Grace Cries Uncle (3 page)

Bennett's driver had dropped him off at the lab, leaving Tooney responsible to return us both to our respective homes. “You see how little blood they took?” I asked, when we were all bundled up and tucked into the Enclave. “I would have been perfectly fine driving myself.”

Tooney had started the car, but was waiting for the frosty windshield to clear. “I didn't mind,” he said.

Bennett leaned forward from the backseat. “Then how could I have possibly convinced you both to join me for lunch afterward?”

Tooney half turned to face him. “Both? You mean me, too?”

“Yes, Mr. Tooney, I feel like celebrating. What do you say, Gracie?” He winked at me. “I promise to have you back before your FBI friend returns at five. You promise to call Maggie when he shows up, won't you?”

“I will,” I said.

Bennett tapped the back of Tooney's seat. “Let's have lunch at Octave. You know how to get there?”

Tooney's face went slack. “I'm wearing blue jeans,” he said. “They're not even new ones.”

Settling against the backseat, Bennett waved him off. “You'll be fine.”

*   *   *

Bennett was right. Octave's maître d' welcomed us warmly, making no comment about Tooney's faded jeans, nor his high-top black gym shoes. In fact, if it hadn't been for the host's ever-so-brief glance at our private eye friend, I might have believed he hadn't noticed Tooney's casual attire at all.

About half the restaurant's tables were occupied and the maître d' chose a winding path through the sea of white linen, crystal, and subdued conversation. An older man glanced up as we passed, did a double take, then shot to his feet. He tossed his napkin aside and made his way toward us. “Bennett Marshfield.” He spoke with a Southern drawl. Texas, I thought. “How you been keeping yourself, old man?”

Bennett blinked, then glanced to me before smiling and greeting the interloper. Though he projected warmth, I sensed wariness on Bennett's part. “I'm doing very well, thank you, Neal. How are you?”

Neal's “Couldn't be better” reply came across as perfunctory, almost absentminded. With a quick glance, he appraised Tooney and me. His curiosity was unmistakable as he waited for Bennett to make introductions.

“Are you in town for the convention?” Bennett asked.

“Of course. What else?” Neal studied Bennett. “Heard some rumors. Thought I'd get here early to see what's what.”

“I hope you enjoy your stay in Emberstowne.” Bennett started to move away. “Good to see you again.”

The dismissal clearly stung. Neal's bushy brows came together. “Thought I'd stop by your estate one of these days. You wouldn't have a problem with an old friend coming to call?”

Bennett seemed uncomfortable for a moment but regained his composure as politeness won the day. “I would be delighted to have you visit Marshfield. I'll instruct the staff to roll out the red carpet.”

Neal tipped an imaginary hat brim. “I'm hoping to steal a little bit of your time, Bennett.” He winked. “Satisfy my curiosity about a few things.”

Bennett worked his mouth as though searching for the right words. “You are always welcome at Marshfield.”

When we moved off again, trailing the maître d', who had waited patiently to seat us, I whispered to Bennett, “Who was that?”

He waved away my question as though it was of no importance. “Neal Coddington. If you wouldn't mind, please let the front desk know not to charge him an entrance fee. I'd never hear the end of it.”

“Do you want them to alert you when Mr. Coddington arrives so you can greet him personally?”

Bennett slid a glance sideways as he leaned down to whisper, “Absolutely not.”

Within moments we were seated at a quiet table overlooking snow-covered Emberstowne. “This is beautiful, Bennett,” I said.

Octave took up the eighth floor of one of the city's office buildings and was known for its outstanding French cuisine as well as its impeccable service. Paneled walls, cozy antiques, fresh baguettes, and Edith Piaf's softly warbling voice surrounded us with tranquil bliss.

“You've dined here before?” he asked.

“First time.”

Tooney opened the large leather-bound menu and made eye contact with us both over its edge. “Same here,” he said. Leaning my way, he asked, “How do I know what I'm ordering?”

“Gracie can help you there,” Bennett said. “She was masterful at translating when we were in Europe last year.”

“Hardly masterful,” I gently corrected him. “But I think I can decode the menu. What do you like?”

Bennett ordered Champagne and when the waiter asked if we were celebrating anything special, said, “Yes, we are, indeed. Life is good and it's made even better when surrounded by family and friends.”

“The best reason of all to celebrate,” the waiter said.

He returned with a vintage that probably cost more than my salary for a week, offering the label to Bennett for approval before popping the bottle open and pouring.

Tooney placed a meaty hand over the top of his flute. “None for me, thanks. I'm driving.”

“Commendable, Mr. Tooney. But won't you take enough in your glass for a toast?”

