Grace Interrupted

by Julie Hyzy

  Florian was silent for several seconds. “You can’t do that,” he said very softly.

  “Don’t push me.”

  They were both quiet for so long I thought they might have walked away.

  A moment later Pierpont asked, “Do we have a deal?”

  Florian uttered an expletive, then agreed. “I really despise you, Rob. Everybody hates you, you know. You better watch your back before you end up like Zachary.”

  We heard the snap of tent flaps, letting us know that Florian had left. Frances and I stared at each other wide-eyed as Pierpont said something under his breath.

  But we missed what it was because Hennessey stumbled into the tent at that moment, nearly jumping out of his breeches when he saw us hunched there. “Hey,” he said, his expression morphing from anger to delight in the heartbeat it took for him to recognize Frances. “Changed your mind, have you?”

  “Certainly not,” Frances snapped, ignoring my frantic gesticulations to keep it down. There was no way I wanted Pierpont to recognize either of our voices right now.

  “Sorry, didn’t know this was your tent,” I said quietly. I started to shove Frances out ahead of me, but Hennessey blocked the way.

  “You’re trespassing,” he said, “and now you two are going to sit down and tell me why.”

  “But—”

  “Sit.”

  There was nowhere to do so but on the bed. Frances and I remained standing.

  “I’m not stupid enough to think you two came to visit me,” he said. “What’s really going on here? You trying to steal my stuff?”

  Frances, forgetting to keep her voice low, said, “How dare you!”

  “This is all just a big misunderstanding,” I said quietly, trying to keep close enough to the truth to talk our way out of this without actually spilling too much. “We thought we heard someone talking about . . . us.” I waved my hand in the opposite direction of Pierpont’s tent. “We wanted to hear what was being said. And it’s hard to eavesdrop where everybody can see you doing it. We just ducked in for a minute to listen. We didn’t realize this was your tent. Now, if you’ll let us go . . .”

  He didn’t budge. Instead, pointing to Frances, he said, “I’m a good catch, Frannie. Ask anyone. You shouldn’t be so quick to judge.”

  She stayed silent, but if looks could kill he’d be dead on the floor.

  “I’ll let you go on one condition,” Hennessey said. He waited for us to respond. When we didn’t, he continued. “You,” he said, pointing to me, “tell me what you’re really doing here. I don’t believe your cockamamie story for one minute.”

  I slid a glance toward Frances. She shrugged.

  “Frances and I are looking for information.”

  He waited.

  “We thought that if we blended in we might pick up clues about who killed Zachary Kincade.”

  “Didn’t they just arrest the guy who did it?” he asked. “Jack Embers?”

  “We don’t believe he’s guilty.”

  “Who do you two think you are? Jessica Fletcher and Nancy Drew?”

  I put my hands up. “I know, but . . .” I suddenly realized there was no time like the present for gathering information. “Someone from your camp reported seeing Mr. Embers here the night of the murder. Do you know who it was who reported him?”

  “That would have been Florian.”

  “How come he never said anything to us?”

  Hennessey shrugged.

  I asked, “Don’t you think it’s possible another re-enactor might have killed Kincade?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Who are you thinking of?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said, thinking, Florian, who else? The way my luck was running, Hennessey would turn out to be one of Florian’s best buddies. Sharing my suspicions could put my head on the chopping block in a hurry. “I mean, I know how ridiculous that sounds because of how much everybody liked Kincade . . .”

  He made a noise. “Are you kidding?”

  “I thought he was next in line to win the general’s position?”

  Hennessey laughed. “Only because he was buying votes. The old-timers hate his guts and only some of the younger crowd—the ones who think these weeks are for partying and getting drunk instead of experiencing history—were willing to vote for him. He wanted the job bad enough to fill those youngsters’ tents with liquor and line the older folks’ pockets with cash. Made me sick to watch.”

  “You didn’t do anything about it?” I asked.

