Grace Under Pressure (13 page)

“What happened to your hair?”

I pushed back my damp locks and checked out my reflection in the glass of the grandfather clock. “Ick.”

“It’s all indoor parking here,” Frances reminded me unnecessarily. “How in the world did you get so wet?”

Today she had on another turtleneck sweater—a virtual duplicate of the one she wore yesterday—except this one was pale blue. “I don’t have an attached garage,” I said.

She laughed. “Oh that’s right. You live in that old monstrosity on Granville.”

Her comment set me off-kilter. Why the personal attack? It was bad enough that I didn’t seem to have anywhere to turn, but now Frances was taking potshots at where I lived. What major faux pas had I made in karma-ville to deserve such consistently rotten treatment?

Whatever it was, I’d had enough.

“You are talking about my home,” I said. “And you will stop. Now.”

The tadpole eyebrows arched upward, but she didn’t say a word.

“Now,” I said, changing the subject. “What have you learned about Bennett Marshfield’s involvement with T. Randall Taft?”

Even as she protested, “It’s only been twenty-four hours,” she reached around to her credenza and pulled out a file. “They sent me some recent notices to get us started.” She handed it to me. “These are copies of articles that appeared over the past few days.”

“You received these via e-mail?” I asked, impressed. “It’s about time somebody on staff became Internet savvy.”

She shook her head. “Fax.”

I bit back my disappointment. “Soon,” I said. “We will rectify this, soon.”

Frances moaned her familiar lament. “I don’t like computers. I don’t like the idea of a machine being smarter than I am.”

I held up my hand. Unbelievably, it stopped her.

At that, realization dawned. No one was going to come down from on high and promote me into Abe’s job. If I wanted to be the manager of this enormous estate—if I wanted the title of curator/director—I was going to have to start acting like one. And that meant assuming all responsibilities. At least until I was ordered to stop.

I tapped the file folder against my palm. “Two things,” I said. “First, I’ve seen the job you do around here. We both know you are perfectly capable of mastering a computer. Second,” I squared my shoulders and nodded toward Abe’s office, “effective immediately, I will be moving in there. If there is anything you need before I move all my things in, this would be a good time to recover them.”

Frances didn’t react. I wondered if it was hard for her to maintain that poker-faced expression.

“Any questions?” I asked.

“No, ma’am.”

“Good, then please get Detective Rodriguez on the phone for me. We need to find out if we’re opening our doors this morning.”

Ten minutes later the intercom buzzed, startling me out of my reading. I had opened the file and found about fifteen articles, most of which delivered a version of the same basic story but worded a little differently under each individual byline. The best, most comprehensive, had been written by a staff reporter for a major financial publication. I saved my place as I hit the intercom to reply.

“Yes, Frances?”

“The detective says he’ll be by shortly.”

“Did you ask him about opening the mansion to visitors?”

“He said he would cover that when he gets here.”

“Great.” It was already almost eight o’clock. We’d instructed the entire staff to be in position, poised to act just in case we got a last-minute all-clear. It was looking increasingly likely that we would be sending a significant portion of our staff home.

I was about to verbalize my disappointment, but stopped myself just in time. What was wrong with me? The manor would stay closed for as long as the detectives needed us to keep it closed. Abe was dead and his killer was still on the loose. Although we had a business to run, what we needed to keep uppermost in our mind that one of our own was dead and the detectives were doing their level best to find the guilty party. I had fallen into the trap of being so concerned about overseeing the tourist trade, that I’d begun treating Abe’s murder as an inconvenience—an obstacle to getting things done.

I’d lost sight of what was important.

Uncharitably, I wondered if this was how my sister, Liza, felt all the time.

“Thank you, Frances,” I said, finding my voice. “By the way, have you heard what arrangements are being made for Abe? Do you know when his family will be having the wake?”

“Abe didn’t have any living relatives,” she said. “The Mister is taking care of everything. There won’t be a wake. And the funeral will be private. Just those of us who knew him best.”

“I understand.” Rather than making me feel left out, this disclosure made me glad that Abe had his Marshfield Manor family to say good-bye. “Thanks.”

I returned to reading the financial article. The story not only provided significant background on Taft, it also clearly explained how Ponzi schemes worked. The pyramid was an apt example. The swindler, in this case, T. Randall Taft, promised significant returns to eager investors. When certificates of deposit and bonds were paying less than 5 percent, Taft promised his people 14 to 17. Unheard of in this market. But people believed him. They gladly handed their investment portfolios to Taft based on his promises to multiply their wealth.

According to this article, the folks who invested with Taft were, by and large, sophisticated men and women who should have known better. The victims mentioned in the piece read like a who’s who of the entertainment world. That Taft had managed to entice them into his financial lair was beyond belief. And yet—there it was, in black and white.

The intercom buzzed. “Detective Rodriguez is here,” Frances said.

I stood to greet him as he entered, inquiring about Flynn. Rodriguez scratched the back of his neck. “The kid’s tracking down a couple of leads.”

“Leads?” I asked. “That sounds like good news.”

Rodriguez waved down my enthusiasm as we sat. “Don’t get excited. We couldn’t hold Percy any longer, so my partner is shadowing him. Hoping the guy who hired him pays him another visit.”

“So, you’re no further along than you were yesterday.”

