Grace Sees Red (9 page)

“I grew up here, in town. No big moments to speak of.”

I favored him with a withering glare. “Work with me,” I said. “You know so much about me, but I know little about you.”

“Not much to tell.”

I glared again. “Tooney.”

I couldn't tell if he was enjoying the attention or if my prying made him uncomfortable.

Leaning forward, I decided to push—just a little bit. “Take me back,” I said. “Senior year of high school. Start there. Tell me all about it.”

To my surprise, he did.

I left Tooney's house later than I'd planned, but when I did I was filled with a feeling of immense satisfaction. Although Tooney hadn't gotten past college in his recitation of the story of his life, I did feel as though I knew the man a little bit better. Who would have imagined that he'd played the lead in a school musical or that he'd double majored in Spanish and German, hoping his language skills would eventually earn him a spot in the Secret Service?

He'd ended his story there, not because he had no more to tell, but because the wine had run dry. Smiling, he protested that he'd bored me enough for one night.

“Promise we'll do this again soon,” I said when I left.

“Anytime, Grace.”

*   *   *

“You're home,” Bruce and Scott chorused when I stepped through the back door.

I sniffed the air's savory warmth. “Sorry I'm late.”

“That's okay. So is dinner.” Scott grinned.

“
Celebratory
dinner,” Bruce said.

Scott nodded. “Right. We have lots of updates to share.”

I hung up my purse. “It smells heavenly in here.”

“Beef stroganoff,” Bruce said. “Your mom's recipe.”

One of my favorites. “Then we
are
celebrating,” I said as Bootsie wandered into the kitchen to rub against my legs. I picked her up. “What's the good news?”

Had it only been yesterday that I'd found them at the kitchen table poring over distressing financial statements? Tonight my roommates were busy preparing dinner. And smiling. A lot.

Sporting one of his favorite aprons—the one that looked like a Scottish kilt—Bruce waved his spatula in the air and adopted a singsong tone. “We may have an opportunity to move to a new building.”

“Not new-new,” Scott said from across the room. “It's pretty old, in fact. But new for us. Why don't you open a bottle of wine while I finish setting the table? Pick whatever suits your mood, Grace. We'll tell you all about it.”

Because I'd already enjoyed two full glasses of wine over at Tooney's house, I almost protested that I couldn't handle any more. But the looks on their faces and their contagious good cheer convinced me to hold my tongue.

I released Bootsie to the floor in the dining room as I scrutinized the contents of our wine rack. “Excellent,” I whispered to myself when I spotted what I was looking for. “Tempranillo sound good to you both?” I asked.

“Perfect,” Scott called. “Bruce says dinner's almost ready. Your timing is incredible.”

“I would have been home a lot sooner,” I said as I uncorked the bottle and pulled out three glasses, “but I stopped next door to talk to Tooney for a bit. I had to bring him up to date on a few Marshfield matters.”

Bruce turned to face me. “This wouldn't have anything to do with Frances, would it?”

I stopped mid pour. “What do you know about that?”

“Everyone's talking about it,” Scott said. “We've heard at least three different versions about an incident yesterday involving Frances, a long-lost lover, and a murder victim.
We assume the lover and the murder victim are one and the same.”

“They're not.” I blew out a long breath. “Poor Frances.”

“Why didn't you tell us?” Bruce asked.

“She asked me not to. She was hoping to keep all this safe from the grapevine's clutches.”

“We wouldn't have told anyone, Grace. You know that.”

“I do,” I said. “But I gave my word.”

“Got it.” Bruce nodded. “'Nuff said.”

I resumed my wine-pouring duties. “Seeing as how Frances's secret is out, I'll give you the real story. But not until you two tell me all your news.”

Over dinner, Bruce and Scott did exactly that. “The bank foreclosed on a piece of property years ago that's remained vacant all this time. You know that building about three blocks up the street from our current location?”

I tried to picture the area. “The old glass factory?”

“That's the one,” they said in unison.

“You plan to buy it?” I asked.

“No way we could afford that mortgage.” Bruce shook his head. “But we're in negotiations to rent it out. We got a look inside today and the space has so much potential.”

“Brick walls, exposed beams, concrete floors,” Scott chimed in. “A perfect backdrop for our new site.”

“This sounds wonderful,” I said sincerely. “But the first floor alone has to be five times the size of your current location. Would you be able to make such a big space work?”

“I'm glad you asked,” Bruce said. “We hope to section off a portion and rent only as much as we need. That'll give us room to expand as our business grows.”

Scott's eyes glinted. “We could possibly, even, someday, consider opening a restaurant. There's huge opportunity here.”

“And the best part is that we can probably afford it,” Bruce said. “We went over the numbers today. Based on average per-square-foot leasing prices, with what we're saving in rent from our current location, we can easily pay for the amount of space we need at the old glass factory.”

“That's the best news I've heard all day,” I said.

Over dinner they told me about how they expected the bank to work with them. Among other things, I learned that the former factory had an actual name: the Granite Building.

“Christened in honor of our state rock?” I asked.

Bruce shrugged. “Doubtful. I think our state rock and state precious stone and such were decided in the nineteen seventies. The building is at least twenty years older than that.”

“Do you have to worry about preservation?” I asked.

“We got lucky there,” Bruce said. “Although the building's old, it's not historically significant. We can do as we please. And if all goes smoothly, we'll be able to sign an agreement within a week.”

“But we're not taking anything for granite.” Scott giggled around a cheekful of stroganoff. “See what I did there?”

I laughed.

“But . . .” Bruce said warily, “we're thinking of bringing Hillary in for the renovations. Would you be okay with that?”