  “Do what? Everybody saw what was happening. Everybody knew he was going to win.”

  Frances asked, “Did you tell the police this?”

  He shrugged. “Sure, I mentioned it. They didn’t seem to care. Not much motive for murder there, you know?”

  Unless you were his opponent, I thought. Hennessey must have read my mind. “Not Florian,” he said, “not a chance.”

  “Why not?”

  “The man may be a brainiac, but he has no passion.” He looked at Frances and wiggled his eyebrows. “And honey, that’s where he and I are worlds apart.”

  JUST OUT OF EARSHOT OF THE CIVIL WAR group, I put in a call to Ronny Tooney. Frances stood next to me listening in, but for the first time I didn’t mind. “Grace,” he said when he answered. “You got my package of photos?”

  “I’m not calling about the cat.”

  “You’re not? You’re not backing out of handing her over, are you?”

  “Tooney . . .”

  “Ron.”

  “Tooney,” I continued, “I might need your help.”

  I could practically hear his attention perk. “For what?” he asked.

  “First of all, what are your rates?”

  “Seriously? You want to hire me?”

  “Your rates?”

  He mumbled to himself and I heard paper moving in the background. “I get a hundred an hour plus expenses.”

  Marshfield Manor could easily afford that, but I said, “Too high.”

  “Okay, fifty an hour.”

  “Deal. This is what I need.” I asked him to do some digging. “Specifically, a guy named Jim Florian. Got that?” I spelled it. “He seems to want to take over for his boss, a Robert Pierpont, but Pierpont isn’t letting him.”

  “This Pierpont. Is that P-i-e-r like a dock by the lake, or P-e-e-r, like what I sometimes do into windows?”

  “Tooney!”

  “I’m just messing with you,” he said with a chuckle.

  “Well, don’t mess this up, okay?” I said. “And it’s Pier like a dock.”

  “Got it.”

  I explained a little bit about the structure of the re-enactors’ group as I understood it, and mentioned the conversation Frances and I had overheard. “Sounds like a little blackmail going on here. See what you can find out.”

  “You got it. How soon do you need it?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “You know that will probably mean I have to put the cat owners on hold for a couple more days.”

  “Really?” I said. “What a shame.”

  BACK AT THE OFFICE, I LOOKED UP AN ADDRESS then spent my drive home arguing with myself as to whether I should actually use it or not. Half my brain warned not to get involved because unsolicited interventions are almost universally unwelcome. But the other half, my more empathetic side, encouraged me to trust my gut.

  So, when I reached the center of town, I didn’t stop at Amethyst Cellars. Nor did I take the turn onto Granville, which would have seen me home. Instead, I drove past the shops and businesses and headed east about five more miles to the very outskirts of Emberstowne.

  The house I was looking for was a cookie-cutter copy of its neighbors, a modest two-story, probably built in the 1970s, with tan-colored brick and pale green siding. Mature trees shaded the deep front lot, and I pulled onto the gravel driveway wondering if anyone was home. There was a vacant, lonely feel to the place despite the fact that the shrubs were trimmed, the lawn was lush, and colorful annuals danced
in the breeze. As I pulled all the way up and put the car into park, I realized what gave me that impression. The roof was uneven, the siding streaked with dirt, and one of the corner downspouts had separated from the gutters.

  I made my way up the front steps, noting the weak and wobbly iron railing and the grimy film on the storm door. Taking a deep breath, I told myself that my concern outweighed my dread. I rang the doorbell.

  Almost immediately I heard heavy footfalls. The big wooden door swung open and Mr. Gordon Embers gave me a quick once-over. “What do you want?”

  “Good evening, Mr. Embers. I’m Grace Wheaton,” I said. “We met the other day down at the Civil War re-enactment camp.”

  He squinted. I watched recognition dawn. “Oh sure. My son talks about you.”

  “He does?” I said, pleased to hear it. “Is Jack here?”

