Grace Interrupted (10 page)

I gave a noncommittal nod and suggested we get back to work.

Good thing, because within twenty minutes the phones started ringing. E-mails pinged in my inbox, bringing word from the front gate that the press was clamoring to get in. “Private property,” I reminded the guard on the phone when he asked what reason he should give for denying their persistent requests. “The matter is being handled and the proper authorities are involved. We will share information when it becomes available, but we are not required to allow the press access to our grounds.”

“Got it,” he said.

On impulse, I stopped him before he hung up. “By the way . . .”

“Yeah?”

“Do you have a log handy of everyone who came in after hours?” It was silly of me to double-check, but Flynn’s accusations burned my brain with curiosity. “Last night, I mean.”

“Sure, Ms. Wheaton, I have my clipboard right here.”

I heard paper shuffling in the background as he shifted the receiver, breathing with exertion. This was Joe, a chunky, middle-aged guy who’d taken the gate guard position after retiring from his job as a high school basketball coach. “Hang on one second . . . okay. Got it.” I heard the receiver shift back. “Who you looking for?”

“Can you just run down the list and tell me everyone who came through? After closing, that is.”

“That’s a lot of names, Ms. Wheaton.”

“Really?”

“Lots of folks from the hotel go out for dinner in town because the food’s not as expensive out there. No offense.”

Our hotel’s restaurant was known for its superior standards, but also for its equally lofty prices. “No offense taken,” I said. “How about this . . . can you go through and give me the names of anyone who came through who isn’t a hotel guest?”

“Like people who work here?”

“Exactly.”

“Okay,” he said. He took a deep breath and mumbled to himself while I waited. I heard a page turn. Then another. This was taking too long. I fidgeted, worried he’d still be on the phone with me when the detectives arrived. How to explain my sudden interest in our gate logs? After an interminable length of time he said, “I don’t show any staffers coming through here last night. Can I ask who you were looking for? Maybe that would make it easier.”

“Oh,” I coughed up a lie, “just asking in general. Do we usually get many workers coming back late at night?”

“Only when they forgot to do something important. Mostly it’s just hotel guests.”

“Thanks, Joe,” I said and hung up.

Pleased to know that Jack and Davey had not returned to the estate last night, I focused on the tasks at hand. Lois had paid close attention to my end of the conversation and fixed me with a skeptical eye. “You weren’t really asking in general,” she said, “were you?”

“Not really,” I said. “The detectives are planning to interview all the Civil War campers, but they’re setting their sights on staff members as well. I know the police will take copies of those logs, and I just want to be prepared and know what we’re facing in case they drag any of our employees or consultants down for questioning.”

That seemed to satisfy her.

At least someone was appeased. Until I knew the whole story behind Jack’s involvement with Kincade, I didn’t know whom I could trust. It didn’t help that no matter how many times I tried to reach Jack—out of the range of Lois’s eager ears—I came up empty. I left only one message on his cell phone and because it went immediately to voicemail each time I tried calling, I reasoned the device was turned off. That meant I wasn’t racking up a ridiculous number of missed calls on his phone, thank goodness. In my message I asked him to get in touch when he had a chance. So far, no word.

Lois and I worked quietly, keeping the prying reporters at bay and juggling other tasks so that life would at least resemble normal when we returned to the office Monday morning. Normal. I thought about what Rodriguez had said and felt a twinge of guilt.

It was late afternoon when I thanked Lois for her time and decided I’d accomplished enough on my day off. I arrived home to find Bruce at the sink in the kitchen, his back to me. “What are you doing here?” I asked with a glance at the clock. “Isn’t the shop open? Are you still dealing with a power outage?”

He half-turned, grinning from ear to ear and I was able to see what he was working on. “Yummies for our little Bootsie,” he said, holding up a can of cat food. Snapping the pull-top forward and then yanking it back, he said, “This kitty is hungry. I wonder how long it’s been since she’s had a decent meal.” Next to him on the counter was a brand-new two-sided cat food dish. Bruce spooned about half the container’s contents into one side. “This is the second can I’ve opened for her today. Oops, here she comes.”

As though already accustomed to the sound of dinner being prepared, Bootsie leaped onto the countertop next to Bruce’s arm. “Wait a second, sweetie,” he said. “Almost done.”

“You came home to feed the cat?” I asked.

“It’s slow at the store today.”

I waited.

“Okay, fine. Yes, I did. Poor little thing.” He placed the dish on a small rug on the floor. That’s when I noticed the bowl of water already there. Another brand-new bowl.

“Where did all this stuff come from?” I asked.

“Scott picked up a litter box. It’s in the basement. Bootsie’s already christened it, I might add. We found a few other things this morning when the pet shop opened. I just figured the little thing was lonely and I didn’t know what time you’d be back.”

I looked at the clock again. There was still plenty of daylight and I should probably start my door-to-door canvass of the neighborhood to see who the cat belonged to. I was so worn out from the day’s adventure, however, that I dropped into the nearest chair instead. “It would be a shame to return her tonight after you guys bought all this great stuff. We should allow her at least one day’s use from it all.”

Bruce gave me a funny smile. “Yeah,” he said. “You just relax and worry about all this tomorrow. By the way, what was the big emergency that had you running to work at five this morning?”

I told him.

Bruce’s mouth fell open and he took a seat across from me. “You aren’t kidding me, are you?”

I’d left out some of the details, but Bruce was quick to pounce. “The dead guy is the guy who got into a fight with your boyfriend yesterday, isn’t it?”

“Jack isn’t my boyfriend,” I corrected. “And the ‘dead guy’ is named Kincade. He attacked Jack’s brother, Davey.”

