Grace Takes Off (25 page)

I’D SILENCED MY PHONE BEFORE HEADING UPSTAIRS. NOW, ON MY WAY BACK TO MY OFFICE,
I checked it for messages, discovering a missed call. The number was one I didn’t
recognize; it had a New York area code. Whoever it was had tried to call twice in
the past five minutes.

Calls from out of state weren’t unusual, but I was surprised that whoever had attempted
to reach me hadn’t left a voicemail. The fact that they’d tried again me told me it
wasn’t a wrong number.

I shrugged it off. As I took the turn and started down the final flight of steps,
my phone rang. I wasn’t surprised to see the same unfamiliar number. Time to find
out what was so important. I clicked to connect. “Grace Wheaton.”

“Thank goodness. This is Jerry Pezz. You know me as Gerard Pezzati.”

I stopped my downward descent. “I thought—”

“Yes, Adam was supposed to meet with you this morning. I know. But this can’t wait.
I need to speak with you.”

The staircase wound up above me to the skylight in the roof. It spiraled down to the
sub-basement below. I got an eerie sense of being closed in. Of changes made without
my knowledge. Or my consent.

“He gave you my phone number?”

“Could you meet with me? Wherever you want.”

“Not a chance,” I said with flash fury. Then, remembering the call Irena had refused,
I added, “Irena should be calling you back soon. You have a lot to discuss with your
sister.”

“They’ve arrived? They’re at Marshfield?” I couldn’t decide whether the surprise in
his voice was anxious or smug. “Will you allow me to come visit? I must see them.
Please,” he said. “I need to see my father.”

“He isn’t—”

“I know he doesn’t want to see me. But I can’t be this close and not make an attempt.
I’ll try calling Irena again. I’ll beg to meet with them. If she agrees, will you
allow me to come to your office? From what Adam tells me, you view me as some kind
of ogre. I promise you, I’m simply a man who hopes to reconnect with his father before
it’s too late.”

I bit my lower lip. Let Irena break the news to him that his father wasn’t here. “Fine,”
I said, thinking that I’d be sure to have security nearby if Irena allowed the meeting.
“But only if your sister says it’s all right.”

The moment we hung up, I thought to tell Irena about this latest wrinkle, but anger
had me dialing Adam’s number instead. No answer. Smart man. He must have known I’d
ream him out. I’d agreed to talk with Gerard Pezzati, not welcome him as a guest of
Marshfield. Too many unanswered questions. Too much at stake.

I pulled up my walkie-talkie and connected to security. Terrence was out of the building,
answering a situation at the inn, so I left a message with the dispatcher. “I’m starting
to feel the walls caving in,” I told her. “I’d like him to keep a close eye on things.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Wheaton. There’s a problem with one of the walls?”

I sighed. So much for sharing gut-level concerns. “There’s nothing wrong,” I said.
“Not yet. I’m simply trying to keep ahead of trouble. Can you ask him to stay extra
alert?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Frances stood up when I walked into her office. “Your friend Adam called here. He
apologized profusely but swears he had no choice.” The look on Frances’s face told
me exactly what she thought of that story. “Apparently he shared your contact information
with Gerard Pezzati.”

I held up my cell phone. “Just heard from him. Pushy guy.”

She harrumphed. “So much for our trip to New York.” Pointing toward my office, she
said, “You missed a call a moment ago. I was on my phone and couldn’t pick up.”

“Did you check caller ID to see who it was?”

She pursed her lips. “What do you think?”

“And?”

“No name. A number I didn’t recognize.”

I returned to my desk and prepared to get started on reports that had piled up of
late. Less than ten minutes later, I heard noise from the outer office. Frances had
a visitor. There was a low murmur of conversation. Frances sounded ever so huffy as
she came around the doorway and marched up to my desk.

I pointed to her office, mouthing a silent question, “Who?”

She gave an indignant head waggle. “You could have told me, you know.”

