Grace Under Pressure (29 page)

WHEN BENNETT LEFT, FRANCES ASKED ME why my door had been locked. Whatever ideas she might have been brewing in that little brain of hers caused her eyebrows to jump around more excitedly than ever. With a straight face, I told her that Bennett and I had a few sensitive issues to discuss. She made a sound of annoyance and walked away.

Later that afternoon, I rearranged my desk four times in an effort to prioritize. Two semi-emergencies had popped up: A floor buffer in the basement had caught fire and initiated a sprinkler response; and a pregnant guest unexpectedly went into labor during a tour of the mansion. I ran down there and sat with her until the paramedics arrived. When I was notified that the woman had given birth to a healthy little girl en route to the hospital and named her Marsha, in honor of the manor, I made arrangements to send flowers.

Finally, after getting another couple of items scratched off my to-do list, I decided to take another look at my grandmother’s file. I wanted to write down the exact dates of her employment. I thought it might be helpful to know as I sorted through the rest of the paperwork at home. Contrary to my roommates’ wishes, I hadn’t chucked the remaining boxes. I still had a long way to go.

When I unlocked my desk drawer the folder wasn’t there. I knew I’d put it away. I was
sure
I had. And yet . . .

I remembered having it out before Bennett came, but as soon as he was on his way, I swore I’d placed it safely in my drawer. I tried picturing my movements.

“Frances,” I called.

She didn’t answer. I got up and went into her office. Not there.

If I knew the woman and her busybody tendencies the way I thought I did, I had no doubt she would eagerly “borrow” the file from my office if the opportunity presented itself.

Her desk was a collection of tidy piles, each of them with a Post-it note stuck to the top with a to-do list written neatly on every one. She’d prioritized them, A, B, C, etc., but I couldn’t find anything on her desk that resembled my grandmother’s dark manila file. As I stood there, I allowed my gaze to wander over to the credenza behind her chair. There were four more stacks of files, and beneath the tallest one on the left I noticed a corner of a dark file sticking out. Just a little bit.

“Aha,” I said softly, making my way around her desk to check things out. A bright pink note read: “To do” and the stack appeared to be a collection of bills waiting to be paid.

I lifted the stack just enough to wiggle the dark file folder from the bottom. It was an old personnel file, and for a moment when I thought it was my grandmother’s, my heart raced. But this one belonged to Rosa Brelke, and was, in fact, one of the records I’d read the other day. Frances hadn’t returned it to the drawer yet. I wondered why not. I opened the file and paged through it again. Nothing of particular interest in here. I skimmed the dozen pages in her file, then stopped when I came to a typewritten letter addressed to Abe Vargas and signed by Ronny Tooney.

I lowered myself in the chair to read.

Half a minute later, the door opened and Frances walked in. Her surprise was evident, her annoyance plain. “What are you doing?” she asked, crossing the room in a flash. She didn’t dare rip the folder from my hands though I could tell by the murderous look in her eyes that’s exactly what she wanted to do.

“This wasn’t in here before,” I said, lifting the letter. “Ronny Tooney is Rosa’s cousin?”

Frances stood in front of her desk, her lips tight.

“You took this letter out before you let me read the files.”

No answer.

“Why?” I asked. “You said you thought Tooney was related to someone on staff. Why hide it now? Don’t you think I have a right to know? Don’t you think the police have a right to know?”

Frances blinked several times, as though trying to come up with a reasonable excuse. I couldn’t imagine one.

“Rosa asked me to,” she finally said.

“And that explains this subterfuge?”

“This is really no big deal.”

I stood. “It’s a very big deal. And I intend to document this in
your
personnel record. Do you understand how completely wrong this is? Not to mention unlawful?”

“Rosa’s scared. That’s it. She was afraid she’d get in trouble because of Tooney. That doesn’t make her guilty of anything. Doesn’t make me guilty of anything either. Neither of them are suspects, so what’s the problem?” Frances wiggled her head. “Why were you going through my desk, anyway?”

I’d forgotten, momentarily, about my grandmother’s missing file. “I was looking for something.”

“Did you find it?”

“No.”

