To Catch a Leaf (14 page)

“Wow, it's hard to say for sure,” Guy said, scratching his ear again.

“Can you picture which cars were here?” Marco asked.

Guy turned to look down the bays. “Mr. Burnett's car was here. I remember that.”

“What about Virginia's?” I asked.

“I think so.”

“Griffin's?” Marco asked.

“Yeah, his was here.”

“And Juanita's car?” Marco asked. Getting information from Guy was, as Lottie would say, like pulling hen's teeth.

The chauffeur suddenly found a speck of dust to flick off the side of his black sneakers, a reason not to look us in the eye. “Miss Juanita is always coming and going, so it's hard to keep track of her.”

That was called a red flag.

“Are you saying that her car wasn't here,” Marco asked, “or that you don't remember?”

“I, uh”—more ear scratching—“don't remember.”

I wrote:
Does Guy know something about Juanita that he's afraid to tell?

My cell phone rang, and my heart started to gallop, thinking it was Grace. Then I saw Jillian's name on the screen, so I got up and moved away. “Jillian, I'm busy now.”

“I had a brilliant idea, Abs,” she said, rock music playing in the background. She must have been in her car. “While I'm at Nordstrom, I'll be able find you the perfect shower ensemble. You wear a six-and-a-half shoe, right? Oops. Just ran another toll booth.”

“You are not picking out an outfit for me, and what do you mean you ran another toll booth? How many have you run?”

“Today? Don't know. How many are between New Chapel and Chicago? Three?”

“You've done this before? Do you realize you'll be ticketed for each one of those?”

“I live in Indiana. What can they do to me? My exit ramp is coming up. Talk to you later.”

Was that the sound of my first gray hair growing? I tucked away the phone and returned to my chair, where the interview continued.

“Was the housekeeper in the house?” Marco asked.

“Mrs. D is always here,” Guy said.

“Did you witness your employer talking to any of those people?” Marco asked.

He took a swig of beer. “Nope.”

“Had Mrs. Constance mentioned any problems she'd been having with any of her family members?” Marco asked.

“She never talked about family stuff with me,” Guy said. “I was just her driver.”

“Let's fast forward to when the cops came to get you,” Marco said. “Which cars were in the garage then?”

“Ah, man, I have to think about that,” Guy said. “I was kind of in shock, you know? But I know Mr. Burnett's car wouldn't have been here because I always had to bring it around front at ten o'clock in the morning so he could make it to the racetrack over in Illinois by noon. Ms. Virginia's car was probably here because she hardly ever leaves the house.”

“How about Griffin's car?” Marco asked.

Guy swirled the contents of his beer can. “I think it was here.”

Marco glanced around the garage. “Which one is his?”

The driver nodded toward a black Mercedes E Class in the next bay. “That one.”

“Do I have it right that Griffin lives above the garage?” Marco asked.

“Yeah.” Guy pointed up. “My apartment is right overhead. His is at the other end.”

Marco nodded toward a door in the side wall. “Does that lead to both apartments?”

“Just mine. His door is at the opposite end.” Guy pointed straight down the row. “You can see it from here.”

“What about Juanita's car?” Marco asked.

Guy crushed the beer can in his hand. “Don't remember.”

I wrote:
Eye avoidance again, and no hesitation at all in answering about Juanita. He knows something!

A movement at the back of the garage caught my eye. I zeroed in on the baseboard and saw a brown mouse scurry along the wall. With a smothered yelp, I pulled my feet up and hugged my knees. Not that I feared a tiny, furry rodent with teeth that could chew through aluminum siding, but there was that one time I opened a drawer in Mom's kitchen and . . .

“You okay?” Marco asked.

When I realized he was talking to me, I said without turning my head, “Just keeping my eyes on a mouse.”

“We get a lot of them here,” Guy said. “Happens when you live in a woodsy area.”

“Didn't having a cat around help?” I asked, watching the mouse stop to nibble something on the floor. Brazen creature. Didn't he know he'd been spotted?

