don’t want anyone else in town to know, I meant nobody else. You know as well as I do that the minute even one other person gets wind of what went down at Indwell yesterday, my reputation is shot.”

  “Not at all, Frances.” Though tempted to break into my croissant and enjoy its flaky goodness, I pushed the plate aside. “There’s not a soul here at Marshfield and there’s not anyone in town who’d believe you capable of murder.”

  She waved the air. “Well, of course they know I didn’t murder anyone. That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  I sat back. “It’s that important to you to keep your relationship with Percy a secret?”

  “Nobody can know about him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Get your mind out of the gutter. It’s not like he’s got another wife in town or anything like that.” She chewed the inside of her cheek. “I just don’t want people around here to find out that I spend so much time taking care of him.”

  I waited.

  She picked her mug back up and took a long sip before answering. “You always ask how I know things before I’m supposed to know them. You always give me grief about my grapevine.”

  “I find it uncanny how much you come up with, and how fast.”

  “What you don’t know is that those grapevine people will gleefully turn on one another in an instant if the scoop is juicy enough.” She took another sip of coffee. “Sometimes, even if it’s dull as nuts. Trust me, I’ve known these people for decades. Loyalty goes out the window when there’s a good story to tell.”

  “Decades?” I picked up on the word. “If you’ve been friends with these folks that long, they must know you were once married to Percy.”

  “Who said they were friends?” Frances snorted. “Just because I’ve known a few of them most of my life doesn’t mean I trust them. Let me tell you—they’re masters at making you believe they�
�re sincerely interested in your life and happiness. But that’s only to butter you up and get you to talk. And while you’re spilling your soul, they’re soaking up details to share later.”

  “Details they share with you.”

  Frances acknowledged that without comment. “Information is like currency. It’s power. They hold it, they wield it. They almost ruined you, you know.”

  “What?” Even though I knew shouldn’t, I asked, “When?”

  “When Abe was murdered, right after you first started working here, a couple of them tried to get people to believe that you were responsible. They started spreading rumors about how you staged the whole ruckus in the Birdcage Room just to give yourself an alibi.”

  “That’s ludicrous.” Despite the fact that the case had been solved a few years ago—with my assistance, no less—I felt a rush of anger. “How could anyone suggest such a thing?”

  “Don’t worry; I shut that one down.” A ghost of a smile crossed Frances’s lips—the first hint of reduced tension I’d seen from her since her coffee-making lesson this morning.

  “You stood up for me?”

  “Don’t get all sappy.” She rolled her eyes. Another good sign. “I may not have liked you very much back then, but anybody with a brain could see that you didn’t kill Abe.”

  “Why do you bother with these folks if they’re so bad?”

  Frances shrugged. “Hard to resist good gossip.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  She shrugged again. “What can I say? I’d rather be an ally than a target.”

  Frances must have sensed the pity I was feeling for her because she shot me a warning look. “Enough about all that. You and I need to talk about how soon this lawyer woman, Lily, can clear my good name.”