Grace Interrupted (25 page)

“The younger participants, I’ll bet,” I said.

“You’d be surprised. A lot of the old-timers are getting fed up, too.” Turning to Frances, he grinned. “Your buddy Hennessey is one of them. He keeps a margarita blender in his tent. Geez, how much more farby can you get? Worst of all, he thinks he’s being so clever hiding it from us. But we hear the motor running almost every night.”

Frances wrinkled her nose. “He is
not
my buddy.”

“Yeah, well, if he doesn’t get rid of the blender, he’s going to get fined.” Florian seemed to forget we were there. “I really want the job, though,” he said. “My dad would have been so proud.”

“Who’s running against you now?” I asked.

“I’m still unopposed, but that’s not the point.” He sighed, deeply. “I have some serious thinking to do.”

“I wish you luck,” I said. Frances echoed my sentiments.

“I’m going to need it.”

Before I left, I asked him, “Do you know anything about an affair Zachary was having with one of the wives out here?”

Florian nodded. “I wondered if anyone would find out about that. Yeah, I know about Zachary and Mary Ellen. But I don’t see Jeff as a suspect. He’s drunk all the time. We all wish Mary Ellen would dump the guy and come out to these events on her own. She’s a nice lady. Really pretty and she’s wasted with a loser like Jeff. Maybe she shouldn’t have been fooling around, but if you met Jeff . . .”

“I’ve met Jeff,” Frances said. “Seemed pretty lucid to me. Furious with Mary Ellen. Especially since she’s taking Zachary’s death pretty hard.”

Florian shrugged.

“You expect us to believe that Jeff didn’t hate Zachary ?” I said. “That he didn’t want him dead?”

Florian looked grim. “Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. And who knows what any of us are capable of?”

We talked a little longer. “I’d better be getting back,” I said. To Frances, I added, “You’re spending the rest of the day here, I take it?”

She wagged a finger in Florian’s face. “You make sure that Hennessey stays away from me, you hear?”

BACK AT THE MANOR, I DECIDE TO GRAB A little something to eat in the Birdcage Room. They were still serving afternoon tea, and I was famished. The two-story windowed room jutted out from the back of the mansion to the south. Our harpist was on a break, and the area was beginning to empty out. Since I wouldn’t be taking up the space from a paying customer I sat close to the windows, and asked one of the waitresses to bring me a sandwich and some iced tea.

While I waited, staring out over the patio and the grounds beyond, I couldn’t help think that something wasn’t making sense. Zachary was apparently respected enough to be a shoo-in for the re-enactors’ top job. Yet he was having an affair with a colleague’s wife . . . while engaged to Muffy, a woman he’d jilted at the altar. This didn’t sound like the behavior of a person who was esteemed enough to be voted into office.

Just as my food arrived on a dainty china plate, my cell phone rang. I silenced it as I checked the display. The last thing I wanted to do was disturb the serenity of this elegant room, so I headed outside to the patio to take the call. The number was local, but unfamiliar.

“Grace Wheaton,” I said the moment I pushed through the glass door.

“This is Ron,” he said.

“Who?”

“Ronny.”

It took me a minute. “Tooney?”

“Yeah.” He sighed. “Hey, good news.”

“I’m a little busy right now,” I said as I walked the patio’s outer edge, thinking about my sandwich back inside. Keeping just inside the perimeter of the patio I tried to stay far enough away from meandering guests so as not to bother them.

“The people I took those pictures for?” he went on as though I hadn’t spoken. “They’re 99 percent sure the cat is their Mittens. They want to arrange a time to come pick her up.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, stopping in my tracks. “I haven’t seen any proof. I’m not just handing her over on your say-so.”

“Don’t you trust me?” he asked. A second later, “Don’t answer that.”

“I’m not giving her up, you understand? Not unless you can prove it. And I haven’t seen anything yet, let alone anything convincing. For all I know, you just want that reward and you’re making all this up to take her from me.”

There was silence on Tooney’s end for a long moment. Then a low whistle. “Pushed a button, did I?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time, Tooney.”

I hung up and returned to my table inside. I sat and stared at my plate realizing I wasn’t hungry after all.

 

 

JACK STOPPED BY MY OFFICE THAT AFTERNOON and took a seat at my desk, studying my expression. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

As much as it killed me to keep silent about Tank and Rodriguez’s revelation, I knew how Jack would react if I told him what the police had shared with me. He’d go storming down there in a fit of frustration and that would serve no purpose whatsoever.

I had to think hard before I took a step that could potentially hamper a police investigation. I knew, deep down, that Jack was innocent. He had to be. But I’d been led horribly astray by my heart before and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t determine what the right answer was. Until I knew for certain what I should do, I decided to keep quiet.

Instead of sharing Rodriguez and Tank’s suspicions, I told him about Tooney’s phone call and Jack nodded sympathetically. Not for the first time, I cursed my rule-follower tendencies. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t try to lead Jack to his own conclusions.

“I met your dad today,” I said.

He rolled his eyes. “Down at the re-enactment?” he asked. “I told him to stay home. I can handle Davey.”

“He seemed upset that your brother is hanging out down there.”

“Davey has a history—pardon the pun—of getting involved with a hobby, or a job, or even a girl, and then dropping it for no reason. He’s been like that for a long time.”

