Grace Sees Red (6 page)

When Frances and I returned to the Sun Gallery, only Percy and Kyle remained at the table.

“Where's Bennett?” I asked as Frances and I reclaimed our seats.

“The lawyer showed up; they're talking.” Kyle twisted to look around the room. “Don't know where they went.”

“What about Anton?”

“Police are questioning him,” Percy said.

I pointed to the bag Anton had
thunked
onto the table when he'd arrived. “Looks like he forgot something.”

“Yeah, right.” Kyle laughed. “I'm sure that was no oversight.” He grinned across the table until he caught Percy's eye. “What do you think the police would make of his contraband?”

Percy wore a thoughtful look. “Maybe we should tell them about Anton's regular deliveries.”

“No, I was just kidding,” Kyle said. “There's no way Anton killed Gus.”

“Doesn't matter.” Percy sent an exaggerated loving gaze to Frances. “All I care about is getting the focus off my sweetie.”

She rolled her eyes but her cheeks warmed.

Not understanding the conversation, I decided to find out exactly what contraband they were talking about. I picked up the heavy brown bag and wrapped my fingers around the neck of the bottle inside. “You're kidding me,” I said when I pulled out a factory-sealed fifth of scotch. “Anton brought this for Gus?”

Percy and Kyle were unfazed.

“He brings in a bottle at least twice a week,” Kyle said. “They share whatever it is. But they're not very picky, are they, Percy?” Without giving his roommate a chance to answer, he continued. “Scotch, gin, bourbon, you name it, Anton brought it in. Sometimes—if Gus was in a good mood—they'd even share.”

“With you,” Percy said. “Gus didn't like me.”

Appalled, I turned on Frances. “We should tell the police.”

She waved the air. “Anton wouldn't kill Gus.”

“Neither would you, but that isn't stopping them from suspecting you.” I hefted the bottle. “What if he died from something he drank?”

Percy fidgeted in his chair. “Gus kept the liquor in a cabinet so that the nurses wouldn't see it and dump it out.” He blinked a couple of times, as though a thought had suddenly occurred to him. “But that doesn't mean Anton couldn't have added something to one of the open bottles when Gus wasn't looking.” He locked eyes with Kyle. “You know how Gus liked to start every morning with a healthy swig.”

“Healthy?” I asked. “Hardly.”

“I don't know,” Kyle said, twisting his mouth. “Anton's a heck of a good guy. I can't see him doing anything to hurt Gus. Besides, that bottle hasn't even been opened.”

“Doesn't matter. The cops need to know about his habits.” Percy curled his fingers around the wheelchair's joystick. “Put the bottle on my lap,” he said to Frances. “I'll take it with me.”

Just then, Bennett returned. A short, heavyset woman wearing a plum skirt suit accompanied him. Though Bennett took his customary long-legged strides to cross the room, the diminutive woman managed to keep pace.

She sharply scrutinized our little group, her deep-set eyes
missing nothing. Agewise I assumed she fell between Frances and me, but whether she'd hit forty or fifty at her last milestone birthday was impossible to tell. Her bob-length hair was a rich auburn, her skin smooth.

“This is Lillandra Holland,” Bennett said without preamble when they reached us. He then introduced me, Percy, and Kyle. “Frances,” he said, “Ms. Holland will be representing you in this matter.”

The lawyer held up two pillowy palms. “Call me Lily, please,” she said. “Makes life much easier for everyone.” Turning to Frances, she extended a hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Ms. Sliwa.”

The quick seconds it took for the two women to shake provided Frances ample opportunity to invite the lawyer to call her by her first name. She didn't.

Unruffled, Lily continued. “I've spoken with the detectives in charge and convinced them to allow you to return to Emberstowne. You may have to make yourself available for further questioning at some point, but we'll worry about that when it happens.”

Frances gave a satisfied nod. “It's about time they realized they were wasting their efforts.”

Lily waved a chubby finger. “So that there are no misunderstandings, let me assure you that while you're free to go now—and I do mean that we ought to leave
right now
—the police have not completely eliminated you as a suspect. You're not in the clear. Not yet.”

Frances looked away. “Stupid cops.”

Lily shot Bennett a glance. I had no doubt he'd forewarned the attorney about Frances's prickly nature.

“I'd like you out of here before they change their minds.” Lily gestured Frances to follow. “We can talk on the way back to Emberstowne.”

“What about my car?” Frances asked. “I'm not leaving it here.”

“Gracie or I can drive your vehicle back,” Bennett said. “We'll drop it off in front of your house.”

Grudgingly, Frances reached into her cavernous vinyl
purse and dug out keys. “You can keep this set until I come in tomorrow. I have spares at home.”

She then shot a look to Percy, who still waited with the bottle on his lap. He lifted his chin. “Go,” he said. “We'll talk later.”

*   *   *

I would have preferred to drive back to Marshfield with Bennett so that we could compare notes along the way, but he took off in Frances's Buick, while the two women left in Lily's Lexus, and I drove home alone.

Surprised to find both my roommates' cars in our driveway, I parked behind Scott's and let myself in through the back door.

