Grace Among Thieves (2 page)

“You’re assuming she’s guilty.”

He didn’t turn. “Who else could it be?”

“I’ll do my best to find out.” Patting his arm, I straightened. “Let’s get down there.”

He still didn’t budge. “There’s something else I wanted to talk about.”

Uh-oh.
I returned to leaning on the railing. “About Hillary?”

Bennett inhaled deeply through his nose. “About Jack.”

My stomach dropped and I felt my face flush. “Our landscape architect?”

Again Bennett shot me a sideways glance. “No need to be coy with me. He’s far more to you than simply a consultant.” He shifted to look me straight in the eye. “At least he
was
. He hasn’t been around much lately. In fact, Davey tells me that Jack—”

“Speaking of Davey, how is he working out?”

“Bringing him on was a good decision,” Bennett said, graciously allowing the change of subject. “Most of my other assistants are getting up there in years. They don’t have the energy to get things done the way Davey does.” Warming to the topic, his face relaxed. “In some ways, he’s become my own personal concierge. Good for me because then I’m not overtaxing my aging butlers. Good for him because the job changes by the minute. He’s actually very adept at organization.”

“Your other assistants don’t resent him?”

“On the contrary, they’re relieved. They prefer keeping to what they know: serving meals, tidying rooms, and ensuring my clothing is clean and pressed. They don’t like to surf the Internet, investigate e-readers, or set up a new DVR.” Bennett gave a low chuckle. “And up until a few weeks ago, I didn’t know what half of those contraptions were. Thanks to Davey, I not only understand them, I enjoy them. Davey is a godsend,” he said. “But we were talking about Jack.”

“No,” I said gently, “
you
were talking about Jack.”

“Ah. Is that your polite way of telling the old man to keep his nose out of your business?” He asked it with a smile but I could tell I’d hurt his feelings.

“Not at all.” The last thing I wanted to do was wound Bennett. “Truth is, there’s nothing to tell. I mean, you’re right. I did think that we . . . I mean, I originally believed that . . .” I struggled to put into words what I’d thought—what I’d been so sure of. How differently things seemed to be working out.

I tried again. “Jack has practically disappeared from my life since . . .” I shook my head. “I mean, he stops in at my office now and then, but . . .” Words failed me. “I can’t blame him,” I finally blurted. “I had a lot to do with hurting his family.”

“The hurt was there. It was not your fault.” This time Bennett patted my arm. “Because of you they can finally face the truth and begin to heal. Give Jack time.”

I forced a laugh to lighten the mood. “Well that’s easy enough to do. It’s not like I have men lining up to ask me out.”

“That’s because you spend all your time here. You need a vacation.”

I smiled. “I haven’t been employed here long enough.”

“Well then, maybe you should take a working trip. I’m overdue for an excursion myself. There are always treasures to be uncovered in distant lands, right?” He straightened. “That’s it! An ideal solution. When this filming is over and Corbin packs up, let’s talk about a trip overseas.”

“You and I? Together?”

“As long as you wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen in the company of an old man.”

“Old man? Who else are you intending to invite along?”

He smirked at my flattery but seemed energized by the idea. “Wonderful. We’ll make plans. I think it’s what we both need. There’s been far too much trouble around here lately. And
you
need to meet an eligible bachelor or two.”

“You just advised me to give Jack time.”

He shrugged. “Nothing wrong with a little competition. Makes the win even sweeter.”

“I don’t know, Bennett—”

He held a finger to his lips, letting me know the subject was closed for now. “Let’s go down,” he said, “before Hillary steals anything else.”

Chapter 2

“CORBIN!” BENNETT’S VOICE BOOMED AND echoed in the cavernous space as we made our way to the far side of the banquet hall. “How is the project going?”

“Right on schedule.” Corbin raised both fists in the air, and grinned widely. “Couldn’t be better.”

I liked Corbin, but it had taken me a while to get used to that wacky smile of his. I’d come to realize that despite the fact that all his front teeth showed at once—stretching his face far more tightly than it was meant to—his expression of glee wasn’t as forced as it first appeared. A personal quirk. Part of his charm.

And charming he was. A bundle of energy, the sixty-three-year-old director sported gray hair, which fell to his collar, and a small diamond stud in one ear.

Bennett wore a deadpan expression. “I see you’ve met my stepdaughter.”

“Oh, Daddy.” Hillary sidled up to grip his arm. “Corbin and I are good friends. You know that. I told you how excited I am to be working with him. And since he’s been here we’ve gotten to know each other
very
well.”

Corbin raised a hand, as though to correct her, then changed his mind and ran it through his hair. “Really, Ms. Singletary, we’ve only talked a few times . . .”

Still holding Bennett’s arm with one hand, she raised the index finger of the other and wagged it at Corbin. “Silly boy. You know to call me Hillary.”

She waited for acknowledgment, but he kept mum.

