Grace to the Finish

by Julie Hyzy

  “Not the same thing,” Liza said.

  Anger and frustration threatened to get the better of me.

  “This is ridiculous.” Why did I allow my sister to get under my skin? “This time I really am leaving,” I said. I pulled open the door and stepped out.

  “I’m not moving to that dinky apartment,” Liza shouted after me. “You and Bennett need to do a whole lot better than that.”

  Chapter 18

  “I’m not worried, Gracie,” Bennett said the next morning. He, Frances, and I were gathered in my office. Outside my window the day sparkled with bright promise but my mood was dark and volatile as a storm cloud.

  “I wish I shared your optimism,” I said, “but there was a manic gleam in my sister’s eyes that I haven’t seen in a long time. Prison didn’t serve to rehabilitate her, it heightened her rage.”

  Frances shifted in her seat. She’d remained silent while I’d brought the two of them up to date on last night’s events, but her pointed look and exaggerated scowl assured me that she sided with me this time rather than with Bennett.

  “We can make this go away.” Bennett tapped the top of my desk to reclaim my attention. “As I’ve told you, I’ve had to face far more troublesome adversaries.”

  “Troublesome?” I couldn’t help myself, I scoffed at his choice of descriptive terms. “She’s out for blood.”

  “Literally,” Frances chimed in.

  “When does their attorney want to meet with us?” Bennett asked.

  “They haven’t specified. They haven’t even provided their attorney’s name so we can’t get a jump on fact-finding.”

  Pushing himself to his feet, Bennett smiled down at me. “Whenever they want to meet, let’s book it. The sooner we put this behind us, the happier we all will be.”

  “I don’t want to negotiate with them. It isn’t right.”

  “What’s right? Or what’s best? They’re not always the same thing,” he said. He tapped my desk again. “On another topic, what’s the status on Virginia’s murder? In the paper this morning, I read that the detectives have gone back to question the homeless man, Oscar, to try to get more information about what he may have seen while he was taking shelter at the Granite Building.” Bennett looked hopeful. “Apparently they’re bringing in a police sketch artist.”

  “The newspaper got that part wrong.” I sighed. “Rodriguez and Flynn would have loved to bring in a sketch artist, but Oscar’s eyesight is so bad he couldn’t come up with anything more descriptive than a guesstimate on Craig’s height and weight and age.” I told him the rest of what I knew so far, which wasn’t much. “Tooney and I are meeting Cynthia Quinn today to interview her.”

  Bennett gave me a puzzled look. “That name isn’t familiar. Remind me who she is?”

  “The inspector that gave Bruce and Scott a thumbs-up on the structural integrity of the Granite Building.”

  “What do you hope to learn from her?”

  Frances snorted. She’d asked the very same question earlier this morning.

  I didn’t have a good answer for Bennett. “The inspector may have seen something she doesn’t even realize is important.”

  Frances pivoted to face Bennett. “The inspector missed the fact that a squatter was living on the property. How observant can she be?”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “But I don’t know what I’m looking for. I need to keep digging until something pops.”

  Bennett nodded, looking amused. “You’ve proven yourself time and again and I don’t blame you for digging under these rocks, however remote the chance you’ll turn up a clue.” He sobered. “But please, for my sake, Gracie, be careful. Let’s try to avoid a life-threatening encounter this time.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I said.

  Frances snorted again.

  Bennett wagged a finger at her. “That goes for you, too.”

  • • •

  What passed for Cynthia Quinn’s office sat in the sketchy part of town not far from where the Promise Clock used to hang. I turned toward what was left of it—gaping ragged edges stretching from buildings on opposite sides of the street. The ornate clock mechanism that had sat at its center had been blown to smithereens not all that long ago. I shuddered as I recalled the part I’d played when the clock met its untimely and violent end.

  Tooney noticed. “Brings back bad memories, doesn’t it?”

  “Scary memories, that’s for sure.” I shoulder-chucked him. “But everything turned out all right. Thanks to you.”

  His homely face colored and he cleared his throat. “How come you wanted to be part of interviewing the inspector?” he asked with an exaggerated glance at our surroundings. “This isn’t exactly an optimal setting.”

  Scrappy weeds poked through uneven sidewalk cracks. Many of the businesses on this stretch—long boarded shut—were so layered with graffiti that taggers’ messages were lost in a faded rainbow of paint. Plenty of apartment buildings were still occupied, however, evidenced by ratty curtains dancing out from open windows.

  Beside Cynthia’s office, the establishments that remained in business—and I spotted only two—were a liquor store with windows latticed in iron bars, and a similarly armored tiny outlet that offered cash for car titles.

  “True enough,” I said. “But Rodriguez thought I might have luck with her. I don’t know why. He was a little vague on that score.”

  Tooney shrugged, his cheeks still pink. “Not that I mind the company, of course.”

  Cynthia’s place of business consisted of a narrow storefront wedged between two three-story apartment houses. Uneven adhesive letters—new, from the looks of them—identified this as the home of AA+ BUILDING INSPECTION. The front door and wide picture window, while clean, had dingy corners as though the glass had been wiped in a hurry.

