Grace Under Pressure (33 page)

She nodded.

“And you told the police that you saw a man up there.”

A quick nod.

“What did he look like?”

She shook her head. “I try not to think about that.”

“I understand,” I said softly. “But there is a killer out there. Someone who might have killed again.”

Her hand flew to her chest. “Who?”

I held up a finger. There was a flash of fear behind her eyes that told me she was hiding something. I wanted to find out if Rosa had asked her to keep quiet. I wanted to find out if it was, indeed, Ronny Tooney who had disappeared from the room so quickly after shooting Abe. My instincts told me to push, but the last thing I needed was for Melissa to go running to Rosa. So I chose my words carefully.

“I know about the secret room,” I said.

She flinched.

I thought,
Bingo
.

Too late, she tried to deny comprehension. “I don’t know—”

“Sure you do,” I said keeping my voice low.

She swallowed.

“It’s never too late, Melissa,” I said, “to make things right.”

“I have to go,” she said.

I tried to stop her, but she was out of the room before I could react. I followed, but only halfheartedly. Cornering her would do no good right now. I decided to try again later after giving her a chance to realize I was right. I circled back to the laundry room. Yvonne looked up.

“Where’s Rosa?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Gone for the day, I think.”

Frustrated, I returned to my office.

As promised, Frances was gone. “Does everybody here leave early on Fridays?” I asked aloud. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked, but that was no answer at all.

I refused to give up, despite the fact that I seemed to do no more than perpetually spin my wheels. Despite the fact that most of the staff saw me as an ogre. Despite the fact that my assistant loathed me. Despite the fact that Bennett was probably planning to fire me first thing Monday morning.

Returning to my inner office, I pulled out the hefty Taft file again. If I came up with a clue that brought Abe’s killer into the limelight—if I was able to help bring that person to justice—then maybe Bennett would realize what a gem he had in me.

Ronny Tooney didn’t strike me as a billionaire in disguise, but he might have invested with Taft just the same. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. While most victims of the Taft scam had lost millions, the vast majority of those people had maintained their standard of living.

Tooney was not a wealthy man. If he
had
invested with Taft—a question I planned to have answered tonight, if it killed me—he’d probably invested a modest sum. To someone like Tooney, a hundred thousand dollars was a fortune. What if he’d lost it all? Was that reason enough to kill?

Suspicions dancing in my mind, I opened the record report to the last page, to work my way up from the bottom. One thing bothered me and that was Tooney himself. Except for his sudden appearance in the passenger seat of my car, and his propensity to skulk around, he didn’t strike me as a killer. He didn’t have an edge. In fact, he seemed rather pitiful.

But it was Tooney who had sent me to meet Percy. And from what I understood, the shooting had occurred less than an hour before I got there. What if I hadn’t been running late? Had the killer planned to take me down, too?

I turned the page, working backward, not finding Tooney’s name among the smaller investors. There were about four thousand people who lost less than fifty thousand dollars each—small change in this business. I finished going over that list and moved up to those who had invested less than one hundred thousand, then those who invested less than two hundred and fifty thousand. As I moved up in dollar amount, the number of names grew smaller.

I leaned back and stretched, wondering if my efforts were as futile as they felt.

When my desk phone rang, I let out a little yelp of surprise. I let it ring one additional time to allow my nerves to unjangle, then blinked to try to make out the clock across the room. I couldn’t tell the time. After nine. Maybe even close to ten. I’d been at this for hours and hadn’t come across any Tooney in the list. Nor for that matter, any Brelke either.

I answered. “Grace Wheaton.”

“Ms. Wheaton?” A man’s voice. Soft drawl. “This here’s Bo in security.”

“Good evening, Bo,” I said, trying to place his face. Unfortunately, I still hadn’t learned all our employees’ names.

“Well, I can’t say rightly that it is a good evening. We think there might be an intruder on the property. Have you heard anything out of the ordinary?”

“Not at all,” I said. I stood, ready to spring into action. To do what, I had no clue. “Where was the intruder seen?”