Thrown off by this, Hillary’s coquettish demeanor disintegrated. An over-the-hill girly performance like the one she’d attempted required an audience. Without one, Hillary resembled an awkward teen trying to fit in. Not quite the youthful glow she was going for. In an obvious attempt to regain control, she widened her perfect smile and pulled Bennett closer, still addressing Corbin. “You need to understand that Papa Bennett can be forgetful sometimes. It’s a good thing I’m here to remind him.” She used both hands to squeeze Bennett’s arm. “Isn’t it, Daddy?”

“I don’t forget nearly as much as you wish I would.” Bennett extricated himself from her grasp and stepped closer to Corbin. Towering over the director, he arched an eyebrow. “You are respecting boundaries here at Marshfield.” It wasn’t a question. And from the rumbling timbre of Bennett’s voice, it was clear he wasn’t referring only to his rooms.

“Of course,” Corbin stammered.

I felt sorry for the man. Seeking to break the tension, I cleared my throat. “What’s next?” I asked. “That is, what’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”

Gratitude washed across his face. “As I was just about to tell Ms. Singletary . . .” I noted how he inched away even farther from her. Chalk one up for Corbin. “Our next segment will feature the antiques we identified for inclusion in the DVD. Thank you, Ms. Wheaton, for the historical material you provided. We’ll be focusing on these, recording voiceover performances of your write-ups. And if there’s time, we’ll get started on our final segment of filming: the main rooms and your personal message, Mr. Marshfield.”

“I’d like to come tomorrow,” I said.

Hillary looked aghast. “To do what?”

This was the part I’d been looking most forward to. I wanted to hear how all the information I’d provided would sound when brought to life by professional actors. “I’m particularly interested in seeing how the history is handled.” To Corbin, I said, “It may be helpful for me to be here in case there are any questions. That is, if you don’t mind.”

“Mind? That’s wonderful. Having you available to share your expertise will be of invaluable service. Thank you.”

Hillary frowned. To Corbin, she said, “You know, I’ve done modeling work in the past. I’d be a great spokesperson. I’d be happy to help.”

“Ah . . .” Corbin bit his lower lip. “We hired talent to do voiceovers. Male.”

Hillary wasn’t about to let a chance at stardom slip through her fingers. “Don’t you think it would be so much warmer, so much more inviting, to have an actual family member hosting the program?”

“Unfortunately, we already have an actor to narrate. He’s done much of the overview and we’re more than halfway through the project.” Corbin’s gaze shifted from me to Bennett and back to me again, clearly looking for support. “Remember the plan I presented? The contract you signed? Switching gears now, this far into filming, would be a nightmare.”

Corbin’s pain was evident. As was Bennett’s amusement. He must have taken pity on the director, however, because he ended the man’s misery with a swift proclamation. “You will continue as planned. No changes at this late stage.”

“But, Daddy—”

“Let the man mind his job. And you mind yours.” Bennett affected a thoughtful look, tapping fingers to his forehead. “Ah, that forgetfulness you mentioned earlier. Remind me, Hillary, what exactly is it you do for a living?”

She bit the insides of her cheeks, deepening her marionette lines. All of a sudden she looked every inch her real age. “I’m going through a difficult time right now. A little sympathy would be nice.” She flung a hand out toward Corbin. “Not to mention a chance to help promote our beautiful home. I’m just trying to help.”

Bennett was spared having to reply by the unmistakable sound of a crowd approaching: late-day visitors, probably a tour group. Amid shuffling and murmured conversation, I heard a considerate but commanding voice urging people to keep moving.

Corbin excused himself. “Much to do before we return.” To me, he said, “See you tomorrow.” As he departed I realized I’d forgotten to ask about accommodations for his crew. I knew there had been a mix-up. I’d have to remember to ask him about it next time I saw him.

At that moment about forty tourists, ranging in age from twenty to seventy-five, came around the corner a moment later. They shuffled forward, their attention rapt on their guide, John Kitts. I’d met John a couple of times. Nice man. Tall, late fifties, with gray hair turning white at the crown, he had a ruddy complexion and a warm smile.

Employed by a big-name travel company, John led weeklong tours of the mid-Atlantic region, most of which involved a day trip here to Marshfield. Articulate, efficient, and kind, he was good-looking in an older man sort of way.

I knew John liked to bring his new group in for a sneak peek on the afternoon before the official visit, and I stepped aside as he walked backward toward us, describing the banquet room and talking a little bit about Marshfield’s annual Christmas display which, he promised, would be worth a future trip.

“The last time children celebrated Christmas here at Marshfield Manor was when the current owner, Bennett Marshfield, was a boy.” At that he glanced back, smiling when he saw me. I watched surprise come over his features when he spotted Bennett next to me.

He raised an eyebrow in question. I nudged Bennett and quietly asked, “Is it okay if he points you out?”

Bennett gave a resigned shrug. I turned back to John and nodded.

