by Julie Hyzy
I stood up to read over her shoulder. Roxanne had lucked out by connecting with a Soyer expert named Carson, who had personally cataloged all the artist’s known works. He had a record in his files about a private project Soyer had done for the Marshfield family, but Carson had never seen the piece nor known its whereabouts. The elderly collector had attempted to contact the Marshfield estate several times, but had always been told that no such portrait existed. Roxanne claimed it was pure luck that she’d connected with him, but I knew better. Roxanne was shrewd and sharp. She’d known precisely where to turn.
“This is wonderful,” I said. We would still have to order a second authentication, but right now we were golden. “Thanks, Lois.”
She started to head back to her office, but returned to my desk. “Abe was a really nice guy, but he never shared this sort of stuff with us. He took care of all that himself. We found out later how things turned out. I just want to say thanks for letting me share in the moment.”
“My pleasure,” I said. And it truly was.
I picked up the phone and dialed Bennett. He seemed pleased to hear from me—a reversal from his mood two days earlier—and said he would be right down. I suggested I bring my news up to him, but he insisted on coming to the office. “I’ll be here,” I said.
When he arrived less than fifteen minutes later, Frances was away from her desk. Nonetheless, he shut the inner door before he sat down. “That woman is a busybody,” he said.
I didn’t want to disparage one of my employees in front of the boss, so I said, “But she’s very good at her job.”
“She is that,” he agreed. “The woman knows more about everyone and everything than she should. She’s almost always right, of course. But it’s frustrating to have to deal with her.”
I nodded. “I have news,” I said, pulling up the letter from Roxanne, “about the painting we found in storage.”
Bennett’s face brightened. “And?”
“It’s legit.”
He slapped his hands on the desk, his face all smiles. “I knew it!” A half second later, he sobered. “Are you sure?”
“We have to get through one more hurdle, but it’s looking good. I’d say we’re looking at a genuine Raphael Soyer.”
“This is wonderful.”
“It is.” I hadn’t ever seen him so cheered. Although perennially pleasant, he was rarely enthusiastic. This was new. And nice.
He surprised me by switching subjects. “Where did you come from?” he asked.
“Come from?” I repeated. “You mean where did I grow up?”
He nodded.
“I was born here,” I said. “In fact, my mom used to bring me to the manor as a treat.” I smiled and gave a self-deprecating shrug. “I think it was the beauty of Marshfield that inspired my career.”
“But you didn’t grow up in Emberstowne?”
I hadn’t expected to discuss my family history with Bennett. Coming so close on the heels of my recent discovery, the conversation put me on edge. My face grew hot. “No,” I said slowly, not sure where this was going. “I spent a long time in Chicago.”
“That accounts for your flat vowels,” he said, not unkindly. “What brought you back?”
I told him about my mom and how much she loved Emberstowne. I mentioned her getting sick and my coming back to take care of her.
“Your mother grew up here? What was her name?”
“Amelia Wheaton.” I was attentive to any change in his face—any expression of surprise or recognition.
Nothing.
“My dad was Lewis Wheaton.”
“He passed away as well?”
I nodded.
“I’m sorry,” Bennett said. “I don’t mean to make you sad. I would just like to get to know you better. Abe and I . . .” He let the thought hang and it dawned on me, Bennett was lonely.
“My dad didn’t grow up here,” I said to break the silence. “That’s part of what took us to Chicago for all those years.”
“What was your mother’s maiden name?”
I swallowed. “Careaux.”
Bennett seemed to recognize the name but didn’t express the sort of shock or outrage I might have expected, given the alleged relationship between his father and my grandmother. “Careaux,” he repeated. “That’s familiar. Did your grandmother work for the manor?”
“She did.”
Bennett smiled as though reliving a pleasant experience. “I think I remember her. But I don’t know her first name . . .”
“Sophie.”
“I called her Mrs. Careaux, of course. I think she might have been a housekeeper, am I right?”
The soft cheer in his voice told me he was oblivious to our possible familial tie. Was I disappointed, or relieved? I couldn’t tell. Part of me wanted him to know, but the other part of me realized that once the information was out there, things could get complicated.
“Yes, she worked here as a housekeeper. For a while.”
My mind skip-stepped. Just like the Soyer painting, I had in my grasp what I knew was the truth, but until I took the final step to verify, I would never know for sure.
“What were you just thinking?” he asked me.
Startled, I shook my head. “Sorry, my mind wandered. I’m just surprised you knew my grandmother.”
“Not well, of course. I was very young.” He smiled at me in a compassionate way. “But it’s nice to discover your ties to the manor.”
If he only knew. “It is,” I said blandly.
He sat back in his chair then, steepling his fingers. I watched as a thoughtful expression settled on his face. We sat there, silent for several minutes because it seemed wrong to break the spell. Finally, he took a deep breath and sat forward again. “I am pleased with how well you’ve taken control of the manor since Abe’s passing.”
I waited.
“Mind you,” he continued, “I had my doubts. You’re so . . . young. You’re still just a girl.” Holding up a hand to forestall any reaction, he added, “I know that probably isn’t politically correct to say these days, but I claim all the rights my age and upbringing afford me.”
