Grace Under Pressure (14 page)

“Getting grungier by the day.”

I felt my smile grow as big as Lois’s. “We rescued it,” I said, then looked more closely. “Now we just have to verify that this is, indeed, a genuine Raphael Soyer.”

“You doubt it?”

“I take God on faith,” I said. “All others pay cash.”

She laughed. “Can you imagine how much this is worth if it’s real?”

I nodded. “I’ll put it in one of the safes. At least until we call in an expert to verify its authenticity. Can you arrange for that?”

“I’ll get right on it.”

I walked back to my office via the public corridors, carrying our happy discovery, pleased to see the manor teeming with visitors. Some carried a digital playback device hanging from a sturdy lanyard around their necks and wore buds in their ears. These audio guides were provided to narrate the mansion’s history at whatever speed the guest preferred. This experience was relatively new—we’d just begun offering it a month ago but already demand was far outstripping our supply. I made a note to confirm delivery of the next order of players. They couldn’t get here quick enough.

Docents roamed the area as well. Some were stationed inside rooms to prevent people from crossing the velvet rope barriers; some stood in the hallways, eager to answer questions or provide directions. All of them, male and female, wore the same standard-issue uniform: navy blazer with the Marshfield coat of arms embroidered on the chest pocket, tan slacks, white shirt, and red tie. I nodded hello as I passed, smiling at the individuals who smiled back, clearly pleased to be back at their posts.

I turned the corner, headed toward the back stairs. As I approached, a male docent just ahead of me twisted away suddenly as though responding to an unexpected noise. I hadn’t heard anything. He froze in that position then trotted down the corridor, away from me.

“Hello,” I called to his departing figure. “Is something wrong?”

He didn’t turn. Rather, he picked up his pace.

I called to him again.

He had to have heard. But still he ignored me.

The mansion had back stairs that the staff used when not escorting guests, more or less hidden from view by doors that looked like regular room doors. The guy ahead of me bypassed these and ran down the wide, main staircase—weaving from side to side as he dodged visitors trudging up.

With the painting in my hands, I was unwilling to break out into a full run. “Wait, please,” I called again.

As he turned at the stair’s landing, I finally got a look at his face. “You!” I shouted, surprise bringing me to a halt.

People turned at my exclamation. Reluctant to cause a scene, I bit my lip, grabbed my walkie-talkie, and called for security as unobtrusively as I could manage while resuming a more sedate pursuit. The last thing we needed was for our guests—with the recent murder on their minds—to stampede out the door in panic.

My quarry stopped at the bottom of the stairs long enough to give me a sheepish wave, then Ronny Tooney took off for the back exit, as fast as his sneaky legs could carry him.

 

 

“WHAT IS IT WITH THIS GUY?” I ASKED TERRENCE Carr when we met in my office later. “How is he getting in?”

Carr didn’t sit. He paced the office, stopping to stare out the windows before answering. “I thought we’d covered every possible entrance point. And how the hell did he get out?”

I couldn’t answer that. “Your guys were on the scene in seconds.”

“And yet he disappeared.” Carr’s voice held a mixture of disbelief and disgust. “Again.” He turned from the window to face me. “When you saw him, did you notice if his blazer had the embroidered crest on the pocket? Or was it plain?”

I thought back to the run through the corridors. The only good look I got was when he’d been one flight below me. I’d been concentrating on his face, not his apparel. “Can’t say for sure.”

“Have laundry do an inventory of uniforms. I want to know if any have gone missing.” Carr’s nostrils widened as he took a deep breath. “Could be he was just wearing the right colors and nobody noticed it wasn’t regulation. We’re going to have to train everyone on staff to be more alert.”

“What do you think Tooney wanted?”

“He wants to be part of the process. Badly.”

I’d watched plenty of cop shows in my day. “Isn’t that usually the mark of the guilty party? To try to insert himself into the investigation?”

Carr was about to answer when Frances walked in. Without knocking.

“You’ll want to see this.” As she handed me an envelope, she gave Carr a meaningful glance. “You’ll want to see it, too. We got another one.”

I held the plain, white business envelope by its edges and peered into the open top. The paper inside appeared to be cream-colored construction paper. Frances wasn’t kidding. This was another threat. “You didn’t touch the letter, did you?” I asked.

She flashed a look of disdain. “What do you think?”

Carr sprinted around the desk and by the time I opened my drawer, he’d pulled a pair of latex gloves from his belt and donned them. “Allow me,” he said.

“Hang on.”

I handed him a pair of extra-long tweezers. “We handle a lot of delicate things in this office. I like to be prepared. Here, take my seat.”

He sat, nodding a distracted thanks, focused entirely on the envelope. Before pulling out the sheaf inside, he shot a glance to Frances. “Call Detective Rodriguez. He’ll want this for evidence.”

As she reached for the phone on my desk, Carr snapped, “Use your phone. I don’t want to feel crowded here.”

Frances wrinkled her nose at the directive—clearly miffed to be ordered out.

As she crossed the threshold, I whispered to Carr, “How much you want to bet she’ll be back in under a minute?”

He broke concentration long enough to grin. I’d positioned myself to his left, one hand on the desk, the other on my hip. If he felt as though I was crowding him here he didn’t mention it and I wasn’t feeling particularly polite. All I wanted was to get a look at this new message before the police whisked it away.

