Grace Interrupted (2 page)

Casting a wary glance at the women, Niles did most of the talking. “We tried to tell them—politely, y’understand—that the south grounds were off-limits but they drove straight down there anyway. When we caught up with them on foot, they started beating us up.”

“That’s a lie,” the shorter one, Rani, said. Slim yet curvy, she watched for my reaction with the alertness of a cat ready to pounce. At first I guessed her to be Hispanic or Italian, but based on the surname from her ID—Ogitani—I thought perhaps there might be some Japanese in her blood. She wore her dark hair pulled back into a severe ponytail—sleek, like a panther. She ran an appraising gaze over the two men, as though sizing up dinner options.

William fingered his jacket where the sleeve had been torn from the shoulder. “They ruined my uniform.”

Niles pointed in the general direction of Marshfield Manor’s far southern grounds where a group of Civil War re-enactors were establishing a campsite. “The guy that they’re after is the one I feel sorry for.”

I wondered how our two security guards had managed to corral these women and herd them back here. Rani was clearly a tough cookie. I, too, felt sorry for the guy they were after. “Who exactly is this Zachary Kincade?” I asked.

Rani took a step forward. “Zachary Kincade is a world-class jerk. I can only hope one of his Civil War buddies plants a musket ball into his brain.” With a malicious grin, she turned to her companion. “Or better yet, aim lower. That would be fitting, don’t you think?”

The other woman, Tamara, didn’t answer. Although she also wore her hair pulled back, hers was washed-out blonde streaked with gray. Sporting heavy eye makeup, crimson nails, and three silver chains hanging from her thick neck, she kept her hands shoved into her pockets, edging away as she eyed the door.

Neither woman looked like the type to trespass on private property simply to pick a fight. They were both in their mid-thirties and—if their clothes were any indication—financially well-off. They wore almost identical outfits of easy, comfortable pants and tops in solid black. Most pieces bore recognizable logos. Everything, including their black leather ballet flats, appeared brand-new. Like they’d prepared ahead for a stealth maneuver. Attempting to parse what I knew with what stood before me, I was reminded of a puzzle game from the Sunday papers, “What’s Wrong with This Picture?” which I’d played as a kid.

“We have an agreement with the re-enactors,” I began. “They are not to be disturbed at all today. Not until their camp is set up and their—what’s it called?” I turned to Niles but remembered before he could chime in. “Living History, that’s it. Once their Living History is established on Monday, manor guests are welcome to visit during designated hours of the day.”

“No, no, no,” Rani said, “we don’t care if they’re
ready
. We’re marching down there and we’re confronting him
now
.” She offered a sly smile. “But I imagine he’s expecting us.”

Niles cleared his throat. “We contacted Mr. Pierpont when these ladies first arrived on the grounds. Mr. Pierpont assured us that Mr. Kincade does not wish to be disturbed.”

Rob Pierpont was our principal contact and top brass of the re-enacting crowd. He’d proven to be easy to work with but had made the pointed request for privacy for the first few days, explaining that while the group was setting up they didn’t want outsiders watching. Claiming it would ruin the effect of walking into a real 1860s Civil War campground, he’d said, “This is almost like an amusement park exhibit. No kid wants to see the fuzzy cartoon character with his head off, and no Civil War aficionado wants to see the Confederate battle flag atop a plastic cooler. It’s the same thing.”

I’d promised him we would comply. To the women, I said, “You can come back Monday . . .”

“No,” Rani said. She barked a laugh. “We are not giving him time to weasel away. Listen, the only reason we agreed to come up here with these bozos”—she swept an arm toward Niles and William—“is because they told us we could talk with you. We figured a woman would understand. Be reasonable here. We’re paying guests. We have every right . . .” Her voice had begun to rise as she spoke. Taking a deep breath, she calmed herself. “I just think it’s pretty convenient for Zachary to disappear whenever he needs to. This time he’s safe behind castle walls.”

Not exactly accurate. Our Civil War re-enactor guests were camping
out
doors, as far across our expansive grounds from these “castle walls” as one could get, though the description of the manor was apt. The 150-room mansion was both a major tourist attraction and world-class museum. Its gorgeous furnishings and historically significant artifacts were what kept our docents busy every day of the year except Christmas and Thanksgiving. More than 500,000 visitors came through the manor’s front doors annually to follow the self-guided tours. Manor docents and paid security manned key positions throughout the home, ready and eager to answer questions.