Understanding his intention was to compliment, I said, “I’m happy to be able to help. And all I want is to do my best for Marshfield Manor.”
“I’ve come to appreciate that,” he said. “And that is why—despite my original misgivings—I want to take you a step further.”
I had no idea what he meant. He pushed himself up from the seat and walked toward the other office. Instead of opening the door, he locked it.
Speechless, I waited while he made his way back. His eyes twinkled and he smiled. “You ready?”
I had no answer.
He crooked a finger and made his way to the fireplace. “Come here.”
Dutifully, I followed. We stood facing each other with Bennett on the left of the fireplace and me on the right.
Squinting at me, Bennett said, “I believe you were acting in my best interests when you shared the secret room with the detectives. In fact,” he said, glancing away as though ashamed to admit it, “the police told Terrence that they’ve determined that it is exactly how the killer got in.” Bennett shook his head. “Who else could have known about that entrance?” he asked rhetorically. “Hillary swears she told no one but you.”
I had no answer for that.
Full of cheer and energy, Bennett looked twenty years younger. He crouched in front of the fireplace and reached in, to the left of the damper. Running his fingers along the inside, he obviously encountered what he was looking for. He glanced up. “Come down here.”
I did.
“Feel this ledge under here?”
I complied, my fingers taking up the spot where his had been. He smiled and exerted pressure on the back of my right index finger. There was a soft click, and he stood up. “Once it’s unlocked, it’s just a matter of . . .” he moved to the side of the fireplace and grasped the side of the oak mantel. With a flick of his wrist, he tw
isted the edge upward until it was perpendicular to the floor. “There you go. Now we open the door.”
I saw no door.
Like a kid showing off a new toy, Bennett walked me over to the wall to the left of the fireplace. “Here,” he said. He pushed at the paneled wall and it gave, easily. “Look.”
The door was about two feet wide, just enough to squeeze through, but inside the compartment—and that’s exactly how it felt, like a compartment—there were curved stone steps leading upward. I leaned into the dusty area and tried to look up, but the angle didn’t allow me to see the final destination. This was cool. “Where does it lead?”
“A room just above.”
Before I could say anything, he interrupted. “And before you think I’m a dirty old man making a lewd suggestion, I am not. You’re young enough to be my granddaughter.”
“I didn’t think—”
“I’m telling you this because you and I may occasionally need to discuss topics we don’t want overheard. We may not even want anyone to know we’ve met.” He pointed to Frances’s office. “This helped Abe circumvent such problems.”
“And you’re trusting me with this information?”
He wore a strange expression. “I am,” he said slowly. “I can’t say why, but I sense a kindred spirit in you.” He shrugged. “I don’t take my confidences lightly, so I trust you will not share this with anyone.”
Touched, I crossed my heart. “I promise.”
Chapter 25
WHEN BENNETT LEFT, FRANCES ASKED ME why my door had been locked. Whatever ideas she might have been brewing in that little brain of hers caused her eyebrows to jump around more excitedly than ever. With a straight face, I told her that Bennett and I had a few sensitive issues to discuss. She made a sound of annoyance and walked away.
Later that afternoon, I rearranged my desk four times in an effort to prioritize. Two semi-emergencies had popped up: A floor buffer in the basement had caught fire and initiated a sprinkler response; and a pregnant guest unexpectedly went into labor during a tour of the mansion. I ran down there and sat with her until the paramedics arrived. When I was notified that the woman had given birth to a healthy little girl en route to the hospital and named her Marsha, in honor of the manor, I made arrangements to send flowers.
Finally, after getting another couple of items scratched off my to-do list, I decided to take another look at my grandmother’s file. I wanted to write down the exact dates of her employment. I thought it might be helpful to know as I sorted through the rest of the paperwork at home. Contrary to my roommates’ wishes, I hadn’t chucked the remaining boxes. I still had a long way to go.
When I unlocked my desk drawer the folder wasn’t there. I knew I’d put it away. I was sure I had. And yet . . .
I remembered having it out before Bennett came, but as soon as he was on his way, I swore I’d placed it safely in my drawer. I tried picturing my movements.
“Frances,” I called.
She didn’t answer. I got up and went into her office. Not there.
If I knew the woman and her busybody tendencies the way I thought I did, I had no doubt she would eagerly “borrow” the file from my office if the opportunity presented itself.
Her desk was a collection of tidy piles, each of them with a Post-it note stuck to the top with a to-do list written neatly on every one. She’d prioritized them, A, B, C, etc., but I couldn’t find anything on her desk that resembled my grandmother’s dark manila file. As I stood there, I allowed my gaze to wander over to the credenza behind her chair. There were four more stacks of files, and beneath the tallest one on the left I noticed a corner of a dark file sticking out. Just a little bit.
“Aha,” I said softly, making my way around her desk to check things out. A bright pink note read: “To do” and the stack appeared to be a collection of bills waiting to be paid.
