Grace Against the Clock (A Manor House Mystery)

by Julie Hyzy

  “Of course.” I tiptoed onto the makeshift stage, afraid of it wobbling beneath my feet. Within seconds, though, I realized that it was sturdier than I’d expected. “Nice,” I said.

  Cherk’s student assistants had set up eight-foot-tall curtains on either side of the platform, and a wider curtain behind it. There was a sizeable space between the back of the center curtain and the rear wall. Plenty of room for Cherk to hide any equipment before and during the show. I was amazed at how quickly this end of the room had taken on the look of a serviceable, though miniature, stage.

  “We ought to keep these students in mind if we ever want to hold a theatrical type of event down here,” I said. “They set this up so well and so quickly. It’s great.”

  Even Frances seemed impressed. She perched her fists on her orchid-clad hips and gave the room a long look. “Not bad.”

  Chapter 3

  Back at our offices, Frances turned to me. “By the way,” she said as she sat behind her desk, “how are things going between you and Hillary?”

  Hillary. Bennett’s forty-something, rudderless stepdaughter was at my home this very moment, and had been for some time. A few months ago, Bennett had told me that he’d engaged Hillary’s fledgling decorator service. I’d told him I thought that was a wonderful idea. That is, until I learned that he’d hired her to work on my house.

  “It’s going as well as can be expected,” I said carefully.

  Frances regarded me with a shrewd expression. “Cut the polite blather. I want details.”

  I found myself admitting my surprise. “The good news is that Hillary is a talented taskmaster,” I said. “I’d expected her to be difficult to work with, and because she has absolutely zero experience with exterior renovation—”

  “She doesn’t have much practice in interior renovation either,” Frances said.

  “Nevertheless, it’s been going well. She clearly knows her limitations and so she subcontracts whatever is beyond her capabilities. For instance, we have a project manager on-site who has been an invaluable resource.”

  “She can afford to hire talent because she’s spending the Mister’s money.”

  “True enough,” I agreed. “Maybe that’s exactly what Bennett intended. Think about it: She’s learning on the job from the project manager. That can only help her succeed in future endeavors. And I have to admit; even though there is still work to be done, the outside of the house looks so much better already.”

  “Your neighbors must be happy.”

  “I’ll say.” I could barely make it to my front steps these days without one of them stopping by to talk about the changes. A few of them congratulated me on the updates, the rest felt the need to weigh in with their opinions. The most recent suggestion I’d gotten was to install a koi pond in the front yard. Lovely idea. Not my style.

  “What’s the bad news?” Frances asked. “There’s always a flip side.”

  “I shouldn’t complain,” I said. “Hillary hasn’t been unbearable to work with. Believe it or not, she actually listens to my ideas. And when she offers advice, it’s usually spot-on.”

  “But?”

  “Not only that, she’s incredibly fond of my cat. They’ve become best buddies, in fact. Hillary is extremely protective of Bootsie and is very careful about not letting her get out.”

  “I’m still waiting for the ‘but.’”

  “But.” I heaved a sincere sigh. “I’m about ready to scream from the constant activity. There are workers everywhere, every day. Every minute, it seems. I can’t look out my window without fear of one of them staring back in. I would start counting the days until they’re gone, but I have no idea when that might be.”

  “I wouldn’t put up with any of that,” she said. “Even if the Mister was paying for it.”

  “Now that the exterior is progressing, Hillary wants to move indoors.”

  “I wouldn’t like anyone telling me how to decorate my home.”

  “She’s assessing my house even as we speak.” I glanced up at the clock. “A little while ago she texted me about an unexpected situation but was weirdly vague about it. I’m sure she’ll bring me up to speed tonight.” It was true that my house wasn’t designer perfect, but it was comfortable. My roommates and I had made it our own. Tackling the interior would be the worst part of the project. I dreaded the next steps.

  Frances shot me a withering look. “A conversation with Hillary? That’s all the excitement you have planned for a Friday night?”

