by Julie Hyzy
“Are you okay?” I asked my aunt. “You sound upset.”
“I’ve been trying her cell phone, over and over again. Usually when I call her it goes to her answering machine.” Voicemail, I mouthed silently. “There’s nothing at all anymore. I get that loud noise and then a message that the number isn’t in service.”
“Glitches happen,” I said. “I’m sure there’s an explanation.”
“No, something is really wrong this time. Eric called here not five minutes ago, asking if I’d heard anything. When I asked him why Liza wasn’t with him, he said that they’d had an argument a couple of days ago. She stormed off. Hasn’t been seen since.”
Holding the receiver slightly away from my ear to allow Liza to listen in, I raised my eyebrows, asking the silent question, “What haven’t you told me?”
“I’m sure she’s fine,” I said into the phone. “Probably just working off some steam. You know how hotheaded Liza can be.” I delivered that last line with a smile. She stuck her tongue out at me.
“I don’t know,” Aunt Belinda said. “He sounded really worried.”
“Let’s not overreact,” I said, working to inject calm into my tone. “Did Eric give you any other information?”
“No.”
“Maybe Liza is coming to see you,” I said. “Maybe she’s on her way right now.”
“You think so?” Aunt Belinda asked. The hope in her voice was unmistakable. “I don’t have much to share, but if she came, I could offer her a place to stay at least.”
Watching my sister, who seemed to be growing more agitated by the moment, I said, “I’m sure she’d be happy to know that.”
But Aunt Belinda wasn’t finished trying to convince me of the magnitude of this situation. “He was desperate, I tell you. I’ve never heard anyone so tormented in my life. You can’t fake that kind of panic. You know what I mean?”
“I do,” I said. I was witnessing exactly that: the kind of panic that can’t be faked. Liza had curled in on herself, fists covering her eyes, looking smaller than she had seconds earlier. She breathed hard enough for me to hear. In that instant I realized that my sister was in genuine anguish. And with that awareness, a small part of my resentment dissolved.
“Maybe there’s more to the story than we realize,” I said into the phone.
Liza’s head jerked up. She stared up at me with grateful eyes.
“Maybe,” Aunt Belinda said, “but there’s no good reason for her to be out on her own. She ought to know she can reach out to family if she’s in trouble.”
Liza continued to watch me, waiting.
“Let’s hope she isn’t in trouble,” I said, “and this is simply a lovers’ spat.”
“I don’t know . . .” I could tell Aunt Belinda wanted to turn this conversation into an endless loop of conjecture and speculation.
“I really ought to go,” I said before she could get rolling. “I’m in the middle of making dinner.”
“You’ll let me know if you hear from Liza?” she asked.
I hesitated. “I’ve told you before, Aunt Belinda, the likelihood of Liza contacting me is slim. Less than slim.” I shrugged at Liza. She offered a weak smile.
“I’m just so worried about that poor girl. You could be a better sister to her, you know,” Aunt Belinda said. “You could try to connect with her yourself. You don’t have to wait for her to come begging at your door before you lend her a hand.”
“And with that, it’s time for me to hang up,” I said before my temper flared again. “Have a good night. Talk soon.”
The second the receiver hit home, my sister erupted with thanks. “I didn’t know if you’d cover for me, Grace. I can’t thank you enough.”
She would have gone on longer, but I didn’t want this gush of gratitude.
“Here’s what’s important,” I said. “The man who came here—Alvin Clark/Emilio Ochoa, whatever his name is—told me he was an FBI agent.”
Liza’s jaw dropped. “And you thought this had something to do with me?” Moments ago she’d seemed buried under the weight of her secrets. Not so anymore. Indignant Liza had resurfaced. “The FBI? How could you even think such a thing? I may have had my share of problems but never anything that—”
“I said he told me he was an FBI agent.” I raised my voice to be heard over hers. “Remember the alias?”
She stopped talking, but maintained a piqued expression.
“He lied. Not a Fed. Okay?” Before she could say another word, I added, “And he’s dead, by the way. Murdered.” I pointed. “Back there, in one of the neighbors’ yards.”
Liza was rarely rendered speechless. If it hadn’t been a murder that rendered her mute, I may have enjoyed the moment.
“The man was killed Saturday, found on Sunday. Detectives came today to tell me that he wasn’t a federal agent after all. That he was originally from Los Angeles, with a police record.”
Finding her voice, Liza asked, “And because he was from California, and has a record, you associate him with me?”
“He showed up here,” I said, repeating information, hoping that this time it would sink in, “at this house. He wanted to know who lived here. It was only because I was on my way out that I didn’t answer him, or find out what he was looking for.” I pointed right and left. “He didn’t visit any of my neighbors. Didn’t talk to anyone else in town. He came here.” I pointed at her. “And two days later, you show up.”
Liza may not be the most reliable person on the planet, but she wasn’t stupid. I could see comprehension dawn. “Coincidence,” she said, but I could tell she was rattled.
“You said you thought Eric may have hired a guy to track you down,” I reminded her.
She looked away again. “God, I hope not.”
