Grace Sees Red (14 page)

“It was nice of you to give Gus's family as much time as
they needed to clear things out. I'm kind of glad, in a selfish way, to know that they'll be here a few more days. Gives me a chance to come up with more questions for them, if I need to.”

“They can take all the time they want.” She gave a little smile as she shrugged. “The cost for somebody to live in that apartment is more than most people make in a year. It's not like there's a waiting list.”

Frances talked the entire ride back to Emberstowne. I heard about the sour smell of the interrogation room and the sassy attitude of the detectives who attempted to question her. She delivered an earful about how poorly Rosette's small-town police department was run and—though she didn't say it—I got the distinct impression that Lily Holland's presence had been the only thing that had kept Frances from being arrested and tossed into a cell by the afternoon.

Apparently, the detectives questioning Frances had tried to coax a confession by suggesting that Frances had only
accidentally
killed Gus. That, by injecting the man with insulin, she'd merely meant to make him sick.

“What kind of mealy-brained fool do they think I am?” she asked. “Like I'd admit to anything I didn't do.
Pheh
.”

“Was Lily able to get any more information? Do you know when autopsy results will be in?”

“Preliminary results are in now,” Frances said. “They're waiting for word from the lab on whether Gus had unnecessary insulin floating around in there.”

“When will those results come in?”

“Who knows? They didn't see fit to tell me.”

It bothered me that her anger seemed different. Instead of crossing her arms, fuming, and fairly sparking the air with rage-filled fireworks, she kept her hands in her lap and fiddled with the clasp of her vinyl purse.

“What else did the detectives have to say?”

She lifted a chubby finger. “One: The only fingerprints on the empty insulin containers in Percy's room are mine.” She lifted a second finger. “Two: They have a witness who swears Gus and I got into such a heated argument he was afraid we'd get violent.”

“A witness? Do you mean Santiago?” I asked.

“Who else?” She gave an indignant sniff. “You ask me, he's getting his kicks out of embellishing. Makes him seem like Mr. Important. He's one of those people who lives for attention.”

She'd lowered her fingers and dropped her hand back into her lap.

“Anything else?”

“According to Lily, they can't arrest me for anything. Not enough evidence. Yet. I hope to heaven Gus had a heart attack and died on his own.”

“Gus's son Dan believes that's what happened.”

“Too bad Dan isn't a Rosette detective. Couple of idiots. They really believe they have a homicide here.” She snorted. “I can tell them a thing or two about homicides.”

That was at least the second time she'd used the word
idiot
to describe them. “Tell me about them,” I asked.

“Nothing like Rodriguez and Flynn, believe me. Compared to these people, our Emberstowne detectives are rocket scientists.”

She took her time describing the pair of Rosette detectives, providing their names. Both female, both in their early thirties and, according to Frances, “Jumpy and yappy as excited Chihuahuas. With sharp teeth they couldn't wait to sink into my skin. Ambitious little things, eager to make a name for themselves.” She shook her head. “Well, they can find themselves another chew toy.”

“Did they play good cop/bad cop?”

“Pheh,”
she said with a humorless laugh. “Mostly they made us wait. If Lily hadn't been there, they probably would have started in sooner. We got pulled in three separate times for their prattle. In between we sat and waited. They thought they could play mind games. Like that could wear me down. Like they thought they could break me.”

Staring out the window, she massaged one hand with the other.

“I'm sorry you had to go through that.”

She nodded but said nothing.

I offered to drive her home rather than back to Marshfield, promising to pick her up for work the next morning. Even though the trip between the two locations wasn't a long one, she seemed far too distracted to drive herself. To my astonishment, she didn't argue.

When I pulled up in front of her tidy cottage, she gathered her purse and opened the passenger door. She'd gotten one foot out when she turned back. “I forgot to ask what you found out at Indwell today.”

“We'll talk tomorrow,” I said.

The spark of hopefulness in her eyes dimmed. “That means you didn't learn much.”

I was sorry to disappoint her. “Tomorrow, you and I will brainstorm. Maybe I learned more than I realize.”

“Maybe.”

“Text me in the morning when you're ready to be picked up,” I said.

“Okay.” She prepared to boost herself from the car, then turned back to me again. “Don't be late.”

