Grace Under Pressure (16 page)

I opened the door, catching Frances in the middle of a personal phone call. I held up a hand. “Let me know when you’re done,” I said, about to start back into my office.

She said, “Gotta go,” into the phone, and hung up. “Sorry.”

Sorry? From Frances? “No problem,” I said. “I just wanted to ask what you know about Ronny Tooney.”

“Never met the man,” she said. “But I think he’s related to somebody on staff.” She tapped her fingers on the desk. “Yvonne, maybe. Can’t remember. Want me to find out?”

“Absolutely.” If someone on the inside had helped Tooney gain access to the house, I needed to know about it. “And while we’re at it, can we get a list of everyone Taft swindled?”

“Why do you want that?”

“The timing is just too coincidental. All these threats, Abe’s murder, they all came on the heels of Taft’s indictment. I want to learn more about the guy and I figure I might find clues in his client list.” I pointed to her telephone. “I’ll bet Bennett’s attorneys can get their hands on a copy.”

Her eyes lit up as she reached for the phone. “Not a bad idea.”

 

 

JACK EMBERS WAS PUSHING AN AMPTY WHEEL-BARROW across one of the garden paths when I stopped him. Although he’d claimed to be “playing in the dirt” last time we met, I assumed that as a consultant, he would be more involved in management than in actually participating in the physical labor. Interesting. “Hey,” I called to him.

The day still held a wet chill. I should have brought my sweater with me. When I shivered, Jack raised an eyebrow. He was dirty, clad in a sweat-stained gray T-shirt and green shorts. His legs were long, lean, and shiny with perspiration.

“So?” he asked, “Caught the guy yet?”

“No, but I almost caught that fake detective.” I told him about chasing Ronny Tooney down the stairs, then losing him in the crowd when he turned the corner. “Have you seen him again anywhere?”

Jack worked his jaw, staring at some middle distance. “No, but if I do, there will be hell to pay.”

My face apparently broadcasted my alarm, because he smiled then. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to beat him up or anything. What kind of person do you think I am?”

Too startled to blurt anything but the truth, I said, “I have no idea. I really don’t know anything about you.”

My statement hung there for an awkward moment. I realized I’d given him an inadvertent lead-in for the inevitable “Then maybe we should get to know one another better” response.

But he didn’t say it.

I didn’t know if I was more relieved or disappointed. Shifting my weight, I said, “I know the police are doing all they can . . .”

“But?”

Feeling foolish, I nonetheless plunged ahead. “Maybe I’m just used to a bigger city and major task force initiatives. The manpower here is staggeringly small and this investigation is crawling.”

“And you’re intent on helping speed things up.”

“If I can,” I said knowing how ridiculous that sounded. “That’s why I wanted to ask if you remembered anything else about the man you chased. Any details, any impressions?”

His mouth twitched. “Well, city girl, there was one other detail I remembered just this morning. I’m sure it’s no big deal, but I figured if I caught up to the police, I’d let them know. Maybe you can tell them for me?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “What is it?”

“It dawned on me later that the guy wasn’t pumping his arms as he ran. I was behind him for quite some distance and his hands were always in front of his body.”

I followed his logic. “He was carrying something?”

“I think so.”

“And not just the threatening letter,” I said, continuing the thought. “He wouldn’t have needed two hands for that.” Feeling like I’d been given a gift, I thanked him and started back for my office.

“Hey,” he said.

I turned.

“I know you want to get involved in this investigation,” he said, “but be careful. There’s a very bad person out there.”

“I will.”

“Good,” he said, “because I really don’t know you yet either.”

He turned away before I could get a read on his meaning. Was he mocking me? Or flirting?

I looked back once before I pulled open the back entrance door, but Jack had already disappeared into the gardens.

“IT’S ABOUT TIME,” BRUCE SAID WHEN THE back screen door slammed behind me. “We almost gave up on you.” Standing in the middle of the kitchen wearing a green-striped apron, he held a steaming pot in one hand and a metal colander in the other. “Turn on the light, will you?”

Hefting the banker’s box in my arms to one side, I snapped the wall switch, immediately banishing the shadows from the pink-tiled room. With daylight waning, the overhead light made the area feel particularly welcoming and warm.

“What smells so good?” I asked. Pulling open the oven door, I sniffed the heavenly scent of homemade meat loaf. “Oh.”

Bruce drained potatoes at the sink. “I think we all need comfort food tonight.”

Closing the oven, I stood. “Uh-oh. What happened?”

He winced, but it wasn’t from the steam shooting up around his face. “Dina St. Clair didn’t call.” Turning his back, he shook the colander to release any remaining water. I watched his shoulders shrug. “She said she would be in touch today if
Grape Living
was interested in doing the feature spread.”

“Did you try calling her?”

“Twice,” he said, still with his back to me. I wondered if he was trying to avoid letting me see his disappointment. “Once she was in a meeting and said she’d call me back. The second time she didn’t answer.”

“Did you leave a message?”

“No.” He turned and smiled. But I could tell it was for my benefit. “Scott’s really disappointed.”

“Just because she didn’t call today doesn’t mean she forgot about you. Maybe she had some personal problem. Maybe
Grape Living
hasn’t made a decision yet and she’s waiting to hear.”

“She’s their top feature scout. If she recommends us, we’re in.”

“I don’t understand the problem, then.”

Bruce pulled out the hand mixer, butter, and garlic. Comfort food, indeed.

His voice quiet, he chanced a look toward the dining room, as though afraid Scott might hear. “What if she changed her mind? Maybe she doesn’t want to bother telling us. She probably assumes we’ll just figure it out over time.”

