Dying for Mercy with Bonus Material (13 page)

O
nce Bonnie had let her know that there was a lot of talk in town about the death of the Wheelocks’ maid, Susannah knew she had an opportunity to further ingratiate herself. After talking it over with Bonnie, Susannah called and offered her maid’s services to Valentina until she could find a replacement.

“Would you really do that for me?” asked Valentina. “How generous and thoughtful of you, Susannah. I can’t thank you enough.”

“It would be my pleasure and privilege, Valentina. I want to help you in any way I can.”

After they decided when Bonnie would arrive at Pentimento, Susannah hung up, hoping she was one step closer to being part of the “in” crowd. She hurried to find Bonnie and let her know.

Though she was careful not to show it, Bonnie was relieved to be getting away from the Lansings. She welcomed the chance to escape Susannah’s constant neediness and insecurity, her moping around and her complaining that she wasn’t a part of the Black Tie Club.

She was also worried that eventually Susannah was going to be caught shoplifting. Bonnie had seen her do it repeatedly, though she never let on to Susannah. Bonnie didn’t want to be associated in any way with that.

W
hen he arrived at his office in town, Zack returned a few phone calls and read through some mail, but he was unable to concentrate on the plans he was working on for another restoration. By five o’clock he realized it was useless and gave himself permission to wrap things up. At least he could get in a jog before it got too dark. He changed into the sweats and running shoes he kept in the office and told his secretary to go home.

After a day like this, there was no better thing to do than get some exercise. It was life-affirming to run, surrounded by the brilliant red of silver maples and the gold and yellow of the tall oaks. The crisp, cleansing autumn air pulsed through his lungs, and his legs felt strong as they pounded on the pavement.

The light was beginning to fade when he reached what he knew to be the two-mile mark, and he turned around. By the time he got back to his building, it was almost dark. Zack walked for a while to cool down before he went inside.

The door was unlocked, but he didn’t think much of it. His secretary must have left it that way, knowing that he would be coming back but aware from experience that he might have forgotten his keys. It was quiet as he entered the vestibule. Zack turned on a light and proceeded to his office.

The moment he walked into the room, he felt tense. The papers on his desk, always stacked so precisely, were scattered and messy. Books from the shelves were lying on the floor. Some of the file drawers were pulled open. Architectural renderings were strewn around the room.

Instinctively, Zack reached for the telephone to call 911, but before he could dial, something encircled his neck. Stunned, he reached for the ligature as it was pulled, shocking him, keeping him from breathing. He gasped for air as he clawed at the leather cord wrapped around his throat, tearing into his skin, getting tighter and tighter.

Before Zack lost consciousness, a distinctive flash of color caught his eye, and it registered in his mind that the turquoise-leather-covered album containing the pictures of Pentimento was lying on the office floor.

Zack was a lot heavier than he looked. Pulling his body over to the chair required too much strength. It was easier to bring the chair to Zack.

It was a perfect throne, high-backed with armrests.

Maneuvering the dead weight onto the seat took some effort. And the body kept slumping over to the side each time it was positioned upright.

A king had to sit erect, or the effect would be lost.

Finally the remains of Zack Underwood were balanced, his eyes open, his mouth agape as if caught in the middle of issuing a royal command.

Before leaving, there was one last thing to do. A reed, pulled from a field in Tuxedo Park, was placed in Zack’s hand and his fingers forced around it.

A
s she walked through the front door, Eliza was greeted by the aroma of Mrs. Garcia’s scrumptious lamb stew. Seconds later Janie ran up to her and gave her a kiss and a long hug.

“Mrs. Garcia took me to Shaw’s after school, and look what we got,” said Janie, holding up two children’s books.

Eliza took them and read the titles aloud. “
St. Francis of Assisi: A Life of Joy
and
Francis: The Poor Man of Assisi.
” She flipped through the pages. “Wonderful illustrations,” she said.

“Want to read them with me?” Janie asked hopefully.

“All right, but let me change first.” She was eager to get out of the clothes she’d worn to the funeral.