  “Sounds pathetic, but I truly don’t mind. Adam won’t be in until the morning, and Scott and Bruce will be tied up at their wine shop until late. I might as well get this over with.”

  “The Mister is a smart man,” she said.

  That confused me. “I agree, but what makes you say that right now?”

  “Hillary is his stepdaughter and you might very well be his niece. He’s doing all he can to get you two to work together. I think he wants you to be best friends.”

  I choked out a laugh. “Not a chance.”

  “Oh, really? A year ago you wouldn’t have had one good word to say about Hillary. And, trust me, she wouldn’t have had anything good to say about you.” Her carefully penciled brows rose up as though her point were obvious, but she continued anyway. “Seems to me his plan is working.”

  “I don’t think he has any ulterior motive beyond helping Hillary get a foothold in business and helping me improve the appearance of my painted lady.” Even as the automatic response streamed out of my mouth, I realized that her observation had struck home. Bennett was fully capable of such a plan. Frances was right. And as much as it irked me, I had to admit that she usually was.

  * * *

  With the construction crew’s trucks and equipment taking up space in my driveway, I parked across the street from my home, marveling at the change in its appearance already. The face-lift, though only half-complete, was remarkable.

  Over the years, my painted lady had become more of a flaky lady, with her cracking paint and rotting windows. Old and tired, she’d begun falling apart piece by little piece.

  Standing in the sunlight, I shielded my eyes, watching the window crew at work. They’d completed about three-quarters of the job, installing double-hung vinyl replacements, and it looked as though they’d have the remainder done in a day or so. The new windows’ bright white frames made me happy. They contrasted with the weathered exterior, but they offered a hint of the beauty to come.

  Hillary and I were still in the process of discussing color choices for the siding. I’d seen a sage-green home with redwood- and butter-colored accents that I’d liked, but Hillary was pushing me to take another look at the blue-and-yellow combination she’d picked out. I wasn’t completely sold on the green, so I’d promised to give her suggestion consideration but only after the clock fund-raiser event was over. Right now I had its success, rather than color combinations, foremost on my mind.

  Workers, mostly men, were in and out of my house constantly these days, whether to shore up a gable, repair a wall, or measure for gutters and downspouts. Although the project manager did his best to keep me updated as to what was going on when, I’d begun to lose track. I made a mental note to get caught up. Even though I’d approved the plans and it was now up to the experts to see those plans through, I preferred to stay closely tuned in.

  I’d made it halfway across the street, when I heard someone call my name. I turned to see my next-door neighbor, Todd Pedota, making his way over, holding up a hand in greeting. Todd was in his late forties, divorced, living alone in a house that was a mirror image of mine. I’d encountered him now and again, and while he wasn’t the most unpleasant man I’d ever met, our interactions made my teeth hurt. He’d been the last of my neighbors to come over and chat. That had been by design. I’d worked hard to avoid him.

  “Grace,” he said, “haven’t seen
you around much since all the work began. You win the lottery or something?” He was one of those people who laughed at his own comments, funny or not.

  “Nothing like that,” I said.

  At about five-foot-ten, Todd kept himself hard-body fit. I suspected that he purposely flexed his biceps whenever women were around, in the hopes that they’d swoon. Today he wore a solid gray T-shirt that fit him like a second skin, and his rippling muscles looked like they were trying to wave hello. I ignored them.

  I couldn’t say that Todd wasn’t good-looking. The cleft chin, chiseled jaw, and full head of highlighted hair combined for the kind of look that graced department store sale flyers. Handsome, yes, but the fact that I couldn’t read any emotion from his sunken eyes always made me wary. When he took a step closer, I took one back.

  “A beautiful young woman like you suddenly decides to update her home for no reason?” His tone was teasing. Taunting, even. “What’s the occasion? Is there a new man in your life?”

  “What could one possibly have to do with the other?”

  “So you’re still single?”