Chapter 14
Once Liza was settled in the spare room, I returned to the main level to clean up after dinner. As I loaded our dishwasher and rinsed the baking pan in hot, sudsy water, I reflected on my sister’s behavior this evening. Like a pinball, she’d careened from one emotional bumper to the next: terrified, irate, grateful. I could barely keep up.
Crusted ratatouille had baked itself into one corner of the pan and wasn’t giving up without a fight. I pulled my watermelon-slice scrubby from its dish and set to work on the corner, exorcising my frustration as I dug at the resistant chunk.
Bootsie appeared at my side, staring up at me with an expression that seemed to ask “Why?”
“I don’t have an answer for you,” I said.
“Answer to what?” Liza asked.
I jumped a little bit, twisting to face her.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“I’m not used to anyone else being here,” I said with a glance at the wall clock. “At least not at this time of day.”
“What time do your buddies come back?” she asked, crossing to stand next to me at the sink. She leaned back against the countertop, too close.
With my hands still submerged, I winged my elbows. “A little room, please.”
She scuttled sideways, not bothering to offer help.
“They come home after the wine shop closes. Depends on business that day. Most of the time they’re home by ten.”
She made a face at the clock. “Do they know I’m here?”
“They do.” With a victorious flourish, I wedged the final hunk of ratatouille out of the dish. Rinsing the pan thoroughly, I added it to the bottom dishwasher rack.
“And?” Liza asked after protracted silence.
I turned to face her. “And what?”
“What did they say about me?”
“Why do you want to know?” I asked as I wiped up the countertop and grabbed a drying towel for the items I’d hand-washed. Liza scooted farther down the counter to allow me access. “They’re my friends and they’re supporti
ng me. That’s really all that matters.”
She huffed, then sat at the table. “Ever since I got here, I’ve had to answer all the questions you’ve thrown at me.”
“With varying degrees of honesty, I’d imagine.”
No response to the jab. “Now you. You have to answer questions for me.”
“Have to? Really, Liza?” I turned to face her.
“That is,” she amended quickly, “I’d like to ask you some questions. Get to know you again—maybe better.”
I wondered what her game was, and at the same time felt sad and sorry to have that be my first response. Yet, such was the nature of our relationship. I needed to remain vigilant. Otherwise I risked her hurting me, and those I loved, again.
“I’ll share the highlight reel.” I held a finger up. “As you know, I work at Marshfield.” Raising another, I added, “I love my job there.” Continuing to tick off points, I counted on my hand. “Bruce, Scott, Bootsie, and I have settled into a very comfortable life here together, and I am not currently involved in a romantic relationship. That about sums it up.”
“Pretty cut-and-dried,” she said.
I shrugged. “It’s all you need to know.”
“You used to get excited about history and old antiques. Do you get to work with stuff like that now?”
“All the time.”
“I’ll bet you’re pretty good at it. You always were a super achiever.”
“As I said, I love my job.”
She offered a timid smile, manufactured just for me. “What’s it like, working around all that wealth? Is it amazing? Do you know how much everything in the house is worth?”
My sister, always hyper-attentive where money was concerned. “Sorry.” I shook my head. “No more Marshfield talk.”
“Fine, then. What do you do for fun?”
I thought about Adam and how he and I had almost forged a bond together last year. He’d been great company and a good friend. I’d had a lot of fun when I was with him. He was a lovely, kind man. But I’d never felt for him the way he felt for me. He deserved a woman who did.
“Fun,” I repeated, feeling a wry smile crawl up the corners of my mouth. Who had time with all the excitement that went on around here? That’s how I’d met Adam, in fact. Smack in the middle of a murder. Two, to be precise. And these were two of, how many now? Sadly, I was losing count.
“Hard to say, really,” I began. “I’ve been tied up.” Umm . . . literally. “More than a few tough moments.”
She folded her arms. “If you expect me to apologize for taking Eric away, I won’t,” she said, putting on a pout. “I did you a favor. He turned out to be a loser. Leech with a capital L. As soon as all Mom’s money was gone, he turned on me.” She looked away. “You think you had it tough.”
It took me a beat to understand what she was talking about and why she’d suddenly brought Eric’s name into the conversation. When I did, I could barely keep my voice down. “You think my ‘tough moments’ refer to you skipping out with Eric?” My laugh came out hoarse and crazed. Her audacity astounded me.
When I managed to settle myself again, I regarded her with a sadness I hadn’t felt for her before. “It’s always about you, isn’t it, Liza?”
She tilted her head. “You’re different now.”
“People change.”
“Exactly.” She pulled a leg up onto the chair so that she could wrap her arms around it and rest her chin on her knee. “Which is why I want to know more about you. I want you back in my life. I’m different, too. Really.”
I didn’t believe that for a minute, but was too tired of fighting to challenge her.
Chapter 15
I decided to stop by Amethyst Cellars on the way home the following day. There was so much I wanted to talk with Scott and Bruce about—things I dared not voice with Liza in the house. Parking around the corner from their shop, I picked my way along the icy sidewalk to make my way in.