“Give her a break. And give yourselves a little credit. What magazine wouldn’t want to feature you guys?”

Bruce raised one shoulder.

I placed my hand on his muscled forearm. “It’s only one day, right? Try her again tomorrow. I’ll bet you’ll hear some good news.”

Turning his back to me again, Bruce plunged the mixer into the potatoes and started it up. I left him there and headed upstairs to change.

 

 

AFTER BRUCE’S WONDERFUL, SOUL-NOURISHING dinner, I pulled my two roommates over. “My assistant, Frances, is a pain in my behind but she is the most efficient worker on the planet.” I’d brought home a box of files and began to spread them out on the dining room table. Part of me hoped they would see something I didn’t, the rest of me hoped I could get their minds off
Grape Living
, at least for a little while. “I asked her for these records just this afternoon, and she had them for me in under three hours.”

Scott lifted the cover of one of the bound folders and scanned the first page. “What are you looking for?”

I sorted through the box again. “The police believe Abe was killed by an intruder intent on robbery. They think the threatening letters have nothing to do with Abe’s death.”

Both men exclaimed their disbelief. Bruce practically shouted, “But you said that the new letter today claimed Abe wasn’t the target. Doesn’t that letter
prove
the killing and the letters are related?”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” I asked. “The police aren’t totally dismissing the idea of the letter-writer also being the killer, but they said they’re skeptical. They brought up the story of that Tylenol guy back in the 1980s.”

Scott said, “I don’t follow.”

Bruce said, “I was just a kid.”

I stopped foraging long enough to explain. “You know how that one guy tried to extort money but when he was arrested, claimed he had nothing to do with the actual poisonings?”

“Oh yeah.” Scott picked up the thread. “I do remember hearing about that. So the police here in Emberstowne think this extortionist is attempting to exploit Abe’s murder in the same way?”

“To make their threat seem more grave, yes,” I said. “That’s what the police are telling us, at least. What they really suspect is anyone’s guess.”

“It’s smarter for the cops to keep their information close to their vests,” Bruce said. “Keeps people from trying to help.”

“Not going to stop me,” I said and resumed my search.

Bruce rubbed his chin. “But wasn’t there something in the news not so long ago about that Tylenol extortionist getting arrested again because now they really believe he is the person who poisoned those victims?”

“Bingo!” I pulled out a thick binder and grinned at Bruce. “That’s exactly what I’m thinking. You know, the old ‘where there’s smoke’ adage? Even though the police are claiming that the news coverage of Abe’s killing inspired our letter-writer, I’m convinced that the two are related. And with this . . .” I held up the binder, which weighed more than a bag of sugar, “I intend to prove it.”

The two looked at me skeptically. “Exactly how?” Scott asked.

Bruce sat down at the head of the table. “Should you be nosing around like this, Grace? Won’t the police get irritated with you?”

Scott jumped in. “And isn’t that one of the marks of the guilty party? They try to insert themselves into the investigation?”

I’d used that same argument earlier with regard to Tooney. “This is different,” I said. “I’m the acting director of the estate. I’m responsible for everything that goes on. I have a fiduciary responsibility to follow up.”

Their skeptical looks didn’t budge.

Undaunted, I continued, “And as to how I intend to do this, I plan to follow the money. T. Randall Taft lost everything when Bennett turned him in.”

Bruce ran his fingers along file folder edges. “Taft is in jail. And was in jail when Abe was killed.”

“That doesn’t mean he didn’t hire someone.”

Scott took the binder from my hands, with a grunt. “You’re stretching it, kid.” He took a look at the blue cardboard cover. “So what’s in here?”

“Taft isn’t the only person who lost millions. So did a lot of others. That,” I tapped the weight in his hands, “is a list of all Taft’s clients, and an accounting—to the best of the attorneys’ knowledge—of how much each investor lost.”

Scott dropped the binder to the table with a thud. He lifted the cover and fanned through the pages. “Geez, how many people did this guy bilk?”

“He was at it for a long time.”

“So it seems.” Scott sat in the chair to Bruce’s right as he flipped pages. “These are arranged in order of investments. The top losers . . .” he glanced up, “those over five million, that is, take up six pages alone.”

I leaned over to look. “I’ll never get through all of them.”

They both looked at me like I was nuts. “You plan to research every name in this file?” Scott asked.

“Of course not. But I do plan to look into the most suspicious ones.”

“Suspicious,” Scott repeated. “As in, which investors lost the most money?”

“Exactly.” I grimaced at the list. “Thank goodness they’re listed in dollar order. Now if only I could have a separate copy in alpha order, too, to help me keep track, I’d be all set.”

Scott shrugged. “Ask the lawyers to send you the document as a spreadsheet. Then you can sort the data however you like.”

“Duh.” I clunked my forehead with my fist. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Because your brain is overtaxed,” Bruce said. He got up from his chair and made his way back to the kitchen, where I heard clinking glasses and the unmistakable cork-creak and hollow pop of wine being opened. His voice rose as he continued, “You’ve been on the go since you started working there, and now this horrible tragedy has you tied up in knots. You need to chill out, sweetie. Leave the files for one night. Get in touch with the lawyers tomorrow and get the information in a form that works for you.”

I took a look at the thick binder and felt all my energy drain. “You’re probably right.”

“Of course I’m right,” he said, returning to the dining room with two big glasses of garnet red wine. “For you,” he said, handing me one.

He gave Scott the other before returning to the kitchen. When he reemerged, he held a chilled plate of chocolate-covered strawberries in one hand and his glass of wine and the bottle in the other.

“The oh-six?” Scott said, aghast.