Grace Interrupted (23 page)

We talked a little longer with Terrence asking additional questions, but there was not much more information to be had. As we escorted them out, I turned to Rani. “I don’t get it. Why did you make the effort to come out here when you hated Zachary Kincade so much?”

Her eyebrows arched. “We hated him, sure, but we never wanted him dead. In fact, we wish he was still alive.”

“You do?” I asked.

Tamara bobbed her head. “He got off too easy. We wanted to Taser him.” She gave a wicked smile. “For a couple of hours or so.”

FRANCES WAS IN HER OFFICE WHEN I GOT there. “You’re back early,” I said.

She fanned herself. “It’s getting warm.”

The day had been fairly mild. “I would have thought it would have been hotter under that heavy dress yesterday.”

“It was.”

Pointing out the obvious, I said, “But the temperature is lower today. And you’re wearing a much lighter garment.”

She fixed me with a look. “I know that.”

Deciding to try a different tack, I lowered myself into one of her visitors’ chairs. “What’s wrong?”

She had been standing behind her desk, but now sat down hard, making the seat creak in protest. I’d be the first to admit I had trouble reading my assistant. Other than perpetually cranky, she didn’t seem to have a wide range of emotions. To buy her time, however, I told her about our recent visitors and Muffy’s “clue.”

She listened with interest, her small eyes sparking when I mentioned that Zachary believed one of his Civil War mates was out to get him.

“Hmph.” Her brows came together. “That fits with what I’ve pieced together,” she said. “Zachary Kincade was having an affair with one of the wives.”

“Was making enemies his favorite hobby?”

Frances crinkled her nose. “Who knows? Some people are just like that.”

I kept my mouth shut on that comment. “So you think the woman’s husband is a suspect. Who is it, by the way?”

“Guy named Jeff. I met him. He’s either drunk or sleeping it off all day every day. Nobody blames the wife for stepping out on the guy. Can you believe it?”

“So this is common knowledge?”

“Talk about circling the wagons,” she said, leaning forward. “I highly doubt anyone thought to mention this illicit little tête-à-tête to the police.” She lifted her shoulders when I exclaimed my disbelief. “The re-enactors don’t believe Jeff could have done it. He’s incoherent most of the time. Plus, the consensus is he doesn’t really care.”

“That’s sad.”

She shifted in her seat. “There’s more.”

“About Jeff and his wife?”

She wiggled again. Sniffed. “No.”

I waited.

“You know how I’m sharing space with the soiled doves?” Frances’s face darkened as she looked to me for acknowledgment. I nodded and she went on. “All those women have husbands participating in the re-enactment.”

I had no idea where this was going.

“Their husbands get into the game and pretend they’re . . .
hiring
their wives. They come by and flirt and make eyes. It’s ridiculous.”

“That has to make you a little uncomfortable.”

“
Pfft!
Tell me about it. At least they have the common decency to consummate their little game elsewhere. But . . . these people have worked and played together for years so they don’t think twice about . . . well, about getting
into
their roles.” Disdain dripped with every word.

“I’m sorry, Frances. Aren’t there any other women who are willing to share a tent with you?”

“The soiled dove tent is the only all-female spot I’ve found. All the other women at camp share tents with their husbands. If I want to change clothes or even just get out of the sun for a few minutes without some man skulking inside, I have to stick it out with these soiled doves.” Frances shot me with a piercing look.

“I’m sorry to hear that you’re having issues.”

“There’s one more thing.”

I couldn’t decipher the look in her eyes. “Go on.”

“One of the Confederate soldiers—a man named Hennessey—has been following me around.”

“Ah,” I said, “he’s figured out what you’re up to, I take it? Do you consider him a suspect?”

“No,” she said slowly, “he’s not even aware of my investigation.” She blushed again more deeply this time. “He keeps following me around. Keeps trying to get me to visit his tent.” She wagged her tadpoles. “You know . . .”

My jaw dropped. “He came on to you?”

“With gusto.”

“I definitely do not want you uncomfortable out there. Would you prefer to give it up?”

Her eyes widened. “Don’t you think I’m bringing you good information?”

“Great information. In fact, I plan to share this with the police.”

“Then why are you trying to take me off the job?”

My head spun. What convoluted logic led her to that conclusion? “I don’t want you off the job. I just assumed—”

She squared her shoulders. “I can handle myself, thank you very much.”

“Okay then,” I said, perplexed but not willing to argue, “just let me know if you need anything.”

She made an unladylike noise. “Saltpeter, maybe.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed out loud. To my surprise, Frances chuckled, too.

 

 

I STOPPED BY AMETHYST CELLARS ON MY WAY home. The cozy tasting room was practically humming with cheerful customers. Scott was behind the bar pouring samples while Bruce chatted up the clientele. They looked far too busy for me to bother them, so I caught Scott’s eye and waved hello, indicating that I’d see them later at home.

To my surprise, he looked alarmed and quickly beckoned me forward. Excusing himself from a couple of thirty-somethings sampling a red, he spoke quietly. “Just a heads-up,” he said, “that Tooney guy was here looking for you a little while ago.”

“He didn’t know I was at work?”

Scott laughed quietly. “I’m sure he did, but you and I both know how welcome he is at Marshfield.”

