Grace Under Pressure (25 page)

The doorman outside the hotel welcomed me, and a second doorman inside did the same. Both wearing long-sleeved white shirts, black ties, and crisp black slacks, they smiled and wished me a good morning. Shining marble, fresh flowers, and the scent of clean gave the hotel an elegant feel. Any time I walked in here, I felt like a rich person.

My heels clicked brightly along the floor to the cherrywood reception desk. The on-duty representative, Zoe, a young, tiny thing with a red pixie, seemed surprised to see me.

“Has Geraldine Stajklorski checked in yet?” I asked.

“No, but it’s still early,” Zoe said. “Check-in isn’t until three.”

“Ms. Stajklorski requested early check-in. I thought it might be good for me to be here when she arrives.”

Zoe checked her records. “You’re right. I have it all here.” Glancing up at the clock, she said, “But she isn’t due for another hour.”

“I didn’t want to chance missing her.” Pointing toward the seating area near the window, I held my file aloft. “I’ve got this to read while I wait. Let me know when she arrives.”

I took a seat in an overstuffed chair ready to delve into my grandmother’s records, but the moment my backside hit the cushion, a ruckus at the front door grabbed my attention. A shrill voice shouted, “When is this place going to invest in automatic doors?”

Although the doormen had opened a path for her, the woman’s oversized wheeled suitcase jammed sideways as she fought to get it through the second set of doors.

“What is wrong with you?” she demanded of the young red-faced bellboy who rushed to help right her luggage. “Can’t you see you have to back it up first?”

No doubt this was Geraldine. Not only was her voice unmistakable, her manner—brusque and demanding—gave her away on the spot. She was not at all like I pictured. About five-foot-five, she was attractive, trim, and wore a glittering cluster of diamonds on her right wrist. I’d expected someone older, but Geraldine was only in her late thirties. Dark, shiny hair in a blunt, chin-length cut swung when she whipped her head around.

I made my way toward the angry woman who was still berating the poor bellboy. “Ms. Stajklorski,” I said. The bellboy looked up at me, but Geraldine didn’t respond. I raised my voice and waited for a lull in her diatribe. “Ms. Stajklorski.”

She turned away from the boy and spotted me. Puzzlement battled with entrenched anger for control of her face. Too bad. She would have been pretty if she smiled. Her eyes—pale brown—sparked with energy and intelligence. Nothing at all like I pictured from the voice on the phone. “Are you the manager here?” she asked.

As much as it pained me to be nice to this woman, I extended my hand. “In a matter of speaking. I’m Grace Wheaton. You and I spoke on the phone.”

“Oh, sure.” She tugged her suitcase closer as she sized me up. “I got the impression you worked in the mansion,” she said with a little flick of her head. “Not here.”

“That’s true. But I knew you were arriving this morning and I wanted to be sure to welcome you personally.”

“Oh?” She thought about that for a moment. “You’re not changing your mind about my stay here this time? Everything is on the house, right?”

“For three nights, yes,” I said before she could finagle anything else out of me.

“I’m on the concierge floor?”

I nodded. “That’s right.”

“Free dinner, right?”

Again I nodded. “For three nights.” I stepped aside, allowing her a clear path to Zoe, who looked poised to kill with kindness. “I’ll be happy to accompany you up to your room to ensure it’s satisfactory.”

Geraldine squinted at me. “No thanks.”

“As you wish,” I said, handing her a business card. “If you encounter anything amiss during your stay here, be sure to contact me right away so we can correct it promptly.”

She took the card, but didn’t seem too happy about it. Maybe because it gave her less wiggle room for complaints later.

We chatted briefly as she checked in. I directed her to the elevators and asked again if she needed assistance. With a pointed look she said, “No.”

The moment she was gone, I turned to Zoe. “Was it my imagination, or was she in a hurry to get away from me?”

“Like you were an ogre or something.”

I raised an eyebrow.

Zoe put her hands up. “You’re not. I mean, I just got the sense that Ms. Stajklorski was afraid of you. Isn’t that weird?”

It was weird, but it also felt good. Maybe next time, Geraldine would think twice before demanding ridiculous restitution.

