Grace Under Pressure (9 page)

“You’re a resourceful woman,” I said.

Frances looked confused. “Sometimes.”

“Do me a favor. We pay a service to keep us updated on all news and articles that are published about Marshfield Manor, right?”

She snapped her fingers. “You want me to ask them to clip news on Randall Taft, too?”

“Yeah, and have them backtrack. I want to know everything about this from the time the story hit.”

“That’s a good idea.” Frances reached for the telephone. “I should have thought of that.”

I started for the door, patting my hip. “I’ve got my walkie-talkie if you need me. But it looks like the complaint calls have died down, so you should be okay here for a little while.”

“Are we opening tomorrow?” she asked.

“Won’t know until this afternoon at the earliest.”

“Where are you going?”

I’d called most of the department heads to check in, striving to be the voice of calm in this storm, letting them know we would reopen just as soon as the police gave us the all-clear. There were, however, a couple of departments I couldn’t reach—probably because staffers were busy doing their jobs rather than sitting idly by the phone. I decided to visit these departments in person. “Outside, first, then down to the basement to talk with some of the staff.”

“I could call them to come up here.”

Sure, I thought. So you can listen in.

“No thanks,” I said. “While I’m gone, though, would you do me a favor and pull out any information we might already have on T. Randall Taft?”

I left her and headed down the back stairs. I called Carr on my walkie-talkie to alert him about the uninvited Ronny Tooney—a problem we needed to address quickly. But he cut me off before I could even broach the subject.

“Hold up on any sensitive communication via radio,” he said. “What’s your location?”

I told him.

“I’ll meet you outside in twenty. In the meantime, keep the lines as clear as possible.”

“You got it.”

He clicked off, leaving me further worried. Was there another security breach? I blew out a breath and hurried the rest of the way, but as I cleared the final landing, I stopped for a moment to gaze out the window. Teams of garden professionals dotted the south lawn, busy trimming, cutting, weeding, and planting under the soft sun. Though a gauzy mist hung overhead, the day had cleared up nicely. Outside the mansion suddenly seemed the safest place to be.

I made my way down the expansive corridor, with only the ticking clocks to keep me company as my shoes
tap-tapped
along the tile. This area was usually filled with happy, chatty tourists at this time of day, and the home felt empty without their energy. As I entered the silent Birdcage room, I paused a moment. Yesterday’s fracas with Percy had been the beginning of Marshfield Manor’s worst day. I replayed scenes in my mind and realized how flawlessly we had been set up.

And yet . . . the fact that an intruder had made it into the house during the melee should not have surprised me. Our security protocols were outdated, and our force largely untrained. Changes were in the works, but they hadn’t come soon enough for Abe. But who would have expected violence in such an idyllic location? I was as guilty as the next guy of never expecting a major crime to happen here.

My footsteps beat a lonely pace across the Birdcage’s marble floor as I made my way to the back garden exit. There was a chill in the room that had nothing to do with the temperature and I was happy to push the tall glass door open and step into the hazy sunshine.

Immediately outside the Birdcage was a massive tile patio, with umbrella-topped tables provided for tourists to sit while they waited to be seated indoors or just enjoy a view of the grounds. To the west, our hotel was just visible over a low rise. Beyond that were the stables, where guests could schedule trail rides. To the east, more than a polo field away, was our forest. And to the south were our gardens, so beautiful it almost hurt to take it all in.

These tables were a recent addition—and even better—they had been my suggestion. I’d gotten the idea after a visit to
Cà d’Zan
, the John and Mable Ringling mansion in Sarasota, Florida. The terrace, overlooking Sarasota Bay, was one of my favorite places on the property. I loved the sense of belonging created by the area, and I sought to re-create that feeling here at Marshfield. This would be our first spring and summer with a welcoming patio, and I looked forward to seeing how it would be received.

I thought about Abe. While he hadn’t been the most accommodating individual I’d ever known, I was surprised when he’d agreed to the patio plan and further surprised when he allowed me to get started immediately. “Why wait?” he’d asked. “That’s what you were hired for, isn’t it? New ideas. If that’s what they want, that’s what they’ll get.”