“Take it easy, ma’am. This might be a false alarm. But we need you to stay tight in your office ’til we give the all-clear.”

“What about Mr. Marshfield? Have you alerted him?”

“Already done.”

“What about the rest of the staff?”

“Pretty much everybody’s gone home,” he said. “ ’Side from you, a few maintenance guys, and us in security, there’s almost nobody here. So you just stay there in your office and wait ’til you hear from me again.”

As soon as he hung up, I locked the outer door.

Back at my desk, I stared at the phone. Bo had called rather than raise me on the radio. Could that mean that the intruder had somehow compromised our dispatch system?

The idea of a stranger trespassing in the mansion unnerved me more than I cared to admit. I felt helpless and alone, not to mention frustrated. I wanted to ensure Bennett was safe, but calling him at this hour just to satisfy my curiosity was out of the question. Not that he would answer anyway.

Pacing my office didn’t do any good, so I forced myself to return to my task. I opened the next section of investors: those who lost less than five hundred thousand. Just like the millionaires, this bunch numbered in the dozens rather than the hundreds. Again, I worked my way up from the bottom, looking for Tooney—a needle in a haystack.

And then I came across “Jepson, Samuel.”

Jepson? Where had I heard that name before? I repeated the name aloud. Closing my eyes and whispering the name again, I willed my synapses to make the connection I
knew
was there. Backtracking through the days since Abe’s murder, I tried to re-create my activities. Why did I equate this name with housekeeping?

I sat up. Samuel Jepson was Melissa Delling’s husband. The one Frances claimed had left her. The same husband who remained on Melissa’s health insurance. I traced my finger along the report, which listed him as a Taft investor. Samuel Jepson had lost $358,000 in the Taft Ponzi scheme.

A fortune for almost anyone. I remembered Frances gossiping about the always downtrodden Melissa. Her husband had told Melissa to quit Marshfield to start a family. Then, without explanation, Melissa was back at work.

I bolted from my chair to pace the office.

Frances had assumed Melissa’s husband had left her, but what if that wasn’t the case at all? What if he’d given all their money to Taft? Had Taft promised him millions?

I stopped at the window. I’ll bet he had.

For the first time, I wished my gossipy assistant was here. She would know the best way to find answers to all these questions. And she’d get them in a heartbeat, I had no doubt.

My impulse was to race out of here—to take this information to Detective Rodriguez—but the security staff’s warning tamped down that urge. That didn’t mean I couldn’t call him, though. I picked up the phone, my mind still sorting through the jumble. Percy hadn’t been saying “same,” he’d been saying, “Sam,” after all.

Fingers tingling, I tapped the detective’s number. I got Flynn. “This is Grace Wheaton at Marshfield Manor,” I said all in a rush. “Where’s Detective Rodriguez?”

“Gone for the day. We’ve been splitting shifts. Trying to cover more ground that way.”

“I think I know who killed Abe Vargas.”

“Oh, do you now?” he drawled.

“I do. I’ve been going through the list of investors. Remember that girl who was outside the study when Abe was shot?”

“Ms. Wheaton, I know you believe you’re helping . . .”

“Listen to me,” I shouted. “I think her husband killed Abe.”

He sighed deeply. “I’ve been on duty for less than two hours and already I’ve got three disturbances reported. Friday night gets busy ’round here, you know? Maybe you can come in Monday and we’ll talk about it.”

“Are you kidding me? I am not waiting until Monday.”

“Well then, I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Wait, did you say disturbances?” I asked. “You mean the one here at Marshfield?”

“Nope. Couple of the bars in town—”

“What about the intruder?”

“Come again?”

“Here at Marshfield. A security guy called a little while ago to make sure I stayed in my office until the intruder was apprehended. You don’t know anything about that?”

“Can’t say that I do. But I’ll be sure to check on it right away. You have yourself a good night.” He hung up.

“Thanks a bunch,” I said to the dead phone.

Thus dismissed, I resumed pacing, stopping long enough at the wide window to stare out into the pitch-black night.