I’d already gotten up and was making my way to the door when she grabbed my arm. “This
wing ought to have better security. Any bozo can come in and ask for one of us and
get escorted right up. We should put a stop to that. Doris brought this one.”

She was right about the security issue; I made a mental note. “Who’s here?” I asked
again, this time aloud.

Frances made a smacking motion with her mouth as though she couldn’t be bothered to
answer the question. “See for yourself.”

I didn’t recognize the man standing next to Frances’s desk. Mid-forties, tall and
lean, he had a full head of dark hair worn long enough for it to curl a bit below
his ears. Perfect teeth practically gleamed as he worked up a smile and moved forward
to shake my hand. His eyes were familiar. Dark and tight with worry.

“Grace Wheaton?” He didn’t wait for acknowledgment. “Jerry Pezz. But you’ll know me
as Gerard Pezzati. I know you’re not happy to see me, but please hear me out.”

In that instant I juggled all sorts of reactions: shock at the man’s unannounced appearance,
frustration at my ill-preparedness because Frances hadn’t given me the courtesy of
a heads-up, and panic. Could I be facing the very person who had engineered the attack
on Bennett?

I relied on good manners to carry me through my discomposure. “I’m pleased to meet
you,” I said, ignoring Frances’s
hmmph
of annoyance. She made her way to her chair and sat down hard. “After our brief discussion
on the phone, I must confess I’m surprised—”

He cut me off. “I apologize for showing up here without forewarning. I tried calling
Irena, but she has refused to meet with me.”

“Then there really isn’t much I can do,” I said. “This is a family issue.”

“Ms. Wheaton—may I call you Grace?”

I didn’t answer.

He didn’t really care. “You don’t understand how difficult it has been for me. With
my father so close, I need to try. This may be the only chance I’ll ever get to see
him.”

I opened my mouth to answer, but he cut me off again.

“I understand the difficult position I’m putting you in, but Adam tells me . . .”
He flicked a glance toward Frances. “Is there a place we can talk?”

Not solely because it would buy goodwill with my assistant, though the thought factored
into my decision, I adopted an authoritative tone. “Frances is fully apprised of the
situation. We can talk here.” I gestured toward one of the open seats across from
her, but with a pained expression, he ran a hand up along his temple. He began to
pace. Five strides took him to the far wall.

He turned and asked, “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve spoken with
my father?”

I didn’t hesitate. “Fourteen years?”

His bottom lip went slack. “How do you know?”

“Your father told us when we visited him in Italy.”

Gerard Pezzati blinked. “Why would he tell you that?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” I asked. “He’s hurt that you haven’t been willing to connect with
him.”

Pezzati clapped arched fingers to his chest. “
I
haven’t been willing to connect?
I?
” His hands returned to the sides of his head. With his elbows out and eyes clenched,
he resembled a medium attempting to contact the spirit world. “This isn’t right,”
he said. “Why would he say such a thing?”

His eyes flew open when I asked, “Are you trying to tell me that you’ve attempted
to contact your father over the years?”

“Of course.” His voice was high and thin. “Many times: when I married; when my children
were born. My father has never met my wife or my kids. They are his grandchildren.”

Fingers to my temples, I said, “Wait . . . that can’t be right.”

Gerard Pezzati strode toward me. “I need to see my father,” he said. “I know he’s
here. Adam promises me that you’re an empathetic person. He calls you a kindred spirit.
Perhaps my father will listen to you. Please.” Gerard’s entire face tightened. Tears
welled in his eyes. “I . . . I miss him.”

“I’m sorry, Gerard. Your father isn’t here. Your sister came alone. Your father is
too ill to travel.”

His clapped his hands over his mouth. “No,” he said between tight fingers. “I’ve been
afraid of this.” He resumed pacing, gesticulating in the air and raising his voice.
“I couldn’t bear it if my father died before we have the chance to reconcile. What
can I do?” He turned to me. “Perhaps you, or Mr. Marshfield, could intervene on my
behalf?” He clenched his fingers together in front of his chest, pleading. “Please.
My children need to know their grandfather.”