  “No, I mean Davey talks about you. You seem to have impressed him. That doesn’t happen too often.”

  “Actually,” I said, “I was looking for Jack.”

  Abruptly, his demeanor changed. “So I heard. What do you want with him?”

  “I’m a friend,” I said. “I heard he was out and tried calling him on his cell, but I haven’t had any luck. I thought maybe he was here with you. I’d like to talk with him.”

  “Don’t know where he is. When he’s upset he goes off by himself. Nothing any of us can do about it. Just the way he is.”

  This was not turning out the way I’d hoped. “Is Davey here?”

  Suspicion clouded his eyes. “He didn’t just walk out on the job without telling anyone again, did he?”

  I held up both hands. “No, not at all. He gave notice to me directly, in fact. Can I come in and talk with him for just a few minutes?”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Dad,” Davey said from behind his father, “let her in.”

  Grudgingly, Gordon Embers stepped aside, widening the door to allow me to pass. The place smelled of old sweat and burning toast. I must have reacted because he said, “We were just making dinner.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “It’s okay, Grace,” Davey said. “Grilled cheese reheats pretty well and I wasn’t really hungry anyway. Dad was making me eat something.”

  From where I stood, I could see into a bright yellow kitchen. Very 1970s. They showed me into the living room, where a flattened brown shag carpet and a white flagstone fireplace were focal points. Davey invited me to sit on one of the two gold sofas that faced each other in front of the hearth. All they needed was a ceramic avocado-colored lamp in the corner . . . And, yep. There it was.

  “I just wanted to see how you were doing, Davey,” I said. “I know that sounds lame, but it really isn’t. This has been a tough week for you and now with Jack’s arrest . . .”

  “Have you talked with him since he was released?”

  “I was hoping you had.”

  Davey flicked a look over my shoulder before meeting my gaze. “Ever since the first time this happened, Jack’s become a real loner.”

  Mr. Embers hovered behind me, as though he was afraid I would make a fast move and send his son scurrying for cover. I wanted to assure him I was no threat, but there was no tactful way to do so. I tried to ignore his presence, but it was tough.

  Davey must have sensed it because he said, “Why don’t you go eat while it’s hot, Dad? I’ll join you later. I want to talk with Grace for a little bit.”

  “Sure, of course,” Mr. Embers said, and left us alone.

  Davey waited until his dad was out of the room to whisper, “I think he thinks you’re my girlfriend.” Before I could say anything, he added playfully, “Just wait until he finds out it’s Jack you’re interested in, not me. That’ll throw him.”

  “How’s he handling the latest developments?” I asked.

  Davey stared up at the ceiling, sinking deeper into the cushions of his couch. I knew he was in his late twenties, but right now he looked like a terrified ten-year-old. “It’s starting all over again,” he said. “It’s like there’s a curse on our family. At least as it relates to that other family.”

  “The Kincades.”

  “Yeah, them.” He looked away. “I thought this was over thirteen years ago. I thought we’d put it all behind us. And now this.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “Jack will be cleared soon. He has to be.”

  He tilted his head. “Doesn’t matter if he’s innocent. Everybody in town believes he’s guilty of killing those guys.”

  I thought it was interesting that he didn’t use the names of the victims when he spoke of them. “I believe he’s innocent. I’m convinced one of Zachary’s Civil War re-enactment buddies is guilty.” I didn’t want to confuse the issue or get anyone’s hopes up with my theories about Florian, but I added, “And I’m sure the police will figure that out soon, too.”

  Davey looked unconvinced. “You have faith in these local cops?”

  “I have to.”

  “They don’t know what they’re doing,” he said. “Either that or they’re all just corrupt.”

  “I’m not crazy about that woman, Tank, but she certainly doesn’t strike me as dishonest. A little bit stuck on herself, maybe,” I said, “but Rodriguez seems like an honorable guy.”

