Grace Under Pressure (11 page)

Two of our suppliers had called with expressions of sympathy. That was very nice, but I could wait to call them back later. One of the assistant managers of our on-site hotel wanted approval to provide a complimentary appetizer buffet for the guests tonight. I thought that was a great idea and called immediately to tell him so. A few more messages, most from the media asking for a statement. I pushed those aside.

When I picked up the next message, I almost laughed. This one was from Frances. “Your cell phone kept ringing. I didn’t think it was appropriate for me to answer, but you should probably check it.” She’d added at the bottom. “Can you change that ring tone? It’s really annoying.”

Dragging my purse up, I flipped open my cell. Frances wasn’t kidding. Seven missed calls. One text message. My heart gave a hard skip when I read it. My sister, Liza. Her note was brief: “Advice needed.”

Advice? That was a joke. Except it wasn’t ever funny. I slapped my phone shut.

For as long as I could remember, Liza’s repeated requests for advice were thinly disguised pleas. Always for money. Sometimes for bail.

What was it this time? She had snatched up her portion of the inheritance and promised she wouldn’t blow it. She swore she would stay in touch and that she was alone. No man in her life to take advantage of her.

I desperately wanted to believe my sister. But my gut told me differently. I wished our mom would have placed Liza’s share of the inheritance in trust, where it could be doled out on an as-needed basis. But my sister was an adult. One who chafed at being called out on her lifetime of bad decisions. Nothing was ever her fault. When the going got tough, Liza took off running.

What in the world could she want now? She couldn’t have possibly gone through all that money in just a few months.

My throat hurt as I swallowed again. I picked up the receiver on my desk then put it down again, like I had been scalded. I couldn’t call her from here—then she would have this number in her caller ID. When Liza left, I hadn’t yet gotten this job—hadn’t even told her that I planned to apply. I didn’t know why I felt it necessary to keep my job secret, but I’d learned the hard way to protect myself from my younger sister. I opened my cell.

Liza answered on the third ring.

“Grace,” she said with forced enthusiasm. “You called me back.”

“Where are you, Liza?”

She laughed. Stalling.

Anger welled up in me. “Liza, tell me you haven’t lost all of Mom’s money. Tell me you haven’t blown it all already.”

“It isn’t Mom’s anymore. It’s mine. And for your information, no. I haven’t blown it all. In fact, I’m starting my own business.”

Elbows on my desk, head in my hands, I stared down at the blotter, the cell phone pressed close to my ear. “What kind of business?”

The giggle was back in her voice. “That’s the part I’m not sure about yet,” she said. “But I know how much you worry about me and I know you always keep telling me to be smart with money . . .”

“How much do you have left?”

Liza didn’t like being interrupted. “A lot. Some.”

“Define ‘some.’ ”

“Enough to start my own business, okay?” she said, evading the question as only Liza could.

I waited.

“If I
invest
what I’ve got here,” she continued, “I could turn a few thousand dollars into millions.”

“My God,” I said, “you’re down to just a few thousand?”

“Aren’t you listening? I can turn this money into a fortune.”

“Doing what, Liza?” I asked, my voice rising dangerously high. “Exactly what are you good at? Beside breaking people’s hearts, that is.”

She hung up on me.

I closed my eyes in frustration.

My fingers were still curled tight around my cell phone when I heard Frances walk in.

She hefted a small blue cooler up onto her desk and patted its handle. “You hungry?” She gave what, for Frances, constituted a smile. “I figured you’d be so busy today you might forget to eat.”

Speechless, I nodded.

Turning her back to me, she opened the cooler and began pulling things out.

Ten minutes later, I had devoured half of my portobello mushroom sandwich, while Frances daintily picked at her turkey club. She’d allowed me first choice of the two, surprising me with her thoughtfulness. In addition to the sandwiches, Frances had picked up two fruit salads and two slices of carrot cake from the hotel’s kitchen. We sat at our respective desks, quietly enjoying the bounty.

About halfway through dessert, Frances started in: “So who was that calling your cell phone so many times this morning?”

I should have expected this, but the good spirits that resulted from a full tummy put me off my guard.

Frances used a corner of her napkin to wipe a tiny bit of cream cheese from the side of her mouth. “Boyfriend, I bet. Am I right? Men are so impatient. Everything is always about them.”

“Not a boyfriend,” I said, covering up the remaining dessert to take home.

Frances speared a final forkful of carrot cake. “But you do have a boyfriend?”

I didn’t answer.

“If it wasn’t your boyfriend calling you all those times, who was it?”

“Why do you need to know?”

“Just making conversation,” she said and popped the last bite into her mouth. She chewed that cake a whole lot longer than it deserved, finally swallowed, and put down her fork. “Nothing wrong with that.”

“Nothing at all,” I said blandly. Changing the subject, I asked, “Can you pull some personnel files for me?”

Eyebrows shot up. “You going to fire somebody?”

“Hardly. I thought I might take a look at the records of all the people on staff.” Although I wasn’t counting on taking over for Abe, if I did get the nod, I needed to be prepared. “I prefer to work ahead.”

“Yeah, you seem that type.”

I didn’t have the chance to ask what she meant by that. The momentary lull offered her opportunity to jump in with more updates on other employees and she clearly couldn’t resist temptation. I was learning very quickly that, more than food, gossip was what fueled Frances’s energy levels. “So, the housekeeping staff thinks you’re out to get them,” she said.

“Where did you hear that?”

“You spooked Yvonne by showing up there unannounced. She’s an interesting one, that girl. Did you notice all her piercings? Ears, lip, eyebrow . . . we make her take them out while she’s working but you can see . . .” Frances wrinkled her nose in clear distaste, “. . . all the little holes all over her. She used to be such a pretty girl, too. What a shame. She’s got a tramp stamp, too.”

