Breaking the Chain

by C. D. Ledbetter

  "Yes?"

  "Get Mary on the phone."

  "What are you going to tell her?"

  "I haven't decided. Just get her on the phone, will you?"

  A few minutes later Belinda buzzed Mary through.

  "Mary, this is Mac."

  "This better be a social call," she warned.

  "Can't I call to see how my best curator's doing?" he asked innocently.

  "Cut the crap, Mac. You never call to 'socialize.' What do you want?"

  He ignored her jibe. "Finished the paperwork on the Kansas job yet?"

  Silence.

  "You there?"

  "I'm here, and it will be finished in a couple of hours," she responded in a disgusted voice. "What is it, Mac? Another job nobody else will do?"

  He cleared his throat. "Okay, so this isn't a social call, but it's not as bad as you're making out."

  "So how come I don't believe you?"

  "Don't get huffy, Mary. This one's a lot better than the last couple you've had, a 'gravy' job. The house belongs to a multi-millionaire. It's in Aspen, Colorado."

  "If it's such a 'gravy' job, why can't one of the other curators do it?" she asked sarcastically.

  "There's a catch," he began.

  "What? Somebody get murdered in the living room? Bats in the belfry?"

  "Don't push it, Mary. I'm still your boss. They want you to do the job. If you don't, we lose the contract. Sorry."

  Silence.

  "When does it have to be finished?"

  "End of this week."

  "The end of the week?" she asked incredulously. "That's only three days away. You know, Mac, this is getting old. This is what, the fourth, fifth job you've given me back to back?"

  "I know, Mary. I'll make it up to you, promise."

  "You bet you will. I want three weeks paid leave when I finish the job."

  "That's a little excessive. I'll spring for one."

  "Two. You owe me, Mac. Big time."

  "One."

  "Two. I've been working non-stop for four weeks, Mac. I need a break."

  "One week, two days."

  "How 'bout one week, three days? That way I can leave town, enjoy my time off, and come back sane."

  "All right, Mary. One week, three days. Take it or leave it."

  "Fine," she said, sighing heavily into the phone. "A week and three days it is. I'll start my leave as soon as I finish the report."

  "Just don't tell anybody else you're getting it. Nobody else is getting time off."

  "Don't worry, I won't say a word."

  "Humph. I'll have Belinda fax the paperwork over."

  "Okay. Is that it?"

  "Mary, you know I'd send somebody else on this job if I could."

  "I know, Mac. I'm sorry I'm so grouchy," she apologized. "I'm just tired, that's all."

  "Well, get some rest. You'll need to leave in the morning."

  "Yeah, right."

  "Let me know if you have any problems. I want this job handled with kid gloves so Mrs. Phelps will recommend our firm to her friends."

  She gasped, not sure if she'd heard him correctly. "Who did you say?"

  "Elizavon Phelps. Why?"

  "Oh my God."

  "What's wrong?"

  "She's my aunt. No wonder she wanted me to do the job."

  "You never told me you had a rich aunt." His mood lightened considerably. "This is working out better than I'd hoped. Be sure you talk her into recommending us to her friends."

  Elizavon's friends? She snorted derisively. "Sorry to burst your bubble, Mac, but she doesn't have any friends. Elizavon isn't a very nice woman, and that's putting it mildly. In fact, if there was a 'most despised woman in Boston' contest, she'd win, hands down. DeeDee and I are her only living relatives, and she doesn't even like us."

  "Well, she must like you because she wants you to inventory her house. Do the best you can, and make sure you fax me a copy of the report," Mac ordered.

  Before she could reply, he rang off. Stunned, she stood in the hallway, receiver in hand. Why would Elizavon contract her firm to do an inventory when she had a staff of attorneys and business managers on retainer? Surely they had an up-to-date inventory listing. Elizavon was no fool, especially when it came to money. Knowing her, she had every single object in her home insured to the hilt. Probably over-insured. So...why the inventory contract?

