Grace Under Pressure (24 page)

“So why did the detectives let him go?”

“It’s
because
they know him. He may be prone to disorderly conduct. Maybe even petty theft, but he wouldn’t be involved with murder. Not intentionally, that is.”

“Cut to the chase, Tooney,” I said.

His big green eyes clouded. “Call me Ron?”

“You’re down to two minutes.”

“Okay, okay.” His hands came up again, as if to keep me in place. “Percy is willing to talk to you about the guy who hired him. He said he might be able to remember a few more details.”

“He should share those details with the police.”

“Percy says he trusts you.”

“Aren’t you a piece of work?” I said rhetorically. “Both of you. What you really mean is that Percy thinks I might be able to benefit him in some way, isn’t that it? What is he looking for? Cash? A place to stay? A month of free meals?”

Before Tooney could answer, I continued, “And you . . . you’re looking for me to ‘hire’ you as facilitator of this little tête-à-tête, aren’t you? Being hired by Marshfield in such a role would be quite a coup for your private-eye-wannabe resume, wouldn’t it?” I closed in on him, lowering my voice. “Isn’t that what you’re
really
doing here?”

He looked down at the porch floor then back up at me. I read determination in those watery green orbs. “Employees don’t turn in their uniforms.”

The non sequitur stopped me. “What?”

“I was trying to tell you before. It’s ridiculously easy to get one of those blazers. When an employee quits, or is fired, no one makes them turn in their uniform. In fact, the old vintage shop on Main buys them up and sells them as souvenirs.”

“You’re kidding me.” I thought of all the upgrades and precautions Terrence Carr was striving to put into place. Here was one neither of us had considered.

“Told you.” Tooney wagged his head. “I can help. I know all sorts of things like that. I’m an expert on Marshfield.”

He looked ready to launch into a lecture. I stopped him. “Back to Percy,” I said. “Tell him to talk to the police. I don’t want to get involved in this.”

“You’re already involved, whether you want to admit it or not.”

There was no evidence of threat in Tooney’s tone. Rather, he looked sad.

“Percy’s a messed-up kid,” he said. “I don’t know what the official spiel is, but he doesn’t connect with people. Not many, at least. He wants to be liked, but doesn’t have social skills. He’s an outcast. In that way, I understand him.”

That much I believed.

“Whatever you said to Percy that day in the Birdcage room,” Tooney continued, “struck a chord with the kid. He wants to talk to you, but he’s not allowed on Marshfield property and I opted not to let him know where you lived.”

“Thanks for that, at least.”

“Look, just meet with him. And you’re wrong about having to ‘hire’ me. I know I have to prove myself before Marshfield respects my talents. Call this one a freebie, okay? If it works out, maybe it will be my foot in the door.”

“Don’t count on it.”

Tooney shrugged. “We all have to trust sometime. Percy trusts you. I do, too.” He smiled then, a move that immediately changed his face from lumpy and plain to friendly, and almost attractive. The transformation took me aback. “I think you should meet with Percy. Really.”

The tide of indecision was pulling me toward a destination I hadn’t counted on. I knew I could fight it, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to. I recalled Percy apologizing for bumping one woman’s chair, and for congratulating the old lady on her good aim when she smacked him with a teacup. There was good in everyone. I firmly believed that. Still . . . “I don’t know,” I said. “This seems wrong. If you have information of substance, you should take it to the police.”

“Trust me,” Tooney said.

“I don’t.”

“I’ll be in touch, and then you’ll see. And I think it would be best if we kept Marshfield out of this for now. I’ll contact you on your cell.”

“I don’t plan to give you that number.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got it.”

“How—”

“I’m good,” he said with a wink. “I keep telling you that. Maybe soon you’ll start believing me.”

 

 

“SHOULDN’T WE GET RID OF SOME OF THE weeds before he gets here?” I asked my roommates.

They sat at our kitchen table, each with a glass of iced tea in one hand, and a section of the newspaper in the other. Crusts from what was left of their portobello mushroom panini sandwiches sat on discarded plates nearby. Bruce glanced up at the plastic sunflower clock over the sink. “You think of this now?” he said. “Your handsome suitor is due here in fifteen minutes.” He made a show of standing up and looking out the back screen door. “That’s not enough time to make a dent.”

Scott put the paper down. “What’s this Jack’s last name? I didn’t hear what you said at the bar.”

“Embers.”

Both of them raised eyebrows. “As in Emberstowne?” Bruce asked. “Like the local royalty?”

I laughed. “The Marshfields are the local royalty.”

“True that.” Bruce nodded. “He’s not really coming over to look at the landscaping, Grace. You know that.”

“I think he’s really coming here to give us gardening advice,” I said. “He’s always so serious about his work.”

“Is he married?”

I shrugged.

“Don’t worry,” Scott said. “We’ll find out for you.”

“Yeah, right, Mr. Suave,” Bruce chided, then mimicked him, falsetto, “ ‘Can we make it closer to six? Bruce and I won’t be home until then.’ ” He shook his head. “You’re right on top of things.”

“All I want is to shut our neighbors up,” Scott said as he waved away the tease. “I think it’s about time we got a professional opinion on the landscaping.”

A voice from the open doorway: “Then it’s a good thing I’m not late.”

I greeted Jack, hoping he hadn’t overheard much more than he obviously had, and invited him in as Bruce and Scott cleared the table. “Can I get you something to drink?” I asked.

“No thanks,” he said then glanced around appraisingly. “This is a great old house.” He turned, his attention apparently caught by something in the hallway. “You’re not moving, are you?”

I followed his gaze. “No,” I said. “Just in the middle of a cleaning project—sorting through all my parents’ and grandparents’ junk before it gets ruined in the attic.”

