Grace Against the Clock (A Manor House Mystery) (15 page)

Hillary gave a little shudder. “Maybe Larry can come back sometime and fix these doors so that they can be opened from the inside. That is, if you’re okay with that, Todd.”

Todd Pedota had his arms folded across his chest, studying the door. With a grin that came across as a leer, he said, “I think it’s a marvelous idea.”

Chapter 19

Frances trundled into my office the following morning, chained glasses perched halfway down her nose, a folder shoved under one arm. She leaned across my desk to press one of her thick fingers down on today’s date in my calendar. “You have an appointment at one this afternoon.”

I finger-combed my hair, buying time. Whatever this appointment was, Frances was clearly proud to have arranged it. Tugging at the hem of her lilac-littered polyester shell, she righted herself and stared down at me, eyes sharp.

I sat back, hands crossed on my lap.

In her eagerness for me to bite, she fairly vibrated with anticipation.

It wasn’t that I wanted to annoy her by prolonging the moment. It wasn’t even that I wasn’t interested to know who I was meeting with, or why. What kept me from asking for more information in that long moment was the unexpected realization that I wasn’t on edge with Frances the way I used to be.

The woman hadn’t uttered a snide remark about me or my life in a while. Could it be that—gasp!—we were beginning to get along?

“Who am I meeting with?”

She was close to my desk, but took a half step forward nonetheless. “You’ll let me in on it, won’t you? I set this up, I surely ought to be invited in to the meeting.”

“Why don’t you tell me who’s coming here, first.” When her eyes dimmed ever so slightly, I added, “And after you do, I’ll share
my
scoop with you.”

“If it’s about the secret passageway you found in your basement, that’s old news,” she said.

“How?” My hands slapped the top of my desk. “That happened yesterday. How in the world do you know about it already?”

She tugged the folder out from under her arm, opened it, and placed a newspaper in front of me. “You made the front page.”

Below continuing coverage of Dr. Keay’s murder investigation was an “in-depth” story about the discovery of the passage in my home. “Oh,” I said.

“Nice photo.”

I cocked an eyebrow at her, but couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic or sincere. Judging from the photo they’d chosen to feature, I had to guess she was taking the opportunity to slam. The photographer had caught my expression when I’d first seen the crowd in my basement. My mouth was open, and the hyperbright flash made it look as though my nose had doubled in size. I wasn’t the most photogenic person on the planet, but the last picture of me that looked this bad had been taken in seventh grade, when I had braces, streaky hair, and mismatched clothing.

I scanned the article, barely resisting the urge to cover the photo with my hand.

“I’ll bet you can buy a copy of that shot from the newspaper if you want.”

“Ha-ha.”

The story was accurate on a few counts—that we’d found a door, opened it, discovered a passage, and believed it might have been built for the Underground Railroad. The story missed the mention of Prohibition and the fact that the passage connected to Todd Pedota’s house. The reporter and his girlfriend had been there for the tramp across the yards, but not for our visit to Todd’s home, so the fact that they’d left that part out made sense.

I mentioned that to Frances as I skimmed. “The other part that’s missing is that we found a few valuable artifacts in the space.”

“Like what?”

I told her about the poison bottles and the other items we’d picked up. “I’m stopping by the historical society after work. Wes McIntyre said he’d do a little homework on prior owners for me.”

One side of Frances’s mouth curled up. “Oh?” she said with the same sort of tone she used whenever speculating on my love life. “A little homework? Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

“Quit your imagining, Frances. I’m seeing Adam, remember?”

She made a face. “How could I forget?”

“Why do you have such a problem with him?”

“Me?” She pointed to her chest in a way that practically begged for an acting award. “I don’t have an opinion on the matter. Why should I?”

I rolled my eyes.

“Back to the original topic,” I said. “Who’s coming in to meet me today at one?”

“To meet with you and the Mister,” she corrected me.

“Fine. Who?”

The smugness was back. She gave a little wiggle of glee and said, “Joyce Swedburg.”

“Why does she want to see me?” I asked.

“She doesn’t.” Frances gave an exasperated head shake. “You want to see her.”

“I do?”

Now it was my assistant’s turn to roll her eyes. “How can you solve this murder if you don’t interview all the suspects?”

“First of all, Joyce wasn’t here when Dr. Keay was murdered, remember?”

“She may have slipped him something before the party. It had to be her.”

“When, exactly, did she inject pure alcohol into him? Before or after he picked up Serena?”

“Before, of course.” Frances’s posture drooped slightly.