He laid the envelope on the desk facedown with the slit side facing right. Gingerly, he lifted the back of the envelope and grabbed the letter inside with the very tips of the tweezers. He swallowed, and though the room was comfortable a tiny trickle of sweat formed directly in front of his left ear.

“Should we call Bennett down?”

He stopped his maneuvers and squinted off into the distance. “Let’s wait. He’s got plenty of time to get worked up again. No sense in bringing that on too early.”

“Somebody is with him, right? Keeping an eye on him?”

Carr nodded. “Two guards every moment he’s not in his rooms, and two others as often as possible when he is. Mr. Marshfield is not happy with this arrangement and keeps kicking the guards out. Frustrating.” Licking his lips, Carr returned his attention to the process at hand.

I held my breath as he tugged at the construction paper. The coarseness of the document made it difficult to slide and Carr hissed his frustration when a corner of the page caught for the third time.

“The envelope was mailed and postmarked,” I said, intending to be helpful. “Can’t we just rip that open because it’s probably covered with fingerprints already?”

He shook his head, not looking at me. “You never know what you might need,” he said. “You never know what evidence may turn up, or be required as the investigation progresses. Treating evidence with care is a good habit to develop. And one we try never to compromise, even when it seems obvious that extraordinary caution is unnecessary.”

As he spoke, the page inside came free. Using the tweezers to turn the single sheet, Carr took a deep breath before gently unfolding it.

Frances returned. “What does it say?” she asked.

I leaned in close enough to get a whiff of Carr’s spicy aftershave. This letter was longer and I read silently.

 

TO BENNETT MARSHFIELD:

“Whoa,” I said, leaning back. “Did you notice the word
we
?”

Carr nodded. “But psychopaths often refer to themselves in the plural. It could mean nothing.”

Frances moved closer. “What does it say?” she asked again.

But Carr folded the letter before she could get a glance. He stood, placed the document in a clear plastic evidence bag he withdrew from his belt, and headed for the door. “I’ll get this to Rodriguez right away.”

Frances blocked his path, her arms folded. “Why don’t I get to read it?”

Carr stopped long enough to answer, “You don’t need to.”

Pointing at me, Frances frowned. “But she does?”

“Yeah,” he said.

I interrupted. “Can we make a copy before you take it? I’ll want to show this to Bennett.”

Carr snapped his fingers. “Good idea.”

I led him to the copier and he placed the letter on the glass. Frances hovered. Within seconds he’d made two copies, handed one of the still-warm sheets to me, and re-bagged the evidence. “Thanks,” I said.

He left without another word.

I wouldn’t have been surprised to see steam radiating from the top of my assistant’s head. “Who does he think he is?” Turning back to me, she asked, “What does it say?”

“More of the same,” I said, keeping it vague. I pulled out my file with the other letters and added this one to the group. Frances strained for an upside-down look.

“What did you mean when you said ‘we’?”

I took a deep breath and sat down, closing the manila file. “I just thought it could be a clue. An insight into the killer’s identity,” I said. “The letter-writer referred to ‘we’ rather than ‘I,’ but Carr is right. That might not mean anything at all.”

“You think that Ronny Tooney guy could be involved?”

“He strikes me as more of a nuisance than a danger.”

“Quite the nuisance,” Frances agreed. “Turns out Melissa and Rosa might have talked to Tooney the night of the murder. They thought he was a real cop, too.”

“At least the real police talked with them both later.”

“Speaking of detectives,” my assistant continued, “you think that young buck, Flynn, is married?”

“No idea.”

“He might be a good catch.”

Why Frances was so interested in my personal life was beyond me. Or maybe she was just one of those people who couldn’t keep her nose out of other people’s business. “He’s not my type.”

“Not you. I meant Melissa, the housekeeper. She could use a stand-up man in her life. That Flynn’s a cutie.”

In my opinion Flynn was a pompous ass. “I thought Melissa was married.”

“
Pheh
. I think they’re separated. After that husband of hers pulled his stunt, I think she had enough and kicked him out.”

“What stunt?”

In her element, Frances beamed. “About a year ago the husband told Melissa she could quit work so they could start a family. You never saw a girl so happy. We threw her a going-away party. Next thing you know,
boom
. She’s working back here again.”

Despite my better instincts, I asked, “What happened?”

“He changed his mind.” Frances’s eyes brightened. “I think he took off, leaving her without a job or any money. So she came back to work here. Melissa doesn’t talk about him anymore. Doesn’t smile much anymore either. Used to be all she could talk about was her Samuel, but after she started working back here again, she went mum. Poor kid.”

I thought about Liza running off. And Eric not so far behind. “Yeah, well there’s a lot of that going around,” I said.

“Sad,” Frances agreed, not having any clue what I meant. “And Rosa’s story is even worse. Her granddaughter got into some big trouble doing drugs. The granddaughter has been hitting Rosa up for money right and left. It’s getting ugly. But you know what the worst part is?”

I’d reached my gossip limit for the day. “I’d better get in touch with Bennett to let him know about the new letter,” I said. “Some other time.”

She made a noise of disgust and started for her office. “Used to be around here people appreciated me,” she said.

I ignored that and lifted the phone.

BENNETT ARRIVED IN MY OFFICE ABOUT TEN minutes later, accompanied by two security officers, who waited in the anteroom with Frances. I shut the door.

I didn’t know exactly what to expect from Bennett when I showed him the newest letter, but what I hadn’t anticipated were the swift tears that filled his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I said, instinctively pulling the copy toward me. “I just thought you should be kept informed.”