Grace Interrupted

by Julie Hyzy

  “Is he Union or Confederate?”

  “Union, like me, why?”

  And like Zachary. There went that theory. “I thought maybe if he was Confederate he would have held a grudge against Mr. Kincade.”

  Pierpont laughed. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Don’t go jumping to conclusions until you truly understand re-enacting. At night when the drills are done and the fire crackles, we all join in the center to sing songs, share stories, tell jokes.” He pointed toward the giant sutler area. “That central area serves both sides. We’re only enemies on the battlefield, and even then everything is choreographed.” With a wistful look in his eyes, he smiled. “This is one of the most welcoming, generous groups I’ve ever encountered. I’m proud to be their leader and I know no one in my division or in any of the regiments here who could have done such a thing.”

  “I highly doubt those two women came back that night to kill him.”

  “Oh no? They wanted to hurt him,” he reminded me, “as did your gardener.”

  “No. That time Kincade attacked.”

  “Regardless, the bad blood between them would be evident to a child. Who else could it have been?” Pierpont raised his hands to the sky. “Both the women and that gardener had reason to hate him. Whoever killed Zachary got his or her revenge. I’m sure there’s no danger to those of us here at the re-enactment.” He gave a self-satisfied bow. “For what it’s worth, my money is on that gardener.”

  Chapter 12

  I WAS AT MY DESK MONDAY MORNING WHEN I heard the door to the outer office swing open. As it shut, Frances marched in, interrupting me from reviewing the prior week’s time sheets.

  “Two murders on the manor grounds since you started working here,” she said, wiggling her head. “You know, this used to be a safe place to work.”

  She was wearing a white polyester shell with purple irises blossoming up from its hem. Her neck waddled and her eyes danced in anticipation, clearly eager for me to rise to the bait. Was I tempted? Absolutely.

  “Good morning, Frances. How was your weekend?”

  “Nowhere near as eventful as yours, I’m sure.”

  That was true enough. Niceties complete, I got right to business. “The re-enactors’ ‘Living History’ was supposed to begin today, but they’ve delayed it because of the police investigation. We may need to ask security to pitch in and help with crowd control once the event opens.”

  She held up a finger. “First things first. How come they haven’t arrested anyone?”

  “I don’t know, Frances,” I said. “Why don’t you call up the detectives and find out what’s taking them so long?”

  She grimaced. “I told you that Jack Embers was no good.”

  I bit back a retort and decided to change the subject. “Bennett called me early this morning about that auction he attended last week. He bought something he’s quite excited about and said to expect delivery today or tomorrow.”

  “What is it?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me. Just that this acquisition was perfect timing.”

  “Hmph,” Frances said, “if Abe were here, the Mister would have told him.”

  I kept my cool. “I’m sure you’re right. But as you’re always so eager to point out, I’m not Abe.”

  That shut her up. “I’ll be in my office,” she said and spun, ready to march away again.

  Although I wasn’t the only person Frances irked, I was the only one required to work with her on a regular basis. Shortly after Abe’s murder, she had put forth considerable effort to get me discharged. For a while there I thought Bennett would take her word over mine. Fortunately, however, though a bit battered and bruised, I’d hung on. Unfortunately, so had she.

  Joy of joys. I was stuck with Frances until she chose to retire, which, from the looks of things, wouldn’t be anytime soon.

  “Just a moment, Frances.”

  She turned and I hesitated. I didn’t want to bicker with this woman. Nor did I want to become the tyrannical boss who always insisted on “my way or the highway.” Frances had grown accustomed to working with Abe, a gentle fellow who had let her run the place because she could. She knew every employee, every procedure, and where every dust bunny was hiding. What she lacked in people skills she more than made up for in efficiency. Although I never got the impression she expected to be promoted into Abe’s position, I did get the impression she resented me.

  It would take a great deal of effort to turn our relationship around but every little bit might help. Over the weekend I’d come up with a radical idea, which I decided to broach.

  “Frances, when you and I were discussing this re-enactor event, you mentioned that your parents had participated in something like this a long time ago.”

  She inched back toward my desk. “ ‘Long time ago?’” she parroted. “What are you saying? That I’m old?”

  “Certainly not,” I snapped. Mentally counting to five before I spoke, I tried again. “I’ve been thinking . . .” I pointed to one of the two wing chairs opposite my desk. “Have a seat.”

  Warily, she lowered herself into the chair on the left, perched on the edge as though preparing to leap if I made any sudden move. “You can’t dock me for not being available over the weekend,” she said. “Time off is my time. If I don’t answer my cell phone, that’s my business.”

  “Frances,” I said, veering away from volatility, “you and I both know that you possess a particular talent for detail.”

  Her eyebrows were perfect little tadpoles. I wondered how long it took her to pencil them in so precisely each morning—they couldn’t possibly grow that way naturally. Right now, the two were drawn together so tightly that it looked like they were trying to kiss. “What do you mean?”

  I told her about Tank, adding that I believed the female detective brought a stronger skill set to the investigation this time. I didn’t add my impression that she added a stronger personality, too. “But they still have an enormous task ahead of them.”