  Davey shrugged. “Honorable,” he said derisively, “right.” Suddenly his eyes brightened. “You want honor? I talked with those Civil War guys for a while the other day. They can tell you about honor. About duty. About staying true and doing what’s right.”

  I didn’t know where this was coming from, so I kept my mouth shut and listened.

  “I’m going back down there tomorrow,” he said. “It’s the last day of this encampment and my last chance to hang out with people who really take pride in what they do, you know?”

  “Your brother Jack takes pride . . .”

  “Jack wants me to do everything his way. He thinks he understands me, but he has no idea. None.” Davey’s voice lowered, and he glanced toward the kitchen. “I’ve only hung out at this Civil War re-enacting camp for a couple days but I already feel like I’ve learned a lot. About history. About myself even.”

  “That’s great,” I said.

  The light went out of his eyes. “Yeah, well, what about when they leave again? Then what? I’m back to where I was.”

  I bit my lip. “Davey,” I said, “I don’t want to come off like someone giving advice . . .”

  He waited. “Go ahead, you might as well. Everybody else does.”

  “Why not use the enjoyment you found in Civil War re-enacting as a springboard? Maybe there’s something you want to do that isn’t . . .”

  “Gardening?” he prompted.

  “I don’t know what other interests you have, but there’s nothing stopping you from learning.”

  He seemed to consider it. “How did you get to be such an optimist? I guess you’ve never experienced a personal loss, huh?”

  “Are you kidding?” I said. “I’ve just learned to fake it long enough to get through the tough times. By faking it I sometimes even fool myself.” Hearing my words, I added, “Sounds pretty ridiculous, doesn’t it?”

  Davey shrugged. “I envy you. I wish I could feel positive about life. I’ve tried, but it just doesn’t work. Not in this life, anyway.”

  “Have you ever talked with anyone? Professionally, I mean?”

  “Like a psychologist?” He gave an unhappy laugh. “No. My mom tried to talk me into doing something like that, but I didn’t want to.”

  “What about your dad?”

  He fidgeted. “My dad backed me up. Said that it would go on my record as a mark against me.”

  “What record?”

  He shrugged. “Any record. All records. Whatever.” He shrugged again. “Lotta good it’s done me to avoid the head doctors, though, huh? I’ll be thirty in a couple of years and I’ve got nothing to show for my life. How much worse of a record can you get than that?”

  I decided
to change the subject. “When did you last talk with Jack?”

  “He doesn’t want to talk to me,” Davey said, playing with a fingernail. “He thinks I think he’s guilty. Of both murders.”

  “Do you?”

  Eye contact. “No!”

  “Have you told him that?”

  “He should know.” Davey went back to his fingernail. “And besides, Jack believes what he wants to believe. He knows people still suspect him of the first murder. He clumps me in there with everybody else. Even after all these years.” The thought seemed to depress him. “And now it’s starting all over again. How am I supposed to deal with that now?” he asked rhetorically. “I want to be like those Civil War re-enactors. I want to do something honorable. To make it right for everyone.”

  I waited for him to explain what he meant by that, but he went back to examining his fingernail.

  “I don’t know why I’m talking with you,” he said quietly, “I just don’t think I can do this anymore.” He finally made eye contact again. “You know?”

  “Do what, Davey?”

  He glanced toward the kitchen, hunching over as though trying to make himself small. Again, I felt as though I were talking to a child rather than a grown man. “The only reason they arrested Jack this time is because they believe he’s guilty from last time.”

  I nodded encouragingly.

  “But if they knew he was innocent, then maybe they wouldn’t . . .”

  Acting on a hunch, I leaned forward. “The only way the police will ever know Jack is innocent is if they found out who really killed Lyle.”

  Davey’s face tightened in pain. “I know,” he said under his breath, “I know.”

  Mr. Embers strode into the room, lasering his gaze on me. “I thought you were here to cheer Davey up,” he said, “not to open up old wounds. What are you really here for, anyway?”