It was a persuasive performance. But if he was telling the truth about trying to get
in contact with his father, then Irena and Signor Pezzati had lied to us. Why would
Bennett’s elderly friend make up such a story? I had no answer. All I knew was that
I needed additional information. And time to sort it out. I wasn’t about to get either
from Gerard.

“Leave your contact information with Frances,” I said, starting for my office. “I’ll
be in touch soon.”

“Will you talk to my father? Will you ask him to allow me—to allow my family—to visit?”

“What caused the split?” I asked. “Your father was vague when we talked with him.
Why are you and he estranged?”

Gerard stiffened. His chin came up and his expression changed. Like a curtain drawn
across an open window, he closed off with a suddenness that took me aback. “He chose
to believe a servant’s word over mine. My father believed that I sold one of his paintings
and kept the money for myself. I would never do such a despicable thing.”

“Was the servant Angelo?” I asked. Whoever he was, I got the feeling if he walked
in right now, Gerard would tear him apart piece by little piece.

“I don’t know Angelo,” he said, shaking his head. “No, the man who engineered this
windfall is most likely gone now. I pray that he is. How he was able to frame me—to
convince my father that it was I who stole one of his irreplaceable treasures and
fenced it on the black market—that I will never understand. The servant set me up
well—to the point of adding unexplained funds to my accounts without my knowledge.”

Perhaps reacting to the expression on my face—such a move seemed unlikely for a thief
whose goal was to accumulate wealth—Gerard hurried to explain.

“The cash he added was a fraction of the painting’s worth,” he said. “But it sealed
my guilt. I suppose the thief considered it a small price to pay for getting away
with the theft. All fingers pointed to me. My father’s was the one that counted.”
Gerard gave a sad laugh. “I couldn’t tell what was more disappointing to him: that
he believed I’d cheated my own family, or that I’d gotten so little for his prize.”

“Didn’t the insurance company investigate?”

Gerard shook his head. “My father was mortified by my supposed thievery. Refused to
file a claim. Instead, he disowned me.”

“If it wasn’t Angelo, who was it?”

“His name was Rudolfo. Close to my age, but cunning and ruthless.”

“Rudolfo. Rudy?” I exchanged a glance with Frances, who sat behind her desk, wide-eyed
with surprise.

Gerard picked up on that. “You know him?”

I raised both hands, placating him while my mind raced. “I don’t know. Perhaps.”

Frances grabbed the phone. “I’ll call Detective Williamson,” she said.

Gerard was beside himself. “What aren’t you telling me?”

I made eye contact, trying my best to steady the upset man with the calm demeanor
I was working hard to maintain. “I will be in touch with you. Very soon.” When he
inched forward, I placed both hands on his forearms. “I promise. Leave your contact
information with Frances and I swear that as soon as I discover anything for sure,
I will let you know.”

“This Rudolfo,” he said, “he’s still working for my father?”

“I don’t think so.” He relaxed slightly, so I went on, “I don’t even know if the man
I’ve encountered is the same one you’re speaking of. Give me a little time.”

Gerard glanced over to Frances, who was talking quietly on the phone. She picked her
head up. “The detective would like to meet and talk about all this. He’s not in town
yet. Should I have him come by tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” Gerard’s impatience teetered on explosive.

“You’ve waited this long. Let me talk with Irena. Let her know what’s going on.” To
Frances, I said, “I never told Irena about Rudy. The guy on the plane, I mean.”

Gerard’s gaze bounced between us, utterly confused. “Plane?”

“Irena must know that it wasn’t you who stole from your father,” I said, trying in
vain to come up with a reasonable excuse as to why Gerard’s sister and father would
claim that it was Gerard who refused to make contact after all these years.

“She has been the one person on my side through this ordeal. She’s my staunchest supporter,”
he said. “If only she could make my father understand.”