“What are you guys doing home so early?” I asked.

They both looked up at me. I took in the papers strewn across our kitchen table, the open laptop, and their wan, distraught faces and got the impression that my arrival had jolted them both out of a dream. From the looks of it, a nightmare.

“What happened?” I asked.

Bootsie curled around the doorway, saw it was me, and hurried back out of the room. Neither Bruce nor Scott noticed her.

“We're done.” Scott's voice was lifeless, flat.

I pulled out a chair and sat across from them, not even bothering to peel off my jacket. “What happened to the thirty days?”

“Thirty days turned into zero days,” Bruce said, making a circle with his fingers, “today, when the village inspector shut us down.”

“But . . . it's Sunday,” I said, as though that solved anything. “Village inspectors don't work on weekends.”

“They do when a building collapses,” Scott said. He pantomimed the sky falling. “You know our second floor? Where we kept office supplies and stuff?”

“Yes.”

He smashed his hands together. “All part of the first floor now.” Anticipating my next question, he hurried to add, “No
one was hurt, thank goodness. Most of the damage is at the rear of the building. But we lost a lot of our inventory underneath it.”

“A lot,” Bruce said. “There's wine everywhere.”

“Everywhere,” Scott echoed. “There's a river of wine winding across the floor. Like that scene from
A Tale of Two Cities
, but without all the people lapping it up off the ground.” He turned to Bruce: “It's a good thing we never utilized that second floor fully, the way we talked about. Can you imagine how much worse it would have been with extra weight up there?”

Eyes glazed, Bruce stared at the laptop's screen. “Probably would have happened sooner, is all,” he said without looking up. “We knew the building was a ticking time bomb. We just didn't realize how short of a fuse we were dealing with.”

“We got lucky,” Scott said. “This could have been much worse.”

“I know you're right.” Bruce blinked himself back into the conversation and offered a weak smile. “But at the moment, I'm not feeling very lucky at all.”

Scott laid a hand atop Bruce's and squeezed. “No one on our staff was injured, we hadn't opened for business for the day yet so there weren't any customers in the place, and you and I are still here to clean up the mess. I think we need to count our blessings.”

Bruce nodded, but I could tell he was unconvinced.

Scott was usually the naysayer of the two, Bruce more of a Pollyanna. It was unsettling to see them reverse roles.

“I'm so sorry,” I said. “What can I do to help?”

“There's nothing anyone can do. Not now.” Bruce went back to studying his laptop. “Our landlord should have taken care of these repairs years ago.”

“At a minimum, he ought to be fined,” I said.

Scott nodded. “Believe me, he will be.”

“Not going to do us any good, though,” Bruce said. “We're moving into tourist season with no shop and no prospects. I'm looking at our cash reserves, and I don't think we'll be
able to make it through the summer with no income.” Again he tried to smile. “By the way, how did your meeting with Bennett go?”

I remembered my promise to Frances to keep her situation on the down-low. “We had a nice chat.”

Bruce glanced at the clock. “Long chat.” He nodded absentmindedly. “That's good.”

Scott had gone back to tapping on a calculator and scribbling notes on the papers before him. “We have enough to pay our living expenses,” he began. “But that's about it.”

“I can help with that,” I said. “You know that I don't need rent from you two anymore.”

Scott shook his head. “Didn't you insist on continuing to work for Bennett even after you found out you were related? You could have easily stepped away and lived a luxurious life without having to work for your income,” he said. “You told him you didn't want a handout. Neither do we.”

“Then call it a loan, if you like,” I said. “But from now until Amethyst Cellars is back up and running, I refuse to accept a penny from either of you.”

When they started to protest again, I said. “Please, let me do this much. It means a lot to me.”

They exchanged a glance. Scott gave a quick nod, Bruce a small smile.

“Thanks, Grace,” Bruce said. “But we owe you.”

At Marshfield early the next morning, I crossed through Frances's office into mine, dropping off my purse and hanging up my soon-to-be-unnecessary trench coat. Yesterday's storms had passed and I took a moment to gaze out my giant mullioned window, hoping that the day's cheery forecast bode well for both sunny skies and good news for Frances.

Frances usually started coffee for us when she got in but I decided to take over that responsibility today. After the weekend she'd had, I wanted to do whatever I could to make life a little easier for her. I hurried back through her office and out into the corridor. Our entire floor remained deliciously deserted at this early hour. I enjoyed the morning quiet and guessed that I had at least another twenty minutes before other staffers began showing up.

At one time, before I was born, this section of the house had been designated for overnight guests. Now as I walked along the quiet hallway, passing rooms that had been converted into staff offices, I tried to imagine what this wing had been like back during its glory days. When Bennett's father—my grandfather—had entertained here.

This home was Bennett's. And now—as he'd repeatedly made clear—it was mine, too.

Though much of the hallway's carved oak embellishment—from the crown molding to the wainscot—remained intact, the guest rooms had been transformed over the years from opulent to utilitarian. This area was no longer a place where wealthy industrialists and their families cavorted; this was where work got done.