“Okay, got it,” I said, as though I was taking her seriously. “Didn’t Flynn say that Keay had been attacked shortly before he died? And if Joyce got to him before the party—remember, he had defensive wounds from a fight—why didn’t he mention the altercation to anyone?”

“He could have been embarrassed.” Frances’s words were coming out with far less confidence. “Can you imagine having to admit to being overpowered by your ex-wife?”

“That still doesn’t work with the timeline,” I said. “Dr. Keay was here for at least an hour before he died. Flynn believes the injection happened during that time.”

“Maybe she snuck in when no one was looking.”

“Frances. We would have seen her.”

“Joyce is a wily one. I wouldn’t put anything past the woman.” Frances stared up at the ceiling for a moment. “She could have hired someone. Did you ever consider that?”

I pressed the bridge of my nose and took a deep breath. “Despite the fact that it’s unlikely that Joyce killed Keay, I am glad you set this meeting up.”

“You are?” she asked.

“I know Flynn wants me to stay out of it, but because I helped organize the event, I can’t help feeling responsible. I’d like to talk with Joyce, even if it’s only to find out who she believes had motive to kill her ex-husband.”

“Told you,” Frances said. She spun on her heel and made her way to the door.

“Told me what?” I asked.

“That you wanted to talk with her.” She turned to give me a triumphant glare. “I was right again. And that means you should invite me to sit in on the meeting.”

*   *   *

Joyce swooped in at twenty minutes after one o’clock. Wearing a floor-length dress in a shade of pink that made my eyes water and a turquoise necklace that must have weighed four pounds, she leaned over Bennett’s chair to kiss him on the cheek. “So wonderful to see you, my good friend. How horrible these past few days have been.”

No apology. Not even any acknowledgment that she was late.

I’d stood to greet her. I wouldn’t say she pointedly ignored me, but she seemed vaguely disappointed that I was there. She came toward my desk, gave my hand one of those dead-fish fingertip shakes, and lowered herself into the chair next to Bennett’s. A faint sheen of perspiration gathered over her upper lip, and now that she was sitting, I could see that her dress clung to her in all the wrong places.

“Dear man,” she said to Bennett, “I must thank you again for taking it upon yourself to deliver the news of Leland’s passing. So much better than having to deal with that persistent detective.” She crossed her legs and pulled a collapsible fan from her clutch, unfolding it and waving it in front of her face. Bejeweled and as pink as her dress, the fan was plastic, the kind tourists buy for ten-year-olds at souvenir shops.

Frances took a spot on the nearby sofa.

Time to get this party started. “Thank you for coming in today, Joyce,” I said.

“Your assistant told me it was imperative that I do so.” Leaning sideways, she placed a hand on Bennett’s knee. “I’ve heard a vicious rumor that the police believe Leland was murdered. That can’t be true, can it?”

Frances and I exchanged a look, both of us silently asking, “Rumor?”

I couldn’t help myself. “Are you telling me that Detective Flynn hasn’t come to question you?”

“Of course he has,” Joyce said with no little bit of impatience. “But that doesn’t mean the police are right. When are they ever, really? I talked with dozens of my friends who were here and they all say that it appeared Leland suffered a heart attack. That young detective is hardly a doctor.”

Arguing with her that the coroner
was
a doctor and that he had determined Leland’s death was a homicide felt remarkably pointless. We weren’t here to debate the merits of the investigation; we were here to unearth what we could.

Bennett lifted Joyce’s hand from his knee and grasped it in both of his. “I’m afraid it is murder,” he said, and with that he returned her hand to her chair. “That’s exactly what we’d like to discuss with you today: Who would want Leland dead enough to kill him?” Bennett smiled. “We thought you might know best.”

“Well, of course, Leland and I remained on excellent terms since the divorce,” she began, “but I’d hardly say I knew what he was up to—beyond his work at the chamber, that is.” Her mouth downturned, she sniffed deeply.

“No idea at all?” Frances asked.

From Joyce’s startled reaction, it was clear she couldn’t have been more surprised if a piece of furniture had addressed her.

“Who knows what sort of riffraff he may have chosen to socialize with? I understand he brought some trollop to the benefit.” She forced a shudder. “Disgraceful.”

I ignored that. “I would have thought that you and Leland might have been in close contact recently. You were in the middle of negotiations, weren’t you?”

Joyce’s head snapped up. She glared at me.

Undaunted, I continued, “About the house, I mean.”

As if her next words were shards of glass, she edged them out carefully. “I know precisely the negotiations you’re referring to.”

“It stands to reason that you may have been aware of unusual circumstances in his life. Or of anyone who might stand to benefit from his death.”

