Grace Under Pressure (21 page)

“And you took it.”

She started a denial, stopped, then admitted, “I took it.”

“When was that?”

“Papa Bennett invited me over about three months ago. But at the last minute, he didn’t show. While I waited, I noticed the music box right there.” She pointed. “When Abe left the room, I picked it up and took off.” Hearing herself, she tried desperately to make me understand. “It was my mother’s. I expected it to come to me when she died.”

“I’m sure your mother had a will.”

Hillary bit the insides of her mouth again. “Yeah.”

I guessed: “The music box wasn’t part of her estate.”

“No.”

“Explain to me why you decided to bring it back the day Abe died.”

“Well I certainly didn’t plan it that way. I didn’t
know
somebody was going to kill Abe, for crying out loud.” She sighed with exasperation. “I decided to put it back because Bennett stopped talking to me.” Her mouth turned down so tightly, I thought she might cry. “It dawned on me—too late—that he put the music box there to test me.” She swallowed. “And I failed the test.”

“So why not just give it back to him?”

She blinked. “Then he would know I took it.”

I was confused. “He already knew.”

“No, you see, if I put it back in the study where I found it, then it would look like it had just been misplaced for a little while.”

Her childlike logic took me by surprise. Did she really believe that bringing the music box back would make everything right again? That it would negate the fact that she’d taken it in the first place? That Bennett would pretend nothing had happened? From what I knew of the man, this double deceit would only make a bad situation worse. “You should have just admitted what you’d done,” I said. I looked around the room. “I don’t see the music box here anywhere.”

She followed my gaze. Miserably, she nodded. “I know.”

Jack had seen a man running from the house carrying something. At least now we could assume what that something was. I had so much to share with the detectives. “Describe it for me. What does the music box look like?”

“Just a music box,” she said. “Nothing special.”

“Hillary.” My voice was stern. “Unless I know what it looks like, there will be absolutely no chance of getting it back.”

“Okay,” she said, making a face. “It was round, about so big.” Her hands worked an invisible ball, about eight inches in diameter. “The top opened on a hinge. When I was little I used to call it my mom’s Pac-Man, because it looked like one with its mouth open. Inside was black velvet and it played three different songs.”

“What were the songs?”

“I don’t know.”

That struck me as odd. If she were so enamored of this trinket, why wouldn’t she have known the songs it played? “What about the outside, what did it look like?”

“Well,” she said slowly, “it was mostly gold.”

“Real gold?”

She nodded. “It was like a lot of gold string that had been solidified into a ball. With a few diamonds and some other, you know, gems.”

The light began to dawn. “Diamonds,” I repeated. “And other gems.”

She didn’t meet my eyes.

“How much is it worth?” Before Hillary could feign ignorance, I added, “You had it appraised, didn’t you? That’s why it took you three months to find your conscience.”

She sighed again, more exasperated than ever. “It would probably go for three hundred thousand at auction,” she said. I was stunned by the figure, but even more so by her next pronouncement. “But without proof of ownership, I couldn’t get more than ten for it.”

“It appears to be gone, now. We have to assume the killer took it with him.”

She came around the paisley chair and dropped into it, belatedly noticing the bloodstain in front of her. She tucked her feet close and sighed. “Now Bennett will always think that I stole the music box.”

I wanted to remind her that she had, indeed, stolen it, but from the look of abject despair on her face and the clear conviction that she was the wronged individual in this situation, the message would be lost.

“So now you know,” she said finally. “And I told you the truth.”

“I appreciate that.”

“There’s no reason to tell Bennett, is there? I mean, you see that none of this has anything to do with Abe’s death.”

I leaned forward. “What time were you up here that day?”

“The morning. Maybe ten, ten-thirty.”

Too early. But I didn’t like to leave any loose threads. “Did you see anything suspicious?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Anything wrong. Out of place. Different.”

“Everything seemed normal to me.”

I didn’t know what I expected, or hoped for, but I wouldn’t get any further with Hillary. “Maybe you’d better get going,” I said. “Before Bennett gets back and catches you here.”

“You’re not going to tell him?”

I was spared answering by the arrival of two maids, Melissa Delling and a young woman named Beth. “Where’s Rosa?” I asked.

The two women exchanged a glance. “Rosa thinks that Abe’s ghost is up here looking for revenge.” Melissa shot furtive glances around the room as though she expected an apparition to jump out at her. “She sent us up to do the cleaning because she’s afraid to.”

Taken aback, I didn’t know what to say.

Beth added, “Rosa thinks we ought to send for a priest to chase the ghost away.”

I rubbed my temples. “She’s serious?”

“Dead serious,” Beth grimaced. “Sorry, didn’t mean it that way.”

I looked at the two of them. “What about you? Are you okay being up here alone?”

Melissa bit her lip.

“Do you want me to call someone?”

Before Melissa could answer, Beth said, “Would you?”

I pulled up my walkie-talkie and asked Terrence to send two security guards up as soon as possible. He said he would.

“Great,” I answered him. “I’ll stick around until they get here.”

Melissa and Beth set to work, apparently relieved not to be left up here alone.

“Two?” Hillary asked when I terminated the connection.

“One to keep our staff company,” I said, “and the other to escort you back to your car.”

 

 

ONCE HILLARY WAS GONE AND THE MAIDS were safe, I decided to visit Terrence. “There’s what?” he said when I told him about the secret room and staircase. “You’d think they would tell the security staff something like this, wouldn’t you? I have floor plans from Bennett, but there was no indication . . .” Shaking his head, he started walking away, then stopped and turned. “Thanks, Grace. I’ll look into it right away.”

When I got back to my office, I found a message from Rodriguez. “Just the man I wanted to talk to,” I said when he answered my return call.

