Grace Cries Uncle

by Julie Hyzy

  When he opened the passenger door, a wave of blissful heat engulfed me so completely that I was suddenly okay with the idea of hanging out in the death-mobile. “It’s wonderful in here,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “There’s not something I hear every day.”

  I pointed to the driver’s side. “Are you joining me?”

  Sliding a glance outside to where the body lay, he seemed to consider it. “I’ve done a preliminary examination, but they may need more input before they move him. As delightful a prospect it would be to enjoy the warmth, it’s probably best if I make my way back.”

  Across from me, the driver’s-side door opened, bringing a rush of icy air. Flynn climbed in, settling himself behind the wheel before pulling the door closed again. He blew air into his fists then leaned forward to talk across me, addressing the coroner, who remained outside holding my door. “Thanks, Doc. This shouldn’t take long. We’ll be out of your hair before you load up.”

  Dr. Bradley gave Flynn a nod of acknowledgment. To me, he said, “Again, it was very nice meeting you. Too bad it was under these circumstances.” The man didn’t smile, but I swore I detected humor in his eyes. “Be well, Ms. Wheaton. I would say I hope to see you again soon, but most people don’t take that the right way.”

  When I laughed, a tiny corner of his mouth tipped upward. He nodded and shut the door.

  Flynn pulled out a tissue, blew his red nose, and got right down to business. “Are you one hundred percent certain that’s the guy who came to your door yesterday morning?”

  “That’s him. No doubt about it.”

  “What did he want?”

  I recounted the brief conversation to the best of my ability, reminding Flynn that I’d cut the exchange short and that the FBI guy said he’d be back later.

  “Do you remember his name?” Flynn asked.

  “Alvin Clark.”

  He seemed impressed that I was able to come up with that. “Which office was he out of?”

  “No idea,” I said. “Except for the badge, his photo, and his name, there wasn’t much real information there.”

  “And you have no idea what he wanted to ask you about?”

  “None whatsoever. He wanted to know who else lived with me, but I wouldn’t tell him.”

  “Why didn’t you call us?”

  “Why would I?” I asked. “Having an FBI agent show up at one’s front door isn’t usually a reason to alert homicide detectives.”

  “What if the killer is really looking for you, but shot this FBI guy because he got in the way?”

  “Why would anyone be after me? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Yeah, but the situations you get involved in don’t always follow logic. You ought to be more careful, you know.”

  I couldn’t see how answering the door for an FBI agent constituted reckless behavior but I didn’t feel like arguing. Flynn asked me a few more questions, but I had little more to add.

  “Want me to walk you back to your house?” he asked.

  “I think I know the way.”

  “That’s it, Grace. Be a smart aleck. Things happen around here, and they always seem to involve you. You ought to think about taking precautions.”

  “I have,” I said. “We installed a very sophisticated alarm system. If anyone tries to break in, the service and the police department will be alerted.”

  “Uh-huh. But what happens when you open the door for the killer and let him in? No alarm will go off then, will it?”

  I didn’t know why he was trying to scare me, and I wasn’t in the mood to take any more. “We’re done here, right?”

  He gave a quick nod.

  I hesitated, but plunged ahead. “If you find out, would you mind letting me know why this Alvin Clark was here and what he wanted?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  I was about to open the passenger door when Flynn said, “One more thing, Grace.”

  I turned.

  “A burglar alarm provides only limited protection. In the time it takes to transmit notice of a break-in and then for help to arrive, a murderer could kill you and be out of your house, leaving you bleeding on the kitchen floor. Maybe we catch him, maybe we don’t. But at that point it’s too late for you, isn’t it?”

  “Wow, thanks, Flynn,” I said.

  Chapter 7

  Monday morning, my assistant stood in front of her desk, arms folded. Her tethered rhinestone glasses were perched at the end of her nose and she stared at me over their tops, her tadpole eyebrows arched. “Well?” she asked before I could even say hello. “When will the lab have results?”

  “Good morning, Frances.” I pulled off my winter coat and hung it on the nearby rack. “How was your weekend? Did you do anything fun?”

  “Stop stalling. I had my doubts you’d go through with it but I hear that you did. The lab must have given you an estimate.” Tapping her foot now, she continued to glare. “And while you’re at it, bring me up to date on the dead guy in your backyard.”

  “Not my backyard. My neighbor’s.”

  “Same difference. Who was he?”

  “Don’t tell me your gossipy minions missed the part about him being an FBI agent?”

  Frances’s brows jumped even higher.

  I gestured. “Have a seat. I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Frances settled herself behind her desk and I took one of the two chairs opposite. My assistant loved nothing better than to gossip; she’d be eager to share my up-close-and-personal details with members of her clandestine grapevine.

  Before I started, I held up a finger. “I want to remind you not to share anything about the DNA test with anyone.”

  “Tongues are wagging around town,” she said, “even though I haven’t breathed a word. My friends have been trying to get me to confirm.” She shook her head, making her chins waggle. “They’re getting nothing from me. But the fact that I’m not talking is almost admission in itself.”

