Grace Interrupted (21 page)

He reached for my hand again, this time rubbing my knuckles with his thumb. “You can tell me I’m wrong, or foolish, or maybe even delusional, but today is a start, Grace. A baby step toward something I hope will grow between us. Think about it: If we’re starting in the middle of all this turmoil, we have nowhere to go but up.”

As he talked, the protective wall I’d tried to maintain began to crumble. Parts of my body that had lain dormant for too long began to awaken. Warmth rushed through every nerve ending and I pictured myself getting closer to Jack. A lot closer.

“I’ve enjoyed getting to know you, too,” I said, giving his hand a little squeeze. “And I don’t think you’re wrong. I think today could be the beginning of something good.”

Oh so reluctantly I fought my churning emotions and tamped down my physical reaction to the handsome man with the shiny dark eyes focused only on me. I cleared my throat. “As long as we take things slowly.”

“That’s exactly what I think,” he said. “The best relationships are those built on solid foundations. I want you to know, Grace, I . . .”

At that moment the waitress arrived with our dinners, forcing us to release our entwined hands. Couldn’t she have waited thirty more seconds?

As soon as she left again, I asked, “You were saying?”

He smiled at me. “Better left unsaid. For now at least.”

I didn’t push him. For the rest of the evening we found a lot of common ground and the time flew. I almost didn’t notice the waitress whisking away our plates. I declined dessert, but Jack ordered chocolate chip cheesecake. “The best in town,” he said, offering me a bite. “Homemade.”

I leaned over to sample a taste from his fork, feeling a peculiar intimacy bubble up between us. Sitting back as I allowed the creamy treat to melt in my mouth, I pointed to his plate and said, “That is fabulous.”

“See, you should have ordered some, too.”

Nope. That one bite had been exactly perfect. “Next time.”

He grinned up at me. “I like the sound of that.”

Darkness enveloped us on the walk back to my house. Neither frightening nor ominous, it felt more like a cocoon we shared as we strolled. Our pace was much slower this direction, our path lit by the soft glow of streetlamps and of moonlight drifting down between the leaf-laden branches above. The world smelled green and full of promise.

About a block away from Hugo’s, Jack grasped my hand, glancing at me sideways as he did so. We were close enough for me to see the inquisitive expression on his face and I smiled, squeezing his hand and bumping my shoulder against his arm in reply.

Our footfalls were soft on the old, uneven sidewalks. We barely spoke, and I was glad. With my heart beating like a trip-hammer and a little giggle swelling up in my throat, old unpredictable teenage urges took over, raging hormones and all. Take it slow, I told myself.

But I didn’t want to.

I was on Jack’s right and tried to surreptitiously study him in profile but every time I glanced his way, he turned and smiled. I was happy for the dark. At least he couldn’t see me blush.

Our unhurried pace slowed even more as my house came into view. We arrived at my door much too soon. Where earlier I’d been willing to forgo tonight’s plans, I was delighted now that Jack had pressed the issue. It had been the loveliest of evenings and all that was left was to say good night.

At the front door, Jack turned to face me. “I had a great time,” he said, his hands running up my forearms and tugging me closer.

Frogs croaked in the distance and above us leaves
shush
ed in the breeze. “I did, too,” I said. “I’m really glad we were able to put aside all the unpleasantness of the past few days.”

“Although it’s never really far from my mind, I think we needed this time away from it all. Both of us.”

Close now, so close, I allowed that little giggle to pop up. “It’s been a crazy few days, hasn’t it? But I know things will settle back soon.”

“I hope so. It’s just that woman . . .” Jack looked away. “But we shouldn’t be talking about her right now. We should be concentrating on other things.” He pulled me closer still. “Because not even a Tank can squeeze between us right now, can she?”

“I won’t let her,” I said, tilting my face up toward his. “The last thing I need is to hear another conspiracy theory from her.”