January in Emberstowne was traditionally quiet, providing downtime for shop owners. The smattering of visitor traffic in winter allowed proprietors to catch up on indoor maintenance and concentrate on plans for the coming tourist season.
This January, however, with the Fine Art and Antiquity Collectors’ convention in town, local businesses were enjoying a brisk bump in sales.
Thus, when I stepped out of the biting wind into the cozy warmth of Amethyst Cellars, I wasn’t surprised to find it buzzing with happy patrons, sipping, sniffing, and chattering about wine.
The high-ceilinged shop, furnished with cherrywood cabinetry and granite countertops, had become a destination spot in Emberstowne. Bruce and Scott had taken this bare storefront and turned it into a gathering space, with two bar areas set up for group tastings, a refrigerated glass case to showcase gourmet chocolates and other delectable treats, and kiosks strategically placed around the room in a way that encouraged people to mingle, while enhancing traffic flow.
Gift baskets took up a fair share of one outside wall. Their cellophane wrappings shimmered under soft spotlights. Two couples perused the display while sipping from amethyst-stemmed glasses. This shop was the picture of gentle cheer and I adored visiting. Every time I did, I marveled at how wonderfully my roommates had brought their vision to life.
One of the female employees, talking to four rapt listeners, described the flavor notes to look for in this month’s featured cabernet. Two other employees led small groups, taking them through the order of wines they might choose and explaining the tasting process.
Bruce was in the middle of ringing up what appeared to be a robust sale for an elderly Asian couple. Next to him, Scott chatted them up, and when he noticed me at the door, waved me over.
“Grace, we were just talking about you,” he said.
The couple turned to face me, their eyes bright with pleasure. I guessed them to be in their early sixties. The man was close to my five-foot-eight height, the woman considerably shorter. Both had smile-line wrinkles around their eyes and ebony-black hair. His was scrub-brush short, but full. Hers was a luxurious bob, with silvery strands that sparkled when they caught the light.
“About me?” I asked.
The gentleman bowed his head slightly. “We are enraptured by Marshfield Manor and intrigued by Mr. Bennett Marshfield and his wondrous collection.”
“I was telling them that you run the estate,” Scott said. “Mr. and Mrs. Tuen were delighted to hear of our connection to you.”
The man placed a hand on his chest. “I am Jim Tuen.” Using that same hand to gesture, he added, “And this is my beautiful wife of thirty-six years, Daisy.”
Daisy nodded, smiling. “We are very pleased to meet you.”
“I’m very happy to meet you both,” I said. “I hope Bruce and Scott haven’t been telling too many stories out of school.”
Scott gave me a mischievous grin. “Only the good parts.”
“We arrived in Emberstowne this morning,” Daisy said. “Once we were settled in our hotel it was too late to begin our tour of the mansion, but my husband and I plan to spend time there over the next several days, at least until the convention begins.”
“I take it you mean the Fine Art and Antiquity Collectors’ convention?”
She gave an eager nod. “It is the highlight of our year.”
While she and I talked, Jim finished his transaction with Bruce, who handed over a weighty shopping bag. Addressing me once again, Jim said, “Part of the joy in traveling to the show is experiencing new cities. We are finding your Emberstowne to be highly charming.”
“It is a beautiful town,” I said. “Even more enjoyable when the weather cooperates. You should consider returning in the fall.”
“We may have to include such a visit in our plans,” Jim said. “Bennett Marshfield speaks often about how proud he is of his home.”
“Y
ou know Bennett then?” I asked.
Daisy shook her head. “We have heard him speak at the convention many times, but have never had the opportunity to meet with him face-to-face.”
Jim added, “We are hoping to do so this year. With the convention in his hometown, I suspect Mr. Marshfield will spend a great deal of time mingling with other collectors.”
Although I knew Bennett had no plans to attend the FAAC this year, I didn’t want to dash their hopes with too brusque a reply. “As I’m certain he’d be honored to meet you.”
Scott joined in as we continued with small talk, while Bruce rang up the next customer. From what I gathered, the Tuens were extraordinarily wealthy—not in the same league as Bennett, but well-off enough to have amassed what sounded like an impressive collection of antiques. They admitted to being partial to ancient Chinese art, but found they had a soft spot for abstract expressionists like Helen Frankenthaler and Willem de Kooning.
After we’d talked for a while, Jim touched his wife’s arm. “We must leave these good people to their business,” he said. “We are taking too much of their time.”
“I hope you’ll remember to ask for me when you visit Marshfield,” I said.
“You are very kind,” Daisy said. “But we would not wish to impose.”
“They seem very nice,” I said when they left.
“They are. Gina helped them with their tasting and they not only tipped her very well, they bought four bottles and arranged to have a case shipped home.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“Excuse me.” A woman who had been paying close attention to our conversation stepped forward the moment Jim and Daisy Tuen exited the shop. Mid-forties, taller than me by a couple of inches, wearing thick cinnamon lipstick that matched her wavy, shoulder-length hair, she regarded me with interest. “I couldn’t help but overhear; you work with Bennett Marshfield?”
The question had been asked with doe-eyed innocence, but because I’d spotted her attentiveness earlier, my guard immediately shot up.
“I do.”