That, at least, I could promise. “I won't.”

*   *   *

When I arrived home, my roommates were settled in the parlor: Bruce on the sofa, Scott in one of the chairs. I got the impression that both had been staring into space before I walked in.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing,” Scott said in a tone that belied his words. “Unless you count the bank pulling the rug out from under us. Then, everything is wrong.”

I stripped off my jacket, dropped my purse on the floor, and sank into the other wing chair. “Where's Bootsie?” I asked.

“Cowering, most likely.” Bruce rubbed his forehead. “My fault. We got in about twenty minutes ago. The minute the back door closed and I knew the neighbors couldn't hear, I let out a yell of frustration. I just had to let off some steam. Scared her, I think.”

“She ran up the stairs,” Scott said with a helpful point. “Haven't seen her since.”

“I'm sorry,” Bruce said again. “I wasn't yelling at her. But she doesn't know that.”

“She'll be fine, I'm sure,” I said, hoping to hear her pad down the stairs any minute. “It's you two I'm worried about. Last I heard, the bank was expediting paperwork. What's going on?”

“They've expedited things, all right,” Bruce said. “Expedited us out of the running.”

Before I could ask him what that meant, Scott chimed in. “As you know, the property was taken over by the bank a few years ago. That means they own it. Suddenly, even though they'd given us a verbal green light on our proposal, they're telling us they don't want to be landlords, but if we're interested they'll be happy to sell.”

“Oh,” I said as the weight of their words sunk in. “How can they do that? Isn't it smarter for them to lease out an abandoned building and collect rent than let it sit there doing nothing at all?”

“That's where the twist comes in,” Bruce said. “There's renewed interest in the place.”

Scott held up both hands. “Surprise, surprise, the bank's corporate office got wind of our intent and they decided— What were their exact words, Bruce?”

Bruce made air quotes. “‘The Granite Building would be an ideal location for a new branch.' Even better, there's so much space available they could consolidate two locations into one. Oh, happy day! A big bank on Main Street.”

“The chamber of commerce would never allow that,” I said. “Would they?”

Scott shrugged. “I agree that the chamber has been very careful to maintain Main Street's quaintness and they've fought off incursion attempts from fast-food chains and drugstore franchises before. I suppose that's the only hope we have to hold on to at this point.”

Bruce held up a finger. “But.”

“But what?”

“The bank president and two of his golf buddies are on the chamber of commerce,” Scott said. “You think that might sway the decision?”

“It shouldn't.”

Bruce buried his face in his hands. “Doesn't mean it won't.”

Bootsie stole into the room and rubbed up against my right leg, all the while eyeing Bruce. With his head down, he didn't see her watching. Scott, staring up at the ceiling, didn't notice the little cat's arrival, either.

Bootsie looked up at me as though asking permission to leap into my lap. I sat back to give her plenty of room, but she hesitated. A second later, she bounded away, up onto the sofa next to Bruce. Startled, he sat up, then smiled.

She stepped gingerly onto his legs, then pawed herself in a circle before settling onto his lap with a huff of contentment. Bruce ran a hand along the top of her head and down her back. “I guess I'm forgiven.”

“She knew you didn't mean it,” I said.

We remained silent for a few seconds with familiar house sounds to keep us company.

“What's next? What can we do?” I asked.

“Besides wait?” Scott raised both arms, then rested his hands atop his head. “Nothing much.”

“Are there any other properties you can look at?”

“A few, but none on Main Street,” Bruce said.

“How far away?”

“One is six blocks south and four blocks east of where we are now,” Scott said. “Another one is in the old section. You know—where the clock used to be.”

“At one time that was a beautiful building,” Bruce said, “but how many customers would make the trek? I'm all for bringing a blighted area back to life but we'd be the only business for blocks. Nobody will come to our place when it's that far away from the touristy stuff.”

I wrinkled my nose, thinking about the town clock and the part I'd played in its destruction not all that long ago. “Unless the chamber of commerce throws more support into redeveloping that entire stretch—and finding a way to connect it to our current business district—I can't imagine it would be a good idea to locate Amethyst Cellars out there.”

Bruce didn't look up from petting Bootsie. “This has been one giant disappointment after another.”

