Grace Cries Uncle (11 page)

Her cheeks still flushed with emotion, my assistant blinked. Twice. She opened her mouth to continue, closed it, then began again. “Your sister,” she said, “is very dear to Mr. Marshfield.”

Liza might not have been able to detect the subtle falter in Frances's attack, but I did.

“Your sister,” Frances continued after a swift glance at me, “is more than simply an employee here. She . . . she . . .”

Liza smirked. I willed myself to keep breathing.

“She's the Mister's most trusted assistant.” On a roll now, Frances tucked her fists into her hips and stepped closer to Liza, offering her own version of a head waggle. “She's the best thing to happen to Marshfield in a long time and I'll thank you to keep your snide comments to yourself. Or you'll answer to me.”

Liza managed a quick laugh but I could tell she'd been thrown. “Well, now I'm really worried.”

Warmed beyond words by Frances's rant, I fought to contain my emotion as I caught her eye. “Thank you.”

She twisted her mouth to one side, making a show of looking at her watch. “Getting late,” she said. “Before I leave,
I'll have a talk with our security staff. They need to be reminded that protocols require visitors to wait at the front desk for
permission
to come up here.” She sent a pointed scowl toward Liza, who had sucked in her cheeks. “No exceptions.”

“An excellent idea,” I said. “Thanks. I'll leave the matter in your capable hands.”

Liza fumed in silence. When we finally made it home, I said hello to Bootsie and turned to shut off the burglar alarm. Liza threw herself into one of my kitchen chairs, pouting like a four-year-old.

I pointed to the wall-mounted keypad. “This was never set.”

She gave an exaggerated look around the room. “Does it look like anyone broke in?”

“That's not the point. You should have set the alarm before you took off.”

Elbows on the tabletop, chin cupped in her palms, she rolled her eyes. “I can't do anything right, can I? No matter how hard I try, I always fall short.”

“Stop right there, Liza. You're not turning this one around. You knew the detectives were coming to talk with you. You were supposed to wait with Tooney until they got here. You didn't. And even if I could overlook those things, I asked you to set the alarm whenever you leave the house. How, exactly, do you see that as trying hard?”

“Nothing is ever good enough for you, is it?” Liza said, adopting her favorite poor-me argument. “I can't wait until I'm away from here.”

“That makes two of us.”

We were both silent while I sorted through the refrigerator. I stared at the cold leftovers and condiments. I wasn't hungry. When I shut the door again, I asked, “What's keeping you here? You don't like me. I don't like you. Why stay?”

“I don't have anywhere else to go.”

“Why didn't you want to talk with the detectives?” I asked. “What are you afraid of? What kind of trouble are you in?”

“I'm not in any trouble at all,” she said. “Why do you always assume that?”

“Avoiding the police kind of makes me suspicious.”

“I told you, I came to see you today because you said it was important that we talk. I'm not avoiding the police.”

“Then you won't have a problem if I call them right now and let them know we're home.”

I had started for the house phone when the front doorbell rang. Exasperation got the better of me. “Who is it now?”

As I hurried to answer, I wondered if it might be Rodriguez and Flynn trying again to connect with Liza. “Do not leave this house,” I shouted over my shoulder.

I grasped the knob and pulled open the door to find a tall, sturdy man on my doorstep. Military-short dark hair, hooded eyes. He wore a heavy charcoal coat open over a gray suit, white shirt, and gray tie. I didn't open the storm door.

“Good evening,” he said through the glass. He gave a perfunctory smile, allowing the briefest glimpse of deep dimples and bright white, even teeth. His eyes, however, were shark-dead, reflecting neither life or light. “Are you Grace Wheaton?”

“Why? Who are you?”

He held out a leather wallet. “Sam McClowery, FBI. I have questions to ask you about Eric Soames.”

“No, no, no,” I said, grabbing the edge of my heavy door. “Fool me once, maybe. Fool me twice? Not happening.”

He continued to regard me with that blasted, blank expression. “Ms. Wheaton, if you have information about Eric Soames or his whereabouts and you refuse to share it with me—”

“Take your fake ID and get off my property,” I said. “Tell your cohorts that I know nothing about Eric. Nothing at all. If I had information on where he is, the first thing I'd do is pick up the phone and call the police. You got that? The police.”