  20

  Ignoring the constant rumbling in her stomach, Mary forced weary fingers to type the last of the inventory data into her file. Knowing her aunt's insistence on getting her money's worth, she'd added extra detail to the descriptive narratives, which made the time-consuming job all the more tedious. A couple more hours polishing the narrative and she'd be ready to fax, then e-mail the file.

  Taking a break, she rested her head against the back of her chair, and wondered, not for the first time, why Elizavon bought this house. Although tastefully decorated, it had none of the opulence of her mansion in Boston. Built to resemble a ski chalet, it was utterly charming, but totally out of character for her aunt. In fact, when she first arrived, she'd been tempted to ask the taxi driver if he'd taken her to the wrong address.

  The exterior of the house fitted perfectly in the hole in the side of the mountain carved out for it, and the landscaping was cleverly constructed to blend in with the rugged terrain. It was such a 'natural fit' that she had to remind herself that she was in Aspen, not the Alps of Europe, and had half-expected the staff to be dressed in mountaineer clothing. Fortunately, her expectations, at least in that respect, had been wrong. The resident staff members were well mannered and courteous and had gone out of their way to make her stay pleasant.

  A little niggle of doubt crept into her mind because of the way two of them had hovered nearby while she'd been working. It was almost as if they were watching to see if she noticed anything amiss. And, unlike other staff she'd interfaced with over the years, they'd asked a lot of questions about her technical expertise. It wasn't unusual for household members to ask about her work, but the questions from these two were a trifle too specific, which had made her uneasy.

  That wasn't the only thing about this house that had bothered her. Although there were many antiques interspersed throughout the house, she'd stumbled upon one or two unbelievably good reproductions. So good, in fact, that she'd had a hard time identifying them as fakes. Again, totally out of character for her aunt. As far as she knew, Elizavon never bought reproductions; she felt they were a waste of time and money. If you couldn't afford the real thing, why bother? Was that why Elizavon suddenly requested the inventory? Had she suspected that one or more of her staff was switching the fakes for the real antiques?

  Thank goodness she hadn't said anything about her discovery. She decided to password protect her file, just to keep prying eyes out. Once she'd done that, it dawned on her that someone might realize she'd discovered the fakes if they found she'd coded the file, so she removed the password protection, then cut and pasted the section that identified the reproductions into a separate file with an innocuous name. That way, if someone did check her computer while she was out of the room, they wouldn't uncover her discovery. She could recombine the data once she was away from the house.

  What about her handwritten notes? Surely that would be the first thing they'd check. She grabbed the section with the notes about the fakes, double-checked them against her file, then tore the pages into strips and flushed them down the toilet. As she watched them disappear, she suddenly felt very foolish. Was she just being paranoid? Did she really have any reason to suspect the butler and housekeeper of being thieves? Worse yet, was she becoming like her Aunt Elizavon, suspecting anyone and everyone of harboring a hidden agenda?

  A soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts, causing her to start nervously. "Who is it?"

  "Mrs. Blanchard, the housekeeper. I brought you a nice cup of tea and a snack. May I come in?"

  Mary rushed back to her desk, flipped the file back a couple pages to hide the g
aps created by her handiwork, then settled in her chair. "Come in."

  The housekeeper carried the tray over and set it down next to her laptop. "And how are you doing, my dear?" she asked. "Are you nearly done?"

  Mary nodded. "Fine, thanks. I just have to input the section I worked on today, tweak the file a little, and I'm through."

  The woman's gaze shifted to her computer screen. "Is that the inventory list?"

  Mary twisted uncomfortably in her chair and stayed the hand that itched to close the file. Why was the woman being so nosey? Had her suspicions been correct after all? She tried to think of an appropriate response. "Yes. There's a master template we use that's already set up. Saves time and effort, and forces every curator to use the same file format. That way, if something happens and a curator has to be replaced in the middle of an inventory, another one can step in and continue the work with minimal problems. We fill in the appropriate blanks, then transmit the file to our home office. Once it's received, the information on the file is fed into our database, which calculates the object's estimated value, based on detailed information given for each piece. That report is given back to the curator, who checks it against the current market value, and any adjustments or corrections are made before the customer gets the final report. Most estate and insurance companies work that way."