“True enough. What did he want?”

“He said to tell you he might be stopping by tonight. Around seven.”

I groaned. “Remind me not to answer the door.”

Scott’s expression tightened. “He says he found Bootsie’s owners.”

My heart dropped. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Scott said, “that’s pretty much the reaction I expected.”

 

 

TOONEY SHOWED UP AS PROMISED JUST AS the parlor clock chimed the hour. Wearing an open trench coat over a dress shirt and pants, he removed his hat the moment I opened the door. “Good evening, Ms. Wheaton.” Glancing at the bundle of fur in my arms, he added, “I see you got my message.”

He was alone. “I thought you’d be bringing the owners with you,” I said.

“May I come in?”

Reluctantly I pushed open the screen door and stepped aside, leading him into the parlor to talk. This was his first time inside my home and he made no effort to disguise his curiosity, his gaze taking in the high ceilings, threadbare furniture, and photos I’d arranged on the mantel. He pointed to one of them. “Family?”

I ignored the question. “What proof do you have that Bootsie belongs to these other people?” I asked. “I don’t intend to give her up until I’m sure.”

Tooney was not a particularly attractive man. Fiftyish, bloated, and pale, his appearance, coupled with his scheming personality, made for one unpleasant package. But his face transformed whenever he smiled, which he did now, clearly proud of himself. “I’m sure they’re the cat’s owners,” he said, “but I understand your concern.” He pulled a small digital camera from his coat pocket and wrapped the strap around his wrist. “That’s why I’m here tonight. I’ll take a few shots of your little charge there and see if this is Mittens after all.”

“Mittens?”

“That’s her name,” he said, nodding toward the kitten, “because of her white paws. There’s even a reward out for her return.”

I took a step back, clutching Bootsie so tightly she squirmed. My nose began to run again, and I loosened one hand long enough to pull a tissue from my jeans pocket and blow. “How do you know they won’t claim this is their cat when it really isn’t? Don’t I get to see pictures of the cat they lost to compare for myself?”

Tooney watched as I shoved the tissue back into my pocket. “I thought you’d be happy to be rid of her.”

“It’s one thing to give her back to the family that lost her,” I said, fighting my runny nose. “But I have to be sure. And anyway, how did this ‘Mittens’ get out? Weren’t they watching her? How old is the cat they’re missing? This one is just a kitten.”

He shot me a sad smile. “Mittens has only had one vet appointment so far. She was too young to be spayed and she got out when the kids’ grandmother opened the door to accept a package delivery. That was about a week ago. The family figures Mittens was too young to know her way home.”

“Are they nice kids? Responsible, I mean?”

“Yeah,” Tooney said, “the youngest one is nine. They’re heartbroken that Mittens disappeared.”

I swallowed my disappointment. “Where do they live?”

He tilted his head. “Westville.”

“That’s awfully far.”

Tooney held up the camera. “That’s why I want to snap a few shots before we arrange to hand her over.”

I wasn’t about to hand her over without more proof. I raised my point again. “What about pictures
they
took of Mittens? Don’t I get to see those?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know if they have any.”

“Well, ask,” I said to him. “If they have kids, I’m sure they have pictures of them with their cat. That’s just the way people do things, you know.” I caught myself muttering and stopped immediately. “They will have pictures,” I said more confidently, “and I want to see them.”

Raising an eyebrow, he focused and shot four pictures in a row. “Can you shift her so I can see more of the white?”

I complied and sneezed.

As he continued, he said, “I thought you wanted to find her family.”

I shrugged.

“Especially with you being allergic and all. I thought this was what you wanted.”

Feeling cross, I looked away. “Just doesn’t seem right, that’s all. How do we know they won’t
say
this is their cat? I mean, if they only had her a week, they may look at your pictures and think it’s Mittens. But maybe it isn’t.”

Tooney gave me a thoughtful stare before thanking me and starting for the door. “I’ll be in touch,” he said, “real soon.”

I saw Tooney out, still holding Bootsie, wishing the PI wannabe had never gotten involved. As I shut the door after him, I snuggled my face into the kitten’s fur. “Oh, Bootsie,” I said. Then sneezed again.

NOT HAVING FRANCES TO RUN INTERFERENCE for me was becoming a problem. I was getting little done during the day because phones rang off the hook, the media kept demanding answers, and staffers needed guidance when faced with unexpected decisions. I began to think that my irritable assistant might deserve a raise. I pushed that thought aside for the moment, because I didn’t have time to think about that now. I had work to do.

The back of my brain nagged that I had more to worry about than running the mansion. I had Bennett’s plea for me to move into Abe’s cottage and Bootsie’s future on my mind. Not to mention the ongoing murder investigation. Investigations. Plural. That was enough for one day. Heck, that was enough for a year.

I found myself spending more time in Frances’s office than in my own. We kept most of our records in there, although I hated having to find anything. Frances had a very personal method of organization, one that no one could figure out. I supposed she considered our dependence on her a form of job security.

Phone receiver crooked tight on my shoulder, I was talking with Lois about where to temporarily house Bennett’s new 1936 Packard until its final spot was decided, when Tank and Rodriguez ambled into the office. They waved a greeting and sat down in the chairs across from me without my inviting them to do so.