  I sighed. “I really wanted to keep this quiet.”

  “Best you can hope for at this point is keeping the results quiet. You never answered. When will you know?”

  “About a week or so. Two labs are running separate tests. They’ll wait until both sets of results are in.”

  She gave a brief nod. “Now, back to your FBI guy.” Pushing up her purple sweater’s sleeves, she leaned forward on thick elbows to listen.

  Frances interrupted only twice during my summary: once to comment derisively on Bennett’s generosity toward Tooney, and the other to ask what I thought the FBI agent wanted from me.

  “Maggie Inglethorpe suggested that one of my neighbors may be under investigation,” I said.

  “But you don’t think so.”

  “I don’t know what to think,” I said. “The fact that the agent was found shot to death so close to my house has me on edge.”

  Frances’s mouth twisted. “At least the murder wasn’t on Marshfield property this time.”

  At the sound of Frances’s door opening, I turned. Bennett strode in, his brow tight, his mouth set in a line.

  “Gracie,” he said, his voice a growl. “What happened yesterday? Why didn’t you call me?”

  I got up to greet him. “There was no reason to alarm you. In fact, I was just telling Frances about how Rodriguez and Flynn are on top of things. The fact that the FBI agent wanted to talk with me is simply a curious coincidence. I don’t believe there’s anything for me to worry about.”

  “Anything having to do with your safety concerns me,” Bennett said. His gaze was still heated and direct. “I worry about you.”

  I led him toward Frances’s desk, where we both took seats. “I’m sure we’ll find out more soon enough. I asked Flynn to keep me updated.”

  Frances harrumphed. “And you thin
k he will?”

  “He’d better,” Bennett said. “I’m very concerned about this FBI agent’s inquiry. The minute you hear more, I want to know about it. And if we discover the detectives are holding back on us, I’ll have a talk with the chief of police myself.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” I held my hands out to both of them. “Flynn has been better lately. And Rodriguez seems particularly elated to be back on the job.”

  Frances harrumphed again. I ignored her.

  “What about that reception you talked about, Bennett?” I asked, in an effort to shift subjects. “I hadn’t yet gotten to that topic with Frances. I really believe that she and I ought to be involved in the arrangements.”

  Frances sat up straighter. “What reception?”

  “It’s nothing, really,” Bennett said. “I’m hosting a small get-together here at the conclusion of the Fine Art and Antiquity Collectors’ convention.”

  Frances looked from me to Bennett and back again. “The convention starts Saturday,” she said. “When were you planning on telling us?”

  Looking as uncomfortable as he had when he’d first broached the topic, Bennett tried to dismiss its importance. “I’ve had my personal staff arrange everything. It’s too much work for both of you and it has nothing to do with Marshfield Manor. This is purely a personal whim and I didn’t want to trouble either of you.”

  Frances, eyes narrowed, appeared to be having the exact same reaction I had. “Who’s coming?”

  Bennett waved a hand in the air. “It’s a short list, really. A few experts, a few key collectors in the world of antiquities.”

  “And you didn’t think Grace and I should be in on the planning?” she asked.

  Bennett shot Frances a stern look. “I am allowed to comport my business dealings without your involvement, am I not?”

  Frances tilted her head, not buying any of this. Nor was I.

  “Not to put you on the spot, Bennett, but when you first mentioned this, you told me that you were working with the organizers of the FAAC. Now you say you put your personal staff in charge. You also just referred to it as a small get-together, but aren’t more than a hundred people expected to attend?”

  “A hundred guests?” Frances echoed.

  Bennett shifted in his chair. “Did I say that?”

  “You did,” I said. I didn’t enjoy making Bennett feel uncomfortable but this situation felt wrong. “You are, of course, entitled to keep secrets from us. I understand if you don’t want to trust us with certain—”

  “This is not a matter of trust.” His brows came together again. “Certainly not.”

  “It’s okay, Bennett,” I said. “Whatever your reasons for keeping us away from this reception”—I made eye contact with Frances—“we may not understand, but we’ll accept your decision. If you prefer we stay away, we will stay away. All we ask is that you keep us updated so that we’re not blindsided when things like this come up.”

  Bennett looked away, staring at the ceiling. He flexed his jaw, then said, “The reception is Tuesday night. The list of attendees hasn’t been finalized yet and likely won’t be until the last minute. There may be more than a hundred guests. Perhaps double that number. Much will depend on what items change hands during the course of the convention. The organizers have been working with my personal staff and even I don’t know all the plans for the evening.”

  I studied Bennett as he continued.

  “Because I was approached to host this event, I thought it best to allow those in charge to manage the details, thus sparing you both the additional responsibility.” He held out his hands, fingers spread. “You see why I didn’t feel the need to mention anything?”

  Despite his explanation and assertions, I sensed he was still hiding a key point from us, though for the life of me, I couldn’t imagine what it was.

  “Before we move on, two questions,” I said.

  He sighed theatrically and folded his hands across his middle. “Proceed.”