“Hillary?” I asked, startled by the mention of Bennett's stepdaughter's name. But a second later, I got it. “Sure, if that's who you really want. She's certainly qualified in home restoration.” I held up my hands as though to encompass our entire house. “And she was surprisingly easy to work with. But industrial design is very different.”

“We know,” Scott said. “And when we expand, we'll bring in architects who specialize in restaurant design for the layout and setup. But for the moment, with only interior design and furnishings to worry about, we think Hillary is a good choice.”

“Who knows?” Bruce chimed in. “Maybe she'll turn us down because this project is too far out of her wheelhouse. But we didn't want to even approach her until we talked with you about it.”

“I would never stand in your way,” I said.

“You've barely touched your wine,” Bruce said. “Something wrong?”

I laughed. “Hardly. It's just that Tooney brought out a bottle while I was there and if I over-imbibe I won't sleep well tonight. This glass”—I held mine up again—“represents my limit for the evening.”

The two of them stared at me as I put the glass down and picked up my fork.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“Who else was there with you?” Scott asked.

“No one. It was just the two of us. Talking about Frances.” I shrugged.

With the looks I was getting from them I thought better of mentioning my attempt to draw out Tooney's personal stories.

“It was just the two of you. Discussing business.” Bruce's brows tightened. “And he opened a bottle of wine?”

“Guys.” I leaned back. “He got it as a gift from Hillary—the same wine we're drinking tonight, in fact—and said he'd probably never open it on his own. My being there gave him an opportunity and he took it.”

In tandem, the two gestured helplessly. “Grace,” Bruce began slowly, “the man is in love with you.”

“No, no.” I put my fork down. “No. He's fond of me. I know that. Everyone knows that. And I'm fond of him, too. We're friends. That's all it is.”

They both frowned. “Spending time with him, over wine?” Scott shook his head. “You're encouraging him.”

“He doesn't think of me that way.” I rubbed my forehead. “I certainly don't think of him like that. And even if I did, he's at least twenty years older than I am.”

“You've never heard of a May-December romance?” Bruce asked.

I stared at the ceiling. If the boys were right, my pestering Tooney for personal anecdotes would have definitely sent our private investigator down a path I hadn't intended. “I can't deny that Tooney and I have a special bond, but there's no way he thinks of me romantically.” I shook my head, knowing in my heart that I was speaking the truth. “I'm sure
he loves me exactly the way I love him. But he's not in love with me. Nope.”

“I hope you're right,” Scott said. “We'd hate to see him get hurt.”

“I am right. And I wouldn't hurt him for all the world.”

My roommates exchanged an uneasy glance.

I was about to protest further when the house phone rang. Bruce was closest to the handset, so he got up and read the caller ID. “Why would anyone from the county be calling us this late in the day?” he asked rhetorically with a glance at the kitchen clock. “Aren't all their offices closed by now?”

“Maybe it's about the Granite Building,” Scott said. “The bank said they planned to expedite the process.”

Bruce answered the phone and after a quick exchange, held the handset out to me. “It's the coroner. He wants to talk to you.”

The wonderful stroganoff I'd eaten moments earlier began roiling around my stomach, sloshing through a giant puddle of wine.

I accepted the phone and cleared my throat. “This is Grace.”

“I hope I'm not interrupting dinner.”

Of all the things a coroner might begin with, that wasn't exactly what I would have expected. “No, not at all,” I lied, with a “What the heck is this all about?” shrug to my roommates. “What can I do for you?”

“I don't know if you remember,” he said, “but you and I met a few months ago. In your backyard, or at least close enough.”

“Of course,” I said as the shock of having him call wore off and a rush of recollection brought me fully into the conversation. “Dr. Bradley.”

“Call me Joe,” he said. “My patients prefer to use my title, but I like keeping things less formal between colleagues.”

In spite of myself, I snickered.

“Did I say something funny?” he asked.

Bruce and Scott watched me with wide-eyed puzzlement.

“I'm sorry. No, not funny at all,” I said, mortified. “It's just—your patients. They can't actually call you
anything
, can they?”

He had a big, booming laugh, one that made me feel far less self-conscious about my unintentional giggle moments earlier. “Not those patients,” he said. “I'm talking about the living, breathing ones who walk into my office of their own volition. Or those who are carried in, kicking and screaming. Toddlers are notoriously reluctant to come visit me.”

“I don't understand,” I said.

“My coroner duties require only a few hours each week, and not every day. Sometimes I work in the morning, sometimes in the evening, like tonight. In real life I'm a family physician. I belong to a group of four doctors in town.”

“I didn't know.”

“There's no reason you should.” He chuckled. “But introducing myself isn't my motive for calling today. Detective Rodriguez thought I could be of some help to you. He gave me your number. From the stories he and Detective Flynn tell, you've developed quite a reputation for crime solving. And I understand this latest incident hits rather close to home.”

“Of course.” Belatedly I remembered Rodriguez's suggestion to contact him. “That's so nice of you to call.”

I pointed to the handset and mouthed, “It's about Frances.” Bruce and Scott visibly relaxed. Thank goodness my roommates had already gotten the lowdown, otherwise I'd have had a hard time explaining why our county coroner had called to chat.

“What can I do for you?” Joe asked.

“At this point, I don't know,” I said. Bruce and Scott shooed me out of the room, pantomiming so I'd know that they would clean up the kitchen. I wandered into our parlor and plopped into my favorite wing chair. “As I'm sure Detective Rodriguez told you, the autopsy was supposed to take place today. The victim—who probably died of natural causes—will be tested to determine if there's any insulin present in his body. The man wasn't a diabetic, and if they determine he was overdosed, things won't look good for Frances.”