Grace Against the Clock (A Manor House Mystery)

by Julie Hyzy

  “Your renovation is going to be featured in a national magazine,” she said with dolphin-pitched merriment. “Painted Lady Monthly. It’s a glossy. Can you believe it?”

  “No, I—”

  “Frederick reminded me that you’ll need to approve this, but Grace, of course you will, right? Can you imagine how much of a boost this would give my business?” She didn’t wait for me to respond. “My fledgling business? Not so fledgling after this. I know how private you are and how much having people in and out of your house all the time grates on your nerves, but if you could do this one eensy-weensy favor, I’d be so grateful. Frederick would, too.”

  “That’s not why I called,” I said. “We’ll talk about the magazine later. For now I need you to answer a question for me about all those people who are in and out of my house every day.”

  “The Painted Lady will want an answer soon.”

  “Concentrate for a minute on what I’m saying, Hillary.” I waited a beat, ignored her tiny sigh of annoyance, and continued, “I need you to answer some questions for me first. Only then will I consider it.” I knew I’d regret the implied promise later, but once Hillary got an idea in her mind she was a steamroller until she achieved her goal. To get her to focus I needed to dangle the prize and not give in until she complied.

  Another annoyed sigh, but this time she said, “Go ahead.”

  “I had some newspapers in my kitchen the other day.” I spoke slowly. “I brought them in on Saturday but I didn’t have much of a chance to look at them until today, when I took them with me to work.”

  “Are you talking about the old newspapers that were on top of your microwave?”

  My mouth fell open. Frances, reading my expression, asked, “She saw them?”

  “Those are exactly the ones I’m talking about, Hillary,” I said. “Can you tell me if you saw anyone, anyone at all, handling them?”

  “What’s going on?” she asked. “Will I be getting someone in trouble by telling you?”

  “Bear with me,” I said. “Who touched them?”

  “Almost everyone.” My heart sank, and I gripped the phone tightly, waiting for more information, hoping that she would offer some clue as to who took the missing paper.

  “Are you alone?” I asked.

  “I am at the moment.”

  “Good, now think for a minute. Tell me everything you can about the newspapers and who looked at them.”

  “Okay.” Although I couldn’t see her consternation, I could feel it. “Let’s see, the first person to notice the newspapers was Frederick.”

  “Why would he be interested in them?”

  “Are you sure I’m not getting him into trouble?”

  “What did he do with the newspapers?” I asked.

  “Frederick is a good man,” she said. “I’m sure he wouldn’t do anything to mess your house up on purpose.”

  “Focus, Hillary. Tell me what happened.”

  “The only reason any of us noticed the papers was because Frederick pointed them out. He asked me why you had a pile of five-year-old newspapers on top of your microwave. I said that I didn’t know.”

  “Who else was there?”

  She thought for a minute. “Everyone you saw the other night,” she said. “David Cherk, Wes McIntyre, me, Frederick. Oh, and at that point there were a couple of other people, too.”

  “Who?”

  “One of David’s student friends was there to help him with the shoot, and your neighbor Todd. I think he really believes I’m interested in him.” She gave a very teenage-like giggle. “Oh, and the reporter who did the story on the secret passage. I think that’s it, but I may be forgetting someone.”

  All these people in my kitchen when I hadn’t even been home. “What was the reporter doing there?”

  “Follow up, he said. Anyway, the best I can recall is that Frederick started paging through the papers and—” She stopped.

  “And what Hillary?”

  “You’re not going to like this.”

  “Spit it out.”

  She gave a quick sigh. “Frederick said something about the papers being a fire hazard in the kitchen and he thought they should be tossed out. He wouldn’t do that, of course, without your permission, but he asked again what you could possibly want with newspapers that old. He offered to put them somewhere other than the kitchen, so it would be safer.”

  “Safer? Than on top of the microwave?”

  “Frederick is a little paranoid about such things. He’s very clean.”

  “What happened? He obviously didn’t move them. They were still there when I grabbed them this morning.”

  “Wes explained to the group that you were looking for information about what else might have been happening in Emberstowne when Dr. Keay’s scandal broke. He suggested that we leave the papers exactly where they were because it was important to you. That got everyone talking about you and how you’ve become the town’s amateur sleuth. David Cherk said that he thought fame had gone to your head.”

  I didn’t care what people thought about my amateur sleuthing, but I tucked that remark away, nonetheless.

  “So the only person to handle the papers was Frederick?” I asked.

  “David got bored while we were waiting for you, and he started reading through them. I think the reporter guy did, too. Yes, he did. He mentioned something about how news coverage is so much better today than it was back then.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “I can’t say for sure. I was in and out of the kitchen a few times, checking on Bootsie and making sure the workers were doing what they were supposed to be doing.”

  “Thank you, Hillary.”

  “What about the magazine? Can we schedule a shoot? They’re really eager to get out here.”

  “Wouldn’t you want to finish the interiors first?” I asked, in an effort to buy time.