I lifted the stack just enough to wiggle the dark file folder from the bottom. It was an old personnel file, and for a moment when I thought it was my grandmother’s, my heart raced. But this one belonged to Rosa Brelke, and was, in fact, one of the records I’d read the other day. Frances hadn’t returned it to the drawer yet. I wondered why not. I opened the file and paged through it again. Nothing of particular interest in here. I skimmed the dozen pages in her file, then stopped when I came to a typewritten letter addressed to Abe Vargas and signed by Ronny Tooney.
I lowered myself in the chair to read.
Half a minute later, the door opened and Frances walked in. Her surprise was evident, her annoyance plain. “What are you doing?” she asked, crossing the room in a flash. She didn’t dare rip the folder from my hands though I could tell by the murderous look in her eyes that’s exactly what she wanted to do.
“This wasn’t in here before,” I said, lifting the letter. “Ronny Tooney is Rosa’s cousin?”
Frances stood in front of her desk, her lips tight.
“You took this letter out before you let me read the files.”
No answer.
“Why?” I asked. “You said you thought Tooney was related to someone on staff. Why hide it now? Don’t you think I have a right to know? Don’t you think the police have a right to know?”
Frances blinked several times, as though trying to come up with a reasonable excuse. I couldn’t imagine one.
“Rosa asked me to,” she finally said.
“And that explains this subterfuge?”
“This is really no big deal.”
I stood. “It’s a very big deal. And I intend to document this in your personnel record. Do you understand how completely wrong this is? Not to mention unlawful?”
“Rosa’s scared. That’s it. She was afraid she’d get in trouble because of Tooney. That doesn’t make her guilty of anything. Doesn’t make me guilty of anything either. Neither of them are suspects, so what’s the problem?” Frances wiggled her head. “Why were you going through my desk, anyway?”
I’d forgotten, momentarily, about my grandmother’s missing file. “I was looking for something.”
“Did you find it?”
“No.”
She pursed her lips. “Why don’t you tell me what it is and I will attempt to locate it for you,” she said it a tight voice.
No way. “Later,” I said.
“Well then, if you’re quite finished there, I’ll get back to work.”
I left a message for Rodriguez. Maybe this was just the break they needed.
AS ANNOYED AS I WAS ABOUT THE STILL-MISSING file and Frances’s underhanded stealth, my mood was still buoyed by Bennett’s revelation. Showing me the passage was proof he trusted me, and I vowed to do nothing to destroy that trust. I’d been the recipient of betrayal in the past and refused to inflict that pain on others.
At six o’clock, I left to pick up Scott for our meeting with Percy. The trip to the wine shop in Emberstowne would take about twenty minutes and the drive to Percy’s about another fifteen. We weren’t meeting until seven, but I always preferred to be early.
Emberstowne was charming, especially at night when the unseasonably warm evening air provided a perfect atmosphere for strolling and browsing. I snagged a parking spot on the street about a block from the wine shop and made my way over.
In a month or so the sidewalks would be busier, filled with couples out for a romantic evening, families pushing strollers, and buying ice-cream cones for their kids. But right now was when I liked it best. Not so busy, but with just enough activity to make things interesting. I wished I had the time and money to sit at one of the outdoor cafes and have dinner while I watched the world go by.
I glanced at my cell phone for the time and picked up my pace. I could probably afford coffee, but right now I couldn’t afford the time.
The wine shop was smack in the middle of the busy section, flanked by an old-fashioned ice-cream parlor and a particularly excellent mystery bookstore. I hoped Scott was ready to go. The sooner I met with Percy and got this over with, the happier I would
be. I smacked myself in the head as I walked, belatedly remembering that I had forgotten to talk to Rodriguez about this meeting tonight. I’d intended to connect with him when I sent the Fairfax reports, but I’d gotten busy, and asked Frances to send the copies for me. Darn.
I was about thirty feet from the wine shop’s front door when who should emerge but Geraldine Stajklorski. Our unpleasant hotel guest carried two magnums of wine, and a shopping bag hung heavily from each arm.
There was no way I wanted her to see me, so I stepped close to the bookstore window and pretended to study the mysteries on display. Geraldine didn’t notice me, but made her way unsteadily to her car at the far curb, struggling under the weight of her purchases. She loaded the magnums and bags into the trunk of a small gray sedan and I waited until she pulled away to enter the shop. Except for my roommates, the place was empty.
“You two just made a nice sale,” I said. “What a great way to end the day, huh?”
Too late, I realized Bruce and Scott had been arguing. They looked up at me from behind the granite countertop, with forced “everything is just fine” looks on their faces.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “I just saw nasty Geraldine walking out of here with her arms full. Shouldn’t you be celebrating?”
“Who?” Bruce asked.
I jerked a thumb toward the street. “Geraldine. That woman I told you about who took Marshfield Manor for a ride.”
“She’s outside?”
“She was just here.”
Clearly puzzled, Bruce looked to Scott. “What are you talking about?”
“The woman with her arms full of wine,” I said. “That was Geraldine Stajklorski.” I didn’t understand their confusion. “She must have used a credit card or something, so you had to have seen her name.”
Bruce pointed to the street. “That was the woman you told us about? Are you sure?” The desperation in his voice scared me.