“I was under the impression I’d been invited here as a social call.” Directing her considerable anger toward me, she continued, “It’s clear your penchant for solving murders has blocked your sense of reason. You’re on a witch hunt. I see that now.”

Bennett leaned forward. “Joyce, we’re only trying to help.”

“I should never have come.” Ignoring him, she raised her chin, pulling her shoulders back. “I realize, however, that you won’t leave me alone unless I play your little game.”

Momentarily dumbfounded by her spiteful speech, I hesitated.

She continued her rant. “Yes, I stand to benefit from Leland’s demise.” Her glittery hands rose in emphasis. “Of course I do. Who else should have? We had no children, and he had no other family.”

I exchanged a glance with Frances, who gave me a surreptitious thumbs-up.

“Yes, the house is mine now. We held it in joint tenancy. And yes, I am the sole beneficiary of Leland’s will. Does that surprise you?”

Worked up, she reminded me of an owl with her bold eyes and twisting neck, watching us all, waiting for a response.

Not one of us moved.

“Well it doesn’t surprise me in the least,” she said, answering her own question. “While we were married, he expected me to take care of all the details like writing wills, arranging for lawn care, setting up grocery deliveries. There is no way he would have ever stopped to think about the future—about paperwork—about the minutiae that day-to-day living requires. He was a zombie before zombies became popular. Undead, living off the lives of others.”

She stopped to take a breath. Blinking, she turned again to each of us, then continued in a less agitated tone. “Leland cared about two things: his work as a surgeon and his liquor. The rest of his life was run on autopilot. He achieved a high level of fame early and he expected others to do things for him. By and large, they did. He didn’t ever have to
think
. I did that.”

Her mouth turned down harder. I couldn’t tell if she was trying to make herself cry or if the emotion was genuine.

“I find it difficult to summon sorrow at Leland’s death,” she said. “How can I, when I don’t accept that he was ever truly alive?”

I didn’t have an answer for that.

“Leland’s death is a financial boon to me, yes.” Her eyes flashed. “But I couldn’t have killed him. Remember, I wasn’t there.”

Chapter 20

When Joyce left, I turned to Bennett. “What do you think?”

He stared at the doorway for a beat or two before answering. “I feel sorry for her.”

Frances had seen our guest out and returned to my office, a big smile on her face. “Told you,” she said for the second time that day.

“What now?”

“She’s guilty as sin.”

Bennett sat forward, tilting his head. “Exactly how did you come to that conclusion?”

“Follow the money, and
cherchez la femme
.” Frances plopped herself into the chair Joyce had vacated and folded her ample arms. “It’s a classic maneuver. State up front why everyone should suspect you because doing so throws them off. Guilty people would want to hide their motivations, right?” She didn’t wait for us to answer. “Wrong. Joyce is no fool. She thinks she’s playing us. And from the expressions on your faces, it looks as though she succeeded.”

Bennett boosted himself to his feet. “The jury is still out, Frances. Joyce may have had motivation, but she didn’t have opportunity. As to the means—” He held up both hands. “No idea.” Turning to me, he said, “Let me know what you find out about your house’s history, Grace. I’m fascinated by the discovery of that tunnel.”

I promised I would. “I’m stopping by the historical society on my way home this afternoon.”

“To see Wes,” Frances added.

Reading my assistant’s innuendo correctly, Bennett asked, “What’s this? A new beau on the horizon?”

“Not at all.” I glared at Frances, who looked very pleased with herself. “He’s offered to help me with researching the tunnel. There’s a wealth of information at the historical society. Too much for me to sort through on my own.”

Appeased, Bennett again started for the door.

“He’s single,” Frances added, again in her singsong tone. “Widower.”

“Have you been gossiping with your cronies again, Frances?” Bennett shook his head.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

Undeterred by his crony comment, she answered him. “What good is gossip if there’s no one to share it with?”

“He’s not my type,” I said, hoping to put an end to this discussion as quickly as possible.

“Oh? And Adam is?” she asked.

Bennett seemed interested in hearing my answer to that, too.

I hated being put on the spot. “We’ll see,” I said.

Frances crossed her arms. “That’s not much of an answer.”

“But it’s the best we can hope for at the moment,” Bennett said, graciously putting me out of my misery. Changing subjects, he asked, “And Hillary? Are the renovations still progressing well?”

Finally, a question I could answer with ease. “So far, so good.”