  I could almost hear disappointment register like a coin in a vending machine. “That’s probably a good idea. I hate to push them off, though.” A beat later, her cheer returned. “You know I can’t wait to get my hands on your home’s interiors. Wait until I tell Papa Bennett about the magazine feature. He’ll be so proud.”

  “One thing at a time, Hillary.”

  “We should probably have them come out to shoot the exteriors while the weather is good, don’t you think? When can we give them the okay? The sooner the better, and the house project should be done by the week after next.”

  Hillary had done a good job. I couldn’t take that away from her. And if allowing a magazine to feature my house helped her drum up business, who was I to complain? “One favor, Hillary.”

  “Name it,” she said.

  “Let’s wait until Dr. Keay’s murder case is closed. Okay?”

  Chapter 29

  The rest of the day left me little time to work on my murder investigation efforts. I did check on Rodriguez, who had been released from the hospital and to whom we had—finally—sent flowers. I also called Wes at the historical society and told him that one of the newspapers he’d lent me was missing. Even as I apologized profusely, he assured me that it was okay and that he probably had another copy, so not to worry.

  “I have to believe someone took it,” I said. When I mentioned the fact that the issue had gone missing from atop my microwave and that Hillary had told me that David Cherk paged through the editions, he was silent for a half moment longer than I’d expected.

  “Something wrong?” I asked.

  “Probably not, but . . .”

  I waited.

  “I remember the conversation, and I’m pretty sure your neighbor Todd Pedota took a look at them, too.”

  “That’s right. I’d forgotten that Hillary mentioned he’d been there.”

  “Let me check the files. I don’t want to waste your time if we don’t ha
ve another copy.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  He must have cupped the phone between his ear and shoulder because I could hear his exertion as he moved boxes to conduct the search. “What’s the date of the one you’re looking for?”

  I told him.

  “Hmm,” he said, which didn’t sound promising. “I have September thirteenth, fourteenth, and sixteenth of that year. I’m missing the fifteenth. The one you’re looking for.”

  “I am so sorry, Wes,” I said. “I should have been more careful.”

  “Don’t sweat it. I’m sure I’ll be able to dig up another copy. I’ll get on it right away.”

  “It’s not your fault it’s missing,” I said. “You entrusted these to me. I’m the one who ought to find a new copy to replace this one. All I need to know is where to look.” I apologized again.

  “Grace.” Wes’s voice was a balm in the midst of my self-flagellation. “Don’t worry about it. I have a few connections at the newspaper. I’m sure they’ll be able to help. I’ll get another copy, and as soon as I do, I’ll let you know. Fair enough?”

  “Thanks so much,” I said. “I wonder who took it. Even more, I wonder what’s in it.”

  “We’ll find out,” he said.

  The only other thing I found time to do during the day was check on Tooney. Even though he seemed to have fully recovered from his inebriation the day before, I couldn’t help thinking about his tiny, threadbare home. Everything about the man led me to believe he was lonely. I wondered if there was more I could do for him.

  Otherwise, I kept busy with my managerial and curatorial duties. We’d received three very large, separate shipments of treasures from three different auction houses and I inventoried and recorded each piece from each shipment before anything left my office to be shuttled to storage. From there we would determine which pieces went on display, which would be transferred to Bennett’s personal rooms, and which were relegated to storage, indefinitely.

  On top of that, I had timesheets and accounts payable to approve, checks to sign, and a monthly inspection to run. I barely kept my head above water, and even though I wanted to do more to find out where that missing newspaper went, and I wondered who Flynn had targeted for arrest, I couldn’t find time for either.

  Now, on my way home, I gave one other topic some thought. My busy schedule of late had kept me from overanalyzing the state of my love life, but quiet drives in the car were perfect for such musings. Timing, they say, is everything. From the beginning I’d believed that the only reason Jack and I hadn’t managed to kindle a romance was because our timing was off. I’d been wrong.

  Timing had played a part, but now—maybe because I’d met Adam—I’d begun to view Jack differently. I’d known him from afar. Handsome, mysterious, distant; Adam had been right about that. The more Jack hid from me, the more I wanted to know. Now that I knew him better, however, I didn’t care for what I saw. Becke might not be the kind of girl men bring home to meet their mothers—heck, I didn’t think she’d be the type to bring home to meet your parole officer—but that didn’t justify his casual dismissal of her feelings. Jack had turned out to be one of those guys who said one thing but did another.

  Adam, on the other hand . . .

  I pulled up to my house in time to see Frederick leaving. He drove off, Hillary standing at the edge of the driveway waving, holding Bootsie’s leash while the cat scampered. Bootsie had snagged a bright orange leaf between her paws. As I got out of the car, she looked up at me as if to ask, “Now that I captured it, what do I do with it?”

  Hillary greeted me by saying, “Wait until you see the paint chips I picked up today. I have amazing plans for your kitch—”

  She was cut short by two cars racing up and screeching to a halt right next to us. Both vehicles were black four-door sedans with large spotlights mounted next to their driver’s side-view mirrors. The cars held two occupants each, men who jumped out as soon as their vehicles shifted into Park. The men ran up the driveway of the house next door.