  Tooney pulled open the door, making the three-bell chime above ring out our arrival. Two people, one man, one woman, glanced up. Facing us from behind brown metal desks, they wore identical expressions of eager anticipation. Other than the two desks, a set of guest chairs for each, and a single four-drawer filing cabinet in the back corner, the place was empty. I speculated the company had either just moved in or was on its way out.

  The woman got to her feet first. “Good morning,” she said, giving us an obvious once-over. “I take it you’re looking for home inspection services? Are you buying or selling?”

  Tooney cleared his throat before reminding her—almost apologetically—that he’d made an appointment to speak with her today.

  Except for her voice, so high and squeaky she sounded like an animated rodent, Cynthia registered average on just about every measurement I could think of: height, weight, looks, build. About forty years old and a little shorter than me, she had what my mom used to call mousy brown hair pulled back into a messy bun.

  “Oh, that’s right,” she said, her tone straining for new heights.

  I did my best not to cringe.

  “I almost forgot,” she said with a smile that shocked lines into her face so fast I couldn’t believe the transformation. I revised my estimate. This woman had fifty in the rearview mirror.

  “Come sit down,” she said.

  The man sitting at the other desk grumbled lightly, picked up a leather portfolio, and pulled keys from his pocket. “I’m going out,” he said. “If I’m not back when you leave, lock up.”

  Cynthia gave him a dismissive wave. He circled his key ring around an index finger, palmed the set, and pushed his way out the front doors, sending the bells into another spasm of jingles.

  “What can I do for you?” Cynthia asked when Tooney and I were settled in the hard plastic seats across from her.

  Frustration crossed Tooney’s features for the briefest moment. “As I mentioned on the phone, we’re here to talk with you about your inspection of the Granite Building,” he said, p
ulling out a notebook. “I know the police interviewed you about what you may have seen or not seen while you were there, but I’d like to go over the facts with you one more time.”

  She nodded, then turned to me. “Are you his wife?”

  Tooney blushed again. “No,” he said very quickly. “This is Grace. I work for her. As I mentioned in my phone call, she’s partnering with the Granite Building’s new owners.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” she said, tapping her forehead. “Silly me. Grace. From Marshfield. Right.”

  I’d introduced myself when we’d first walked in. This woman either had a lot on her mind or the attention span of a flea.

  “You know that a woman was killed at the Granite Building, right?” I asked. “The police told you?”

  “I have an alibi,” she said. “I told them that.”

  “Of course you do,” I said, beginning to understand why Rodriguez hadn’t gotten much out of her. “We’re here to ask you about things you may have seen or experienced while you were inspecting the building.” A thought occurred to me. “You did perform the inspection yourself, correct? You didn’t ask someone else to do it for you?” I gestured vaguely toward the empty desk where the man had sat moments ago.

  “I do all my inspections myself,” she said with no small degree of pride. “And as I told those two officers, I didn’t notice anything of interest while I was there. The lady hadn’t been killed yet, remember.” She sat up straighter, her voice growing defensively shrill. “How on earth could I notice something before it happened?”

  Tooney leaned forward. “What sort of things do you evaluate during an inspection?” He smiled gently and kept his tone even.

  The calming technique worked. Her shoulders relaxed as she enumerated the many key areas that required attention in order to perform a satisfactory inspection.

  When she finished, I asked, “How long does all this take? Generally, I mean.”

  “Several hours,” she said. “And in this instance, I went back a couple of times. The assignment was simply too big to complete in one visit.”

  One of the many things she claimed to examine was evidence of vandalism. “Did the police mention the fact that someone was living on the premises?”

  “The squatter?” she asked. “I saw nothing that made me suspect anyone had broken in.” A second later, she added, “Of course, there was so much stuff lying around that I could hardly be held responsible for knowing what belonged in the building and what a bum may have dragged in. I’m not there to take inventory, you understand. I’m there to ensure that the structure is sound.”

  “What about Virginia?” I asked. “She hired you, didn’t she?”

  Cynthia shook her head, her mouth a prim line. “Oh, no. The bank couldn’t hire us. That would be a conflict of interest. They want to sell the building. They want a clean inspection. Your partners hired me.”

  I could have sworn Bruce and Scott told me that Virginia had set up the inspection for them. “So you never worked with Virginia?” I asked.

  She squirmed. “No, you misunderstand. Virginia and the other bank officers know what a wonderful job this company does and they recommend us to their customers.”

  “Aha,” I said. Now it made sense. Of course my roommates would have depended on Virginia’s recommendation. “How often does that happen?” I asked. “That your company is called to do inspections—due to a bank officer’s suggestion?”

  She squirmed in her seat again. “Now and then.”

  “Now and then?” I repeated.

  “All right, pretty often. The bank is one of our best sources for new leads. But it’s all on the up and up.”

  “You mentioned visiting the building more than once,” Tooney said. “Did you have keys of your own?”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “I always had to pick them up from Virginia first. And then return them immediately afterward.”

  “What time of day did you go there?” he asked. “Usually?”