Jack leaned back. “Conspiracy theory?”

“Nothing,” I insisted, wishing I hadn’t mentioned it. I tried to dismiss the subject and restore the evening’s mood. “Remember I told you she came to see me yesterday? She went on and on about that back gate.”

Jack’s arms around me loosened. “What are you talking about?”

“The back gate that was unlocked? Then mysteriously locked again?”

He frowned. “I hadn’t heard anything about a gate. Are you talking about the access road near the Civil War encampment?”

“Exactly. The bolt was unlocked before the murder— somebody noticed it and told the detectives. But when they went to look it was locked again.”

“I have a key to that back gate.”

I nodded, truly sorry I’d opened my mouth. “That’s Tank’s point. There are only three keys. Yours, mine, and Terrence’s.”

My heart dropped when Jack’s arms did. He stepped away from me, rubbing his forehead. “This is bad.”

“What is?” I asked. “What’s bad?”

“That Tank woman asked me about my keys the day of the murder.”

The reverberations in my heart pounded their way up to my temples. I didn’t want to hear more, but I had to ask, “And?”

“I told her I’d lent them to Davey.” He stared upward, hands on his head. “What have I done? I didn’t think anything of it when she asked. I didn’t know about the back gate being unlocked. I just answered the question.” He walked to the far side of the porch, down to where the swing used to be. I wanted to follow him, but the deep angry sounds he made as he looked out over the far rail rendered me immobile. He banged the rail with his fist.

After a long moment of silence I tried to help. “But you said Davey was in no shape to go back that night.”

Jack turned. “I’m not saying that he actually
used
them. He couldn’t have. But I keep an extra set of my personal keys on that ring, and Davey had left his house key back at the manor. When I got him settled at home I figured I’d take off for a while to let him sleep. I didn’t want him to be without keys—just in case.” He rubbed his face. “How do you think this looks to the cops? The evidence is mounting against my little brother and—look at me—I’m contributing to the pile.”

“I’m sorry.”

Although he said, “Not your fault,” his tone contradicted his words. He worked his jaw. “I better go.”

“Go where?”

“To my dad’s. I need to see Davey. Talk to you later, Grace.”

He jogged to his car and I called, “Let me know how it goes,” to his departing figure, but he drove off without even a wave good-bye.

FRANCES FOUND ME AT MY DESK THE NEXT morning staring out the windows. “They arrested the Embers kid?” she asked by way of greeting. She was wearing a different Civil War costume, a foggy gray shift that hung straight to the ground.

“No hoop today?” I countered, surprised she was in this early. I hadn’t even heard the door open.

“I’ll wear the gown again at the ball after the battle Saturday. For now it’s going to be easier, not to mention cooler, to wear this.” She fingered the fabric then looked at me expectantly.

“No, they didn’t arrest him,” I said. “They just pulled him in for more questioning. I’m surprised you already heard.”

She lifted both shoulders as if to say, “What did you expect?” Settling herself into one of the wing chairs, she narrowed her eyes. “He didn’t do it.”

Her pronouncement surprised me. “I don’t think so either.”

We were quiet for a long moment.

“Davey is staying with their father, from what I understand,” I said, “until all this blows over.
If
it blows over.”

“Gordon.”

“Excuse me?”

“Their dad is Gordon Embers. Used to be a big-shot cop here in town. You ask me . . .” She paused, as though gauging my reaction.

I flipped my hand up. “Go ahead, say it.”

Wiggling herself deeper into the seat, she went on, “I think the only reason your gardener, Jack, got off last time was because Daddy pulled strings. Now, I’m not saying Jack is guilty, but I do think they cut the investigation short because Jack is Gordon’s son.”

I started to shake my head.

She drew a finger along her cheek and up toward her right ear. “Know where he got that scar?”

“Wrong side,” I said, “it’s on the left.”