  "Oh, I see." The woman leaned closer to peer at the screen for a few moments, then stepped back. "It all sounds very complicated to me. Well, enjoy your tea, my dear. Dinner will be served at seven. We're having lamb with rosemary dressing, and I've made Baked Alaska for dessert. It's my specialty. I hope you like it."

  "I'm sure I will," Mary said, smiling at the woman. "Thank you for going to such trouble."

  "It's no trouble at all, my dear. I enjoy having someone to cook for."

  A feeling of shame washed over Mary as she watched the housekeeper leave. Surely she'd misjudged the woman, whose questions were probably the result of her interest in antiques, nothing more. Lord knows there were enough paintings and statues in this house to fill a museum. The staff members were probably just curious about what she did for a living, that's all.

  Maybe being in Elizavon's house was making her paranoid. Hopefully the feeling would disappear as soon as she left. She turned back to her computer, then decided to check in with the office instead. It didn't take long to be patched through to her boss.

  "Mac? It's Mary. Just thought I'd check in. I'm nearly finished. I'll send you the file in the morning, before I leave."

  "Good. Any problems?"

  "No, and no ghosts, either, thank you." She chuckled. "It certainly makes a nice change."

  "Yeah, well, don't get too comfortable. I'm thinking about advertising you as my resident 'spook specialist' to get more business," Mac teased.

  "You do that and you can find yourself another curator," Mary replied tartly. "That's not even funny."

  "I'm only kidding, Mary. Don't get huffy."

  "Well, it's nothing to joke about. Don't forget I start my vacation as soon as I get home. I'll be out of pocket, so you won't be able to reach me. I'm even turning off my cell phone."

  "Fair enough," he agreed. "I promise not to bother you. By the way, do you know a Mr. Taft? Somebody by that name's been trying to reach you. Called twice. I would've told you about the messages sooner, but that stupid temp we had filling in for our receptionist shoved some of the messages she took into a drawer and we just found them. Needless to say, she'll never work here again."

  "Taft? No, the name doesn't ring a bell. Did he leave a number?"

  "Nope, just said he'd call back. No message."

  "That's odd. Well, if he didn't leave a number, I guess I can't call him back, can I?"

  "Probably wants to sell you something. You know what those telemarketers are like."

  "I'll bet he wanted to sell magazines; that's why he didn't leave a number or a message. Some of those guys are pretty slick. Is there anything else I need to know before I go on vacation?"

  "Nope. Just don't forget to e-mail me the file. Might be a good idea to fax the hard copy, too, in case there's any problem opening it up."

  "I'll fax the sheets over before I leave. Anything else?"

  "Nope. Once you fax the report, you're done." He cleared his throat. "And Mary, uh, thanks for helping us out. I appreciate it," he muttered in a gruff voice.

  She smiled. Poor Mac. He really was a sweetie underneath his grumpy exterior. "For you, Mac, no problem. Just don't schedule me for back-to-back jobs anytime soon. I've only been home two nights in the past twelve days."

  "I know, Mary. That's why I agreed to give you some extra time off. Have a good vacation. Going anywhere special?" he finished in an innocent voice.

  She burst out laughing. "Nice try, Mac. I have no intention of telling you where I'm going, and I'm not taking my cell phone with me, either. I'll check in after my ten days are up."

  "Well, you can't blame me for trying. Have a good trip."

  "Thanks, I plan to." Smiling, she switched off her cell phone and turned her attention back to her computer. All she had to do was finish this file and she'd have ten whole days to relax and unwind.

  As she typed in changes, her mind drifted back to her conversation with Mac, and she wondered about the mysterious Mr. Taft, who'd called twice but hadn't bothered to leave a number or message. Had it been important? Obviously not; otherwise he'd have left a way for her to return his call. She turned her attention to more important things, like her inventory file.