  “Mornings or early afternoon. When the light is best. Even though the electricity was on, there’s nothing like natural daylight when you need to get a close look.” She smiled, looking old again. “Of course, I always carry a bright flashlight. Don’t want to miss those dark corners.”

  I thought about the windows out front here and their dirty corners. “Do you own AA+ Building Inspection?”

  She laughed. “Heavens, no. I only work here.”

  “How long?” Tooney asked.

  She squinted. “Three years, give or take.”

  Oscar, the homeless man, had told us that Craig and Virginia used to meet at the building after banking hours. And Virginia controlled the keys. Which meant that Cynthia probably had never run into them there. But then again, Oscar had also mentioned that Craig sometimes worked in the building on his own.

  “Does the name ‘Craig’ mean anything to you?” I asked.

  “Greg?”

  “No. Craig,” I said enunciating more clearly.

  She started to shake her head, then stopped. “Wait, do you mean Craig who used to work here?”

  Tooney and I exchanged a look. “I don’t know,” I said. “What’s his last name?”

  “It’s . . .” She held up a finger. “Give me a minute.”

  Could it be this easy? I imagined that, in seconds, we’d find out that Craig had recently left AA+ Building Inspection and that he’d had access to the Granite Building via Virginia. Once we had his full name, Rodriguez and Flynn could start checking him out.

  I held my breath.

  “Oh, darn,” Cynthia said. “I can’t remember.”

  I pointed around the office. “Is there some file here with former employees’ names? Maybe you could look him up?”

  “Are you kidding?” She laughed as though I’d asked the most ridiculous favor. “We have nothing here. Literally.” She half turned to look at the filing cabinet in the far corner. “You see that? Our open assignments are in there, and maybe three months’ worth of records. Enough to keep us afloat until we move into our permanent space.” She wiggled her fingers in the air. “This is temporary. Our lease was up and our new spot wasn’t complete yet. This is the only location the boss could find.” She shrugged. “I would prefer to work from home.”

  “How long ago did Craig leave the company?” I asked.

  Cynthia scrunched her nose. “Has to be a couple of years, at least. We only worked together a few months. Not even a full year, I don’t think.”

  My hopes fell. This long-gone Craig was probably not the man we were looking for after all.

  “What about your boss?” Tooney asked. “Is that the man who left? Would he know Craig’s last name, or where Craig went to work next?”

  “The guy who left started here after I did. He wouldn’t have a clue. The boss is out of the country on vacation until our new space is ready.”

  “He may remember Craig’s last name,” I said, though I knew we were grasping at straws.

  “I’m sure it’s possible,” she said. “Even though the turnover here is crazy.” She thought about it and twisted her mouth to one side. “The thing is, all our old records are in storage. I don’t have time to get out there and sort through boxes. Not when I have a full boat of inspections to finish.” As though to punctuate her statement, she looked at her jewel-encrusted, giant-faced watch. “I’m due to meet a potential client in an hour.”

  “Tell me about this Craig,” I said, unwilling to give up even a scrap of a lead. “What does he look like? What kind of personality does he have?”

  She twisted her mouth again as though to convey that she found my questions odd. “He’s a heck of a nice guy,” she said. “He kept in touch for a year or so.”

  And she couldn’t remember his last name?

  “How did he keep in touch?” I prompted. “Via e-mail?”

&nbs
p; “No, he used to call.” She pointed to the desk phone. “Just to chat and ask about how business was going and what I was up to. I haven’t heard from him in a while, though.” She frowned. “Now that I think about it, he always called me. I didn’t ever get his phone number. Not that I would have used it. I wasn’t interested in him that way.” She shrugged. “Sorry.”

  “What does he look like?” Tooney reminded her of my question.

  “I don’t know. Average, I suppose. Maybe forty or forty-five years old. Nice head of hair.”

  “Color?” I asked.

  “Brownish, I guess,” she said.

  “Ethnicity?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. White?”

  “Tall, short, heavy, thin?”

  She shook her head and held up her hands. “Like I said: average. Not bad looking, I suppose. But no George Clooney.”

  “Any distinguishing characteristics?” Tooney asked.

  She couldn’t think of any. “Sorry,” she said again.

  We asked her a few more questions but she made it clear she wanted us to leave in order to make her next appointment. As Tooney and I reached the door, I thought of one more thing.

  “Cynthia.” I waited until she looked up. “You mentioned that you work with the bank a lot.”

  She nodded.

  “How long has AA+ worked with them?” I asked. “I mean, did your company have a relationship with the bank back when Craig worked here?”

  “Oh, sure,” she said. “He handed the bank business off to me when he left.”

  “So, he knew Virginia.”

  “Definitely.”

  “Great, thanks,” I said. “And don’t forget: If you’re able to get Craig’s last name, I’d really appreciate it.”

  “I’ll try to remember to ask the boss when he gets back,” she said, tapping the side of her head.

  The minute the door closed behind us, Tooney said, “Don’t hold your breath.”

  Chapter 19

  On our drive back to Marshfield, I told Tooney about the fellow I’d noticed taking photos at the crime scene and how I’d spotted him at the bar when I went to dinner with Joe.