The furniture had been delivered and set up two weeks later. Amazing what could be done in a short period of time when money wasn’t an object. I sighed as I ran my hand along the back of a rattan chair. Crafted in a similar style, they were a lighter color than those in the Birdcage and sturdier for outdoor use. Abe and I thought it best to have both areas matching in theme.

Although I hadn’t known Abe long, I already knew I would miss him. He’d always been gracious and kind to me. And he’d been an effective buffer where Frances was concerned. Maybe he’d simply gotten used to her, but her attitude hadn’t seemed to bother him at all.

I crossed the patio toward the low wall border, looking for Old Earl, the head groundskeeper. Like so many of the staff members, Old Earl had been in Marshfield’s employ for a very long time. I even remembered him from when I used to visit as a child. He always hid a plastic bag filled with Starlight mints in his pocket, and would hand them out to those of us who knew they were there. He and I hadn’t had much opportunity to work together since I started here, but I was eager for that to change.

These days, Earl moved more slowly. With his slouched posture and weakened right knee, he used a cane to make his way around the grounds and complained—loudly—about everything that wasn’t getting done. We all knew it was just his frustration talking. Earl just wasn’t able to keep up with the grounds as well as he once was. I spotted him carrying a tiny potted pansy in his free hand, shuffling past one of the outbuildings.

We all referred to these outbuildings as sheds, although the term was a misnomer. These structures housed garden equipment and other sundry landscape items of course, but “shed” wasn’t a sufficient description. Outfitted with running water, heat, and refrigeration units, these lovely cabins—which dotted the estate’s landscape—kept our groundskeepers from needing to return to the main residence for food and other basic needs. There were families in this world who would be happy to live in such sheds.

“Earl,” I said, hurrying over. “Do you have a moment?”

His ruddy face had a drapey look that crinkled into a smile—like a cheerful shar-pei—when he recognized me. “Hey there, Ms. Wheaton,” he said touching the pansy pot to his khaki hat in a mock salute. But then his smile faded away almost immediately. “Can’t rightly say good mornin’ now, can I? Not this mornin’, at least.”

“How are you holding up?” I asked.

His cane made soft indentations in the damp ground as we made our way to one of the planting tables next to the outbuilding. “All right, I guess.” He shook his head in direct contradiction to those words. “I suppose I’ll get by.” He placed the pansy pot on the tabletop, and fished into the pocket of his canvas coveralls, as he tilted his head toward the house. “How’s the Mister?”

“Bennett is . . . holding up,” I answered, realizing how lame such things sounded. Weren’t we all holding up? What else was there for us to do? Falling apart wasn’t an option. Not with so much responsibility ahead.

Earl pulled a crinkled plastic bag from his pocket, fished out a Starlight mint, and offered it to me. “Peppermint helps you think,” he said as I unwrapped the candy and popped it into my mouth. He joined me, then took back my empty wrapper. “I’ll make sure these don’t end up on the lawn.”

Working the mint into the side of my cheek, I said, “I wanted to ask you about yesterday, Earl. Were there any members of your team out back when the break-in occurred? The detectives will be talking to everyone today, but I thought I’d try to help them corral witnesses to streamline things a bit.”

He hung the handle of his cane on the tabletop and dragged over an old stool, lowering himself to sit. Just as he did so, he stood up again and dusted off the seat. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Ladies should sit.”

I declined. “But you go ahead, please.”

He smiled his thanks, his dirt-encrusted fingers working the soil around the pansy to free it from its tiny pot. “You know Jack, don’tcha?”

I shook my head.

Concentrating on the pansy, he reached down under the table, pulled up a larger pot, and dragged over a bag of dirt. “This one’s needing some TLC,” he said. “Jack’s not one of the gardeners on staff, he’s a landscape architect. He don’t work here regular. Got his own company in town. But he helps us out.”

“He’s a consultant?”

