Grace Interrupted (16 page)

AS I WALKED BACK, MY CELL PHONE RANG. IT was Jack. “Hey,” he said when I answered, “how are you holding up?”

“Me? I’m worried about you.”

“You’ve got enough on your plate,” he said, “I shouldn’t have burdened you yesterday.”

“I’m glad you did. I really needed to know the truth.”

“Thanks.”

“For what?” I asked.

“For saying that. About my story being the truth. It means a lot that you believe me.”

“Of course I do.” I waited a second then added, “Tooney’s at it again.”

Jack groaned. “What now?”

I told him about the would-be detective’s offer to find Bootsie’s real owners. “The guy is incessant. He thinks that if he finds Bootsie’s family, I’ll hire him to work for Marshfield. Not a chance.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“Hiring him for Marshfield?”

“About giving up your cat.”

I was about to protest that she wasn’t my cat, but my reaction to Jack’s question took me by surprise. I didn’t want Tooney to find the kitten’s owners. Despite the fact that my nose ran and I constantly sneezed around the little critter, I hated the idea of giving her up. “Uh . . .”

“Thought so,” Jack said. “Fire the guy. You’ve done your due diligence looking for her owners. I’m sure she’s a stray. And now she’s yours. Enjoy her.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“And to celebrate your new pet parenthood, how about you and I go out to dinner tomorrow night?”

“Nice segue,” I said, as my stomach flip-flopped.

He laughed. “I try.”

“I’d like that,” I said.

“I’ll pick you up at seven. How’s that? We can go to Hugo’s.”

“How about I meet you there? It’s close enough for me to walk.”

He hesitated. “I’d prefer to pick you up, if you don’t mind. We can then walk to Hugo’s if you like. It’s supposed to be a nice night and it might be good to have time to talk without a crowd around us.”

“Sounds great. See you then.”

 

TANK WAS WAITING FOR ME IN FRANCES’S OFFICE when I returned. “Perfect timing,” I said. “I was planning to call you.” Tank stood to shake my hand.

Frances beamed. “I thought so,” she said. “That’s why I made the call.”

“Well . . . thank you.” There were times I was so taken aback by Frances that I didn’t know whether to be impressed by her efficiency or frightened by how well she could predict my moves. What if I’d stayed outside longer? Or had decided to make one of my frequent visits to the Marshfield Hotel? Tank would have been brought here for nothing. But Frances accurately anticipated my every move, sometimes before I did.

“My pleasure,” she said as Tank and I made our way into my office.

“She’s a tough cookie, that one,” Tank said after I closed the door.

Frances would hate being unable to eavesdrop, but the precaution was necessary. “That she is.”

I took my seat at my desk and Tank settled herself across from me. We made a little small talk with me asking about her impressions of Emberstowne and her sharing a little bit about her family life back in Michigan. Pleasantries complete, she leaned forward. “What can I do for you, Ms. Wheaton?”

“How’s the investigation coming?”

Her eyes narrowed and her nose wrinkled in a feminine expression that was totally out of place with the package I had come to know as Tank. “Truth?” she asked. “Not well. Our esteemed coroner asserts Kincade was stabbed to death. No surprise there. But he also believes Kincade was drunk as a skunk at the time.” She made a face. “Problem is your coroner here is not a trained toxicologist. Getting an accurate blood alcohol level reading post mortem isn’t as easy as they make it look on TV. But even without an exact reading we can assume Kincade was probably feeling no pain.”

“Too drunk to defend himself?”

“That would explain the lack of defense wounds.” She went on, “The task force has interviewed almost half of those crazy costumed people, but nobody saw anything. And I gotta tell you, I believe them.”

“Nobody saw anything?” I repeated despondently.

“I don’t think it was one of them, to be honest,” she said. “They’re all so . . . into their roles. And the ones I talked to seemed to like Kincade.”

“Really? I met him for about ten minutes and couldn’t stand the guy.”

“Maybe he was a happy drunk. Who knows? Anyway, he was about to be promoted.”

“To what?”

“Grand poo-bah . . . head honcho . . .” She tried to smile. “Just kidding. He was about to be crowned the new general. The group was going to vote on it and he looked like the heir apparent.”

“You mean he would displace Pierpont?”

She waved a hand. “Don’t go looking for motive there. Pierpont had already decided to step down of his own accord. Gave his notice a while ago. The guy who found the body—Jim Florian—was supposed to take Pierpont’s spot, but over the past couple months, Kincade generated a groundswell of support. He looked like a shoo-in.”

“So maybe Jim Florian got jealous and decided to eliminate the competition?”

She made a so-so motion with her head. “We haven’t discounted that possibility.”

“I really appreciate you being frank with me.”

“Why not? We know you didn’t do it. And from what I hear, you like being involved. I get that. I figure that if we’re transparent with you, maybe you’ll be transparent with us.” She eased forward on the chair, making direct eye contact. “Now, before we go any further, I want to talk about the
first
Kincade murder. Lyle Kincade. Thirteen years ago.”

“Um, sure . . .” I said warily. “You do know I didn’t live here at that time?”

“Yeah, well neither did I,” she said, smacking her lips, “but I also know you’re tight with that Embers fellow. I’m sure he’s given you his side of the story. That case was never closed, of course, but we have reason to look into it again now. I hope your intimacy with Jack Embers won’t cloud your judgment or impair our investigation.”

“You presume too much,” I said frostily. “Jack and I are friends. That’s all.”

She squinted. “For now, maybe. But I warn you: Be careful around him.”

“I don’t believe Jack had anything to do with either murder.”

“Of course.” Her world-weary gaze communicated just how naïve she thought I was. “But what about the brother?”