“But only because he thought it was Jack.”

I felt very tired all of a sudden. “Yeah.”

“What does Jack say about all this?”

“I haven’t been able to get a hold of him.”

Bruce said, “Oh.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just seems like something he’d want to get straightened out quickly. Especially with you.”

“Jack may not even know about the murder yet. We’re keeping it out of the news.”

“True, but then why isn’t he returning your calls?”

I had no answer.

“Be careful, Grace.”

I WOKE SUNDAY MORNING WITH THREE IMPORTANT things on my mind: Call Jack—again—and hope to finally reach him this time; call Frances—again—and let her know everything that had happened at Marshfield and ask her to come in early Monday; and finally, find out who little Bootsie really belonged to.

The cat had crawled into bed with me again, curled up against my chest just under my chin, where I felt her purr until we both fell asleep. I’d rubbed behind her ears for a while. She seemed to enjoy the attention, and with each stroke I’d felt my own tension begin to ease.

She was so small, just a kitten, and I couldn’t believe how soft her fur was. Having only had dogs growing up, I didn’t realize that cats craved personal touch, too. I’d always assumed that felines were standoffish and aloof. Little Bootsie here was mighty cuddly. I already knew I’d miss her when she was finally reunited with her real family.

Unfortunately, I also awoke Sunday with something else in my head. The cold was back, full force. I spent ten minutes in the bathroom blowing my nose.

“How can this be?” I asked Bruce and Scott when I came down to the kitchen. I was carrying Bootsie and shaking my head, still wearing my pajamas. “I had dis terrible code yesterday and then it went away. Now id is back.”

My two roommates looked at each other and then at me with matching sad expressions.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

Scott pointed to the bundle in my arms. “I think you’re allergic.”

I looked down to find Bootsie staring up at me, wide-eyed. The answer was so obvious I felt like smacking myself in the head. It made sense—I was symptom-free everywhere but at home. “Oh,” I said, dejected. “I had no idea I’d be allergic to cats.”

“How are your eyes?” Bruce asked. “Itchy? Hot? Watery?”

“A little watery.”

“Some people get full-blown symptoms. Their eyes get all swollen and red and they can’t even see out of them. At least your symptoms are mild.”

“Mild?” I said. “I’ve been blowing my nose since I woke up.”

“I know,” Bruce said, “we heard you.”

Bootsie raised her head and let out a pathetic yowl. I pulled her a little tighter to my chest. “This isn’t fair.”

Scott chuckled. “I’ve seen it happen before.”

I waited.

“Cats seem to have a sixth sense about who’s allergic. Those are the folks they target. You’ve been adopted, Grace. I don’t think you have much choice now but to keep her.”

“You forget that this kitten was litter box trained. She already belongs to someone.”

“I don’t believe that,” Scott said. “Cats have an instinct about litter boxes. She’s just very smart.”

I couldn’t let my guard down. Couldn’t let myself even consider keeping her. “Pets are important parts of the family,” I said. “I’m sure whoever lost her is out of their mind with worry.”

 

 

WITH THE KITTEN TUCKED INTO A SMALL cardboard box—flaps partially open for air—and feeling like a kid in a Norman Rockwell painting, I visited a dozen houses up my street and was now working my way back down the other side. Nobody was missing Bootsie, who, for the record, was behaving exceptionally well. She didn’t seem to like being outdoors, though she apparently didn’t mind being carried around in a brown box. The moment I’d stepped out the back door her ears had flattened against the back of her head. The first time a car went by, I felt her tremble through the cardboard. I wondered how long she’d been out on her own.

I’d left my purse at home, but carried my cell phone in my pocket in the hopes that Jack would return the second message I’d left him this morning. I wasn’t so worried about Frances. Knowing she had a tendency to disappear for the weekend made it unlikely that I’d hear back from her until tonight at the earliest. But Jack should have called by now. I deserved that much. At least I thought I did.

Pushing aside my worries about Marshfield, Jack, and the murder of Zachary Kincade for the moment, I’d set out on my quest. House after house, I received plenty of compliments on how cute Bootsie was, but no clue as to where she’d come from. And no leads on whose cat might have had kittens in the past few months.

The homes on Granville were set about thirty feet back from the street, most featuring low, white fences protecting pristine lawns and gardens. A showplace neighborhood, except for the single eyesore—mine. Although my house boasted a turret and gables, and had been outfitted with classic gingerbread molding along its peaks and windows, it needed more repair than I could afford. Bennett’s contributions to replace the roof had made an enormous improvement, but there was much more to be done. The last thing I wanted to do was run to him with my hand out, looking for help with every expense. That was not my style.

So far all my neighbors had been home—this early on a Sunday, most families were preparing to head out to church. But not one of them was missing a cat. I did get quite a few positive comments about my new roof, if you count “It’s about time,” as a compliment. Between sneezes and the occasional nose-blowing, I wound up fielding more questions than I’d expected.

“Another murder at Marshfield, huh?” Fenton Borlik asked from behind his screen door. Despite the fact that we’d done our best to keep the matter quiet until we had more information, the story had leaked but good. Borlik was the fifth person on the block to try to pry information from me. His wife shushed him and pointed to their two towheaded kids, who had run up to see what was going on. Fenton, I knew, was a vice president at one of the big conglomerates in the corporate corridor about forty-five minutes east. Quite a commute every day but many folks did it. Living in touristy Emberstowne had its perks. “You know, we moved here because we thought this was a safe town.” Fenton stepped out onto his porch, making the wood floor squeak. The screen slammed behind him. “What happened out there?”