  “And you want to ‘help’ them? Is that it?”

  I ignored her sarcasm. “Look at the size of our police department. Even if you add Tank and the assistance from the task force, it’s not nearly enough. There are over three thousand people at that encampment who might have heard or seen something they don’t even realize is significant. Zachary Kincade was not a nice man. Whoever killed him either waited for him to separate himself from the group, or lured him away. My gut tells me he wouldn’t have trusted those two women if they showed up, so I highly doubt they were involved.”

  Frances sniffed. “And of course you assume our landscape consultants are innocent too, right?”

  I ignored the jab at Jack, and plunged on, “You have a unique talent . . .”

  A tiny smile played at her lips. “For gossip.”

  “Basically, yes.”

  She pulled her chair closer and leaned forward. “You want me to go down to that encampment to snoop.”

  “That’s the general idea.”

  For the first time in a long time, I saw a genuine smile break across her face. Her eyes sparkled with interest for a brief moment, then dimmed and narrowed. “What if what I find out isn’t what you want to hear?”

  “All I’m looking for is the truth.”

  She watched me without blinking. “That handsome gardener might have gotten away with murder once already. Do you really want to know the truth or are you just sending me in there because you’re hoping to find a way to pin the crime on someone else?”

  Anger mounted a hot path up my chest. “If you can’t be objective, Frances, tell me now and you can just stay here in the office and reorganize the file cabinets instead.”

  “The files don’t need reorganizing.”

  We stared at each other. “Fine,” I said, “forget it.”

  “You don’t want your Mr. Embers to be guilty so you’ve talked yourself into believing he’s not. If you knew the whole story . . .”

  “I do know the whole stor
y.”

  She sat back, eyeing me suspiciously. “Who told you?”

  “You don’t need to know.”

  She chewed the inside of her cheek for a moment. I was about to dismiss her when she asked, “Are you going to make me wear one of those hoop skirt dresses?”

  It took me a minute to shift gears. “Not at all,” I said. “The Living History is open to the public during certain hours of the day and that means there will be plenty of visitors in street clothes.”

  Her face fell. “Oh.”

  “You want to wear one?”

  “Civil War re-enactments are pretty big around these parts. Have been since I was little. My parents used to take us, but I never got to wear the really fancy clothes. I guess I don’t really need one.” She looked up at me. “But . . . if I had one of those hoop skirts I could meander around even when it’s closed to the public. I could fit in better if I looked like one of them.”

  Well, knock me over with a feather. Nodding, and thinking about that central “mall” Pierpont had pointed out on my visit to the camp, I encouraged her, “There’s a group of shops in the center of the camp—sutlers, I think they’re called—if you like, you can go there first and pick out a dress.”

  “This gets reimbursed because I’m doing this on company time, right?”

  “You promise to be objective?”

  A shrewd smile. “As objective as possible for me. That good enough?”

  “I suppose it’ll have to be.”

  MARSHFIELD MANOR BOASTED 150 ROOMS IN its colorful, tri-fold brochures, but I suspected that whoever had come up with that number had miscounted. Hidden rooms, secret rooms . . . I would bet there were at least a few dozen the brochure writer didn’t know about. One of these days if things ever calmed down and we stopped having murders on property, I thought I might actually attempt counting them for myself.

  In addition to my office, several other administrative areas occupied the third floor of the mansion’s west wing. Bennett’s private living space—a suite of rooms expansive enough for a large family to live comfortably—sat directly above. Both floors in this wing were off-limits to visitors. In my comings and goings, I could easily avoid the public rooms if I so chose, but I preferred routes that took me through the mansion’s busier spaces.

  I walked east from my office down the long corridor, emerging in the Gathering Hall. While the administrative areas smelled of industrial carpeting, fresh paint, and copy machines, the rest of the mansion smelled like history. Whenever I wandered through the main rooms of the house—like this one—all newness dissolved. Musty cushions, old lace, and traces of cigar smoke graced every corner. I imagined patient ghosts peeking out, waiting to share their stories. I loved every inch of the place.

  When the Marshfield family had first built this home, they’d entertained hundreds of guests every year. This room was meant for exactly that—coming together late in the evening for card-playing, songs, and stories. The Gathering Hall had been repapered recently as part of our plan to restore and renovate the manor. Based on small pieces of wall coverings we’d found behind switch plates, and working from old photographs, a French company specializing in custom wallpaper had been able to re-create the original design. Another company—this time a local one—had restored four coordinating sofas and chairs.

  I smiled as I took it all in. Despite the new additions, the scent and sense of times gone by managed to remain.

  Continuing through the Gathering Hall, I skirted around the visitor barricades and thought about everything that had gone on. While the police conducted their investigation on the south grounds, I still had an estate to run. There was plenty of work for me every minute of every day, from cataloguing new acquisitions, to overseeing scheduled maintenance, to trying to be clairvoyant by anticipating problems before they arose. I’d certainly fallen down on the job on that score. Of course, predicting murder hardly fell under my job description.