“Davey? He couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen when Lyle Kincade was killed. There’s no way.”

“Maybe Jack Embers killed Lyle and little brother Davey killed Zachary.”

“And maybe not. From what I understand, Lyle was a jerk.”

“Doesn’t mean he deserved to be murdered.”

“I’m not saying it does. But jerks make enemies. Anybody could have killed him. These two cases don’t
have
to be related. It could just be a terrible coincidence that these two families collided again.”

“Maybe so,” she said, as unconvinced as ever, “but I don’t like coincidences and I intend to find out the truth. Did Pierpont tell about that unlocked back gate on the property? The one that was suddenly locked again when we checked it?”

I nodded.

“According to your head of security, there are only three keys for that back lock. You have one, security has another”—she pointed at me for emphasis—“and your landscape consultant has the third. Supposedly for ease of access with heavy-duty machinery. So he won’t disturb guests by coming in via public roads.”

“That’s correct.”

“I have no doubt that was the key’s original intended use. You have to admit, however, the evidence is mounting.” She glanced out the wall of windows to her right. “You talked with that younger Embers kid yet?”

“Today, as a matter of fact.”

She shook her head. “Damaged goods.”

I didn’t ask what she meant by that. I knew. I also didn’t offer up the fact that Jack felt responsible for his brother’s troubles. To do so would only make Jack look guiltier. My gut told me to protect him. At least for now.

“What I wanted to talk with you about . . .” I said, changing the subject, “I don’t want to impede your progress, but do you think you can interview the rest of the re-enactors
away
from the campsite? It doesn’t have to be far. We can offer you one of the nearby buildings on property to use for as long as you like. The actual Living History event starts tomorrow. They have drills and shooting contests scheduled. They’re preparing for a big battle re-enactment on Saturday. Mr. Pierpont and his people are hoping they can have their guns back for practice.”

She heaved a deep sigh. “People want their lives back faster and faster all the time. They want normal so they can feel safe again. Don’t they understand? They still
have
their lives. But one of their friends does not.” Grasping the armrests, she pushed herself to her feet. “Your secretary . . .” she said tilting her head toward Frances’s office.

“Assistant,” I corrected.

“Whatever. She told me about your suggestion for her to go in undercover.”

“It may be a waste of time, but you never know. Frances is planning to visit the encampment this afternoon to buy the supplies she needs and then she’ll start snooping tomorrow. She’s the queen of gossip. If anyone can get the goods on people, she can.”

“Smart move.”

“Thanks.”

“Next time you hatch a plan like that, however, it would be better to hear it from you first.” She pointed her index finger at me like a gun. “Like I said, transparency goes both ways.”

WHEN FRANCES WALKED IN THE NEXT MORNING, I barely recognized her. “Look at you,” I exclaimed as she navigated through the doorway with her hoop skirt. Bumping, twisting, and complaining the whole time, she finally made it all the way into the office out of breath. “You look beautiful.”

Gripping the cream-and-chocolate-brown-patterned fabric with both fists, she glanced up at me in surprise, her face flushing dark pink all the way down her neck into the lace collar. “Thank you,” she said. “This was the only one I could find in my size that didn’t make me look like a house.”

I circled the air with my index finger indicating she should turn around. She frowned, but obliged me with a reluctant pirouette.

“Wow,” I said. “Absolutely lovely.” I came closer and reached for the fabric. “May I?”

She shrugged. “You paid for it.”

“Such quality.” And it was. The fabric was heavier than I’d expected, crafted from natural fabrics. “It might get warm out there in this. This is obviously a dress gown. Did you get yourself an everyday outfit, too?”

She nodded and pulled her hem up for me to see. “Look at that stitching. Hand-sewn, all of it.”

“These dresses must be expensive.”

A wary look flashed in her eyes. “You told me it was okay to buy it.”

“Yes, of course it is. I’m just impressed by the handiwork, that’s all.”

“I talked with that Pierpont fellow when I was down there,” she said. “He told me that for the opening ceremonies they want everyone in their ball gowns. So that’s why I’m wearing this so early. After the morning events, we’re all supposed to change into more comfortable period clothing. But it isn’t required.”

“Where will you get changed?”

“Mr. Pierpont said that a group of women share a very large tent and they’ll be happy to let me pop in now and then when I need to. It shouldn’t be any big deal. It’s not like I need a place to sleep or anything.”

“A group of women sharing a tent?” I asked, suddenly suspicious. Maybe Pierpont had a sense of humor after all. “Did this group have a name?”

“A bird group,” she said. “Pigeons or something?”

“Was it doves?” I asked.

“I think that was it.”

I laughed out loud. “Soiled doves?”

Frances turned red again as comprehension dawned. “Oh no . . .”

“Don’t worry, they aren’t really working girls. They’re wives of soldiers. This is their way to have a little fun. Female bonding.”

Frances sniffed. “Just so they know I don’t intend to participate in any . . . questionable activity.”

“This is all just pretend, Frances, I’m sure you’ll be fine. By the way, does Pierpont know the real reason you’re participating? I know your cover story is that this is an activity you’ve always wanted to try, but given the timing, I suppose it doesn’t take much to put two and two together.”

“Mr. Pierpont said he thought it was a marvelous idea,” she said, rolling the word off her tongue accompanied by wide hand gestures. “That’s exactly how he said it, too. I think that man may be a little light in the loafers.” Then, perhaps remembering my two best friends, she added, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

Rather than dwell on her gaffe, I decided to lighten the moment. “If there’s one thing I can probably guarantee,” I said, “it’s that Pierpont isn’t wearing loafers. They would be farby.”

Frances and I decided that since the Living History was open for a portion of each day there would be no problem if I came to visit during those hours.