Finally back at the office, I sailed past Frances, who was on the phone. I waved my grandmother’s file in the air to let her know I’d found it. Frances gestured animatedly to me and I concluded the investor reports were on my desk.

Just as I sat down, I heard the outer door open. Frances hung up the phone and said, “Good morning,” but before I could even guess who she was speaking with, Bennett strode into my office.

“What the devil are you trying to do?”

Instinctively I stood, desperate to decipher his question. “What happened? Is something wrong?”

“I’ll say it is,” he said. Turning to the doorway where Frances stood, patently curious, he said, “Get out and close the damn door.”

Her tadpole eyebrows shot up but she did as requested. The moment I heard the knob click shut, I tried to cut the tension. “Why don’t you sit—”

Bennett ignored me. “You told the police about the side room!” His voice rose. “About the staircase!”

Flabbergasted by this unexpected attack, I couldn’t find words fast enough.

“That information was private,” Bennett continued. One hand gripped the edge of my desk, as he leaned forward, spittle forming in the corners of his mouth. “You had no business sharing that information with anyone outside the family.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Please, Bennett,” I said in a calming voice. “Let’s talk about this. Why don’t you—”

“I will not sit down!” His voice gurgled. “Not until you explain to me why I shouldn’t fire you on the spot.”

Blood rushed to my face, making my limbs tingle and my throat tight. I knew I’d been right to take that information to the police. I would defend that decision no matter what. But Bennett was so worked up at the moment that any attempt to explain would simply incur further wrath.

I sat.

He stared down at me, eyes bulging.

“You don’t want to fire me.”

Impossible as it should have been, his eyes widened.

I gestured to the empty seat behind him. “Please sit.”

Color returned to his white knuckles as he released the edge of my desk and lowered himself into one of the red wing chairs with an audible
whoosh
. He sat very rigid with his chin up. Waiting. But at least he’d calmed enough to let me speak.

I took a deep breath. “It’s only been a week since Abe died, but this office is dealing with hundreds of important issues. Whether it’s been coordinating with the detectives, dealing with complaints from guests, approving purchase orders, displaying a new acquisition, or overseeing the authentication of one of the mansion’s treasures, we have been very busy in this office.” I paused for another breath, crossing my fingers under the desk. While I
had
been handling all of the above to the best of my abilities, I’d been flying by on good guesses and a fair share of luck. “Abe isn’t here, and I’m doing the best I can. I’m managing because I have Frances to help me. You take me out of the equation and it will be
you
running the estate. Unless, of course, you believe Frances could handle it on her own.”

His bright blue eyes lost some of their steely anger. “Not Frances,” he agreed reluctantly.

“I’m not suggesting I’m indispensable,” I continued, as though we were just having a pleasant conversation, and not like he’d stormed into my office to yell at me. “But I do think this is a particularly vulnerable time for the estate. I think the less upheaval in the staff right now, the better.” His shoulders relaxed—just enough for me to notice—so I pressed on. “I understand that I’m still in my probationary period, but I hope you can understand that although I’m doing my best, I may make a mistake here and there.”

“Mistakes I understand.” A tiny bit of the fire returned to his eyes. “But an intentional act meant to hurt is altogether different. Hillary is furious. She trusted you and you betrayed her. She says she only showed you the room because you begged to know what was behind the panel. But she said you swore you’d keep the information confidential.”

“She said
what
?”

His eyes clouded momentarily, then narrowed. He waited.

From the time I was a little girl and Liza had told our mom that I’d been searching for that “treasure map,” I hated snitches. Divulging Hillary’s confession to Bennett now, to get myself out of this jam, seemed wrong. But I had no intention of losing my job because Hillary had itchy fingers and a late-to-the-party conscience.

“I went up to the study to look for anything the police might have missed,” I began.

Bennett propped his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepled his fingers. I’d known the man long enough to recognize he was striving to maintain calm.

Wanting to give the impression that I was entirely at ease, even though my head pounded with every heartbeat, I sat back a little. “I know it probably sounds silly, but I wondered if the killer might have been hidden in the drapes when Abe came into the room, so . . . I tried it.”

Bennett’s hands dropped into his lap. “Go on.”