Eliza stopped in the kitchen to check in with Mrs. Garcia. “How’d it go today?” she asked as she took the cover off a pot on the stove and looked inside.

“Everything is fine,
señora,
” said the housekeeper as she measured out some cornmeal and poured it into a mixing bowl. “The plumber came and fixed that dripping faucet in the bathroom.”

“Good,” said Eliza, taking a spoon and sampling the gravy.

“And I went to the market and bought some things to stock the kitchen of your new place. I thought it would be good if I make a few dishes for you to keep in the freezer there to have when you need them.”

“Great idea,” Eliza said with enthusiasm. “Do you think you could make that chicken that Mack likes so much? That would be nice to have on Friday night.”

Mrs. Garcia smiled. “I was already planning to do that. I went to the liquor store, too, and bought a case of wine and a bottle of Dewar’s.”

Eliza knew that Mrs. Garcia liked Mack and approved of the relationship.

“Thanks for taking Janie to get those books,” said Eliza, changing the subject. “We have enough time to read one before dinner, don’t we?”

Mrs. Garcia looked at the clock. “About half an hour,” she answered.

Janie was sitting on the bed waiting for her mother, scanning the pages of her new books. The way St. Francis looked was different in each. In the first book, Francis seemed very real. In the other he was more like a cartoon character. In both he had a dark beard and a round haircut, and was wearing a long brown robe tied at the waist with a piece of rope. There were sandals on his feet.

In some pictures St. Francis was talking to animals; in others he was talking to his brother friars. Some showed him praying; some showed him working and helping men and women who looked like they were poor and hungry. The one that showed St. Francis being visited by an appearance of the Christ Child in a cave on Christmas morning particularly appealed to Janie’s imagination.

By the time she heard her mother coming up the stairs, she had decided. When Eliza entered the master bedroom, Janie made her announcement. “Mom, I want to be St. Francis for Halloween.”

U
nity was grateful that they’d had such a big lunch. Now she would just have to heat up some soup and put some cheese and crackers on a plate, and dinner would be served.

Standing in the efficiency kitchen and twisting the handle of the opener as it rounded the rim of the soup can, Unity remembered with longing the life she used to have. The kitchen at Nine Chimneys had been larger than their entire apartment was now. The pantry alone was bigger than her present kitchen. For the early years that Unity lived at Nine Chimneys, she never gave the kitchen a thought, because she had never had to cook. The Heavener women had always had help.

When she’d taken her marriage vows, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, Unity really hadn’t dwelled on the meaning of the words. Fitzroy came from a wealthy family that had maintained a house in Tuxedo Park almost since its inception. Of course their new life would be good.

At first it was all that Unity had hoped it would be. She loved being the lady of the manor. She supervised the staff, entertained well and often, decorated and gardened and spent time at the club playing bridge and tennis or taking the boat out on the lake.

Fitzroy was a pleasant partner, available to play with her since he didn’t go to an office or other place of business each day. Having family money meant he spent his time managing his investments and generally doing as he pleased. He hadn’t been raised to do anything other than that.

Where was he anyway? Unity wondered as she sliced some cheddar cheese and arranged it on crackers. When the luncheon was over, he’d told her that he had something he needed to do. That was several hours ago now.

She began to worry. Fitzroy was taking Innis’s death hard. Unity hadn’t seen him this upset since Nine Chimneys had burned to the ground. Back then, Fitzroy had had Innis to lean on. Now he had only her to help him in getting over the loss of Innis.

Unity knew that it was her duty to comfort her husband, yet she was overcome with hidden but seething anger. Fitzroy was responsible for the situation they found themselves in now. He was the reason they were forced to live in this little upstairs apartment over the club. Fitzroy could cloak it any way he wanted, but nobody was fooled.

For years he’d known that their investments were dwindling, that they were struggling to heat and maintain and pay the taxes. Even when, one by one, he let members of the staff go, he tried to paint it as his choice. He just didn’t feel right, he said, keeping all those people working at the house when only he and Unity lived there. It was unseemly to have more servants than residents.