  One of the most important aspects of my job, however, was taking care of its people. Bennett viewed his employees as family and I needed to prove to him that I could protect those he valued most. With that in mind, I decided to head outdoors to check on Davey. Even though not technically an employee of the manor, he was currently working for us. And a broken nose was no small deal.

  I made my way to the very center of the home, past the wide, winding staircase to the east wing. Still too early in the morning for visitors, the staff was busy preparing for their eventual onslaught. No one saw me slip through the first door to my right into the back stairway. Red-walled and dark, with only scant light from narrow windows to keep the area passable during the day, the stairway wound around an elevator shaft, a black metal caged monstrosity that ran between the basement and the fourth floor.

  I exited at the first floor and made my way to the glass-walled Birdcage Room where we served a sampling of the good life to guests in the form of afternoon tea. Waitresses and other staff members were busy placing fresh flowers on each of the tables, preparing for the busy day ahead.

  Pushing through the outer doors of the Birdcage, I breathed in the clean morning air. Today would certainly warm up nicely—I could feel it, smell the mugginess in the air—and the hint of sun on my face this early portended a gorgeous day ahead.

  I found Davey working on the tall evergreen hedges that formed our garden maze. The young man wore a huge white bandage across his nose, with lines of white medical tape stretching out from side to side and up and down. His beard was gone—shaved, I assumed, by the doctor who’d reset Davey’s nose—and his chin and upper lip were strangely pale in comparison to the rest of his face. When he spotted me, he stopped clipping the greenery and placed his giant pair of pruning shears on the ground.

  “You need something, Ms. Wheaton?” he asked.

  “I heard you were coming in today. Shouldn’t you be home?” I said, “I mean, if you sweat out here—and you will—your bandage will come loose.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve got extra.”

  I waited for him to continue. He didn’t. “How are you doing?” I asked.

  Without looking at me he shrugged again. “Been better.”

  “Is there anything you need, or something I can do for you? I’m so sorry you were hurt. Don’t you think you should take a few days off . . .”

  “Ms. Wheaton . . .”

  “Call me Grace.”

  “Can’t. You’re my boss. Jack always says we have to be formal with our clients.” Turning away from me, he ran his hand along the neatly trimmed line of greenery that served as the northernmost wall of the maze. “I don’t want any days off. What am I going to do? Sit home and stare? I do that too much already.”

  I let that go without comment. “The maze looks great.”

  He finally turned to me. “You think so? I don’t see much difference.”

  “It’s looking much better.” I waited a beat, and even though I already knew the answer, I wanted to keep the conversation going. “So how long have you been working for Jack?”

  He ducked his head, and picked up the giant shears. “He told you I’m the family screwup, didn’t he? That’s why you’re out here, right? To check to make sure I’m not messing up on the job?”

  “Not at all. I was worried about you.”

  He gave me a sideways glance. “How come? You don’t even know me.”

  Was he always this difficult? “You’re right. I don’t. So tell me about yourself.”

  My question seemed to amuse him. “Let’s see . . . didn’t go to college, can’t keep a job. Mom died thinking she raised a loser son.”

  “Davey,” I said sharply, “don’t talk like that.”

  “But it’s true. You know that children’s story where everything the king touches turns to gold?”

  I knew where this was going.

  “Everything I touch turns to . . .” he pointed down toward the base of the shrubs, at the manure fertilizer, “that.”

  “Look at this maze of shrubb
ery,” I said. “It’s gorgeous. You’re doing an awesome job.”

  For the first time, he smiled. It was a crooked little grin that reminded me of Jack’s. These Embers boys were a handsome bunch all right. “Just wait,” he said, “it won’t take long. One of these days I’ll do something to get Jack angry and he’ll toss me back to my dad’s place. And I’ll watch TV and play video games until somebody decides I need another chance again. But I’ll probably just screw that one up, too.”

  “That’s a pretty fatalistic attitude.”

  Another shrug. His favorite means of communication, apparently. Though he was twenty-seven years old, Davey came across like a kid in junior high—one who hadn’t yet learned how to converse with adults, nor make his own way in the world. I started to understand why Jack spent so much time with him. He needed help.

  “I think you’re doing great,” I said. “This maze has never looked better.”

  “You’re just saying that,” he said with a frown. “I mean, it’s not like I created it or anything. All I’m doing is maintaining the thing. You’re just saying that to be nice.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but the truth was I had been just saying that to make him feel better. Although the maze had gotten a tiny bit overgrown recently, Davey’s trimming had brought it back to its regular pristine self. No better, no worse.

  “If you need anything,” I said, unable to find a reason to keep talking, “you be sure to let me know.”

  He nodded and turned back to his trimming. I could have sworn I heard him mutter under his breath, “Yeah, well, how about a new life?”

  Chapter 13

  AS I WALKED BACK, MY CELL PHONE RANG. IT was Jack. “Hey,” he said when I answered, “how are you holding up?”

  “Me? I’m worried about you.”

  “You’ve got enough on your plate,” he said, “I shouldn’t have burdened you yesterday.”

  “I’m glad you did. I really needed to know the truth.”