“What if you bought the Granite Building outright?”

“Even if we were able to afford that size mortgage—”

“Which we can't,” Scott said.

“Even if we could,” Bruce continued, “no bank will be willing to lend us the money without a solid business plan. If we bought the building, we'd almost have to open a restaurant right away. We're not in a position to do that yet. We'd need to hire a consultant.”

“Which requires even more money,” Scott said.

“And even if we could partner with a seasoned restaurateur, where would we find one in the next couple of days? We're short of funds, we lack a solid business plan. Heck,
I
wouldn't lend us money right now.”

“Our only option is to wait for our landlord to make repairs on our current building,” Scott said. “And from the looks of things, he's in no hurry to get it done.”

“Which means that you'll probably lose the entire summer busy season,” I said. “Doesn't it?”

Scott nodded. “And who knows what the ripple effect will be? Tourists who visit every year will assume we've gone out of business. I'm sure loads of folks will cancel their wine memberships because they'd fear we won't be able to fulfill orders.”

“Which we won't be able to do until we establish a new home base,” Bruce said. “Everything is back at the office,
and the city will only let us in when we're escorted by safety engineers.”

“Can you work from here?” I asked. “The basement is fairly empty and the temperature down there is probably good for wine.”

“It's possible,” Bruce said with a defeated sigh. “I suppose.”

“Thanks for the suggestion, Grace,” Scott said. “We may take you up on that. But right now, this new twist has zapped us of every ounce of energy we possessed. We're hitting brick wall after brick wall.”

I understood. There were times in my life when I was so distraught that even good suggestions felt like monster projects. My roommates had seen me through more than one major disappointment and had given me the space I needed. I could do no less for them.

“Tomorrow.” Poised to promise my best efforts, I remembered the similar words I'd offered to Frances when I'd dropped her off at home less than an hour earlier. “We'll take another look at our options tomorrow, okay?”

They both nodded and tried to smile. “Sure,” Scott said.

I set out to pick up Frances the following morning about ten minutes after she texted. She lived in an older section of Emberstowne, a cramped yet tidy area featuring single-family homes on small lots, giant trees, and very little parking. I idled in the middle of her narrow street and texted that I was out front.

She didn't reply.

Less than a minute later, I was forced to move when a giant SUV couldn't get around me.

I found a small, empty spot on the far end of the next block, where I resurrected my long-neglected parallel-parking talents. Once settled, I checked my phone again only to find an error message. My text hadn't been sent.

I tried again. The message failed again.

“Great.” I said aloud. “She's going to think I'm late.”

I got out of the car and hurried back along the uneven sidewalk, gearing myself up for a tongue-lashing. Frances's house was a white frame home with a pitched roof, and the side entrance was situated under a striped metal awning. I trotted up the concrete steps and rang her doorbell.

“Sorry,” I said the moment her door squeaked open. “I tried texting you, but it wouldn't go through.”

She frowned out the screen door, which separated us. “Likely story. You just wanted to see what the inside of my house looks like.”

Before I could offer even a syllable of protest, she shoved the screen door open and said, “As long as you're here you may as well come in while I get my stuff together.”

My first thought upon entering was that she didn't limit her love of the color purple to her wardrobe. From the sheers covering her front windows to the area rug that took up most of her creaky wood floor to knickknacks that crammed every horizontal surface—reminding me more than a little of Percy's room—her house was a sea of plum, lilac, violet, and mauve. It smelled of sun-warmed dust mingled with old perfume. Lavender, maybe. Which, upon reflection, shouldn't have come as a surprise.

She trundled through her pint-sized living room to disappear into what had to be her bedroom, talking all the while. “I knew you wouldn't be able to resist, nosy as you are.” Raising her voice, she added, “Go ahead, take a look around. Does this look like a home of a murderer?”

“As far as I'm concerned, your innocence has never been in doubt.”

Even though she was out of sight, I could hear her mumbling. “Tell that to those wet-behind-the-ears police officers.”

I kept quiet and chose to meander to the very front of the house to peer out the window. “Tough to park around here,” I called to her.

“Not too many early risers. Another half hour and you'd have your choice of spots, when everybody else goes to work.” She emerged from her bedroom wearing a periwinkle jacket with her vinyl purse tucked under one arm. “You ready?”