“This is our lucky day,” he said with a sweeping gesture. “May I present the owner of Marshfield Manor, Bennett Marshfield.”

“Good afternoon,” Bennett said to the crowd. As much as he preferred anonymity among strangers, he seemed to brighten as the small crowd reacted with awe.

Amid their murmured acknowledgments, John went on, “And, next to him, the woman who keeps the mansion running smoothly, Grace Wheaton. Under her guidance, the Marshfield experience has been getting better every day.”

I blushed, but didn’t have time to respond. Hillary edged past me and addressed John, even as she kept her eyes on the audience, slipping into performance mode as easily as she might don a neck scarf. “I hate to correct you in front of all these nice people, but you are mistaken on one count at least. I was a child here for many Christmases. Not all that long ago.”

Not that long ago? I waited for Hillary’s nose to sprout like Pinocchio’s, but it remained pert and cute and small.

John coughed. “Of course. Everyone, allow me to present Hillary Singletary, Mr. Marshfield’s niece.”

“Daughter,” Hillary said.

“Stepdaughter,” Bennett corrected.

“My mistake.” John handled the moment with a hint of a smile and I wondered if he’d intentionally misidentified her. “As I mentioned earlier, Mr. Marshfield has generously opened his doors to the public to share his treasures with all of us. While I possess extensive knowledge of the manor’s history, no one is better versed in it than Mr. Marshfield here.” He smiled encouragingly at Bennett. “Would you be so kind as to regale us with a story about the banquets your father hosted back in the day?”

Bennett glanced over to me. I gave a “Why not?” shrug.

“If you insist, I’ll share one of my particular favorites.” He cleared his throat and began. “When I was twelve, my father invited Judy Garland to stay with us for a few days.” He waited for the crowds’ collective “oohs” to die down before continuing. “This was the year before my aunt Charlotte died. She’d been an enormous fan of
The Wizard of Oz . . .”

I’d heard many Marshfield family stories, including this one. Overwhelmed with excitement about Judy Garland’s upcoming visit, Charlotte had hired a well-known pianist and invited fifty of her closest friends and their children to attend. The plan was to coax Judy into entertaining the guests with a medley of show tunes. At the very last minute, the famous woman’s assistant called to cancel the visit. Judy’s little daughter had apparently come down with a bug, one that she’d most generously shared with her mom. Judy developed a bad case of laryngitis. She sent her sincere regrets.

Charlotte didn’t cancel. Instead, she convinced the pianist to accompany guests as they stood up and sang for the crowd. One ten-year-old girl, Sally, utterly unable to carry a tune, belted out a thoroughly unpleasant rendition of “Over the Rainbow.” Her joy and exuberance, however, were contagious and she finished to thunderous applause.

That wasn’t all she’d won. At the tender age of twelve, Bennett fell in love. The two youngsters became inseparable. As soon as she turned eighteen, he married her.

Bennett embellished, keeping our guests enthralled, but I tuned him out. Not because I didn’t enjoy hearing him tell the tale, but because I’d noticed that someone else had tuned him out, too. The disinterested guest was a tiny woman with white-blonde shoulder-length hair. She had turned her back to the group and was inching ever farther away. A moment later, she disappeared behind the crowd. I casually circled around, intent on keeping her in sight.

Another tourist noticed me watching her. Standing toward the back of the small gathering, he was at least six feet tall, with dark hair in what my mom used to call the perfect haircut for a man: short and parted on the side, with neatly trimmed sideburns. He gave me a quizzical, though not unfriendly glance. I read it as him asking if I needed help. I raised a hand in thanks, holding him off, and he returned his attention to Bennett’s talk.

The petite woman had snaked her way back along the tour route. Behind the banquet hall was the Music Room, a round, high-ceilinged space that jutted out to the north from the main structure. Designed for maximum acoustical pleasure, I wondered how much better young Sally’s song might have sounded had she performed in here. Of course, that might have made it worse.

In either case, I had a feeling I knew where my quarry was headed. Our docents fielded many questions every day. One of them was, “Where does that door lead?” always accompanied by a curious finger point.

Just inside the Music Room’s entrance, a door had been built into its wall, matching so perfectly as to render it almost undetectable, save for the narrow gap that defined its perimeter and a small lever mechanism that released it to swing open. Maps we handed out at the start of each tour made no mention of the small area built between this room and the banquet hall. There wasn’t much in there of value, but rules were rules.

I turned the corner in time to catch the woman slipping past the velvet ropes, headed directly for that door. John’s was the last tour that had been allowed in and docents assigned to this area had apparently taken off once the group had ambled past. This meant that there was no one around to catch her in the act. Except me.

She didn’t look from side to side, didn’t pause. Without missing a beat, she pinpointed the lever mechanism and pulled at the door.

I called out, “What are you doing?”

With a yelp, she turned. I expected her to blush and apologize. Mostly, I expected her to retreat. She didn’t. Instead she yanked the door wide and stepped through.