“Just then I heard scuffling from the next room—a room I didn’t even know existed.” I shrugged. “I was up there alone and a little nervous. I thought maybe the killer had come back. I decided to stay hidden.”

Bennett blinked. “You didn’t ask Hillary to accompany you up to the study to look around?”

I shook my head. “Is that what she told you?”

Taking a deep breath through his nose, Bennett answered slowly. “Not exactly, but that is what I was led to believe.” He shifted in his seat. “How, precisely, did you run into Hillary?”

Before I could open my mouth to answer, commotion from the other room made us both jump.

“Where is she?” By the time the words were out of her mouth, Hillary was in my office, red-faced and fuming. Her hands in the air, she yelled at me, “What did you tell those detectives?”

Again, I didn’t have time to respond. Bennett had turned to face her, and Hillary took a step back. “Oh,” she said dropping her hands to her sides. “I . . . I . . .”

Bennett stood. “Come in, Hillary. Sit down. We were just talking about you.”

Her face stayed red, but I caught her nervous swallow as she crossed the room and took the seat next to Bennett’s.

“So,” he began. “Why don’t you tell me, truthfully this time, what went on in the study Friday afternoon.”

Hillary shot me a vicious look. “Why should I? She already gave you her side of the story. You’re going to believe her. You’ve always believed everyone except me. Even when I was little.”

Softly, Bennett said, “That’s because you always lied.”

I was like a fly on the wall during this family meeting and I wanted no part of it. Switching to a more pressing topic, I said, “Maybe we should discuss the possibility that the killer used the secret room and staircase.”

Bennett frowned. “Impossible. No one knows about that room.”

I wanted to suggest that Hillary wasn’t exactly the most trustworthy individual, and that there might be lots more folks who knew that secret, but I couldn’t come up with a diplomatic way to put it fast enough.

Hillary, however, was quick. “Now
everybody
knows about it. Because of her.” Pointing an accusing finger, her voice rose. “She told the police and they came to interrogate me. They consider me a suspect. Can you believe it? I’m appalled. I was mortified.” Still pointing, she stood, growing more animated by the second. “I insist you fire her on the spot, Daddy. She’s out to ruin me.”

Frances was getting an earful, that was for sure. She didn’t even need to skulk by the doorway—Hillary’s voice probably carried down the hall to every other department on the floor.

Still seated, Bennett stared up at his stepdaughter. “Sit down, Hillary. You’re making a fool of yourself.”

Her pretty face went redder still, and her mouth twisted downward. I thought she might cry. “She’s lying to you, Daddy. Can’t you see that? She is trying to make herself look good by sharing secrets—our family secrets—with outsiders.”

Through clenched teeth, Bennett repeated, “Sit down, Hillary. And tell me why you went to the study Friday when you were expected to remain at Abe’s memorial service.”

Swallowing hard, Hillary sat. “Whatever she told you is a lie.”

My discomfort peaked. I almost wished Bennett
would
fire me on the spot so I could run screaming from this place and not look back. Why was my dream job turning out to be so very different than I’d expected?

“Hillary,” Bennett said, his voice dangerously low, “where is the music box right now?”

His question surprised the heck out of me. Apparently it flabbergasted Hillary as well. Her eyes went wide, tears pooling in her lower lids. “I put it back. I swear I did. I put it back before Abe was killed. But now it’s gone.” Sending me another scathing look, she started to cry. “Why did you have to tell him that?”

Bennett stood. “She didn’t tell me anything. You just did. Now let’s leave Grace to do her work.” To me, he said, “I’m very sorry about all this. Carry on.”

Taking a shaky Hillary by the elbow, he led her out of the room.

Two seconds later, Frances peeked around the doorway. “I thought you were a goner for sure.”

“Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Rattled by the squabble, I stood up and stared out the window. A sunny day. About time we had a few nice days in a row. Tourists were navigating the hedge maze while others posed for pictures, and in the distance I saw a group of them on horseback taking the “Backroads” tour. I leaned toward the glass, straining to see who might be working on the grounds this morning. I could have stayed there, staring, but right now I had work to do. I sat at my desk to read the Fairfax investigative reports. Jeremy Litric. Rupesh Chaven. They, along with several others, had been the names on my radar since I’d received the investor reports. But these two had turned up as the most intriguing.