It would be nice to see these rooms returned to their former splendor. To rip out the harsh lighting and replace fluorescent fixtures with vintage accessories or, at a minimum, high-quality reproductions. I ran my fingertips along the top of a metal filing cabinet that had been relegated to the hallway because we'd run out of office space. Squat, gray, and ugly, the cabinet was nonetheless sturdy and did its job well. Whoever had outfitted the work areas, sometime in the middle of the last century, had done so with an eye to durability but with little regard for aesthetics.

The high-ceilinged employee lunchroom had, at one time, served as a guest parlor. Now the space featured a linoleum floor, 1960s-era kitchen cabinetry, bronze appliances, and a mosaic tile backsplash in three shades of ochre. Over the sink, two unadorned windows faced north, and I stared out over the front of the estate—a very different view from that in my office—while I turned on the faucet to fill the coffeepot's reservoir.

As the water splashed in, an idea began to formulate. What if we relocated our personnel outside the mansion and kept only necessary staff on the premises? Assuming a suitable office location could be found nearby, the move itself could be accomplished with relative ease. We could even build new, if need be. We had acres of open space.

Except for a few key players, our office workers were never required to put in an appearance in the public part of the mansion. The docent staff, of course, was always present, but there was no need for accounting, marketing, or outside sales staffers to be on-site every day.

The world had changed a great deal since these rooms
had been repurposed into offices. With the advent of e-mail and the ability of personnel to work remotely, we could probably bring this area back—restore it to its former brilliance. I'd have to remember to mention the idea to Bennett one of these days. But not until after we got Frances through this current crisis.

“What in the world are you doing?”

I spun to find my assistant glaring at me from the doorway. Hand on her hips, she wore an expression of surprised disbelief.

I shut off the faucet. “You still have your coat on.”

She still had her purse, too, and it swung from the crook of her arm as she marched across the small room. “You didn't run the water ahead of time, did you?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, hefting the reservoir, which was now pretty weighty. “How could I have filled this
without
running the water?”

She shook her head as though annoyed, snatched the reservoir from me, and upended it, sending its contents glugging down the drain. “This is an old building. A very old building,” she said as she placed the empty container to the side and turned the faucet back on, full force. “There's most likely lead in the pipes. I let the water run for a full minute each morning before I start the coffee.” She yanked up one sleeve of her coat, frowned at her watch, and said, “Lead accumulates in a body, you know. I read that on the Internet. Can't be too careful.”

My first thought was to argue that the small amount of lead that we might be ingesting—and there was no proof for certain that we were—probably wasn't enough to cause harm. But the truth was I knew nothing of toxic lead levels. And I didn't want to start out the day bickering.

“Good plan.” I leaned a hip against the speckled Formica countertop and asked, “How did your talk with Lily go?”

She continued to study her watch. “Stupid.”

“You don't like her? Or you don't believe she's an effective lawyer?”

“She's competent enough, I'm sure,” Frances said without
looking up. “But I don't understand why she needs to ask me so many personal questions. It's like a body can't have any privacy anymore. Some of the things she wanted to know . . .” Frances shook her head.

“What did she say about your situation?” I asked. “How soon will you be in the clear?”

“Time's up,” Frances said, raising her eyes from her watch and turning back to the sink.

While she refilled the reservoir, I pulled out a coffee filter and began spooning in grounds. “There's nothing special I need to know at this step, is there?”

She glanced over. “Three rounded scoops, and a half-scoop more.”

When we finished setting up, I gestured toward our offices. “Let's talk while we wait for it to brew.”

She made the typical Frances face of disapproval. “I don't plan to tell you any more than you need to know,” she said.

“I wouldn't dream of prying.”

I led the way and as she fell into step behind, I heard her mutter, “Not that you don't already know it all now, anyway.”

Back in our offices, she waved me away. “Go ahead, get started on whatever you need to do. Once I get myself settled, I'll come in and tell you everything Lily and I talked about. Will that satisfy you?”

“Completely,” I said.

“And I suppose you expect me to bring in the coffee when it's ready.”

“I'll be happy to get it.”

She glowered. “Why? Am I suddenly incapable of doing my job?”

I opened my mouth to argue that getting coffee for me was not actually part of her job description, but then thought better of it. “Of course not.”

“Pheh.”
She hung up her coat, sat at her desk, placed her purse in a drawer, and began studying papers on her desk. “I'm not accused of anything yet, you know. I'm not an official suspect. Just a person of interest.”

None of this had anything to do with getting coffee. “I know that.”

“Don't start treating me differently.”

“Not a chance, Frances.”

“You'd better not,” she said gruffly. Then she met my eyes. Though her brows were as carefully penciled in as ever, they were lifeless and flat, no longer bouncy tadpoles. Her eyes held none of their usual sassy sparkle. My heart lurched. Frances was far more frightened than she was letting on.

“Bring me up to speed whenever you're ready, then,” I said with all the breezy calm I could muster. I knew instinctively that the less pressure I put on her, the easier it would be for her to open up. “You know where I'll be.”