  “Why aren’t you attending the actual FAAC convention like you usually do?”

  “You’re not attending FAAC this year?” Frances asked.

  “He claims he doesn’t care for the crowds,” I said. “And that he has no desire to go this year.”

  Bennett’s eyes sparkled and he pursed his mouth before answering. “Had I known I was to face the Spanish Inquisition I may have reconsidered visiting this morning.” Inhaling deeply, he said, “Allow me this one secret. I am, indeed, staying away from FAAC this year, and am instead hosting a separate event after its conclusion. My reasons are my own and you will both simply have to trust that I know what I’m doing.”

  I knew we’d taken the issue as far as we could. “Which leads me to the second matter,” I said. “Tooney asked you if there was a specific item you’re hoping to acquire and if this reception is the means to accomplish that. Is that what’s going on?”

  He looked away again, scratching the side of his temple, buying time. After what was probably no more than fifteen seconds, but felt much longer, he made eye contact with us both. “Mr. Tooney’s talents are grossly underrated. I’m glad we have him on retainer as Marshfield’s ally.”

  Frances snorted.

  “What is it you’re looking for?” I asked, eager to join in on the journey. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

  For reasons I didn’t understand, my words seemed to cause Bennett pain. “I’m sorry, Grace. Not this time. I’ve already told you more than I should have. There is an item I hope to acquire, and I have it on good authority that its owner plans to attend the FAAC event. I prefer to conduct business here in my home, where I have the advantage. At this juncture I prefer not to divulge further information about the item and I will thank you both to put an end to this particular line of questioning.”

  He stood. “If I’m lucky, I will receive news of this item as early as today, and perhaps all will be settled before the FAAC event begins. If that happens, I will be free to attend the convention after all.” Pointing to each of us in turn, he added, “That’s enough for today. Grace, please keep me updated with regard to the murder investigation. And, more important, stay safe.”

  When he left, Frances stared after him, tapping her fingers on her blotter as she chewed the inside of her cheek. “That’s not like him at all.”

  “I know,” I said. “It has me worried.”

  She shifted to chew the other side. “Maybe you should let the matter drop.”

  “This? Coming from you?”

  She blinked a couple of times. “Know what I think?”

  “Tell me.”

  “He’s buying you a present. For when the DNA results come back. You both already know what they’re going to say, but once it’s official he will want to commemorate the moment by giving you a gift.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “You think I’m wrong?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said slowly. “That makes perfect sense.” And though it did, something still didn’t feel right.

  Chapter 8

  In my own office later that afternoon, I decided to call Rodriguez and Flynn to find out if they’d had any luck discovering who’d killed Alvin Clark. Neither detective was at the station. I considered trying their cell phones, ultimately deciding not to disturb them. I left a voicemail instead.

  Seconds after I dropped the receiver back into its cradle, my phone rang. From the display I knew that the call originated from our main welcome desk on the first floor.

  “Want me to answer that?” Frances shouted from her office.

  “I got it,” I said, and picked up. “Grace Wheaton.”

  “Miss Wheaton, this is Evelyn down at the front desk,” she said.

  I would have recognized her warbling voice without clarification. “What can I do for you?”

>   “There’s a Mr. Krol here to see Mr. Marshfield.”

  Bennett hadn’t mentioned anyone by the name of Krol to me. But then again, Bennett had been keeping secrets lately. “Does he have an appointment?”

  “He says he was supposed to be here earlier but his flight was delayed. I tried upstairs but Mr. Marshfield isn’t picking up his phone. His butler, Theo, doesn’t know where he is, either. I thought you might.”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t know have any idea where he is at the moment. Did Mr. Krol tell you what this is in regard to?”

  Evelyn placed her hand over the mouthpiece, though I couldn’t imagine why she wanted to shield her conversation. When she returned, she said, “Mr. Krol says that he has a business arrangement with Mr. Marshfield.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “He won’t give me any details.”

  “That’s fine, Evelyn. I’ll come down to meet him while Frances locates Bennett. Sound good?”

  “Yes, thanks, Miss Wheaton.”

  Having overheard, Frances had already taken up the quest. “Who do you suppose this visitor is?” she asked as I crossed her office. “The Mister usually keeps you updated on his appointments.”

  “Not this time, apparently.”

  “I’m telling you,” she shouted to my back as I headed out, “he’s planning a surprise. Mark my words.”

  I took a staff stairway down to the main level and let myself through a segment of the velvet-rope barricade that delineated tourist boundaries. Hurrying across a corridor where a family of six walked abreast, taking up the entire width, I excused myself and pushed through.

  I caught sight of Bennett’s guest from about thirty feet away. Tall, with the kind of blond hair that managed to look tousled and professional at the same time, he cut a dashing figure in his charcoal suit. Seventy-five-year-old Evelyn stared up at him with undisguised adoration, and although he was about half her age, he appeared to be enjoying Evelyn’s company.

  “I’m Grace Wheaton,” I said when she regretfully directed his attention to me. “I’m sorry Bennett Marshfield isn’t available at the moment. How may I help you?”