  Here we go again. “I never said there was no reason for the renovation,” I answered sweetly. “But I see no purpose in sharing that reason with you.”

  Unfazed, he arranged his mouth into a smile showing his even, over-whitened teeth. His perfect choppers were the faintest shade of blue. “Maybe you’re dating one of these guys?” He gestured toward the half-dozen workers who were starting to pack up for the night. One of them waved to me. Oh, perfect timing.

  “Aha,” Todd said. “Bingo.”

  “Thanks for chatting, but I have a friend waiting for me inside.”

  Todd raised his eyebrows, still smiling hard enough to blind me. “A friend, huh? Tell you what. If your friend ever lets you down, you know where I am.” He tilted his head toward his property.

  “See you later,” I said, eager to get away.

  “Hope so.” He lifted a finger and waved it at my house. “Nice changes, Grace. I like what you’re doing with the place. Keep it up.”

  My jaw was tight. “So glad you approve.”

  Chapter 4

  Inside, I dropped my purse on the kitchen table and called out to Hillary. She’d texted me before I’d left Marshfield to let me know that she would be waiting with blueprints I needed to see. I wandered through the first floor but my designer was nowhere to be found.

  About to start up the stairs, I tried again. “Hillary? Are you here?”

  I heard the basement door open. “Grace,” she called from the kitchen. I wasn’t used to hearing women coo at me the way Hillary did. I supposed she’d grown so used to doing it with all the men she flirted with, she’d forgotten how to shut that little trait off. “You’re home.”

  I retraced my steps through the dining room to greet her. How in the world she managed to look so cool and put-together even after a full day on a construction job was beyond my comprehension. Granted, she wasn’t doing the hammering and refinishing herself, but still. There was dust flying everywhere, yet apparently none of it dared land on her.

  Hillary had been here this morning before I’d left for work, as she had most mornings since the renovation began. Although I knew she left the premises periodically throughout the day, she always looked as though she’d stepped out from a go-getter women’s magazine. Even now, having emerged from my dingy basement, there wasn’t a speck of dirt on her pink cropped pants, white wedges, and white silk twinset. I’d been in the house for less than a minute and I could already feel the construction dust settling into my skin and hair.

  She’d come upstairs with Bootsie. The little rascal, who had been—at best—tolerant of the leash with me, now apparently delighted in her time in the harness with Hillary. Bootsie scampered between Hillary’s chic summer wedges, pouncing on the woman’s toes and making her laugh.

  Bennett’s vacuous, self-centered stepdaughter had morphed into a smart businesswoman with good instincts. It didn’t hurt that she had a partner in this venture, Frederick, a man I had yet to meet. The elusive fellow had apparently provided financial backing for Hillary’s business, but I suspected he provided life-coaching advice as well. There was no way she could have made this dramatic of a turnaround in such a short period of time without help.

  “Look,” Hillary said to my little tuxedo kitten as she lifted her up and held her close, “Mommy’s here.”

  She handed her over. I accepted the bundle of fur and took hold of the leash, relaxing as Bootsie purred against my chest. It was good to be home.

  “I got your message,” I said to Hillary. “When you say ‘unexpected,’ I take it to mean ‘trouble.’ What’s wrong?”

  “I didn’t get into details in my message only because it’s so difficult to explain in a text. Come downstairs, I’ll show you.”

  Her wedges clunked the bare wood steps that led to the basement, making it sound as though a giant was marching down the stairs. “We ought to get these carpeted at some point,” she said over her shoulder.

  Bootsie appeared to have no opinion on the matter. She was content to be carried for now but would probably get antsy soon.

  “Are the indoor workers almost finished for the day?” I asked as we reached the bottom. “I’d like to take Bootsie off her leash.”

  “As a matter of fact, I was doing a final walk-through to make sure the coast was clear, when you got home.” She gave the cat an indulgent smile and scratched her under the chin. “You’ve been such a good girl today, haven’t you?” To me, she said, “The basement was my last stop. We’re all locked up. You can let her down if you like.”