Outside was another story. Although we had a four-star hotel and several recreational facilities on premises including a horse-riding stable, most of the land had been left in its natural state. We rarely rented out the forest and grounds that lay to the far south of the property but my predecessor, Abe, had made an exception for this group. Months before I started working at Marshfield, Abe had agreed to this weeklong re-enactor encampment. A Civil War buff himself, he’d been eager to talk and learn from the participants. So eager, in fact, that he’d rented the week out to them at a price that just covered our maintenance costs. I felt a pang of sadness at the thought of Abe missing out on the event he’d been looking so forward to. His murder, just a few floors above where we stood, was still a raw wound around here. One from which we might never recover.

Instinctively I glanced upward. Although I’d originally been hired to take Abe’s place when he retired, his sudden death had thrown me into the role unprepared. Other staffers and the manor’s reclusive owner—Bennett Marshfield—had been equally unprepared for me to take over. It had been a rocky road thus far. For all of us.

Right now, however, I needed to flex my authoritarian muscle. The two women in front of me were itching for a fight. I cleared my throat. “Since this isn’t an emergency, you have no real business here. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Come on,” Rani said, wheedling now, “you’re a woman. I’m sure you’ve met your share of idiot men.”

One particular idiot man came to mind, but I couldn’t see how that made a difference. Before I could cut her off however, she went on, “Zachary Kincade is a class-A scumbag. The top—or bottom, if you will—of the pile. The worst.”

“I take it he’s your ex?” I said.

“I would never have anything to do with a lowlife like him.”

Tamara decided to join the conversation. “He broke up with our friend Muffy.”

“Muffy?” I repeated.

Rani took a breath and rolled her eyes. “Blame her parents, okay? They should have had dogs, not children. The poor girl never learned life skills. You know, the kind of savvy you better have if you don’t want the jerks of this world twisting you into knots. We tried to warn her about Zachary . . .” She stopped herself before going further, then worked up an unconvincing smile. “Listen, all we want to do is teach him a lesson. No permanent damage.” She seemed to weigh her words, then amended, “Well, nothing life-threatening, at least.”

“I’m sorry,” I said again, though not sorry at all, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Now.”

Rani gave a “you-aren’t-the-boss-of-me” head waggle. “We’re hotel guests. We paid for two nights’ stay. You can’t kick us out.”

Of course I could. This was private property and I had every right to kick her out on her well-dressed little butt. I almost blurted that aloud but just as the words were about to fly from my mouth, diplomacy wrestled me into submission. Again. Once, just once, I wished for the freedom to sacrifice tact and say exactly what was on my mind instead of bending over backward to keep guests happy. But that was my job and I was good at it. “Your entry fee grants you admittance to the house and the gardens.”

She held a finger up to correct me. “House and grounds.”

“Except this weekend,” I said evenly. “When you arrived at the front gate, you were informed that the south end of the property would be off-limits to guests until Monday.” Drawing on Pierpont’s analogy, I added, “Think of it like an amusement park—when a ride is broken down, they tell you that at the door. If you weren’t willing to accept the terms, you should have turned around and gone home.”

“I was never told that the grounds were off-limits.”

She was lying. We both knew it.

“Perhaps I could interest you in a rain check for another time when the grounds are reopened for day visitors.”

Tamara’s eyes grew wide as she sidled closer to her friend, elbowing her. Focused on me, Rani didn’t notice. “It has to be done today,” Tamara whispered.

My stomach gave a hard little lurch, like it was attempting to drive my body into action. Not before I had all the facts. “What do you plan to
do
to Zachary Kincade?” I asked.

“That’s none of your business,” Tamara said. Visibly uneasy until this moment, she lifted her chin, fixed me with a solemn stare, and shoved her hands even deeper into her pockets. I swore she grew two inches taller. But there was no way I was backing down when the safety of our guests was at stake. I straightened to my own full height. Barefoot I’m five-foot-eight, at least six inches taller than Tamara. With the heels I wore today, I towered over her like an Amazon woman.

“I cannot allow you access to the re-enactors,” I said, “especially when you pose a threat to their well-being.”