  If there had been any question as to the nature of this onslaught, those doubts were stricken seconds later by the arrival of two squad cars. They didn’t blare their sirens or flash their lights, but the sudden appearance of such a strong police presence made my jaw drop.

  “What’s going on?” Hillary asked.

  One of the first people out of the unmarked black cars had been Flynn. He directed the other officers. Two in plainclothes went to Todd Pedota’s front door, accompanied by a cop in uniform. Two uniformed officers, along with the last plainclothes detective, ran around to the back. We lost sight of them as they turned the far corner.

  Hillary and I moved closer to find an unobstructed view of Pedota’s front door. About fifty feet away, Flynn glanced over at us. He raised his hand in greeting then held up a finger, telling us to wait. He then pointed two fingers at his own eyes and then aimed them toward the house. The message was clear: “Wait. Watch.”

  Hillary seemed more shaken by Flynn’s appearance than the police activity. “What happened to his hair?” she asked.

  I didn’t answer.

  The officers in front banged on the door, announcing their presence loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear. Even Bootsie seemed interested. She’d given up her leaf, content to sit and cock her head one way, then another, as though trying to figure out what all these strange humans were doing at the house next door.

  Todd Pedota was either not home or not answering.

  The uniformed cops out front donned heavy body armor and helmets. They now dragged up what looked like a three-foot-long metal column with handles. Two officers, working together, grasped the handles and rammed the solid column against Pedota’s front door. It shuddered, but held.

  Hillary thrust Bootsie’s leash into my hand. “That’s an antique door,” she said, and started off to stop them, arms raised over her head.

  I scooped up Bootsie and ran after her. “Hillary, you can’t get involved.”

  She’d made it almost to the bottom step of Pedota’s house when the antique door cracked, splintering open. I caught up to her, watching her shoulders slump. “Couldn’t they have broken the glass in the front window and gone in that way instead?”

  I didn’t know what to do, so I patted her shoulder.

  The uniformed officers dropped the battering ram and opened the front door fully to allow the detectives, including Flynn, to race into the house, guns drawn. The uniforms followed. We heard shouting, lots of it. Fascinated and not feeling particularly threatened, we stood on Pedota’s front lawn, waiting to see what might happen next.

  Because we were so close to the action, we weren’t aware of another car pulling up. Didn’t hear Todd Pedota running. Didn’t notice him whatsoever until he sprinted past us. “What happened?” he asked, half-turning. “Did someone break in?”

  We didn’t have a chance to answer. He had made it up about two of his front stairs when Flynn emerged. The young detective yanked handcuffs from the back of his belt. “Todd Pedota, you are under arrest.”

  Pedota backed up, shaking his head, shouting, “What? Me? What for?”

  Flynn took a step toward him. “Things will go easier if you cooperate.”

  “What’s going on?” He turned to me. “What did you tell them?”

  Still holding Bootsie, I did my best to raise my hands. I was as confused as he was. “I have no idea what’s going on.”

  Flynn kept his gaze lasered on Pedota. The man’s face had gone red and he’d begun to tremble. “Turn around, and put your hands behind you.”

  One of the uniformed offers trotted over to stand behind Pedota, in a clear show of force. There was nowhere to run.

  Another officer emerged from the front door and said, “I’ve called the evidence techs,” he said, “but we’re taking pictures, too.”

  Pedota’s
voice was nearing shriek level. “Pictures of what?”

  Flynn sauntered forward, giving me a quick, smug smile that claimed victory. “You are under arrest for the murder of Dr. Leland Keay,” he said. “Now turn around.”

  Chapter 30

  Flynn watched as the squad car carrying Todd Pedota pulled away.

  “Did you have to knock down that beautiful door?” Hillary asked him. “There’s no replacing it now.”

  “There’s no replacing Dr. Keay, either,” he said, shooting me an “I can’t believe her” look. “Would you rather we allow a killer to live down the street from you?”

  “Of course not,” Hillary said. She wrinkled her nose. “But it was all so brutal.”

  Flynn reached over to scratch under Bootsie’s chin. She purred contentedly, and I wondered if she remembered that the detective had once saved her from getting lost.

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “Why would Pedota kill Keay? And why now? His wife has been gone for five years. And he doesn’t seem to be terribly broken up about the divorce. What’s his motive?”

  “It’s gotta be the wife leaving.” Flynn stopped petting Bootsie and took a step away, the familiar scowl replacing the soft expression he’d worn moments earlier. “If there’s anything else, we’ll find out. Believe me.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said again.

  He smirked. “That’s the beauty of all this. You don’t need to.”

  Frustrated, I looked away.

  “I can tell you a little more, though,” he said. “We’ll be releasing information to the media soon, so it’s no big deal if you find out early.”

  My interest piqued, I nodded. “Go on.”

  Flynn half-turned, and pointed, gun-like, at Pedota’s house. “Know what we found in there?”

  I waited. Hillary’s eyes were huge. “What?”

  “Two jars of the same kind of moonshine that was used to poison Dr. Keay.” He waited for that to sink in. “He left those jars right out in the open. Middle of his kitchen table. Must have figured we’d never put it together, but we did. Know what else we found?”