He stopped working long enough to answer. “Yup. And I like to think I helped him get where he’s at. I used to talk to him about growing things back when he was just a little tyke. Now he’s the one teaching me. I guess that’s what’s called enjoying the fruits of my labors.” Working the pansy into the new pot, he continued. “Jack’s a good kid. Got real talent, and he’s a local boy.” Squinting outward, he pointed toward the gardens. “We don’t only grow plants here at Marshfield; we grow family, too. Been doing that for years. That’s how all of us started here way back when.” He gave me a sad look. “Sorry, don’t mean to put you city folks down.”

“I’m not ‘city folks,’ ” I said. “Well, not originally. I was born in Emberstowne.”

His draped eyes twitched with skepticism. “You don’t talk like you’re from around here. How’s come I don’t know you?”

“I spent a lot of time up north,” I said, then pointed to the minty bulge in my cheek. “But I remember how you used to sneak these to me when my mom wasn’t looking.”

He grinned but still looked confused. “Wheaton, eh? I don’t know that name. You married?”

“No,” I said, “but you might be more familiar with my grandparents’ name. My grandma used to work here, in fact. Her last name was Careaux.”

He straightened. “Sophie? You’re Sophie’s kid?”

“Granddaughter.”

“Shee . . . yeah. Granddaughter. Wow. Time flies.”

A voice from my left interrupted. “Good morning, Earl. What do you have for me today?”

Earl said, “Speak of the devil.” Jerking a thumb at the newcomer, he said, “This here’s Jack Embers. Mark my words: Him and his company are the ones going to take over when I retire.”

Although the day was cool, Jack had evidently been hard at work for most of the morning. Perspiration trickled from his dark hairline and splotches of sweat covered most of his gray T-shirt. He was tall—a full head taller than me—and that was saying something. With military-short hair, he was muscular though not ripped, carrying an extra ten pounds. The added weight suited him, but then again, I always preferred a sturdy build. His skin suggested an adolescent battle with acne and the jagged white line slicing across the left side of his face suggested a battle of another kind. Where had he gotten that scar? An accident? A fight?

Jack sidled close enough to clap Earl on the shoulder. “Nobody can replace you, buddy. Not in a hundred years.”

Clearly pleased, Earl’s face reddened even more. He waved Jack away. “Oh, go on.”

“I’m Grace Wheaton,” I said, extending my hand.

Jack took a step toward me but before we could shake, he gave his right hand a look of disgust. “Sorry,” he said, holding it up for me to see. “Been playing in the dirt. But I know who you are.” He raised his chin to indicate the expansive grounds. “Talk about grapevines,” he said with a wink, “out here word travels fast.”

“I’ll bet.”

“I was very sorry to hear about Abe Vargas,” he said. “He was a good man. They catch the guy yet?”

“Not yet.”

“You heard I might have seen the guy?”

That took me by surprise. “No, I didn’t. You saw the killer?”

Jack shrugged. “Might have. I talked to the police about it yesterday.”

“They asked me to ask around. You’d think they might have mentioned a witness.”

“Yeah, well, I get the impression the cops in this town are in over their heads,” Jack said. “The guy I talked with yesterday didn’t even ask for my contact information. He was in the middle of questioning me when he just took off.”

Uh-oh. “Did he have a mole right about,” I pointed to the area just above the bridge of my nose, “here?”

“How did you know that?”

Just as I was about to tell him about Ronny Tooney, Carr joined us outside. “Let everyone on staff know that no one gets near Mr. Marshfield without prior clearance from me,” he said by way of greeting.

I started to interrupt, but he stopped me.

“I’ve got two armed guards keeping watch over him ’round the clock. Nobody’s getting past them.” He pointed to Jack and then to me. “You both wanted to talk with me about something. Who wants to start?”

Jack made a “ladies first” gesture so I jumped right in and told them all about my encounter with Ronny Tooney, explaining how I’d given my statement to him, erroneously believing he was a plainclothes detective. As I spoke Jack worked his jaw, probably feeling the same combination of frustration and stupidity I was experiencing. “I didn’t realize,” I said. “He looked so official.”

Carr squeezed his eyes shut and massaged his brow. “Great,” he said through clenched teeth. “This is just great.” Opening his eyes, he glared at Jack. “And what about you?”

“I gave the guy my statement, too,” he said. “How the hell could this guy have gotten away with this? Didn’t you check credentials?”