Whitehouse Chef 04 - Grace Under Pressure

by Julie Hyzy

  I stepped forward instinctively as Percy grabbed another chair, using it to fend off the guards as a lion tamer might tease his quarry. I didn’t know what I could possibly do, but I felt a powerful need to do something. With Percy’s leonine appearance, watching him fight the guards with the upturned chair was a peculiar sight. Again, in another situation, I might have laughed. No one wanted to hurt this guy, but we couldn’t let him get away with this behavior. Carr repeatedly ordered him to put the chair down.

  Instead, wiggling the chair like a sword, Percy grinned, pointedly ignoring the officer’s demands. Carr pulled out pepper spray. I hoped he was bluffing because pepper spray would affect everyone in the room if he used it. From the set of his jaw and the tension in his posture, however, I could tell he was itching to spring.

  “Stop this nonsense!”

  The unexpected voice, authoritative and deep, boomed from behind me.

  I spun. Bennett Marshfield, owner of the manor, strode toward Percy with a bearing that belied his seventy-plus years. Bennett’s perennially tanned face was tight with anger, and his white hair glinted brightly in the room’s sunshine, making him look angelic and demonic at the same time. “This is my home and you will cease this ridiculous behavior at once!”

  For a heartbeat, everybody stopped. Even Percy. The big guy’s mouth dropped open. He recovered long enough to ask, “Who are you?”

  That was all Carr and his team needed. A handful of guards rushed up, and in a sea of arms and legs, amid gurgling, angry noises that I could tell came from Percy, they tackled the big guy and wrestled him to the ground. The moment he was turned onto his stomach and handcuffed, the room erupted in applause. People stood and cheered.

  The little old lady who had thrown the teacup clapped gleefully, her aged face wrinkling into a wide smile. “That’ll teach you, you oaf!” she called.

  As our patrons settled back into their seats, I called for attention. “Your afternoon tea is on the house today,” I said. Turning toward the doorway where some of the more skittish guests had disappeared, I welcomed them back in. “We are very sorry for the disturbance, and as our staff cleans up, we will refill your trays and bring you whatever you like. I hope our small treat this afternoon will help leave a sweeter taste in your mouth.”

  My announcement was met with another round of applause.

  Four guards flanked Percy as they led him past me. Head down, the big man no longer resisted, apparently resigned to his fate. I suggested to Carr that they escort him out through the service doors and he nodded. In moments, they were gone.

  Bennett made his way over. “Good move.” He nodded toward the crowd. “Keeping the guests here for a little free food will help them remember the good and”—he glanced back the way the guards had gone—“forget the unappetizing.”

  “I didn’t see you come in,” I said. “I thought you were out all day today.”

  He grimaced in a way I didn’t understand. “My morning appointment was . . . unpleasant to say the least. I was just on my way to meet Abe upstairs but decided to detour when I caught the call on the walkie-talkie. I was curious to see how you would handle the situation.” His pale eyes were deep-set, but not too deep to dilute the power of his glare. “You are still within your ninety-day probationary period, you know.”

  How could I forget? If Abe—my immediate boss, and head curator—wasn’t constantly reminding me, our assistant, Frances, certainly was. I had been hired two months earlier because Bennett Marshfield’s attorneys warned that he needed to inject fresh blood into the administration. Tourism was down, security was seriously outdated, and Marshfield, once the jewel of the South Atlantic region, had lost its edge. Exhibits had not been changed or refurbished in years. The current staff, most of whom had been with the manor for more than three decades, had grown complacent. If the estate were to retain its position as a vacation destination—moreover, if it wanted to increase its market share in the world of tourism—changes had to be made.

  Head of security Terrence Carr was another new recruit, as were about a half dozen others. As new employees in key positions, we had been given a mandate: Bring Marshfield Manor into the twenty-first century. Not everyone was happy at our arrival. There were days I felt “Agent of Change” had been branded onto my forehead, causing staff members to either avoid me completely or go out of their way to explain just how important they were in the running of the mansion so I wouldn’t consider cutting their jobs.