With a Cheshire cat smile, she said, “He beat up the dead guy—the dead guy from thirteen years ago, I mean. Just a week later, that man was murdered in cold blood.”

I knew Jack’s side, but I let her continue.

“I know some folks up where Lyle Kincade lived,” she said. “I didn’t know the man personally, but there’s no question he was crazy and dangerous. I don’t blame the Embers family for getting their girl away from him, but the fact remains, Jack and Lyle got into a fight that sent them both to the hospital. Lyle slashed Jack with a broken bottle, and Jack kicked in Lyle’s knee.”

“I heard a little about that,” I said carefully. “But I thought
three
of them went there. Jack’s older brother and father, too.”

“Gordon? Never. He wouldn’t have jeopardized his career that way,” she said. “I know the man. He’s smart. He might have sent the boys to do some mischief, but he wouldn’t have stepped foot inside Lyle’s house unless it was with an arrest warrant in hand.”

Same basic story Jack had told me, shaded slightly differently.

“So why don’t you think it was the older brother who killed Lyle?”

“Couldn’t be. I talked to some folks who worked with him back then. At the time of the murder, Keith was upstate working a construction site with his team. Impossible for him to have taken off and come back for that length of time without anyone noticing.”

“Some folks,” I repeated. “You know a lot of ‘some folks.’ ”

“I make it my business to know.”

“I think the Emberstowne Police Department should have hired you instead of that Tank woman.”

Frances’s mouth twitched. “It’s their loss.”

It sure was.

When she was ready to return to the Civil War encampment for round two of her gossip-harvesting, I wished her good luck. “You did great cornering Jim Florian yesterday,” I said. “We got a lot of useful information.”

“You weren’t so bad yourself. Maybe you ought to pick out a dress from the sutlers and have a go out there, too.”

“Thanks, but I’ll leave the undercover work to you.”

“Undercover,” she repeated, shuddering.

“I thought you enjoyed this.”

“I do . . . it’s just . . .” She shook her head. “Never mind. I’ll deal with it.”

“Is there a problem?”

“Nothing I can’t handle. I’ll catch up with you later.”

 

 

MID-MORNING WHEN THE OUTER DOOR TO Frances’s office banged open I jammed a finger to hold my place on the massive spreadsheet that tracked the mansion’s past twelve months’ expenses for paper goods. I looked up to see who my visitor was, thinking again how much I needed to persuade this staff to go green. Bennett rushed in. “It’s here,” he said.

“What is?”

Joy suffused his features and he threw his hands up in the air. “The auction item, of course. What else?”

He wasn’t carrying anything. “Where is it?”

“Come on, come on,” he said, urging me to hurry.

I placed a Post-it note on the expense sheet and stood. I doubted whatever it was would disappear if I didn’t show up in the next two minutes, but Bennett’s enthusiasm was contagious. Taking on Abe’s directorship in addition to being head curator wasn’t working out exactly as I’d hoped. Rather than traveling the world to discover exciting relics and historically significant pieces to add to the Marshfield collection, rather than spending blissful hours cataloguing the hundreds of pieces we already had in storage, I mostly found myself poring over minutiae in order to keep the mansion running smoothly. I hadn’t had a chance to flex my curator muscles in some time and an opportunity to experience something new—or old, as it were—would be a breath of fresh air. I grabbed my walkie-talkie and followed him. “Lead the way.”

The manor was buzzing with tourists. They took no notice of us despite the fact we were walking against the normal flow of traffic. Most visitors wouldn’t recognize the owner of the manor if they ran into him, and certainly no one would recognize me.

Bennett led the way with long strides. I kept up, trying to calculate where he was taking me. We took the central public stairway down to the main floor. I wondered, not for the first time, how much longer the carpet here would hold out. Stairways always took a beating and although the thick red runner wasn’t yet showing wear, the color had faded ever so slightly where the sun beat through the windows. I had no idea how long this particular floor covering had been in place. Another task for me to add to my to-do list.