I was surprised Frances knew what that was.

“Imagine what that will look like when she’s forty,” she continued. “Saggy, baggy. I’ll bet she’s sorry then. The things girls will do for their men.”

At that, my assistant got such a gleam in her eye that I was afraid she’d start quizzing me on my love life again. “I talked mostly with Rosa and Melissa,” I said to hold her off. “They were outside the study when Abe was killed.”

“Sad stories there, both of them.”

I wondered if Frances knew any happy stories. “I guess I’ll find out soon enough when I go over their personnel files.”

“Those are the ones you want?”

“Who did you think I meant?”

“You seem to spend a lot of time talking with Terrence Carr,” she said with a sly grin. “Let me warn you: He’s happily married.”

I knew that. “He took the job here even though big-city departments were courting him. He said he wanted a safe place to raise his three kids. I wonder what he thinks now, after this murder.”

She seemed disappointed. “Then I don’t know what else you might be looking for. We keep only the basics in there. If you want to know anything important about the people who work here, you should ask me.”

“For now, I’ll be fine with the personnel files. Do you know if the detectives are still on the property?”

“They set up a command post on the fourth floor.” She raised her eyes to the ceiling. “The Mister isn’t going to be too pleased about that. He likes his privacy.” Now it was she who changed the subject. “Most of the hotel guests and the people with passes have been pretty understanding. Those calls we got this morning were the only real complaints.” She picked up a note from her desk. “Except this one.”

From the light in her eyes, I knew I wouldn’t wait long for an explanation.

“This woman,” she began, waving the note, “is a real piece of work. She terrorized poor Tricia on the switchboard, who sent her over to me. There’s just no pleasing her.”

“Who is she?”

“Name is Geraldine . . .” She spelled the last name.

“Stajklorski,” I said, offering my best guess at a pronunciation. “That’s a mouthful.”

“And a handful.” Frances went on to explain that the woman had called to complain about the snippiness of the hotel staff. “She claims that Twyla was intentionally rude to her.”

“Twyla?” I repeated. “That’s impossible.” The manager of the hotel, Twyla was one of the smartest, most patient women I’d ever met. I couldn’t picture her being purposely unkind to anyone.

Frances waved the paper again. “Here’s what gets me. This nasty Geraldine checked out yesterday. After she left, she found out we were giving perks like free nights to guests to make up for their inconvenience. She wanted in on it. People who take advantage of situations like this make me sick.”

I nodded. I could see where this was going.

“Geraldine called the hotel a little while ago to ask why she didn’t get her room comped. Twyla explained that that wasn’t how it worked. Geraldine pitched a fit, and Twyla naturally put the call through to us.” Frances’s mouth curled downward. “Except the woman was on her cell and the call got dropped. When she called back, she went through the switchboard. By the time she got to me, she was steaming.”

“Was this Geraldine one of the guests evacuated from the mansion yesterday? Was she unable to complete her tour?”

“That’s the thing. The woman was in town all day. Took the mansion tour the day before and checked out before all the excitement. There was absolutely nothing here that affected her. And when I made that clear, she started coming up with reasons why she should get her hotel room refunded. Her biggest complaint was about Twyla’s attitude.” Frances sniffed. “And we know that’s bogus.”

My eyebrows shot up. Frances using the word
bogus
surprised me.

“So where do we stand right now? Do I need to call this Geraldine back, or are we done?”

“For now, there’s no need to call her back. I made our position clear. But I don’t think we’re done yet. People like her always turn up again, just when we least expect them.”

WHEN THE HOUSE PHONE RANG THAT EVENING, I leaned across my kitchen countertop to get a look at the caller ID on the wall phone. Aunt Belinda, calling from Florida. “I’ll get it,” I shouted to my roommates upstairs. Although we all had our private cell phones, we shared this common number, just in case. This used to be my parents’ number and I didn’t have the heart to drop it. Having a landline often came in handy.

My aunt Belinda lived alone in a tidy one-level home near Tampa. My mom’s only sibling, Belinda and her late husband, Fred, had lived in the Sunshine State for as long as I’d known them. My parents had taken us down to visit several times, but Belinda and Fred hadn’t ever come up here to stay with us.

Aunt Belinda called me about once a month just to keep in touch. Childless by chance, not choice, she saw herself as a stand-in for Mom, to watch over me and to impart her wisdom as she saw fit. I was the sole beneficiary of her regular contact—Liza managed to escape this family obligation, too. I knew I should call my aunt more often, and guilt occasionally prompted me to do so. That, and knowing that if I didn’t call her, she would undoubtedly call me at the worst possible time. Like tonight.

I picked up the phone and blew out a breath before answering.

“How are you, Aunt Belinda?” I asked, knowing exactly what her answer would be.

She didn’t let me down. “Not so well,” she said in the defeated tone she always affected. “I’ve been sick.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

She surprised me then by eschewing our standard conversation wherein she explained to me, in detail, which medical tests she’d recently undergone. Always, she was found fit as a woman her age could hope to be, yet she always seemed disappointed by the results. But not today.

“What’s going on there at Marshfield Manor?” she asked. “The newspaper had a story about a murder there. They said the curator was killed. Did you hear anything about it?”

“Yeah,” I said slowly, trying to decide whether to come clean. Not only had I kept the Marshfield job secret from my sister, I’d kept that information from my aunt as well. “I knew the man.”

“You did? How in the world?” Her surprise was tinged with accusation. “You’re not spending all your free time just hanging around that place anymore, are you? Your mother, I swear, that’s all she ever wanted to do. What is it about that Marshfield Manor that keeps you so enthralled? I never understood it. Rich people. Who cares about them?”