“You mean Charity?” Guy asked. “She wasn't allowed outside the house. I've got traps set back there, so if you hear a snap, he's dead.”

“Pleasant.” Noticing that Marco was now drumming his fingers on his knee, I held up my pen. “Ready.” Mouse or no mouse, feet going numb or not.

“What does Juanita drive?” Marco asked.

“A red Porsche,” Guy said.

I glanced down the long row of bays but didn't see the car.

“Man, it's lightning fast,” Guy said, suddenly animated. “An awesome machine.” He seemed most comfortable when the talk turned to vehicles.

“I'd think a red Porsche would be pretty easy to keep track of,” Marco commented.

The chauffeur shrugged. “Sometimes I get so caught up in fixing my cycle that I don't pay attention.”

I wrote:
Double-
check Juanita's alibi.

“Did you see anyone visit your employer on Monday morning?” Marco asked.

“Not in the morning,” Guy said. “I did see the English lady's car outside around lunchtime when I stopped to eat.”

“What kind of car would that be?” I asked.

“A red and white MINI Cooper.”

Grace's new car was a white MINI Cooper with red trim.

“You know what everyone here is saying about the English lady, right?” Guy asked us. “That she murdered Mrs. Constance so she could get her hands on the money.”

“That's untrue!” I said. It made me furious to hear my friend slandered. “First of all, the English lady has a name. It's Grace Bingham. And if you knew Grace as well as I do, you wouldn't believe that gossip for a minute.”

“Doesn't matter what I believe,” Guy said. “That's up to her judge.”

“Her judge? Are you kidding me?” I asked. “She hasn't been charged with anything. Where are you getting this nonsense?”

“Hey, don't get angry with me,” Guy said. “I'm just telling you what I heard Mr. Griffin say—that the cops have already decided that the English lady did it.”

Marco must have sensed that I was on the verge of losing it, possibly by what I'd just written in all caps:
GRACE DID NOT DO IT!!
He put his arm around my shoulders and said quietly, “Sure you don't want to take Guy up on that beer?”

I drew in a calming breath and let it out. “No. I'm okay.” Except for the tingling in my feet. I wondered if I would be able to stand.

Marco patted my shoulder, then withdrew his arm and returned to his questioning. “All right, Guy, when you saw the MINI Cooper in the driveway, where were the other family members?”

Guy tossed the beer can into a wastebasket. “You're asking too much of me, man. I see these cars coming and going all the time.”

“If I were to tell you that it wasn't Grace Bingham who pushed Mrs. Constance, but was someone living on the estate,” Marco said, “who would be the first person that came to mind?”

“No one,” he said, suddenly angry. “You shouldn't ask me questions like that, man.”

“Why?”

“It just ain't right, is all.”

“Are you afraid of what might happen to you?” Marco asked.

“No,” he said, rocking back in his chair, “that ain't it at all.”

Marco leaned forward, turning up the intensity. “You can speak honestly, Guy. You don't need to worry about being fired anymore.”

“Luce?” I heard a man call.

Guy jumped up, suddenly alert, as a man came around the corner into the bay. “Yes, Mr. Griffin?”

So this was Constance's beloved grandson. He certainly wasn't what I had expected. Griffin Newport had the dashing good looks of a college professor straight out of a Hollywood movie. He had thick, wavy brown hair that appeared finger-combed away from his face, a square jaw, broad forehead, and lively brown eyes magnified by stylish, wire-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a brown tweed jacket over an open-necked white shirt, blue jeans, and brown loafers.

Seeing us, he stopped short and said with a smile, “I'm sorry. I didn't know anyone was here.”

I untucked my feet and realized I'd lost feeling in them.

“Did you need something, Mr. Griffin?” Guy asked, smoothing his hair down against his forehead. I wrote:
Griffin makes Guy Luce nervous. Is that how the chauffeur acts around the other family members?

“It can wait,” Griffin said, eyeing us curiously.