She pursed her lips. “Why don’t you tell me what it is and I will attempt to locate it for you,” she said it a tight voice.

No way. “Later,” I said.

“Well then, if you’re quite finished there, I’ll get back to work.”

I left a message for Rodriguez. Maybe this was just the break they needed.

 

 

AS ANNOYED AS I WAS ABOUT THE STILL-MISSING file and Frances’s underhanded stealth, my mood was still buoyed by Bennett’s revelation. Showing me the passage was proof he trusted me, and I vowed to do nothing to destroy that trust. I’d been the recipient of betrayal in the past and refused to inflict that pain on others.

At six o’clock, I left to pick up Scott for our meeting with Percy. The trip to the wine shop in Emberstowne would take about twenty minutes and the drive to Percy’s about another fifteen. We weren’t meeting until seven, but I always preferred to be early.

Emberstowne was charming, especially at night when the unseasonably warm evening air provided a perfect atmosphere for strolling and browsing. I snagged a parking spot on the street about a block from the wine shop and made my way over.

In a month or so the sidewalks would be busier, filled with couples out for a romantic evening, families pushing strollers, and buying ice-cream cones for their kids. But right now was when I liked it best. Not so busy, but with just enough activity to make things interesting. I wished I had the time and money to sit at one of the outdoor cafes and have dinner while I watched the world go by.

I glanced at my cell phone for the time and picked up my pace. I could probably afford coffee, but right now I couldn’t afford the time.

The wine shop was smack in the middle of the busy section, flanked by an old-fashioned ice-cream parlor and a particularly excellent mystery bookstore. I hoped Scott was ready to go. The sooner I met with Percy and got this over with, the happier I would be. I smacked myself in the head as I walked, belatedly remembering that I had forgotten to talk to Rodriguez about this meeting tonight. I’d intended to connect with him when I sent the Fairfax reports, but I’d gotten busy, and asked Frances to send the copies for me. Darn.

I was about thirty feet from the wine shop’s front door when who should emerge but Geraldine Stajklorski. Our unpleasant hotel guest carried two magnums of wine, and a shopping bag hung heavily from each arm.

There was no way I wanted her to see me, so I stepped close to the bookstore window and pretended to study the mysteries on display. Geraldine didn’t notice me, but made her way unsteadily to her car at the far curb, struggling under the weight of her purchases. She loaded the magnums and bags into the trunk of a small gray sedan and I waited until she pulled away to enter the shop. Except for my roommates, the place was empty.

“You two just made a nice sale,” I said. “What a great way to end the day, huh?”

Too late, I realized Bruce and Scott had been arguing. They looked up at me from behind the granite countertop, with forced “everything is just fine” looks on their faces.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “I just saw nasty Geraldine walking out of here with her arms full. Shouldn’t you be celebrating?”

“Who?” Bruce asked.

I jerked a thumb toward the street. “Geraldine. That woman I told you about who took Marshfield Manor for a ride.”

“She’s outside?”

“She was just
here
.”

Clearly puzzled, Bruce looked to Scott. “What are you talking about?”

“The woman with her arms full of wine,” I said. “That was Geraldine Stajklorski.” I didn’t understand their confusion. “She must have used a credit card or something, so you had to have seen her name.”

Bruce pointed to the street. “That was the woman you told us about? Are you sure?” The desperation in his voice scared me.

Scott gripped the counter, his face unnaturally pale. “The woman who just left was Dina St. Clair,” he said shakily. “From
Grape Living
.”

“No.” My voice was low. “That’s Geraldine Stajklorski.”

The light began to dawn. On all of us.

Scott lowered himself onto a stool. Bruce dropped his elbows onto the counter and his head into his hands. “I had a bad feeling about her today.”

“What?” I asked. “What happened?”

Scott’s eyes went red and he looked away. “Maybe she uses a pseudonym?” he said, staring at the wall of wines behind him.

Bruce looked up. “She told us that the editors at
Grape Living
are still on the fence. They wanted a few more items to sample before they made a final decision.” He glanced to Scott, who was still turned away. “Her manner today seemed off. She was in too much of a hurry. I didn’t want to give her anything else from our stock. We can’t afford it.”

