Grace Under Pressure (28 page)

Rodriguez stared at the reports. His deep brown eyes rose to meet mine. “A lot of people lost money with that creep.”

“But these two lost more. Litric’s family business has gone bankrupt, and Chaven’s fiancé left him when the money ran out. These two are hurting.”

“Where are you going with this?”

“Either one of them could have written those threatening letters. Either one of them could have broken in and tried to kill Bennett but killed Abe by mistake.”

Rodriguez scratched his forehead and frowned. He took a few more minutes to skim the information from Fairfax. “This company you hired, they got all this information for you?” He waited for my acknowledgment, then nodded. “Not bad.” He read silently for another minute or so. “Both these guys are educated. Litric’s got a master’s degree, and Chaven was going for his.”

“So?”

“Those threatening letters weren’t sophisticated. Whoever wrote them wasn’t a university type.”

“You don’t think they were just trying to throw us off track?”

He chuckled. “Us, huh? Okay, kid. Us.” Shaking his head again, he said, “Possible? Sure.” He slapped his stomach. “But my gut tells me different. Whoever wrote the letters was in a hurry. They wanted money and they wanted it fast. They weren’t worried about proper grammar.”

Just then his radio squawked. He was up and out of his chair before I could say “boo.”

“Gotta run,” he said, making for the door. “But before I go—the main reason I stopped by was to let you know that Flynn and I are out of here for a while.” Rodriguez read the concern on my face. “We’ve done all we can here and we’re shorthanded back at the station. But I promise you, if something breaks, we’ll be back in a heartbeat.”

There wasn’t much else to say. “Thanks, Detective.”

“Oh, and can I get copies of those?” he asked, pointing to the files on my desk.

I waved. “No problem.” I’d include Samantha Taft for good measure. Maybe I’d be helping the investigation after all. I hoped so.

The moment I heard the outer door close, I snapped my fingers. It had completely slipped my mind to tell Rodriguez about my meeting with Percy tomorrow night. I would just have to connect with Rodriguez later when I got him these files.

WEDNESDAY MORNING, I STARED AT THE CRISP envelope from RH Galleries with a combined sense of dread and anticipation. The owner of the gallery, Roxanne, and I had played phone tag all afternoon the day before. I’d intended to try her again this morning, but the mail arrived first. I tapped the handwritten envelope against the desk. This was way too quick. Which probably meant the painting was a fake. It was much easier to spot a fake than to authenticate an original. Still . . .

I picked up my receiver. “Lois,” I said when the assistant curator answered, “I have a letter from RH Galleries in my hand.”

I heard her sharp intake of breath. “What does it say?”

“I haven’t opened it yet. I thought you’d like to be here when I did.”

“Are you serious? Thank you!” she said and hung up the phone before I could respond. Less than a minute later she’d made it to my office, eyes bright. “Open it. I can’t stand another minute of suspense.”

I started to peel up the flap, then stopped. “Here.” I handed it to her. “You do it.”

“Really?” Her eyes couldn’t get any wider. “It’s got to be fake, don’t you think? I mean, nobody could authenticate it this fast, could they?” She held her breath as she opened the flap, reverently removed the contents, and started to read. “Oh my gosh!” Her words came out fast and high. “It’s real. It’s a genuine Raphael Soyer.”

I stood up to read over her shoulder. Roxanne had lucked out by connecting with a Soyer expert named Carson, who had personally cataloged all the artist’s known works. He had a record in his files about a private project Soyer had done for the Marshfield family, but Carson had never seen the piece nor known its whereabouts. The elderly collector had attempted to contact the Marshfield estate several times, but had always been told that no such portrait existed. Roxanne claimed it was pure luck that she’d connected with him, but I knew better. Roxanne was shrewd and sharp. She’d known precisely where to turn.

“This is wonderful,” I said. We would still have to order a second authentication, but right now we were golden. “Thanks, Lois.”

She started to head back to her office, but returned to my desk. “Abe was a really nice guy, but he never shared this sort of stuff with us. He took care of all that himself. We found out later how things turned out. I just want to say thanks for letting me share in the moment.”

“My pleasure,” I said. And it truly was.

I picked up the phone and dialed Bennett. He seemed pleased to hear from me—a reversal from his mood two days earlier—and said he would be right down. I suggested I bring my news up to him, but he insisted on coming to the office. “I’ll be here,” I said.

When he arrived less than fifteen minutes later, Frances was away from her desk. Nonetheless, he shut the inner door before he sat down. “That woman is a busybody,” he said.

I didn’t want to disparage one of my employees in front of the boss, so I said, “But she’s very good at her job.”

“She is that,” he agreed. “The woman knows more about everyone and everything than she should. She’s almost always right, of course. But it’s frustrating to have to deal with her.”

I nodded. “I have news,” I said, pulling up the letter from Roxanne, “about the painting we found in storage.”

Bennett’s face brightened. “And?”

“It’s legit.”

He slapped his hands on the desk, his face all smiles. “I knew it!” A half second later, he sobered. “Are you sure?”

“We have to get through one more hurdle, but it’s looking good. I’d say we’re looking at a genuine Raphael Soyer.”

“This is wonderful.”

“It is.” I hadn’t ever seen him so cheered. Although perennially pleasant, he was rarely enthusiastic. This was new. And nice.

He surprised me by switching subjects. “Where did you come from?” he asked.

“Come from?” I repeated. “You mean where did I grow up?”

He nodded.

“I was born here,” I said. “In fact, my mom used to bring me to the manor as a treat.” I smiled and gave a self-deprecating shrug. “I think it was the beauty of Marshfield that inspired my career.”