  My title of assistant curator had come with an understanding. When Abe retired—within the next year or so—I would be in the best position to be considered as his replacement. He not only served as museum curator, he was the mansion’s director. As such, all staff members reported to him. And in a little more than a year, they might all report to me.

  As long as I made it through this probationary period, of course.

  Bennett apparently expected me to reply to his reminder. Instead I deflected. “Abe received another warning letter.” I pointed upward, in the general direction of Bennett’s private sanctuary on the fourth floor. “I think he’s leaving it for you in your study right now, if you want to catch him.”

  Bennett straightened, taking a deep breath. “Trying to get rid of me, are you?”

  “More like trying to ensure the manor’s efficiency,” I said, smiling to take the sting out of my words. According to the attorneys who had interviewed me, Abe had lost touch a long time ago. But they also warned me that Abe and Bennett were tight, and until Abe chose to retire, all decisions rested with him. This issue was non-negotiable.

  “Abe gets worked up about these letters,” Bennett said, waving his hand with a shoofly motion. “They’re the work of a crank. I keep telling him that. But he worries about me.” Casting a long glance around the Birdcage room, he added, “And about the manor.”

  I watched as our maintenance team restored the Birdcage. They righted chairs, fluffed cushions, and placed tables back where they had been before Percy’s outburst. Waitresses carried out trays laden with sweets and savories, as busboys hurried out with replacement vases and fresh flowers for each of the distressed tables. While Bennett and I had been talking, the last of the fled guests had returned. Conversations resumed, china clinked, and I noticed a heightened, more jovial air than had been in the room before.

  Danger as entertainment. Whatever worked.

  I turned to Bennett. “A little excitement, and no one got hurt. I think we dodged a bullet here.”

  He was about to say something, but our walkie-talkies crackled to life, interrupting him. “Private channel,” the dispatcher said, her voice strained. “All security switch to private channel.”

  Bennett and I moved in sync, grabbing our walkie-talkies and heading out the door. Only security and certain high-ranking staff members were allowed access to the private network. Bennett and I both switched over, and I was the first to open the line.

  The dispatcher’s voice was tense. “I repeat: Shots have been fired in the residence. Fourth floor. Private study. Authorities are on their way.”

  Bennett blanched. “The study. That’s where I was supposed to meet Abe.”

  Chapter 2

  I WAS TEN STEPS UP THE NEAREST STAIRCASE when I thought about Bennett behind me. Although the man was in great physical shape, he was seventy years old. Running up four flights of stairs into possible gunfire was probably not a great idea. For him, or for me. But I hadn’t been hired to run away from crises. I’d been hired to handle them.

  I took comfort from the dispatcher’s report: Shots had been fired. She hadn’t said shots “were being” fired. I was betting this was a false alarm. And so I raced upward into the fray, convincing myself that my actions would do my career a lot of good. Especially during the probationary period.

  I worried for Bennett, though. Slowing at the first landing, I turned. “Why don’t you take the elevator?”

  He growled an unintelligible reply. But I got the message.

  “Okay,
” I said, resuming my race up the stairs. Although these were considered “back stairs” in that they were not open to the public, they were nonetheless ornate. My feet crushed into the thick carpet runner that spanned each step. As I cleared the third-floor landing, the stairway narrowed. We were getting into Bennett’s private rooms here, an area of the mansion I was not privy to. Not yet.

  My thighs burned as I hauled myself up the final set of stairs, panting. I wiped a thin bead of sweat from my hairline, thinking it had been too long since I’d hit the gym. Looking back, I wondered if I should wait for Bennett, but he was two flights behind me now. I pushed through the double doors at the top and walked into mayhem.

  Rosa Brelke was sobbing. Our head of housekeeping sat on the floor of a wide wood-paneled corridor, her legs splayed out from her pale blue uniform skirt. She held her hands over her face, but there was no mistaking her cranberry red hair or her fireplug build. Next to her was one of our younger housekeepers. An attractive girl, her face was a pale mask of fear. For the life of me I couldn’t remember her name. She was trying to comfort Rosa, crouching next to the sobbing woman, rubbing her back. Every second or two, the woman whose name I couldn’t remember stole a glance across the hall. She looked as though she might throw up.