He agreed, and the moment the waiter was gone, Bennett lifted his glass. “I owe you both for my well-being and my happiness. Until the two of you entered my life, I was a lonely old man who had nothing better to do than manage my wealth and plan for my demise. Thanks to the two of you, I am invigorated, I am stronger, and I am happy.” He touched his glass to mine. “You are my family.” He touched his glass to Tooney's. “You are my friend. May good fortune keep company with us all.”

*   *   *

After dining, as we enjoyed café au lait and macarons, our conversation eventually turned to the upcoming Fine Art and Antiquity Collectors' convention.

“That starts a week from today, doesn't it?” Tooney asked. Before I could confirm that it did, he went on. “I'm surprised the organizers didn't want to host it at Marshfield.”

The Fine Art and Antiquity Collectors' convention, or FAAC, drew an upscale crowd of collectors and antique dealers from around the globe. The convention's location changed from year to year, keeping its wealthy clientele
traveling from Amsterdam to Zephyrhills in their pursuit of rare treasures.

The FAAC produced documentaries that were broadcast on travel channels and advertised on public broadcasting stations. The format was similar to that of the popular
Antiques Roadshow
, except that most attendees were experts themselves, and items reviewed on camera were generally valued in the millions rather than the thousands.

“They approached us,” I said, “but they have very specific space requirements because of the lighting equipment, cameras, and security. While Marshfield Manor has plenty of room, we would have had to close the house to tourists for the duration of their stay.”

“That's why they're taking over the two biggest hotels in town?” Tooney asked.

“Three, from last I heard.”

Bennett had been silent through all of this, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth.

Tooney gave a half smile. “January isn't exactly the most tourist-friendly time of year for Emberstowne. Guess we got lucky that the FAAC decided to host it here this time.”

“We did,” I said. “The Marshfield Hotel is booked up, too, and that rarely happens in the winter.” Turning to Bennett, I said, “You're very quiet. I would have expected you to have plenty to say. What days do you plan to be there?”

His eyes held an alertness I didn't understand. As though he wanted to join in our conversation but was holding himself back. I couldn't imagine why.

“I . . .” He drew the word out. “I will not be attending this year.”

Tooney seemed as surprised as I was. “You always make time for the FAAC convention,” I reminded Bennett, “and the last two were out of the country. This one is, literally, in your backyard. Why
wouldn't
you go?”

Shaking his head, Bennett pulled his napkin up to pat
his lips. “No desire this time. Too many people, and you know how much I dislike crowds.”

In the world of fine art events, the word
crowd
was less like the press of humanity attempting to exit after a Disney extravaganza, and more like a fancy cocktail party where everyone smelled good, wore thousand-dollar ensembles, and chitchatted about one-of-a-kind finds.

“You love that sort of thing.” I took a sip of coffee. “I can't believe you'd want to miss it.”

His napkin on the table before him now, he worried it with the fingers of both hands. “I'll not be missing it entirely.” He cleared his throat. “I'm hosting a small reception on the last night of the FAAC.”

I lowered my china cup into its saucer so quickly it clattered. “Reception?” I repeated. “I don't know anything about that. Where are you hosting it?”

Bennett's cheeks grew a faint shade of pink. “Marshfield. A week from Tuesday.”

“At Marshfield?” I asked, continuing to repeat Bennett's words as though doing so would help them sink in better. None of this was making sense. “Who organized this? Why don't I know about it?”

Bennett patted my arm. “No need for you to worry. It's a small affair, probably no more than a hundred people or so.”

“That's not small.” Thinking quickly, I asked, “Did Frances help you put this together?” My assistant was usually the first to know everything that was going on. I'd be furious if she'd kept this from me, but relieved to know that Bennett's plans were in good hands.

“We're keeping it quiet,” Bennett said. “So, no. She does not.”

I jumped on the word. “
We?
Who's we?”

That seemed to unnerve him. “Allow me to rephrase.” Sitting up straighter, he met my eyes. “I didn't tell you about this because it has nothing to do with regular Marshfield business. This is simply a whim. I'm hosting a few of the . . .
shall we say . . . higher-rollers at Marshfield for an intimate get-together at the conclusion of the FAAC event. When I use the term
we
, I mean that I've been in contact with the organizers.”

As curator and manager of the estate, I was in charge of all events, big or small, that took place in the house. “I can't imagine why you wouldn't have brought me in on this, Bennett. You had to have had a reason.”

He pulled his lips in, stopping himself from answering.

I was hurt to have been excluded. “You obviously don't want me there,” I said. “I guess I'd like to know why.”

Leaning forward, he placed a hand on my forearm. “No, no, Gracie. I've made a mess of this. I simply didn't want to bother you with organizing another big event.”

Now it was a big event. A moment ago it was an intimate get-together. “What aren't you telling me, Bennett?”

Tooney piped in. “Is there a particular antique you were hoping to pick up from one of these people?” he asked. “Is that why you're inviting some of them to your home? So you can negotiate with them privately?”