His brown eyes met mine and I caught a glint of steel in their depths. “We’ve got all our samples sent to the state crime lab, experts going over the threatening letters, and every available man canvassing the area—including interviewing your hotel guests—working ’round the clock. Maybe we don’t have anyone in custody yet, but it won’t be long.” He narrowed his eyes. “Trust me.”

I knew the police had been questioning all our guests. We had received a number of complaints—people asking why their vacations were being interrupted and held hostage to this murder investigation. I supposed they expected the guilty party to be found and brought to justice in an hour—just like on TV.

Rodriguez worked his tongue inside his mouth. “You wanted to see me? What’s up?”

“That fake detective came to visit me this morning.”

“Tooney?”

“The same.” I told Rodriguez about the altercation on my driveway.

As always, the detective took copious notes. “I wouldn’t be so worried about that guy,” he said, scribbling. “Tooney’s harmless. He’s just a frustrated wannabe.”

Sounded like a cop-out to me—but I kept that observation to myself for the moment. No sense in antagonizing a man with a gun.

“Will we open today?” I asked. “Not that I want to rush your investigation. I’m just curious. The sooner we have an idea of our opening, the better prepared we’ll be.”

“My team will maintain presence in the fourth-floor study where the murder took place, but otherwise, I think we’re okay. You can probably open up for business this morning.”

Probably. That wasn’t much of an answer.

In order to pin him down, I picked up the phone. “I’ll call my assistant now and give her the all-clear. You’re good with that, right?”

He nodded and I made the call. When that was done, he started to push himself out of his chair. “Was there anything else, Ms. Wheaton?”

“As a matter of fact, there is.”

He reluctantly settled himself again, looking at me with an expectant expression.

“Did you get to talk with Jack Embers?”

“Yeah, we got a description from him, too.” He made a face of disgust as he hoisted himself to his feet. “Not much to go on.” At the doorway, he stopped, looking up at the ornate ceiling and across the walls, past the artwork and other treasures. “You live in a place like this . . .” he gestured out the window, “. . . in a little haven like Emberstowne, and you think nothing bad is ever going to happen. That’s the problem, y’see? Nobody here knows what’s really out there. Everybody is just content to go about their business. Nobody has the edge they need to fight. Why? Because we don’t usually have criminals here.”

“It’s a nice way to live,” I said.

“Yeah, well,” he said, mouth twisting into a rueful smile, “it was.”

“LOOK AT THE COLORS, WOULD YOU?” LOIS said, awe dropping her voice to a whisper. “I had no idea RH Galleries would do such a marvelous job.”

Lois was an assistant curator, which is to say she now worked for me. When I’d been hired, I’d asked for a departmental organization chart only to be told such a thing didn’t exist. Marshfield’s staff had grown over the years, but there were no clear lines delineating who reported to whom. The only mandate that seemed clear was that everyone eventually reported to Abe.

Lois had been on staff for about fifteen years. Early forties, chubby, with blond hair and a quick smile, she was one of my favorites, even from my first day. She worked on the second floor of the administrative wing, one level below my office. We had three people in that area, all of whom were assistant curators. When I’d been hired with that title, I had asked about the reporting structure. Were these three other assistants my peers or subordinates? And how did Frances fit into the picture? I was told, vaguely, that it would all work out and not to worry. So eager was I to work in the palace of my childhood dreams that I accepted Abe’s promise at face value.

And now that he was gone, I realized I would have to sort all this out on my own.

We stood amidst a musty collection of junk in one of the second-floor bedrooms in the mansion’s east wing. With a view to the north and an adjacent bath, this had once been a busy guest room. Now it served as a staging area for our discoveries. In a place as big as Marshfield, there were many areas left unexplored. We were forever finding trinkets and treasures in hidden niches and little-used rooms.

This former bedroom was being used to store items we hadn’t yet decided where to place, and for items as they waited to be picked up for repair. Well lit, trimmed in dark oak, as was most of the rest of the manor, this room had been stripped bare of any ornamentation. Good thing, because it was as cluttered with artifacts and artwork as Bennett’s private room had been.

I took a step closer to the portrait of Warren Marshfield, Jr., understanding the basis of Lois’s admiration. The painting had been brought back to vibrant life after spending decades in dusty storage. “Wow,” I said. “Looks like we made a good decision, huh?”

For the first time since Marshfield Manor opened as a museum, we had chosen to have one of its treasures restored at an Emberstowne establishment rather than send it out to one of our regular restoration experts. The reason for this was twofold. One: We liked the idea of supporting our local merchants; and, two: the owner of RH Galleries, Roxanne Heath, had been begging us for months to give her a try. We finally had with this painting discovered in the attic. With dozens of family portraits lining the walls of this grand castle, the risk of sending one insignificant piece was small. It had been so covered with grime that we hadn’t even been able to discern the artist’s name.

But now . . .

“Take a look at this,” Lois said, handing me a note.

Roxanne’s stationery was embossed with a gold lower-case
rh
on the front. I opened the crisp vanilla vellum and read:

I turned to Lois who grinned. “Is she being sarcastic, or is she really this excited?”

“I think she means this.” Lois pointed to the signature on the painting’s lower right.

“No way,” I said.

“Way.”

I twisted toward the room’s desk, but Lois was quicker. She grabbed the brass-handled magnifying glass and handed it to me, her smile getting wider by the moment. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw it.”

Carrying the painting closer to the window for natural light, I stared down at the signature, guiding the magnifying glass up and down until the name was clear. “Wow,” I said, looking up at her. “And this gem was tucked away in the attic all these years?”