Grace Under Pressure (20 page)

Whoever had come in apparently didn’t want to be noticed either. The door was closed shut with the quietest of movements.

Realization stopped me cold. What if the murderer had returned to the scene of the crime? Trite as it sounded, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. I listened as the intruder tiptoed around the room, apparently searching for something. Items were moved about, glassware clinked softly, and books were slid out and replaced.

The knowledge that the killer might be back looking for something he left—or neglected to acquire—on his last visit, shot cold sweat out of every pore of my body. My knees quivered and I panicked that my struggles to remain standing would give me away. Embarrassment evaporated. Survival instinct kicked in.

I could make a run for it—the element of surprise would give me a good head start—but the sudden weakening in my legs made me doubt I’d get far enough fast enough.

The tiptoed steps moved closer to the window—the intruder was now to my right, near the room’s eastern corner. If I was going to make a move, it would have to be now. I just needed to make certain I bolted when the person wasn’t looking my way. Blowing out a quiet breath of decision, I reasoned that I could race around the sofa and make it to the door by the time the killer raised his gun. With any luck, I’d be out the door by the time he pulled the trigger.

My heart pounded in my throat as I inched closer to the drapery’s edge and, with great trepidation, peered around it into the room.

In an instant, my brain shifted gears, and I stepped out from behind the fabric. “What are you doing here?” I asked.

Hillary Singletary’s flushed face went through about a dozen expressions in the two seconds it took for her to reply. She pointed to the window and mustered an accusatory tone. “Why were you hiding in the curtains?”

I sensed I had the upper hand here, and pushed it. “When I heard you sneaking in, I thought the killer might have returned, so I took cover.” It sounded perfectly reasonable. I took a step closer to her. “Where did you come from? Why aren’t you at the memorial?”

She shook her head, and for the first time I noticed tiny flecks of dust in her hair. “All that crying . . . I couldn’t stand it another minute.” Clearly flustered, she glanced at the room’s carved panel, then back at me. Brushing dust off her clothing—to buy time, I assumed—she made a point of looking at the mantel clock.

Having not been wound for several days, the clock had stopped. Right now it read eight-twenty. Whether morning or evening, the time was way off.

In her hurry to get away from me, however, Hillary apparently didn’t notice. “It’s late,” she said with a sigh. “I should head out.”

I stepped into her path, preventing her escape. I wanted to ask her what she was looking for and why she’d been tiptoeing, but the topmost burning question popped out of my mouth first. “What’s in that room?” I asked, pointing to the carved panel. “I couldn’t find a way in.”

Her face flushed again, more deeply this time. “Just storage.”

“Uh-huh.” The fact that she was still standing here reluctantly answering questions from an employee, instead of ordering me to mind my own business, spoke volumes. I wanted—no, I
needed
—to know what was in there. “How did you get in? Do you have a key?” I asked.

She opened her mouth, but shut it again before answering me. “Just leave it alone, okay? Just forget you saw me.”

“Not a chance.” I crossed my arms. “What exactly were you looking for anyway?”

She started to deny it, but I interrupted.

“Hillary,” I said. “You were creeping around here, looking for something specific. It’s just your very bad luck that I happened to be here at the same time. When Bennett finds out . . .”

“No!” she nearly shouted. “You can’t tell him about this. You can’t.”

My loyalty was to Bennett, not Hillary. But no need to remind her of that fact right now, if keeping quiet encouraged her to spill. “Why not?”

Hillary rolled her eyes, visibly frustrated. “I told him I was feeling sick, okay? I did it to get away from all the grieving and . . .” she waved her hands in the air, grimacing, “. . . funeral business. I really hate that stuff.” She shuddered again and I saw a flash of real pain in her expression. “If he hears that I was up here, he’s not going to be happy with me.”

“I’ll bet.”

She placed both hands on my forearm. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong. And besides,” she added, letting go and standing straighter, “this is my father’s house. I have every right to be here.”

“Of course you do. Which is why it will be no big deal for me to mention this little conversation to Bennett.” I stepped back to allow her to pass me. “Have a nice day.”

She didn’t budge. “What’s it going to take?”

I feigned ignorance. “For what?”

“Listen,” she said, her tone conspiratorial. “I’ll show you what’s in the room, okay? And then you’ll understand. I’m not supposed to show anybody, but I trust you.”

She shouldn’t trust me. At least not if her revelation compromised the security of the mansion. If she was up to something that threatened Marshfield, I would be sure to tell Terrence and Bennett about it. I decided not to share that particular insight with Hillary, however, until after I saw what was behind the inset door.

“I can’t find a keyhole,” I said.

She shrugged. “There isn’t one.” With that, she ran her fingers along the panel’s wide oak molding, near the top left corner. I heard a faint
click
.

Nodding to herself, Hillary then laid her hand against the door’s upper left-hand panel. The pads of her fingers rested against the intricate carvings and she felt around for a moment until a second
click
sounded. “There,” she said. “Now remember, this is a secret.”

THE ROOM WAS CAVERNOUS AND DARK, WITH sliver-thin windows providing scant illumination. I would bet these skinny openings wouldn’t even be visible on the outside. Not this high on the fourth floor, at least.

My eyes didn’t immediately adjust to the dimness and I appreciated the faint spill of light from the study doorway. At first I thought Hillary might have originally been telling the truth about the room being used for storage. Boxes piled two corners, and the room was devoid of decoration. Whereas every other room in Marshfield Manor boasted paintings and sculpture, tapestries, and handcrafted furniture, this room was barren and bland. Its sole claim to ornamentation was an enormous painting of a female I didn’t recognize. Hillary stepped in ahead of me and made her way through the shadows to stand in front of the painting.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“Some great-aunt, I think. Don’t remember her name.”