  The next morning she tried to call her aunt from the airport, but was told that Elizavon was unavailable; she'd have to call back later. So much for letting her aunt know she'd finished the inventory. Typical Elizavon. Whenever she wanted something, it had to be done "yesterday," but when you needed to talk to her, you had to wait and do it at her convenience. Well, if that was the way Elizavon wanted it, then that's the way she'd play the game, too. Elizavon could wait until she got home to find out the inventory had been completed and learn about the reproduction pieces she'd discovered.

  21

  Elizavon ignored the shrill ring of the phone as she sipped her morning coffee. Whoever it was could wait until after she finished breakfast. Returning her cup to the breakfast tray, she noted with irritation that the line was blinking. How many times had she told the staff not to make personal phone calls on her private lines? Three, four? God, it was hard to get good help these days; most domestics were either lazy, stupid--or worse, complete fools.

  Moments later she heard a soft knock on her bedroom door. "Come in," she growled.

  Taft entered and stood pensively at the foot of her bed.

  "What is it? It'd better be good. You know I don't speak to anyone this early."

  "I know, madam. But it's your niece, Mary. She wants to speak to you. And you did ask me to phone her."

  Arctic eyes bored a hole in him before moving to the window. "That was five days ago," she fumed. "Nobody makes Elizavon Phelps wait. Nobody. Tell her I'm busy. She can call back at my convenience." She shoved the breakfast tray from her lap as she spoke, and watched it teeter dangerously on the side of the bed, then dip to disappear over the edge.

  Taft lunged forward, arms outstretched, to arrest the tray's descent. Instead of the sound of breaking china, Elizavon heard a slight rattle, then nothing. A few moments later Taft stood up, slightly disheveled, tray in hand. "Very well, madam," he said in a breathless voice. Nodding his head, he turned and walked slowly toward the door, balancing the tray in one arm.

  Irritated beyond reason, Elizavon tossed her covers aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Who the hell did Mary think she was, making her wait five days for a return call? She had a mind to call in their half of the loan for the plantation. That would serve her and that worthless husband of hers right.

  Reaching out, she pressed the staff buzzer with her right hand, wincing at the pain even that slight movement caused. Damn this old age of hers. The pressure on her chest in
creased, and the now familiar burning sensation started down her left arm. She instinctively reached for the bottle of nitroglycerine tablets, stuck one under her tongue, then leaned back against her pillows and waited for the pressure to abate. When it didn't, she flung her right arm out to grasp the tiny brown bottle and accidentally knocked the bedside lamp onto the floor. The tip of the lampshade jarred the nitroglycerine bottle as it fell, spewing tiny white tablets out in every direction. Unable to move because of the stabbing pain in her chest, Elizavon willed shaky fingers to fumble around the cool marble until they encountered a single, life-saving tablet.

  "Oh, Mrs. Phelps. Are you all right?" gasped the maid as she entered the room.

  "Call. Call the doctor," Elizavon whispered in a thready voice.

  "Yes ma'am," said the maid as she raced from the room like a frightened rabbit.

  The burning pain in her arm intensified, and Elizavon wondered if the stupid woman was going to let her die before bothering to call for help. Where was everybody? When Taft appeared, some of her worry abated. Unlike the others, he'd know what to do.

  "I've called the doctor and an ambulance," he announced, enveloping one of her cold hands in his. "Do you need another nitro tablet?"

  She nodded, and opened her mouth.

  "How many have you had?"

  Shaking hands struggled to hold up two fingers.

  "Good. Don't try to talk, the paramedics are on their way. Just relax. You know the ropes--lie still, don't talk, and concentrate on breathing. It's not like this hasn't happened before," he consoled in a soothing voice. "Just try to relax and let the nitroglycerine do its job."

  She opened her mouth to speak, but he pressed two fingers against her lips. "Don't try to talk; save your energy," he warned. "Right now your body needs as much oxygen as it can get."

  The loud wail of an ambulance siren filled the air, and he shifted his glance toward the window. "That'll be the paramedics. They'll fix you right up."