The sudden shift in Bennett's expression told me that Tooney had hit a nerve.

Flustered, he waved his hands. “It's nothing.” He again picked up his napkin and ran it between his fingers. “Like I told you. A whim.”

“Bennett,” I said, keeping my voice low, “you know that you can tell me anything. I'll keep your confidence. We both will. Why all the secrecy?”

He regained his composure and said, “Today is our day for celebrating.” Taking a final sip of his Champagne, he signaled for the check. “Let's drop the FAAC topic for now. All will be explained, though probably not for a while. You'll have to trust me on this one, Gracie.”

In what had of late become a Sunday morning ritual, my roommates and I sat around the kitchen table, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper.

Scott always reached for the business section first while Bruce snagged the front page and I grabbed travel. After devouring those, we moved to other sections as we shuffled through the entire edition, exchanging, sharing, and occasionally commenting on interesting tidbits as we came across them.

Bootsie settled onto the back windowsill, staring out, blinking with drowsy contentment.

Scott folded down the front of the paper. “You think Bennett will make a formal announcement once the DNA results are in? I mean, do you think he intends to make your relationship public?”

“I hope not.” I tamped down a tickle of unease. “He's agreed to keep it to our circle of confidantes for now.”

“A circle that keeps growing,” Bruce reminded me. “Seriously, Grace, who
doesn't
know about the DNA testing?”

I shifted in my seat. “You think I'm fooling myself believing that we can keep this quiet, don't you?”

Scott and Bruce exchanged a glance before Scott went on. “Your assistant, Frances, has been in on this from the beginning and you know what a gossip she is.”

“She promised,” I said.

“What about Hillary?” Bruce asked.

“Hillary has to be kept in the loop,” I said. “And as Bennett's stepdaughter it's in her own best interests to keep this quiet. If it turns out that I am related to Bennett—”

“As we all know you are,” Bruce said.

“
If
I am,” I continued, “that knocks Hillary down a peg, at least in the public's eye. No, she won't say anything.”

They exchanged another glance.

“What?” I asked. “Why do I get the feeling that the two of you are hiding something from me?”

Scott gave his partner the “Why not?” look, and Bruce laid down his newspaper to look me straight in the eye. “We overheard a conversation between a couple of patrons during a tasting last night.”

I sat up straighter. “Who was it? What did they say?”

“We don't know them,” he said. “Not by name, at least. They've been in a few times. It seems the trip you and Bennett took to the lab, as well as your celebratory luncheon afterward, didn't go unnoticed. Tongues are wagging and there's speculation about what's really going on.”

“We're pretty sure they wanted us to overhear their conversation,” Scott said, “because they know we all live together.”

“What do they think is going on?”

The corner of Scott's mouth twisted upward. “There are a couple of theories out there, but the front-runner is that you and Bennett are planning to get married and all these tests are to rule out social disease.”

Laughter burst out of me so quickly that I was glad I hadn't just swigged a mouthful of coffee. “Are you kidding me?”

Bruce sobered instantly. “The thing is, Grace, the temptation to correct them is real. Scott and I won't to say a word because we have your best interests at heart. But what happens when Hillary, or Frances, or Tooney is confronted? Will they be able to hold back?”

Bootsie howled, interrupting us. Alert and on her feet now, though still perched on the sill, she stared out the back window. Her black-and-white face moved side to side, as though tracking a large animal.

Bruce's question lingered in the air as I got up to see what held the little cat's attention. The moment I rose, however, Bootsie bounced off the ledge to stare at the back door.

“Maybe that FBI guy showed up after all,” Scott said.

Our back bell rang. One second later came an extended and forceful knock.

Before answering I parted the curtains to check to see who it was.

“Flynn?” My voice went high with surprise as I grasped the knob and pulled the door open.

The young detective seemed as shocked by my quick answer as I was to see him in my backyard. He wore a simple black jacket with its collar turned up against the cold and a navy blue knit hat over his bald head. Clouds of breath poured out of him. I got the impression he'd jogged his way over.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

Wiry and perpetually impatient, Flynn took time to scowl before answering. “This isn't a social call, I can tell you that much.”

Bootsie jumped onto the countertop nearest the door to get a better look. I took her in my arms, unlatched the outer door, and pushed it toward him. “Come on in. Would you like coffee?”

Flynn eyed my seated roommates, offered a perfunctory greeting, and sniffed the air. “If it's made.”

Scott took Bootsie, freeing me to pour Flynn a steaming
mug. As I handed it to him I noticed his hands were bare and red-chapped with cold. “What's going on?” I asked.

“Have a seat,” Bruce said.

Flynn took a sip and shook his head. “Prefer to stay on my feet.”