  I put Bootsie on the floor and unclasped the leash. Whether it was the freedom, the fact that things in the basement had been moved, offering a rearranged playground, or simply pure kitten joy, I wasn’t sure, but she immediately leaped away and out of sight.

  Hillary laughed as we watched her go. “She’s such a character, that one.” Turning to me, she said, “But back to matters at hand,” and gestured for me to follow. I’d been in my basement a hundred times, but had to admit that I didn’t know it intimately.

  Measured end to end, this belowground level stretched approximately seventy feet long by fifty feet wide. We sat at a high enough elevation to avoid flooding problems, which rendered the basement dry, yet the area remained musty. Smelling much like an antique shop, it was broken into smaller spaces by the furnace in the center, a storage room along one wall, and our laundry area near the base of the steps. A handful of above-grade windows dotted the walls, delivering scant light through dusty panes thick with cobwebs.

  As basements go, it was no beauty. Bare plywood planks had been affixed haphazardly to its uneven walls. These sagging, stained shelves held cans of leftover paint, extra cleaning supplies for upstairs, and junk we didn’t know where else to store. A handful of pull-chain lightbulbs provided meager illumination.

  Hillary pointed at a pile of boxes that had been relocated from the front of the basement to a spot closer to the washer and dryer. “I know you can’t fit any more in your garage at this juncture.” She gave me a pointed stare that I took to mean she expected me to clean that out soon. “But I thought that perhaps some of these things would be easier for you to get through if I left them out.”

  “How thoughtful,” I said. She missed my sarcasm. Truth was, I did need to get through everything and do a massive purge, both here and in the garage. I simply hadn’t had the opportunity. When I finally got to the project, I wanted to do it right. That meant devoting lots of free time to going through all the “stuff” that my mom had relocated when she’d returned to live here after my dad died. I was looking forward to spending time with my mother’s belongings. I’d stumbled on one secret she’d taken to the grave. I wondered if there were more.

  I followed Hillary past the storage room, around the furnace, to a spot ne
ar the front of the house along the west wall. Hillary stopped and pointed.

  “That’s a workbench,” I said, stating the obvious. It was loaded with coffee cans full of nails, a toolbox, and at least a dozen cardboard boxes all labeled HARDWARE. I shrugged. “I’m guessing that my grandfather built it originally. It’s been here for as long as I can remember.”

  Even though the bare wood structure was built into a space between two stone abutments, it squeaked and moved when Hillary gripped one side and wiggled it. “I don’t know for sure, but I’d bet this workbench has been around since long before your grandfather was.” She blinked. “Or should I say, your grandmother’s husband?”

  We both knew what she was talking about, but I chose to focus on the implied question instead. “You think it has to go?”

  Hillary scrunched up her pert little nose. “Definitely,” she said, not bothering to couch the answer in polite explanation. “It’s a hazard. Worse, it’s ugly.”

  I tucked my hands into my hips and looked at the workbench, really looked at it, something I hadn’t done before. “You’re right,” I said. “It is an eyesore. And I wouldn’t want it to fall over on Bootsie.”

  She pointed to the very top of the structure. “The only thing I’m concerned about is whether we’ll need to be prepared to shore up that area above it. See?”

  I looked. She pointed to what looked like a railroad tie, except it was four times wider and at least three times the length. It sat above the workbench, holding up—

  I couldn’t tell what it was holding up. “What an odd place for a beam that doesn’t seem to be attached to anything,” I said.

  “When I pointed it out to the project manager, he thought it was possible that this was a load-bearing wall and warned me to be very careful about removing the workbench. He promised to take a closer look tomorrow.” She took a few tiptoe-y steps around the dusty monstrosity and pointed again. “Here’s the part that puzzled him most. The shelves are only about twelve inches deep, but the beam above looks to be more than two feet wide. Do you have any idea what’s behind here?”