*   *   *

I stopped short before walking into the historical society that evening. Peering through the door’s glass pane, I was surprised to see David Cherk there. The skeletal-faced man leaned one bony elbow on the oak countertop, using his free hand to gesticulate as he spoke. Though his expression remained impassive, his dark brows jumped and furrowed as he conversed with Wes. Wes leaned as far from the other man as he could, which made me wonder if Cherk had bad breath.

I opened the door and stepped inside. “David, you’re back.”

Cherk’s dark brows shot downward as his nose turned up. It wasn’t a frown, precisely, but he was clearly not thrilled to see me.

“Thank you for nothing,” he said.

As the door shut behind me, I looked to Wes for clarification. He seemed as stunned as I was. “Excuse me?” I said.

Straightening, Cherk gave me a swift up and down with his eyes. “Do you really believe I had something to do with Leland Keay’s death? How dare you send your little minion out to drag me back here!”

Realization dawned. Ronny Tooney. “David,” I began, “I believe there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“Is that what you call it?” He slammed both palms down on the oak top and threw his head back, faking laughter. “A misunderstanding. I’d barely set myself up in Belmont when he insisted I come back. And when I say insisted—” He held both wrists out toward me, offering me their undersides to examine. I noticed how scrawny he was, and how blue and prominent his veins were against pale skin. Not much else.

“What am I supposed to see?” I asked.

He flipped his arms, showing me their backs, then twisted up and down once more. “Notice anything?”

If he was showing me any indication that Tooney had manhandled him, I was missing it.

“No. I, um, don’t.”

“Exactly!” he said in triumph.

Wes stroked his beard and shot me a quizzical look.

“I am pale,” Cherk said. “I wasn’t out at my shooting location long enough to even get a little sun on my fair skin.”

My first instinct was to ask, “Seriously?” but I held that exclamation in. “I never intended to pull you back to Emberstowne from your vacation,” I said. “All I wanted was to ask you a few more questions. I apologize if Ronny Tooney was overenthusiastic.”

He tucked those pale hands into both elbows, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Apology not accepted,” he said with great pomposity. “Just because you’ve been instrumental in bringing a few murderers to justice does not qualify you to impinge on innocent people’s rights.”

This was the second time today that someone had thrown my reputation for solving murders into my face. First Joyce, now Cherk.

“I would have expected the police to ask you to stay in town.”

His face creased in a terrifically unpleasant way. “That’s only for suspects,” he said, taking care to enunciate the word carefully. “Innocent people don’t have to follow those sorts of orders.”

Not one to waste an opportunity, I asked, “Now that you’re here, would you be willing to answer a few questions for me?”

“Why? So you can make me your scapegoat? So you can put me under your little microscope? Your magnifying glass? So you can study me like a trapped bug? I should say not.”

He pulled a black bag from the floor near his feet. I hadn’t noticed it earlier, but from the way he lifted it, I could tell it was weighty. “The only reason I agreed to return with your hired wannabe was because I’d forgotten a few items.”

“Then I don’t understand. If you were coming back anyway, why are you so upset?”

“If you have to ask, then I can’t explain it to you.” He lifted the bag’s strap over his head so the sack rested on his hip, like a cross-body purse. To Wes, he made a small twisting gesture with his index finger. “Keep me updated on your finds.”

When I looked at what he was referring to, I saw the poison bottles we’d found in the secret passage.

A flash of territorial defensiveness shot up. “Those are from my house,” I said.

“Yours? Oh, lucky day.” Cherk’s mouth went flat and he jostled past me. “Wes asked me to photograph them for the files.” He glared at the historical society man with contempt. “You said you wanted to have them evaluated. You never said it was for her.”

“Grace has done nothing to hurt you,” Wes said. “And these bottles are historically significant. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t be willing to photograph them for the society.”

Cherk sniffed. “I’ll be in Belmont if you need me.” At the door he turned and gave me a withering look even Frances wouldn’t be capable of. “Don’t bother me this time. I’m busy.” He walked out.

Momentarily speechless, I turned to Wes. “What’s with him?” I asked.

Hand across his mouth, Wes shook his head. “I have no idea,” he said from between his fingers. “He’s displayed flashes of rudeness in the past, but never like that.”

I blew out a breath, trying to dispel the indignation that had welled up in me. “He’s angry, that’s for sure.”

“Would you like a glass of water or something before we get started? I don’t have much else. There may be a can of soda in the fridge in back.”

“No, thank you,” I said. “That was a bit unsettling, though.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.” I tried to shake off the feeling of anger that had clouded my head while Cherk had been taking me to task. “We’re here to talk about fun things. So let’s try to turn the evening around, shall we?”

He smiled. “Good plan. Let’s not let David’s negativity spoil the news.”