“Who said anything about a threat?” Rani shouted, contradicting herself. “Look at us. We’re just a couple of harmless women. We just want to talk to him.”

Harmless? Not these two. I could see it in their eyes. When I continued to refuse their request, they launched into a verbal attack on me. Lifting my walkie-talkie, I spoke briefly into the handset, all the while wondering about their quarry, this Zachary Kincade. Who was he? The likelihood of my meeting the man was minuscule, but I couldn’t help but be curious.

The response I waited for sang through my radio. Turning to Rani and Tamara, I gestured toward the nearest door. “One of our shuttles will be here in a moment to escort you off the grounds. I’ll see to it that your entry fees are refunded.”

Rani stomped her foot. “You are
not
kicking us out.”

“I’m afraid I have no choice.”

Four more security guards swarmed the area and Tamara let out a panicked yelp. Eyes wide, she scanned the room as though looking for a friendly face. There were none. “He texted Muffy,” she yelled in desperation. “He broke up with her via text.”

I’d heard worse. And although I felt sorry for Muffy, whoever she was, her love life and that of Zachary Kincade were not my concern. I was pleased to see Terrence Carr join the crowd. Tall, black, and with movie-star good looks, our head of security quickly took control.

“Let’s go, ma’am,” he said to Rani. As he moved to take her arm, she jerked away.

“You don’t know what we’re dealing with here,” she said in a low voice. “If you knew, you’d drag that wretched waste of humanity in here and let us take care of him.”

I couldn’t help myself. “All this because he broke up with your friend?”

“Via text,” Tamara said.

“Listen,” I began.

Rani’s voice was a growl, “You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it,” Terrence said.

Rani’s eyes narrowed. “You’re just like him. Attractive, strong. And you think you’re God’s gift to women, don’t you?”

“Only to my wife, ma’am.” Whenever Terrence smiled, which wasn’t often, he dazzled. This time was no exception. Rani tried unsuccessfully to stifle a little gasp of surprise.

Composing herself, she dragged the back of one hand across the side of her face as though smoothing an errant hair. The two women were no match for the team and they knew it. “I can see we’re getting nowhere here,” Rani said. “Come on, Tamara, let’s go.”

“We intend to escort you off property, ma’am,” Terrence said, all business once again. “Make no mistake about that.”

“As delightful a prospect as that may be,” Rani dripped sarcasm, “we are not criminals. We’ve done nothing wrong, and we are certainly capable of seeing ourselves out. Come on, Tamara. We’re finished here.”

“No,” Tamara said with vehemence. “He can’t get away with what he did to Muffy. I’m not leaving until they bring Zachary in here and we finish what we came to do.”

Terrence and I exchanged looks. A female officer near Tamara took a step forward, surreptitiously dragging a set of handcuffs from the back of her belt. Tamara caught the movement and jumped backward out of the officer’s reach. “Get away from me,” she screamed. Fists still jammed in her pockets, she searched the room, clearly looking for a means of escape.

“Let me see your hands,” Terrence said in a low voice. “Pull them out slowly.”

Tamara backed up another step.

The room fell silent. The only sound was Tamara’s breathing coming in shallow, frightened gasps.

I heard footsteps behind me. People running. It sounded like three at least, pounding the floor and coming to a sudden stop. A man’s amused voice: “I just knew it had to be you two.”

I turned. Zachary Kincade—who else could it be?—stood behind me, mirth crinkling his eyes. I had about two seconds to assess the subject of this skirmish. About forty-five years old, Kincade was wearing contemporary army fatigues. Exceedingly well. Tall, with a full head of dark hair, a neatly trimmed beard frosted with gray, and a smile like George Clooney’s, he held his hands high as he laughed. “Why am I not surprised?”

Behind him, Rob Pierpont was dressed in full Civil War regalia. I’d met the short, portly fellow several times. Pale and doughy, he too wore a beard, but his was far less dashing. I suspected he’d grown it to hide a double chin. Or maybe all male re-enactors were required to sport facial hair. Who knew? The plethora of decoration on Pierpont’s uniform proclaimed his considerable rank. At the moment, however, you’d never guess it by his demeanor. Pouting like an angry four-year-old, Pierpont tugged at Kincade’s shirt. “Zachary, this is a mistake,” he said.