“But you didn’t grow up in Emberstowne?”

I hadn’t expected to discuss my family history with Bennett. Coming so close on the heels of my recent discovery, the conversation put me on edge. My face grew hot. “No,” I said slowly, not sure where this was going. “I spent a long time in Chicago.”

“That accounts for your flat vowels,” he said, not unkindly. “What brought you back?”

I told him about my mom and how much she loved Emberstowne. I mentioned her getting sick and my coming back to take care of her.

“Your mother grew up here? What was her name?”

“Amelia Wheaton.” I was attentive to any change in his face—any expression of surprise or recognition.

Nothing.

“My dad was Lewis Wheaton.”

“He passed away as well?”

I nodded.

“I’m sorry,” Bennett said. “I don’t mean to make you sad. I would just like to get to know you better. Abe and I . . .” He let the thought hang and it dawned on me, Bennett was lonely.

“My dad didn’t grow up here,” I said to break the silence. “That’s part of what took us to Chicago for all those years.”

“What was your mother’s maiden name?”

I swallowed. “Careaux.”

Bennett seemed to recognize the name but didn’t express the sort of shock or outrage I might have expected, given the alleged relationship between his father and my grandmother. “Careaux,” he repeated. “That’s familiar. Did your grandmother work for the manor?”

“She did.”

Bennett smiled as though reliving a pleasant experience. “I think I remember her. But I don’t know her first name . . .”

“Sophie.”

“I called her Mrs. Careaux, of course. I think she might have been a housekeeper, am I right?”

The soft cheer in his voice told me he was oblivious to our possible familial tie. Was I disappointed, or relieved? I couldn’t tell. Part of me wanted him to know, but the other part of me realized that once the information was out there, things could get complicated.

“Yes, she worked here as a housekeeper. For a while.”

My mind skip-stepped. Just like the Soyer painting, I had in my grasp what I knew was the truth, but until I took the final step to verify, I would never know for sure.

“What were you just thinking?” he asked me.

Startled, I shook my head. “Sorry, my mind wandered. I’m just surprised you knew my grandmother.”

“Not well, of course. I was very young.” He smiled at me in a compassionate way. “But it’s nice to discover your ties to the manor.”

If he only knew. “It is,” I said blandly.

He sat back in his chair then, steepling his fingers. I watched as a thoughtful expression settled on his face. We sat there, silent for several minutes because it seemed wrong to break the spell. Finally, he took a deep breath and sat forward again. “I am pleased with how well you’ve taken control of the manor since Abe’s passing.”

I waited.

“Mind you,” he continued, “I had my doubts. You’re so . . . young. You’re still just a girl.” Holding up a hand to forestall any reaction, he added, “I know that probably isn’t politically correct to say these days, but I claim all the rights my age and upbringing afford me.”

Understanding his intention was to compliment, I said, “I’m happy to be able to help. And all I want is to do my best for Marshfield Manor.”

“I’ve come to appreciate that,” he said. “And that is why—despite my original misgivings—I want to take you a step further.”

I had no idea what he meant. He pushed himself up from the seat and walked toward the other office. Instead of opening the door, he locked it.

Speechless, I waited while he made his way back. His eyes twinkled and he smiled. “You ready?”

I had no answer.

He crooked a finger and made his way to the fireplace. “Come here.”

Dutifully, I followed. We stood facing each other with Bennett on the left of the fireplace and me on the right.

Squinting at me, Bennett said, “I believe you were acting in my best interests when you shared the secret room with the detectives. In fact,” he said, glancing away as though ashamed to admit it, “the police told Terrence that they’ve determined that it is exactly how the killer got in.” Bennett shook his head. “Who else could have known about that entrance?” he asked rhetorically. “Hillary swears she told no one but you.”

I had no answer for that.

Full of cheer and energy, Bennett looked twenty years younger. He crouched in front of the fireplace and reached in, to the left of the damper. Running his fingers along the inside, he obviously encountered what he was looking for. He glanced up. “Come down here.”

I did.

“Feel this ledge under here?”

I complied, my fingers taking up the spot where his had been. He smiled and exerted pressure on the back of my right index finger. There was a soft
click
, and he stood up. “Once it’s unlocked, it’s just a matter of . . .” he moved to the side of the fireplace and grasped the side of the oak mantel. With a flick of his wrist, he twisted the edge upward until it was perpendicular to the floor. “There you go. Now we open the door.”

I saw no door.

Like a kid showing off a new toy, Bennett walked me over to the wall to the left of the fireplace. “Here,” he said. He pushed at the paneled wall and it gave, easily. “Look.”

The door was about two feet wide, just enough to squeeze through, but inside the compartment—and that’s exactly how it felt, like a compartment—there were curved stone steps leading upward. I leaned into the dusty area and tried to look up, but the angle didn’t allow me to see the final destination. This was cool. “Where does it lead?”

“A room just above.”

Before I could say anything, he interrupted. “And before you think I’m a dirty old man making a lewd suggestion, I am not. You’re young enough to be my granddaughter.”

“I didn’t think—”

“I’m telling you this because you and I may occasionally need to discuss topics we don’t want overheard. We may not even want anyone to know we’ve met.” He pointed to Frances’s office. “This helped Abe circumvent such problems.”

“And you’re trusting me with this information?”

He wore a strange expression. “I am,” he said slowly. “I can’t say why, but I sense a kindred spirit in you.” He shrugged. “I don’t take my confidences lightly, so I trust you will not share this with anyone.”

Touched, I crossed my heart. “I promise.”