He looked at me quizzically.

“The roof leaks.”

“Better get that fixed quick,” he said. “Nothing good can come of waiting.”

I couldn’t get it fixed until I had the funds to do so, but I didn’t want to come across as a Debbie Downer in the first five minutes of our conversation. There was always hope of things working out.

“Yep, that’s what we’re doing,” I said. “We’re getting bids.”

Ignoring the twin looks of surprise from Bruce and Scott, I led our little party outside.

An hour later, scratched and bitten from wandering through my yard’s overgrowth, I was ready to call the concrete mixers to pave the whole property. We’d spent the entire time walking through mangled shrubbery and weeds to get a feel for what the original design had looked like.

“I remember the front of this house,” Jack said. “It was always gorgeous. Colorful and bright with blooms.” Jack pointed to a grouping of stones. “See these? There was a flower bed here, a good-sized one from the looks of it. And I’m pretty sure this area . . .” he shoved away a thick clump of branches, “. . . used to be a vegetable garden. With a little hard work, and a some cleanup, this property could be a showplace again.”

Hands on hips, I surveyed the area as the three men discussed plans for its renewal. How they could get so excited over grass, mulch, and dirt, I didn’t understand. My mother and grandmother had always grown flowers and vegetables. I remembered that. I’d apparently inherited a brown thumb rather than a green one. To my mind, herbs, veggies, and fresh-cut blooms were best harvested from a local store. Bruce and Scott took notes, chatting amiably with Jack about peonies and ground cover, while I dreamed of cement.

Jack’s cell phone rang. He excused himself to take the call out of earshot.

Bruce nudged me. “He’s a keeper.”

“Give me a break,” I whispered. “He came for the gardens. That’s it.”

“Uh-huh, right,” Scott said.

“You sure I can’t get you anything?” I asked Jack when he returned. “Iced tea?”

“Nah, I need to get going, actually,” he said. “Hope I was of some help.”

“Definitely,” I said, disappointed. Maybe he really
had
only stopped by to talk shop. “Thanks for all your ideas.”

“No problem.”

Bruce poked me in the back, prodding me to walk Jack out front. I really had nothing more to say and the awkward silence when we got to the end of the driveway made us both uncomfortable. “Well, thanks again,” I said. “Hope you have something fun planned this evening.”

“You, too.” He gave a little wave, and started walking toward town. “See you around the manor.”

“Yeah,” I said.

Bruce met me on my way back. “Did he suggest dinner? Drinks?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I gave my matchmaking roommate a scathing look. “Maybe he was more interested in the two of you than he was in me. Did you ever think of that?”

Scott joined us. “Nope. No way. Jack’s hetero. Definitely.”

“Maybe he’s married, after all,” I said. “You didn’t find out, did you?”

“Never got a good opening. Would have been clumsy.” Bruce patted me on the shoulder as we headed back in. “But I had the most brilliant idea. You have access to all personnel records. Why not do a little . . .” Bruce winked, “. . . snooping?”

“Sorry. He’s a consultant. No personnel records on file.”

“That’s even better,” Bruce said. “If he worked for Marshfield, you wouldn’t be able to date him because you’d be his boss.”

BRUCE’S SUGGESTION TO SNOOP THROUGH Jack’s records—however inappropriate—did remind me of another plan I had.

Monday morning, I asked Frances, “Do we keep old personnel files?”

“We keep everything,” Frances said flatly. “What are you looking for?”

“I know it’s silly, but my grandmother used to work at the manor. I thought I might take a look at her file.”

“Your grandmother? Here? When?”

I told her.

“That was well before my time. Those wouldn’t up here any longer,” she said. “But we keep old files in storage in the basement. The same room with the floor plans.” She’d taken me on a tour of the storage area my first week and I knew exactly where she was talking about. “I’d try there first. You want me to look for you?”

“No thanks.” The idea of Frances grabbing a first glimpse at what was, in essence, my family history was totally unacceptable. “Have we heard from Fairfax yet on the names I gave them to check out?”

“Nope, but I’m sure the information will be here soon.”

“I’ll run down to the basement, if you’ll hold down the fort.”

“Don’t I always?”

While I was in the basement I tried to locate the exit to the study’s hidden staircase. No luck. Granted, it was supposed to be hard to find, but I paced out the approximate location based on the information Hillary had shared and tried again. I didn’t want to make my inspection obvious, so after about twenty minutes I gave up. The police would figure it out and with any luck, Rodriguez might share that knowledge with me.

My trip to the lower level was not without its reward, however. I headed back, clutching my grandmother’s personnel file folder, anticipation springing my every step. My family’s love affair with Marshfield Manor had begun when my grandmother Sophie settled in Emberstowne in the late 1930s. She married Peter Careaux, who, according to my mother, was a ne’er-do-well and a barely functioning alcoholic. Unable to depend on her husband to provide for their first child—my aunt Belinda—Gram sought work outside the home and Marshfield was hiring. The moment she started work there, our family tradition of admiring the manor began.

In some ways, I felt as though I was bringing the family tradition full circle by working here. My gram had been a member of the housekeeping staff, and now I was in an administrative position. I liked to think she would be proud of me.

As much as I wanted to read through her file, I couldn’t squeeze that in right now. I didn’t even have time to get this file back up to my office. Not if I wanted my next plan to work.

I stepped outside the back doors into the early sunshine and made my way to the fleet of golf carts we kept for shuttling personnel back and forth around the grounds. I snagged one of the newer vehicles from the cart manager on duty and bounced my way along the narrow asphalt path that connected the mansion to the hotel. The day was warming up nicely. Puddles on the path, left over from the morning’s watering schedule, were just beginning to vanish.