As my voice rose, it dawned on me that I might be shouting into the face of the very person who'd killed the first fake Fed. The storm door glass between us wouldn't offer much protection if this guy decided to take me down. In that instantaneous way the brain has of reasoning out a problem when facing danger, I knew that my best defense was to convince this guy that I had nothing to offer.

“I'm not kidding, either,” I said in an effort to make a good show. “You want to find Eric? Get in line. I was engaged to that loser a few years ago but he threw me over for someone else.” I chose not to mention that the someone else happened to be in my house right now. “You got that? Engaged. You think if I had any knowledge of where he was I wouldn't gleefully hand it over to you or one of your thug brethren?”

“Ms. Wheaton, I assure you—”

“No, I assure
you
that I'm finished fielding questions about that lowlife scum. The last guy who came asking about Eric wound up dead in the neighbor's backyard. I suggest you watch your back.”

With that, I slammed the door. Unfortunately, because it had recently been replaced with a solid-core, steel-encased, draft-proof model, and because the storm door was equally airtight, the slam came out more like an indignant
whoosh
.

Liza had been watching from the parlor. “Wow,” she said.

I left her staring and made my way to the kitchen. Picking up the house phone, I dialed from memory Rodriguez's cell phone number. When he answered, I told him about the new fake FBI agent on my doorstep and provided a description.

“Miz Wheaton,” he said with a sigh, “trouble certainly seems to find you, doesn't it? My partner and I will be out there shortly.”

“One more thing: I know you missed my sister this afternoon.”

“That we did. We planned to follow up in the morning.”

“She's back now. I'm sure she'll be delighted to answer your questions. It's like getting two for one.”

His soft chuckle made me believe he knew exactly how pleased Liza would be to see them. “We'll be there in less than twenty. Don't go anywhere.”

“I won't,” I said.

“What happened to you?” Liza asked when I hung up. She'd followed me into the kitchen, but probably hadn't caught much of my conversation with Rodriguez. “You turned into a crazy woman with that guy at the door. I've never seen you like that.”

“Get into enough battles, you learn how to stand up for yourself,” I said, opening the refrigerator again. This time I
was
hungry. Grabbing a plate of leftover meatloaf, I sliced a helping, placed it on a smaller dish, and popped it into the microwave before returning the original plate to the fridge.

Liza watched me as though I were a species she hadn't encountered before.

“This isn't the most balanced meal, but”—I shrugged, licking a wayward drop of coagulated gravy off my finger—“a girl's gotta eat.”

“Yeah.” She reclaimed her seat at the table.

“Help yourself, by the way,” I said. “I'm not making dinner tonight.”

“Okay, sure.”

Ravenous by the time the microwave dinged, I polished
off the meatloaf in five bites, grabbed a few raw carrots for crunch, then ended my hasty meal by peeling a navel orange. Liza puttered about the kitchen, keeping silent.

When she sat down across from me with her own cobbled-together dinner, she said, “So, Ms. Superhero, that Frances was awfully quick to come to your defense this afternoon.”

Frances's words had meant the world to me, but I shrugged as though it was no big deal.

“She's pretty convinced that there's nothing going on between you and Bennett Marshfield, but that's not what I think.”

Flush from my success at getting the stranger off my front porch, I wasn't about to let my mood be ruined by Liza's speculations. “Good thing I don't really care what you think.”

“You keep telling me you're not in a romantic relationship,” she continued. “Maybe you're in one, but don't want the world to know.”

I popped an orange segment into my mouth and talked around it. “Give it a rest, Liza. You're wrong.”

She wiggled her shoulders and cocked her head. “Then why so protective? Why not let me spend time with him? Are you afraid I'll steal him away like I did Eric?”

Thank goodness I'd swallowed, otherwise I would have gagged. “Yeah, Liza. That's it. You found me out. I'm worried that Bennett will fall in love with you and cast me away forever.” I gave a snort, one Frances would be proud of.

“It has to be true,” she said. “That's the only thing that makes sense.”

The doorbell rang again. Rodriguez and Flynn to the rescue, for once. “Yep,” I said as I got up to answer the door. “You got it. Give the girl a gold star.”