“She didn’t pay for any of that?” I asked.

“I should have listened to Bruce.” Scott’s voice was soft. “She scammed us.”

“We don’t know that. Maybe she just uses two names.” Bruce didn’t sound convinced but he pressed on. “Maybe one is her married name and the other her professional name.”

“Why don’t you call your contact at
Grape Living
and check?” I asked. Pointing to the clock above the bar, I added, “They’re on the West Coast, right? There should still be people in the office.”

Bruce shook his head. “Dina
is
our contact with
Grape Living
. We’ve never talked with anyone else.”

“But you verified that she’s their representative, right?” I asked.

Neither man answered.

“I mean, when she first showed up. You confirmed she was legit, didn’t you?”

Their silence spoke volumes.

I wanted badly to ease my friends’ pain. “Okay, so she’s possibly gotten away with a few items. I saw her carrying two magnums and she had a couple of bags. That doesn’t seem too terrible.”

“What you saw her carrying was her last trip to the car,” Bruce said quietly, as though he didn’t want to rub it in Scott’s face. “We loaded two full cases for her first.”

My hand flew to my mouth. I wanted to ask what the heck they’d been thinking, but what good would that do? Instead, I said, “You don’t
know
that she scammed you. Maybe everything is just fine. Call
Grape Living
, and see what they have to say.”

Bruce and Scott exchanged a look of despair. We all knew exactly what the outcome would be, but Bruce dutifully made the call. He pulled out Dina St. Clair’s business card—it looked genuine to me—and dialed the magazine’s number. When the automated system answered, he punched in “Dina’s” extension.

“Hello,” he said, his face brightening when a real person answered. “I’d like to speak to someone about your reporter, Dina St. Clair.” A second later, he repeated, “St. Clair.” He spelled it. His shoulders slumped as he turned to us. “They’re transferring me to human resources. The woman I talked to doesn’t recognize the name.”

Ten minutes later, we had our answer. And one additional piece of information. The human resources person, after confirming that there was no Dina St. Clair, nor Geraldine Stajklorski employed by the magazine, mentioned that she’d received a similar inquiry earlier this week. Bruce informed the woman on the phone that it was possible that Dina St. Clair may have perpetrated fraud using
Grape Living
as her cover story. He said he had no proof but that perhaps the magazine would like to be aware of her antics.

The woman thanked Bruce and asked for his contact information. He provided it and hung up.

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

Scott was clearly ready to lose it. When the front door opened to admit a middle-aged couple, he retreated to the back room. Bruce forced a smile and greeted the newcomers warmly. “Let me know if I can help you find anything,” he said.

I looked up at the clock. Bruce caught me. “You’ve got that meeting with Percy,” he said. “You’re already running late.”

“I can cancel.”

“To do what? Hold our hands? No, we’ll get through this.”

I hated to leave, but I knew I needed to. “Don’t tell Scott I went without him,” I said. “I’ll see you two at home later.”

Coming out from behind the counter, Bruce approached the couple, who had pulled a bottle of port from the display. “Have you ever tried this with chocolate-covered blueberries?” They admitted they hadn’t. “Ah,” Bruce led them to the counter with the deft touch of a master salesman. “Then you are in for a special treat.”

 

 

ZOE WAS ON DUTY AT THE HOTEL WHEN I called to ask about Geraldine. “I haven’t seen her all day,” she said.

“Don’t let her leave the premises,” I said. “Promise her anything. Just keep her there until the police arrive.”

I tried getting in touch with both Rodriguez and Flynn, but could only leave messages asking them to call me. Scott and Bruce were planning to call the police, but I wanted to do all I could to help out, too.

The trip to Percy’s gave me time to think. My heart broke for my roommates. I knew their financial situation, and it was just as bleak as mine. While we were lucky to have income at all, what we brought in was perpetually short of what was needed. Bruce and Scott had never been late with their rent, despite the fact that by keeping current they were often forced to delay repairs at the shop or on their car. I depended on their rent and my salary to keep our home in working order, but lately the house had become a veritable money pit.