Dust tickled my nose. The room was not only dirty, but stuffy and warm. I couldn’t imagine Hillary hiding out in here. No way.

“You were . . . what?” I asked. “Just sitting here? For how long?”

Instead of answering she shook her head and wiggled a finger indicating I should come closer. “
This
is the secret part.” With that, she lifted a panel next to the lower corner of the painting’s frame and turned a latch.

I held my breath, more than half-expecting the painting to swing open to expose a secret passage, the way such things do in tales of fantasy. I was disappointed when nothing happened. “So?” I said, a little agitated.

Hillary moved to the southeast corner of the room where she revealed a pocket door that hadn’t been there before. “That’s just how you get it to open,” she said pointing toward the painting. “This,” she slid open the door, “is where it goes.”

I peered inside to see a narrow set of stairs leading downward. Again, the only light came from slits in the outside wall, and I suddenly recalled the decorations outside that obscured the windows. Genius. “Where does this go?”

“It leads all the way to the basement. You know, where the employee parking lot is,” she said very matter-of-factly, “with a couple of extra openings along the way. I used to use it to sneak out of the house when I was a kid.” She started in. “Want to see?”

“And you don’t think this is a security risk?” My voice trembled. “You don’t think maybe this is how the killer got in? Do the police know about this?”

“I doubt it. Not unless Papa Bennett told them. This was never to be shared with the staff—just a family secret.” Shrugging, she added, “But Abe knew about it, so I guess it’s okay I told you.”

My mind was spinning. I wasn’t about to take the trek downstairs at this moment and compromise any evidence. “Don’t you understand, Hillary? This
has
to be the way the murderer got up to the study with nobody seeing him.”

She was vehemently shaking her head even before I finished talking. “Couldn’t be. Nobody knows about this except me and Bennett.”

I was convinced she was wrong. “We have to tell the police about this.”

“You can’t. Then Papa Bennett will know I didn’t go straight home.” Her voice wavered. “He’ll be really angry with me.”

For a moment, I felt as though I was arguing with a stubborn toddler rather than a woman ten years my senior. “Hillary, this is very important. This could make the difference between catching the killer and letting him go free. There might be evidence in there.”

“There isn’t. I swear. I would’ve seen something, right?”

My patience snapped. “You wouldn’t know a clue if it came up and bit you.”

Stunned by my tone, Hillary sucked in her cheeks. I watched her swallow back frustration as tears welled in her eyes. “Please,” she said. “Can’t we just keep this between us?”

I moved out of the doorway and crossed the dark storage area, to return to the study where daylight made everything seem sane again. The less we messed with what could possibly be part of the crime scene, the better. Hillary trotted after me, her voice whiny and thin. “Please. You don’t understand.”

I turned. “Then enlighten me. What was so important that you had to sneak in to look for it?”

“Honestly, all I wanted was to get away from the funeral.”

“We’re going to get along much better if you tell me the truth.”

She looked away, then back at me. “Okay,” she said slowly. “Let’s sit down.”

I’d been up here for nearly an hour already. Rosa and her cleaning team would arrive soon and I hadn’t had any chance at all to do the exploring I’d hoped for. “When do you think your stepfather will be back?”

Her eyes widened and she seemed genuinely distressed by the thought.

“Maybe you should talk quickly if you don’t want to run into him,” I said.

“Okay,” she said, her voice cracking. She took a deep breath, then let it out. “I was here. The day Abe was killed.”

“What?” A thousand thoughts ran through my mind at once. “No one told the police you were here that day.”

“Shh,”
she said, although no one was anywhere near. “That’s because nobody knew.”

My hands clenched in frustration. “Tell me,” I said.

We were standing behind the persimmon sofa. Hillary reached out her right hand to grip its back, steadying herself. I couldn’t believe no one had noticed her on the grounds Tuesday. Hillary stood out.

As though answering my question she said, “I didn’t come in the regular way, okay? I drove in through the tourist entrance. I even paid a one-day fee. And I was . . . wearing a hat.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “You were in disguise?”

“Listen,” she said, talking excitedly. “You have to swear you won’t say a word about this to anyone.”

I didn’t swear, but she didn’t notice.

“I came in like a tourist, but I know all the back doors and empty hallways. Hell, I was teenager here. I know all the place’s secrets. I had to get up to this room because I needed to put something back without anyone knowing.”

“You’d stolen something?”

“Not exactly,” she said. “It belonged to me. I thought it did, at least.” She frowned. “Don’t ask me that. It wasn’t like that.”

I was shaking my head, but she continued so emphatically, the phrase
confession being good for the soul
came to mind.

“Mom had a very special music box my stepdad gave her when they were first married. I used to play with the music box when no one was looking. My mom caught me a couple of times and made me promise to be careful. I was, too.”

As she explained how much she enjoyed listening to the music and how there were little drawers that opened and closed, I groaned inwardly. This was getting me nowhere. I wanted to suggest she cut to the chase, but she seemed determined to tell the whole story.

My attention perked up when she said, “After my mom died, I asked Bennett about the music box, and he said that he’d put it away with her things. I told him that I would really like to have it, but he refused. Said that it held too many memories.” She gave a one-shoulder shrug. “I kept asking him about it, but eventually he got mad so I gave up. Then last time I was here, in this room, I saw it again. Bennett had put it back on display.”