“My partner and I need to speak with you,” the detective said. “May we stop by for a few minutes to chat?”

The careful, yet oh-so-casual tone of his voice put me on edge. “Of course,” I said, injecting warmth into my words. “I’ll be here the rest of the afternoon.” I glanced at the clock. It was almost four.

“Good. Don’t leave.”

He hung up before I could reply. Temple rubbing was becoming a new habit of mine. What a day. I hoped whatever the good detectives had to say wouldn’t take a lot of time. I hoped to share my new insights with him and hear their thoughts. Most of all, I longed to put an end to this terrible week.

WHILE I WAITED FOR THE DETECTIVES, I DECIDED to call our “discreet” investigation agency and give them the names of the investors who had lost a lot with Taft and who might blame Bennett for their demise. Ten minutes later I’d identified myself to Fairfax Investigations, explained my needs, and provided all the information I had on file. The woman on the other end of the phone promised me results by Monday morning.

“That’s pretty quick.”

“We’re the best,” she said simply. “Will there be anything else at this time?”

I told her no and we hung up. With the receiver still in my hand, I decided to try Geraldine Stajklorski again. This time if she didn’t answer, I’d leave a message and suggest she call me Monday morning to work out some compromise with regard to her complaint.

Her phone had rung only twice when my office door opened and Rodriguez came in. He lifted his chin in greeting. “Ms. Wheaton,” he said. Too formal.

Flynn stepped in right behind him, staring at me with menace.

I hung up. Stood up.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” I said, gesturing them both to sit. “I have something important to discuss with you.”

“Oh?” Rodriguez’s sly tone bugged me.

Flynn made a noise that sounded like,
“Pfff
.
”

I looked from Rodriguez to Flynn and back again. All the excitement of sharing news about the secret room flew out the window. These two had something on their minds and from the look of it, it wasn’t good. “What?” I asked uneasily.

Rodriguez slid into his chair. “Did you forget to tell us something?” he asked.

I waited.

Flynn looked ready to pounce. “We talked to Frank Cassano.”

Frank Cassano. Marshfield Manor’s unhappy neighbor. “Let me guess,” I said. “He told you that if he’d known that we planned to build another hotel he would never have sold his property to us, right?”

“No,” Rodriguez said slowly. “He claims that . . .” the older detective made a show of consulting his notes, “. . . you told him that Mr. Vargas wasn’t going to be in charge any longer. That you were taking over.”

“I took over the Cassano problem,” I said, not understanding.

Flynn fidgeted with eagerness. “Cassano seems to think you knew that the victim was going to be killed—before it happened.”

Too flabbergasted to form a reply, I could only manage, “What?”

Rodriguez tugged at his tie and sat forward. His dark eyes didn’t waver. “Frank Cassano claims that last Wednesday afternoon, you and him had a discussion.” He waited for my acknowledgment.

“Sure,” I said. “Probably. He calls here pretty often.”

“In that conversation, according to Mr. Cassano, you indicated that Mr. Vargas would no longer be running Marshfield and that from now on you were to be considered in charge.”

I was shaking my head before he finished. “No. What I said was that I had the authority to handle his complaint. He wanted to talk to Abe, but Abe didn’t want to talk to him. I was told to handle it. I handled it.”

The two detectives looked at each other, then at me. Flynn took up where Rodriguez had left off. “You always wanted the position of head curator of Marshfield Manor, didn’t you?”

No sense in denying it. I squared my shoulders. “Yes. I still do.”

Rodriguez made a
tsk
ing sound. “With Mr. Vargas out of the way, that . . . sorta . . . clears the path for you to move into the top job, doesn’t it?”

I wagged a finger. “Don’t even go there.”

“We’ve been talking to some of your acquaintances.”

“Give me a break,” I said with vehemence. “I’ve been trying my darndest to find out information to help you guys and you’ve been wasting your time investigating me?” I laughed, despite the sick realization that these guys weren’t kidding. “Did you forget that I was in the Birdcage room when the shooting took place?”

“No,” Flynn said with such arrogance that I wanted to slap him. “We have no doubt Mr. Vargas was shot by a man. But . . .” he gave me a wicked smile, “that doesn’t mean you weren’t involved.”

I opened my mouth to answer, but just then the phone rang. The caller ID number was familiar, but there was no name and I couldn’t make the connection.

Rubbing my temples, I said, “I’ll let that go to voicemail.”

“No,” Rodriguez said between phone chirps, “go ahead. Take it.”

I was too angry and frustrated to do more than deal with the dunderheads sitting at my desk. “Not now.”

He smiled and, without asking permission, lifted the receiver. “Ms. Wheaton’s office,” he said falsetto. “Can I help you?” He listened, scowled, then held the receiver away from his ear. I could hear a woman’s shrill voice. “Uhhuh, sure. Just a minute.” From the look on his face, Rodriguez was surprised and disappointed to discover it wasn’t the killer calling me to arrange a clandestine rendezvous. He held the phone out. “A Geraldine something-or-other wants to talk to you about compensation for her pain and suffering.”

“Great,” I said a mite too loudly and grabbed the receiver.

“That’s a rather rude way to answer the phone,” she said by way of greeting. I winced. Her high-pitched voice would have sent me screaming from the room if I thought the detectives would allow me out of their sight.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Stajklorski,” I began, “I didn’t mean you. This is a bad time right now. Can I call you back later?”

“Didn’t you just call me? There’s a missed call on my cell. It comes back to this number. And I’ve been trying to reach you for days. Have you been avoiding me?” Her anger bubbled over, two octaves too high. Now it was my turn to hold the phone away and wince. “Or are you just unwilling to keep your guests happy after you’ve put them out and ruined their vacations?”