  “Rosa,” I called, but she didn’t hear me. Her high-pitched wails went right up the back of my spine.

  This was no false alarm. But I saw no blood. And except for her screams, she seemed unhurt. “Rosa!” I called again, as I crossed the floor toward her.

  The crouching woman gently shook Rosa’s shoulder and pointed to me. Rosa peeled her fingers away enough to look up. Her blotchy face expressed pain—loss—terror—and intense grief. All at once. Her wails became deep-throated moans and she pointed to her left across the corridor. A door was open.

  As I reached the room, a door far down the hall banged open and four security guards rushed in, Terrence Carr at the lead. “What happened?” he shouted.

  I had no words. Inside the room—Bennett’s private study—Abe lay facedown in a puddle of blood. I started to move forward, but in the two seconds it had taken for my mind to process what I was seeing, Carr had reached me. He grabbed my arm. “No.”

  “But . . .” I pointed toward Abe. He wasn’t moving. My words felt slow and hard to form. “We have to see if he’s okay.” That sounded stupid. He was definitely not okay. “I mean, if he’s alive.”

  Carr met my eyes. “Stay here,” he said and pushed me back a step. I complied.

  By this time, Bennett had made it to the top of the stairs. He was panting worse than I had been and as he ran a hand through his white hair, I noticed him shaking. Striding slowly across the hallway, he stopped to talk to Rosa and the other woman, who were still on the floor. “Are you okay?”

  Rosa’s sobs had quieted to hard hiccups. She didn’t answer. The other woman kept her hands on Rosa’s shoulders, but her face turned toward the wall.

  I backed away from the open door to allow security access to Abe. He lay in the room’s center, as though he’d had his back to the windows when he fell. He was wearing a charcoal suit, but I could see the wet shine of blood between his shoulder blades. Carr crouched beside the elderly man, and reached around, groping for Abe’s neck.

  I held my breath.

  The look on Carr’s face told me all I needed to know.

  A moan bubbled up from somewhere deep inside me. My vision went bright and sparkly. The room around me buzzed.

  Struggling to catch his breath, Bennett grabbed my elbow just as my knees gave out. “Grace,” he said. “Grace, what happened?”

  The moment of weakness passed; I felt my body regain its strength. Still, I could do no better than Rosa had. I pointed into his study. “Abe,” I said.

  He let go of me. “Abe?” he asked, and started into the room.

  One of the security guards stopped him. “Please, sir. It’s best if you stay back.”

  “But this is my study.” Bennett seemed more confused by an employee rebuffing him than by the body on the floor. “I must go in. Abe and I have a meeting planned.”

  “Sir,” the guard said gently, stepping into the doorway to block Bennett’s path. “If you could just wait out in the hall for a while.” He flicked a glance at me and I tugged Bennett’s arm.

  Carr shouted to me. “Take Mr. Marshfield to his room. But wait until my guys secure the premises.”

  “Come on.” I walked Bennett down the long corridor, the opposite direction from Rosa. “Let’s let them do their jobs.”

  My boss’s glower from earlier was long gone. He stared at me as though he had never seen me before. “Abe?” he asked. “Is he all right?”

  Although I had never been in this part of the building, I figured I could find a place for Bennett to sit. Double doors at the end of the hall looked promising. “What’s in there?” I asked, to distract him. “Can we find a seat?”

  He nodded. “My room.”

  An officer jogged up behind us. “Wait,” he said.

  I didn’t think Bennett would be steady enough to stand up much longer. “But—”

  “Let me secure the area first.”

  Dutifully, Bennett and I waited until the young man came out and gave us the all-clear. I nodded my thanks.

  I didn’t care if I was breaking every level of protocol by escorting Bennett into his personal space. These were not ordinary circumstances. “Let’s get you settled in there, okay?”

  Like a little kid, he obeyed me. I held on to his arm while I propped open one of the doors with my behind. My breath caught the moment we were inside. Even in the dim light, I recognized its abundant splendor.