Jack didn’t say the words, but I knew what he was thinking. That Davey hadn’t been like this before Lyle Kincade’s murder. “You never know,” I said, “this time may be different.”

“You don’t know Davey.”

“True . . .” I began. I thought about how Pierpont had taken Davey under his wing, and although the fanatical little general would hardly be my first choice for a role model, I’d seen stranger combinations. Maybe what Davey needed was an outsider to point him in a new direction. Maybe like his great ancestor, Henry Embers, Davey just needed a change of venue.

I was no psychologist, but from what I’d gathered, the older Embers brother, Keith; their dad, Gordon; and Jack had all tried to step in and “fix” Davey. A stranger just might offer enough distance to coax Davey out of his shell. “What harm is there in letting him participate? These re-enactors are moving out on Sunday anyway. Davey hardly has time to lose interest this go-round.”

“Maybe.”

“Have you talked with the police lately?”

“Why?”

“Just curious. They seem to be hanging around here a lot. I thought you might have some idea about that,” I said.

“They’ve been hanging around here?”

“A bit.”

“Talking about me?”

“Just a little.”

“Why do you think they’d be looking for me?” Jack asked. “Did they say something about Davey? Something you’re not telling me?”

“Not much more than they’ve said before,” I hedged, “about Davey, that is.”

The lines bracketing Jack’s mouth deepened as he frowned. “Let’s change the subject. I left you pretty abruptly the other night and I want to make it up to you. I was wondering if you’d like to go out again tonight. I thought we’d drive out to Westville for a change of pace.”

Westville. Where the purported cat owners lived.

I hesitated.

“If you don’t want to go, that’s okay. Just say so.”

“No, no. It’s not that . . .” I didn’t want to think about giving Bootsie up. I didn’t want to think that the man seated across from me might soon be arrested for murder. I was failing miserably at my plan to keep my confidence yet somehow alert Jack to his predicament. Conflicting arguments battled within me. Brain versus heart with a little bit of gut thrown in. If I was so convinced of Jack’s innocence—convinced enough to date the man, for crying out loud—then why wasn’t I warning him about the cops’ plans?

“You’re very important to Davey,” I said.

“Where did that come from?”

“You keep telling me that Davey was different when he was younger.”

Jack looked about ready to jump out of his seat. “Yeah?” he said sharply.

This wasn’t going well. “But I don’t think the reason he has problems now is because he doesn’t look up to you. Just the opposite, in fact.”

“What are you saying? That because he thinks I killed Lyle, he wanted to be just like his older brother and so he went out and killed Zachary?”

“No!”

“I can’t believe you think that about my brother.”

“I don’t. That’s not what I’m saying at all.”

Jack stood, threw up his hands, and started for the door. “Forget tonight. I’m not in the mood.”

“Jack,” I called to his back, “you’re misunderstanding me. I don’t think Davey killed anyone.”

He held up a hand to let me know he’d heard. At the door he turned. “I’m sorry, Grace. I know you’re trying to help. I know you don’t believe Davey is guilty. But you’re making judgments about people you don’t know or understand. Until all this is resolved, I think we need our space.”

And with that, he was gone.

I put my head back and closed my eyes. There had to be some way to fix this. I just wished I knew how.

 

 

WHEN I RETURNED HOME THAT EVENING, I found a manila envelope wedged under my back door with my name scrawled across in black marker. Though lightweight, it didn’t bend easily, as though a piece of cardboard was wedged inside. Whoever placed it here apparently knew I generally came in the back way. No indication who had left it; I worried for a moment that it was one of my neighbors sending an anonymous note warning me to step up the house repairs, or else. I’d received a couple of those in the past, one with a handful of dead grubs the sender claimed had been harvested from my front lawn. Nice folks, these neighbors. I did my best to keep up, but fifteen new projects always seemed to pop up to take the place of the single one I completed.

If Bennett took control of this house, all that would change. That would make my neighbors happy for sure. I stared at the envelope in my hands. For all I knew, it would explode the moment I opened it. Annoyed now, and grumbling, I threw caution to the wind—why not? the day was ruined as it was—and ripped it open.

Four photos spilled out. Along with a note. “Here’s your proof,” Tooney wrote, “I’ll be by Saturday to pick Mittens up.”

I sat down on the concrete stoop to check out the pictures he’d enclosed. There was no denying this kitten’s resemblance to Bootsie. In the first shot, two kids sat on a hardwood floor, dangling a fuzzy toy in front of little Mittens, who was in the process of jumping to reach it. In the next two pictures, the kids took turns holding the kitten. Her face was blurred and turned away from the camera, but her markings looked frighteningly familiar.

It was the final shot however, crisp, clear, and of the cat all by herself sitting on a window ledge staring out, that dropped my heart to the floor. Although I couldn’t see her left side, and the picture was cut off just above the tip of the kitten’s paws, it sure looked like the cat I’d come to love.

I turned back to the pictures of the kids. Both of them looked clean-cut and cheerful. The cat as happy as a cat can look. At least Bootsie would have a good home.

I heaved a sigh and went inside.

TERRENCE CARR RAISED ME ON MY WALKIE-TALKIE early Friday morning. “Don’t leave your office. I’ll be there in five.”