I wanted to be home. Right now. I didn’t want to bother with the twenty-minute drive, but just be there. Frustrated, I blew out a breath and thought about how I might get in touch with Rodriguez tonight. I opened my Web browser and called up the local white pages, hoping to find his number.

Unlisted.

Ronny Tooney seemed to have everyone’s phone numbers on speed dial. Maybe I should call him. Yeah, right. A half hour ago, I was sure he was the killer, now I was considering asking for his help? No way.

Pushing myself away from the window, I started for the phone intending to call security for an escort to my car, when I heard the unmistakable sound of a key turning in the outer lock. Panic kicked in, freezing me in place. Logic told me it had to be Bo, come to release me. Fear told me that Bo would have phoned first.

Should I call out? Hide?

Immediate, profound terror immobilized me. My feet absolutely could not move. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. It didn’t matter—in the short second it took for my mind to process all this, the outer door creaked open. The intruder was inside the room.

“Ms. Wheaton?”

I recognized Bo’s soft drawl, and let out the breath I was holding. “In here, Bo,” I said, making my way to Frances’s office. So intense was my relief, I nearly laughed out loud. “For a minute there I thought—”

Bo wasn’t alone.

“Melissa?” I said, looking from her to Bo and back again. “What’s going on?”

Standing a couple of steps behind Bo, she bit her lip. My brain took its sweet time processing the situation, but my gut had gotten the message loud and clear. “You’re not Bo,” I said.

The lanky blond man smirked. “You’re right, ma’am, I am not.”

He looked just like a Marshfield security guard. Wearing the dark pants and pale shirt with insignia. And a holster, with a gun. Even a nameplate that read
Bo
.

He pointed to my office. “Why don’t we all go in there and have ourselves a nice discussion?” Turning, he barked an order. “Mel, shut that damn door.”

Meekly, she complied.

I called upon what little courage I could. “Get out of here now, before I call security.”

“Your security’s useless. They’re all busy right now anyway.” Samuel Jepson winked. I wanted to slap the smug look off his face. “And, ’sides, I got my own security, right here.”

He pulled up a sleek semiautomatic, waving it casually. “I’m going to make this real easy for you, darlin’.”

Somehow I didn’t believe that.

“You’re going to pick up that phone right now and call Mister Moneybags. Tell him it’s important that he come down here to see you right now.”

“The hell I will.”

“Tell him you know who killed Abe.”

Scared as I was, I folded my arms. “I refuse.”

“You gonna argue with me?” He waved the gun. “Pick up the damn phone.”

“Why do you want him down here?”

“You really have to ask?” Pointing the gun at the phone, he raised his eyebrows. “Now.”

I lifted the receiver and dialed, praying Bennett’s refusal to speak to me would hold out just a little longer. Jepson brought his ear close to mine to listen along. A mouth breather, Jepson’s breath nearly knocked me over. This close, I was tempted to try to wrestle the gun from his hand. But my chances of overpowering the guy were nil. He might be lanky, but he had muscles. I wouldn’t last a minute.

“It’s still ringing,” I said unnecessarily. “He must not be there.”

“He’ll answer.”

As we stood there listening, my mind repeated a mantra completely opposite than that of just a few hours earlier: Don’t answer. Don’t answer.

Five rings. Six. “Still nothing,” I said, absurdly hoping that Jepson would just give up and go away. Melissa, near the doorway, was no help at all.

He muttered under his breath. “Old man probably goes to bed early. Hang up.” He walked away from me making angry noises. “How am I supposed to get him down here?”

Melissa spoke. “Maybe we should all go up there.”

Jepson’s gaze snapped up. “Don’t be stupid. We have to do it here.” He pointed to the ground. “We
planned
this out. We can’t change it now.”

A man on the verge of a breakdown, he paced like a wild animal in a too small cage. In movies and books, the hero always gets the bad guy to talk. But those characters probably weren’t shaking the way I was. They could probably even think straight. I was having no such luck. My mouth was sandpaper and I thought I might pass out. Summoning as much strength as I could, I cleared my throat. “Where did the money come from? The money you lost with Taft?”