Marco got up and extended his hand. “Marco Salvare. This is my fiancée, Abby Knight.”

“Griffin Newport,” he said amiably.

I reached my hand as far as I could without standing, forcing Griffin to take three steps forward. “Nice to meet you,” I said.

If he noticed anything unusual, he didn't show it. “Luce, enjoy your company. I'll talk to you later.”

“Would you have a few minutes to speak with us?” Marco asked. “We're private investigators.”

“Oh?” Griffin asked curiously. “Investigating what?”

Had everyone forgotten what had just happened? “Your grandmother's death,” I said.

“For whom are you investigating?” Griffin asked, his eyes drifting to my breasts.

“Attorney David Hammond,” Marco replied, crossing his arms over his chest and fixing him with a stare that said,
Eyes over here, dude.

“Attorney David Hammond would be representing whom?” Griffin asked smoothly.

“Grace Bingham,” Marco said. “Your grandmother's friend.”

He arched his right eyebrow and said in a droll voice, “
That
remains to be seen.”

There was no way I could let him get away with disparaging Grace. “Excuse me, but Grace is the one who
found
your grandmother and tried to get help for her.”

Griffin gazed at me as though I were a small, delusional child who needed a pat on the head. “I'm sure you believe so, but would you mind explaining why you're conducting this private investigation? Has this Bingham woman been charged with a crime?”

“We're just trying to make sure that doesn't happen,” Marco said evenly. “We'll keep our questions brief.”

“I truly wish I could accommodate you,” Griffin said, “but my lawyer insists neither I nor my employees discuss the matter with anyone. Anyway, so nice to have made your acquaintance.” He shook hands with Marco, nodded at me, then gave Guy a pointed look and strode through the garage to his Benz. A minute later, he backed out and took off up the driveway.

“I guess I shouldn't have talked to you,” the chauffeur said, looking distressed.

“Technically,” Marco said, “you're not Griffin's employee. It wouldn't apply to you.”

“I'd better get back to my packing,” Guy said, walking backward. “I've only got the truck for another two hours.”

“Where are you moving to?” I asked.

“My parents' house in town,” Guy said, “until I find a new job.”

Marco handed him his business card. “Abby is right, Guy. You were employed by Mrs. Newport, not by Griffin. You can make up your own mind who to talk to. So if you remember anything more about Monday morning, will you let me know?”

Guy flipped the card over a few times, as though considering Marco's request, then tucked it in his shirt pocket. “I'll keep that in mind. See you over at your bar.”

“Ready?” Marco asked me, seeing as how I hadn't moved from the chair.

“A hand, please?”

Once Marco pulled me up and the feeling had returned to my feet, we walked some distance from the open bay to talk. “Did you notice how edgy Guy got when you questioned him about Griffin?” I said.

“I caught that, but it could be that Guy's being cautious because he's angling to stay on here.”

“Did you also catch Griffin referring to Guy as his employee?” I asked.

“I have a feeling Griffin said that for our benefit. He doesn't want Guy talking to us.”

“Doesn't that make you wonder why?”

“You bet it does. Let's see who's home.”

Hearing footsteps, I turned to see a thick-waisted woman with short, steel-gray curls coming up a path from the back of the property. She was wearing a long-sleeved blue denim work shirt, khakis with dirt-stained knees, rubber-soled, brown slip-on shoes, and a no-nonsense expression. Over one arm, she carried a flat basket filled with greens and she had a blue-handled trowel in her hand. In the distance I could see a shrub hedge of some sort that appeared to function as a fence. I was guessing it enclosed their garden.

“Unless Constance Newport had a gardener, I'm guessing she's the housekeeper,” Marco said.

The woman trudged along the flagstone path with a purpose, like a steam engine heading for the station. She crossed through a small courtyard filled with rosebushes and fenced in by a two-foot-tall brick wall, placed the trowel in a bucket by the wide, cement stoop, removed her shoes, and stepped inside the house through the back door.

“I'll bet that's the way Grace got into the house,” I said.