She shouted after me, “Don't try reverse psychology stuff. You're hiding the truth from me. I can tell.”

I was very glad she couldn't see my face at that point, because it probably would have broadcasted the fact that yes, I was hiding the truth from her. It was, however, a truth
she couldn't begin to guess. As long as she maintained the preposterous belief that I'd lured Bennett into a decidedly not-platonic attachment, the reality remained safe.

“Thanks for coming,” I said as I ushered Rodriguez and Flynn into the house. They were both wearing more casual clothes than they usually did during the day. Blue jeans and hockey jerseys from two different teams. Flynn carried a folder. “Big game today?” I asked as I took their coats.

Rodriguez pointed to the colorful Blackhawks logo across his chest. “Love these guys,” he said. “One of the original six.” He indicated Flynn. “Playing his team today.”

I didn't recognize the logo. “Which one is it?”

“The Buffalo Sabres,” Flynn said. “You got a problem with that?”

Weren't we starting out well?
“Come on in,” I said, leading them into the kitchen.

“I can't believe that guy came back,” Liza said as I walked in. Her mouth dropped open when she spotted the two visitors behind me. It wouldn't have taken a rocket scientist to figure out who they were, especially as I'd described both men in detail earlier in the day. I could read alarm and disappointment on Liza's face.

“Guess what? My friends Detectives Rodriguez and Flynn were able to make time for us tonight.”

“When you said you were calling the police, I thought . . .” She didn't finish whatever she'd planned to say. “Hello.” She got to her feet and turned on the charm. “I'm Grace's sister, Liza. Really sorry about missing you today. I can't imagine how I misunderstood.” She giggled, bobbing her head from side-to-side. “Oops.”

I invited the men to sit at the kitchen table. “Can I get you coffee? Water?”

They waved me off with thanks, turning their attention to Liza. “This new visitor who showed up tonight,” Rodriguez began, “did you get a look at him? Recognize him?”

Liza glanced at me before she shook her head.

“He was asking about your husband, Eric Soames, is that correct?”

Again, Liza turned to me before answering. I held up my hands.

“Miz Wheaton,” he prompted, then frowned. “As we have two Miz Wheatons here, do you mind if I use your first names?”

“Go ahead,” I said. Liza shrugged.

“Liza, then,” Rodriguez continued, “where is your husband now?”

She was slouched across from me. The detectives sat at either end of the table. “I have no idea. I left him and didn't look back.”

“Could he have followed you here?”

“Maybe,” she said, “but I made it clear it was over between us.”

“What kind of business is your husband in?”

She shrugged again and looked away. “He finds work when he needs to.”

Flynn made an unpleasant noise. “What kind of work? Specifically?”

Liza loosened her arms, sat forward and stared straight at Flynn. “He didn't talk about his business with me. Can't help you there.”

Flynn pulled a sheet out from the folder on his lap. He didn't shift his attention from Liza as he slid it toward her and turned it faceup. It was a photo of the first fake Fed who'd come to my door. Even viewing it upside-down, I recognized the man. Not a mug shot from decades earlier. This was a recent likeness, full face, close up.

“Do you know this man?” Flynn asked Liza.

She wrapped her arms around herself again, leaning back. “No.” Affecting a bored-with-this-nonsense tone, she asked, “Who is he?”

Flynn glanced at me and I got the impression he was
asking whether I believed Liza or not. I couldn't tell, so I shrugged.

“This is a copy of the man's passport photo—a passport he had using an alias. That ring any bells with you?” Rodriguez stood and brought his chair around to Liza's side. He sat next to her, his bulk encroaching on my sister's personal space. Using a fleshy finger to slide the photo closer, he said, “Think hard. Maybe you didn't know this man. Maybe you saw him before, though? With your husband?”

“Maybe. I don't know for sure. He looks like a lot of people.”

Flynn brought his chair around to Liza's other side. He sat. It was clear he was aiming for casual, but his steady hawk-like glower gave him away. “Does the name Tomas Pineda mean anything to you?”

With all the attention in the room on her, Liza's subtle, startled blink was impossible to miss. “Wow,” she said. “You guys are full of oddball questions, aren't you? Who is this guy, anyway? Why is he so important?”