“Good news?”

“Depends on how you look at it, I suppose,” he said. “But I think you’ll be pleased.” He pulled over two books that were off to the side, displacing the poison bottles. Looking sheepish, he said, “When David came in, he was in such a foul mood, I showed him the artifacts we’d found. I thought it might cheer him up.” Wes sucked in his cheeks, as though to imitate Cherk’s expression. I laughed. “Didn’t help at all. I think he was more angry at himself for forgetting his supplies than anything. You provided an easy target for him to lash out at.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” I perched both elbows on the countertop and dropped my chin into my hands. “I’m on a roll today, apparently.”

“What do you mean?”

I told him about Joyce Swedburg’s visit and how annoyed she was to find that we wanted to discuss Leland Keay’s murder with her. “Not that I want to point fingers or anything, but she had a lot to gain by him dying.”

“She wasn’t at the party though, was she?”

I shook my head. “Unless she hired a hit man—one who was able to overpower Dr. Keay without anyone witnessing it in the middle of an event with a hundred people around him—she’s clear.”

“Could she have met Keay outside? Maybe ahead of time?”

Now he was starting to sound like Frances. “Dr. Keay came in looking perfectly healthy and not complaining about anyone accosting him. Once he was there, he didn’t leave. There’s only one way in and out—except for the emergency door, and that wasn’t touched. If Joyce is responsible, then she’s capable of rendering herself invisible.”

Wes cocked his head. “Hmm.”

“What?” I asked.

He ran a hand down his beard. “This hidden tunnel in your house gets me thinking. You don’t suppose there was any other way into the party, do you?”

“I asked Bennett,” I said. “There are plenty of secret passages at Marshfield, but he said he doesn’t know of any in that part of the basement.”

“Okay,” he said, but appeared unconvinced. “Tell you what, after I show you what I found here, we’ll take a look and see if there are any clues in the Marshfield Manor blueprints.”

“You have them?”

“Some,” he said. “David had me pull the plans out before the benefit and was using them to help design his presentation.”

“What I wouldn’t give for a look.”

“I can help with that,” he said. “Let’s talk about your house first, though.”

Fifteen minutes later, I’d learned that my house and Todd Pedota’s had been originally built by two brothers. The scrapbooks Wes had pulled out contained photos, newspaper clippings, letters, and other snippets of information that helped us determine that the homes had been built about a decade before the Civil War. By piecing the story together, we gathered that the two men had constructed the tunnel as a shortcut between their homes.

“Because they wanted their families to spend time together?” I asked.

“That’s what it looks like.” He pulled out the blueprints we’d studied before. “These are not originals from when the house was built. Chances are, those are long gone.”

I was a little disappointed. “If the originals are missing, how can you be sure the tunnel was built the same time the homes were?”

“I can’t,” he said with a wry smile. “I’m surmising. Both brothers were bricklayers, so that would account for the quality of construction we found. The two men moved out of their respective homes at the same time. After they sold, there’s no mention of the passage. Seems to me that might have made news in tiny Emberstowne.”

“I’d been hoping to uncover a more historically significant reason for the passageway. I wanted it to have been a safe haven for the Underground Railroad.”

Wes made a so-so motion with his head. “Want to know what I think?”

“Sure.”

“My guess is that the brothers did use it for that very purpose.”

“More surmising on your part?”

“Think about it. Maybe there’s a very good reason why we don’t have the homes’ original plans. If the passage was used to protect slaves, then the two brothers might have destroyed the original blueprints so that no one would know the passage existed.”

“I like that theory,” I said. “If I ever get time, I’ll do some homework on the brothers. Maybe I’ll be able to find what brought them to Emberstowne in the first place. I’d love to believe that my home played an important part in history.”

“I’ll bet it did,” he said. “By the way, I don’t mean to pry, but how uncomfortable is it having direct access to your neighbor’s home and—more pointedly—him having access to yours?”

“You’re not the first person to ask me that,” I said. “It’s disconcerting, for sure. The good news is that the metal doors are self-locking. I can’t get into his house and he can’t get into mine. Believe me, that was the first thing I checked after we visited his side.”

“That’s got to be a relief.”

“For the short term, yes. I’ll be looking into a more permanent solution once you’re finished excavating the area. You’re still willing to help with that, right?”

“I deal with papers all day, every day.” He sighed. “Mind you, I firmly believe this is all great stuff. There’s a wealth of information here. But, the opportunity to find pieces of history where the town’s early settlers left them? The opportunity to dig for buried treasure? That’s not to be missed.”