  Bennett Marshfield was a chronic collector who had amassed treasures from all over the world and had adorned every nook and corner of Marshfield Manor with his finds. But in here, his accumulating had gone wild. There was not a single empty spot in the room. Racing vertically, horizontally, and in wide circles to take it all in, my eyes could not find a place to rest. It was too much—even for me. Could that be an original Rembrandt? No way to tell—there were too many trinkets piled in front of it, including a vase that looked suspiciously like a genuine Egyptian canopic jar. Books, maps, and papers covered and surrounded what might have been a Louis XIV chair. Unable to help myself, I gasped.

  I couldn’t leave him in here. There was nowhere to sit, even though this was clearly a sitting room. Two love seats placed opposite one another in front of a giant hearth were covered with . . . stuff. I glanced at Bennett and realized he wasn’t focusing. “What’s in there?” I asked. There were four sets of doors leading out of this room. I headed toward one of them.

  He frowned. “What about Abe? When will they let me talk to him? I have to find out what happened.”

  “Let’s get you settled,” I said, hoping I’d chosen well. Gripping the knob, I pushed the door open to find Bennett’s bedroom and breathed a sigh of relief. The clutter was minimal. There were places he could sit or even lie down. Bennett’s bed was clear. I walked him to its side. “Why don’t you just relax for a little bit. I’ll get someone to stay with you.”

  As Bennett lifted himself onto his giant bed—a canopied monster with raw silk dressings in a muted butternut—I pulled up my walkie-talkie and requested medical assistance in the private rooms. The dispatcher asked if this was another emergency.

  I spoke quietly, but Bennett had rolled over and had his back to me. I don’t know that he even knew I was still there. “No,” I said. “But Mr. Marshfield has suffered an enormous shock. I think it would be a good idea if the doctor looked in on him.”

  “Roger that,” she said.

  I was about to take a seat to wait for the doctor when I remembered the walkie-talkie Bennett carried. Fortunately for me, it was on his left hip and easy for me to slide off without his noticing. I had just gotten it pulled away when he twisted back, grabbing my forearm with both hands.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  I took a shallow b
reath. “Tell you what?”

  Letting go of my arm, he tried to sit up. “Abe. Is he . . .”

  I bit my lip.

  At that moment, our walkie-talkies came back to life, still broadcasting the private channel. “Security alert. Emergency shutdown. Homicide confirmed. One dead. I repeat: Emergency shutdown. Initiate Level One security protocols.”

  Bennett’s eyes sought mine. Swollen red, they leaked rapid tears. He swallowed. “Abe was my friend.”

  I squeezed his hand. “I’m so sorry.”

  Chapter 3

  “WAS THERE A LOT OF BLOOD?” BRUCE ASKED He grimaced, exaggerating a shudder. “Except for my great-aunt Agatha, I’ve never actually seen anybody dead except in a casket. And definitely not bloody.” He placed a hand on Scott’s knee and turned to him expectantly. “Did you ever see a dead body? I mean, besides at a wake?”

  On the love seat next to him, Scott nodded. “Yeah,” he said, but didn’t elaborate.

  I was extraordinarily grateful for my roommates right now. When I’d gotten home, still stunned from the day’s events, these two wonderful men had listened then comforted me as best they could. Leading me into the highceilinged parlor of our Victorian home, they sat me down on the sofa and pressed a glass of their finest Merlot in my hand, urging me to sip slowly. As the deep red liquid trailed down my throat and warmed my insides, I tucked my feet up under me and let the wine work its magic.

  Handsome, buff, and tanned, my roommates could have played the Hardy Boys at thirty-five. A former Wall Street executive turned entrepreneur, Scott was surfer blond and had deep dimples that made women swoon. At least until they realized they were no competition for Bruce. For his part, Bruce was shorter, and though not nearly as elegant as Scott, he was no less handsome. He had broader shoulders, darker hair, and a nose that had been broken once. The two men owned and operated Amethyst Cellars, a darling little wine and tchotchke shop in town. Although always thoughtful and willing to help, right now they looked ready to leap into action if I so much as sighed.