The unexpected arrival of a homicide detective in my kitchen probably should have thrown me into a panic, but I'd gotten to know Flynn—and his partner, Rodriguez—fairly well over the past couple of years and I knew that their chief often called one of them in to assist on less-deadly matters when the department was shorthanded. While I didn't count the two as friends, we were cordial acquaintances.

“I hear Rodriguez is back from medical leave,” I said. “How's he doing?”

“You'll see for yourself in a minute. He's on his way.”

“Rodriguez is here, too?” I asked. All of a sudden Flynn's presence took on a far more ominous significance. “What's going on?”

“Let's see. Two homicide detectives and a crew of evidence technicians? Not to mention the coroner. What do you think is going on?”

Scott's face drained of color and he pulled Bootsie closer to his chest. “Has someone been killed?”

Flynn held the mug in both hands as he took a sip. “Good coffee. The call came in about an hour ago.” He pointed toward the house next to mine, the opposite side from Tooney's.

“Who was it?”

“Relax,” Flynn said. “Nobody we know. Well, at least nobody from around here. We're canvassing the neighborhood. The 911 caller thought he was a drunk sleeping it off but worried he might die of exposure.”

“Is that what happened?” Bruce asked.

Flynn smirked over the rim of the mug. “Only if you count exposure to gunshots. Two.” Nodding appreciatively at our pained reactions, he took another drink of his coffee.

Rodriguez arrived, wrapping me in a bear hug the moment
I opened the door. “So good to see you, Miz Wheaton,” he said close to my ear. Stepping back to hold me at arm's length, he grinned. “How've you been?” He raised a hand to my roommates. “Looks like we disturbed a comfortable morning here. My apologies. I hope you are all doing well?”

Taken aback by his effusive greeting, I stammered, “We're great, thanks.” A second later, I recovered conversational footing. “But you,” I said, “you look wonderful. How much weight have you lost?”

“More than I'm willing to admit.” He patted his middle. “Still a long way to go, but I'm finally on the right track.”

Rodriguez had suffered a massive heart attack some months ago and had subsequently undergone surgery to repair a ruptured aortic valve. He'd been a large man for as long as I'd known him, but had ballooned in weight in the months before his attack.

“I'm happy to hear it,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. “Very proud of you.”

“My doctors and my wife have been battling me about my weight for years.” He pointed to his chest. “It wasn't until my ticker got in on the action that I decided to listen up.”

“We're all very glad you did.”

Next to him, Flynn fidgeted. “Are we done with the warm and fuzzies yet? Can we get back to our homicide?”

“Of course, amigo.” Rodriguez flicked a judgmental glance at the coffee mug in Flynn's hands. “Forgive me for interrupting your expert interrogation. Pray continue.” Though his words were sharp, the amusement in Rodriguez's eyes never dimmed.

Flynn took a final slug of the coffee then placed the mug on the countertop next to the sink. He flipped open his notebook and pulled out a pencil. “Were any of you home yesterday between noon and three?”

Bruce pointed to himself and then to Scott. “We were both at the wine shop.”

I raised a hand. “I was at Lucatorto Labs, then out for lunch. Ronny Tooney was with me. We left here a little bit after eleven.”

“That's right,” Rodriguez said. “When will you and Mr. Marshfield get the results back to find out if you're related?”

“You know about the test?”

The older detective shrugged. “Everything having to do with the Marshfield family is big news. I can't say that the town is buzzing about it yet, but word is getting around.”

“We were hoping to keep it quiet.”

Rodriguez held a finger to his lips. “No one will hear it from me.”

“Getting back to the investigation,” Flynn said with an annoyed glance at his partner, “we were planning to talk to Tooney, along with your neighbors on the other side. Once we ID our victim, we'll also want to know if anyone noticed suspicious activity yesterday.”

“You don't know who the victim is?” Scott asked.

“No wallet, no ID. Evidence technicians are going over the scene right now,” Rodriguez said. “Who robs someone in a residential backyard? In this neighborhood? What was the guy doing there anyway? I don't think he was planning to be outside for very long; he wasn't even wearing a coat. Don't like it. Doesn't compute.”

“Hang on a minute,” I said. “What did he look like?”

Flynn and Rodriguez lasered their attention on me. “Holding out on us?” Flynn asked.

“There was an FBI agent here yesterday asking questions. I didn't have time to talk with him because of my appointment with Bennett. He said he would come back later, but never showed up. He wasn't wearing an overcoat, either.”

Rodriguez lowered his chin and stared at me. “FBI?”

“What did he want with you?” Flynn asked.

“I never found out.”

The younger detective pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why am I not surprised?”

“You don't think that's who your victim is, do you?”

The two men exchanged a glance. Rodriguez tugged the collar of his jacket tight around his neck. “You want to grab a coat, Miz Wheaton? Maybe you should come take a look.”