Getting rid of the servants didn’t solve their problems. The cavernous rooms had to be heated, the old plumbing leaked, the roof needed repair. As the bills mounted, first one wing and then another was closed up until, finally, Unity and Fitzroy were living in just three rooms.

As far as Unity knew, in all that time Innis Wheelock had never offered to come to Fitzroy’s aid, never extended financial assistance. Even though Fitzroy had done everything he could over the years to help Innis and Valentina’s political aspirations, even though he was godfather to their son, when the chips were down, Innis hadn’t written a check to help the Heaveners. What kind of best friend was that?

The second section of the
KEY Evening Headlines
featured a report on the Wheelock funeral. Unity recognized many of the people shown entering Our Lady of Mount Carmel, she and Fitzroy among them.

Just as the report came to a close, Unity heard the key in the lock. “Where were you, Fitzroy? I was worried about you.”

He didn’t answer right away. His face was flushed, and a shock of white hair fell across his forehead. The suit he’d worn since the funeral was rumpled.

“Were you drinking?” Unity asked suspiciously.

“No, I wasn’t drinking,” said Fitzroy as he limped across the room and collapsed in a worn armchair. “I needed to reflect on what I’ve lost.”

“For almost four hours?”

“I walked around the lake several times, and I stopped here and there to rest and think about all the things that Innis and I did together. I have to admit, they weren’t all happy memories.”

F
or the third time in a row, Peter served the handmade tennis ball, but it failed to touch the sloping roof to his left.

“What’s the matter with you tonight?” called his opponent from the other side of the indoor real tennis court. “You get here late, you look like a wreck, and now your playing sucks.”

Peter walked toward the net. “I don’t know,” he said. “I guess it was just a horrible day, and I’m topping it off with a horrible match.”

“Well, we’ve only played two sets. Buck up, Peter.”

“I’m sorry. I just don’t have it in me tonight.”

I
t was midmorning when the first wire-service story ran about Zack Underwood. It consisted of only three short, clipped sentences.

After reading the story on the computer at her desk, Annabelle Murphy picked up the telephone and called Eliza’s office.

“Hi, Paige. It’s Annabelle. Is Eliza available?”

As Annabelle waited, another story popped up on her computer screen. She read through it quickly. Zack Underwood had been found by his secretary when she came in to work. The office had been ransacked, and police were trying to ascertain what, if anything, was missing. The story also stated that Underwood had recently completed the architectural renovations on Pentimento, the Wheelocks’ estate.

“Did you see it?” Annabelle asked as soon as Eliza answered.

“Yeah, I just read it,” said Eliza. “I was talking to the guy only yesterday. He had agreed to let me see the architectural plans for Pentimento.” Eliza shook her head. “I can’t believe this.”

“Something’s more than a little funky here,” said Annabelle. “This murder has got to be connected to Wheelock’s death.”

“I’m thinking the same thing,” said Eliza. “Zack told me yesterday that he’d figured out that those numbers on the greenhouse flowerpot had been the coordinates for the spot on West Lake Road. I hadn’t had the chance to tell you yet, Annabelle, but that was the location of an accident that happened over twenty years ago. They found a complete wreck—but there were no passengers in the car. And despite the fact that the car was totaled and the windshield smashed, there was no blood.”

Annabelle digested the information. “But does that have anything to do with his murder? Would he be killed because he knows that?”

“I don’t know,” said Eliza. “But he told me that Innis had him incorporate other features into the plans for Pentimento.”

“What kind of features?” asked Annabelle.

“Zack agreed that he would tell me, but obviously that’s not going to happen now,” said Eliza. “I think Zack Underwood may have been killed because somebody thought he knew too much.”

“So what do we do now?” asked Annabelle, thinking out loud. “Maybe B.J. and I should take a ride up to Tuxedo and see what we can find out.”

“Good idea,” said Eliza. “And see what you can learn about that accident. I have a feeling that what happened back then is directly related to what’s happening now.”