Outside, she stopped and looked at the sky before locking the door. “It's supposed to rain today, isn't it?”

I peered up at the cloudless blue. “I have no idea.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Smells like rain.” She reopened her door, reached in, and pulled out an umbrella. “Better safe than sorry,” she said. “Now I'm ready.”

In my office a little while later, Frances and I sat opposite each other. “With the Mister's financial guy coming to talk to you both today, there isn't much you'll be able to get done,” she said. “For me, that is.”

“I've delegated most of my day-to-day work to the staff in accounting and personnel. They'll keep Marshfield running until I can get back to my responsibilities full-time. Bennett and I agree that I'm to devote all my efforts to getting your name cleared.”

“Except for this meeting with Randall Cummings.”

“I'm surprised he was able to reschedule on such short notice.” I frowned. “To be honest, I'm a little disappointed. I'd much rather focus on you.”

“That's something, I guess.”

“The meeting shouldn't take long,” I said. “And if Bennett hadn't insisted on it, I'd skip. But until Randall Cummings gets here, let's talk about your situation. We need to figure out what our next steps are. Does Lily have any suggestions?”

“She wants me to steer clear of the investigation.”

“She's required to say that,” I said. “But Rodriguez and Flynn assured me that—to the extent they're able—they're here for us.” As the statement poured out of me, I remembered my phone call from Joe Bradley. I told Frances about his offer to help, adding, “I'll call him today.”

“What good can he do?” Frances asked. “It's not like he's the one doing the autopsy.”

“He's another expert in a field that you and I know nothing about.”

“Nothing, you say?” She shifted in her seat. “With all the investigations you and I have been involved in, I'd say we know a lot.”

I drew in a deep breath. “Not nearly enough, though.” With a glance at the clock above the office fireplace, I pulled up my cell phone. “Let me give him a quick call now. If he has questions I can't answer, you'll be able to chime in.”

“Don't know what good that will do,” she said but this time with less vehemence.

Because it was early, I decided to try him at the morgue first. He picked up after two rings.

“Emberstowne Morgue, Joe Bradley.” His stern tone took me aback.

I hesitated. “Good morning, Dr. Bradley. This is Grace Wheaton from Marshfield Manor. Am I interrupting you?”

“Grace, good morning,” he said in a much warmer manner. “No, your call couldn't have come at a better time. My office is closed on Wednesdays and, fortunately, we've had no morgue deliveries today. I was using the quiet time to catch up on old paperwork. You're giving me a good reason to push it off again.” As if suddenly understanding my hesitancy, he added, “Sorry for the impersonal greeting. The phone here at the morgue is so old it doesn't even have a display for caller ID. I never know who it could be, so I play it safe with a businesslike demeanor.”

“That makes sense,” I said. “I have Frances with me in my office, and I told her that you'd be willing to help answer questions we may have about the autopsy process.”

“Definitely. Shoot.”

Keeping an eye on Frances, who was fighting to appear disinterested, I said, “We have no idea how long it will take to get results back from the autopsy. That is, the autopsy itself is complete, but we're waiting for an update on whether the victim—Gus—died of an insulin overdose. Any idea how long that could take?”

“He wasn't a victim,” Frances grumbled. “He died of natural causes.”

I ignored her to listen to what Joe had to say. “Results can take as little as a few days or as long as a few weeks, depending on how backed up the lab is or if a case is hot enough for the police to order a rush.”

That wasn't much help.

“Couple of things to keep in mind, though,” he said. “Your victim, Gus, wasn't diabetic, correct?”

“That's right.”

“And yet several vials of insulin have gone missing at Indwell?”

“How did you know that?”

“Rodriguez called me. He doesn't have all the details, but Rosette's cops are providing updates,” he said. “In any case, the pathologist will need to test for C-peptides.”

“C-peptides,” I repeated as I wrote it down.

“Don't worry about remembering the jargon, just know that when an insulin overdose is suspected, that's one of the tests they run to find out if insulin in the body is exogenous—meaning it came from outside the body—or endogenous, meaning that it was naturally produced.”

“Rosette's coroner will do this as a matter of course?” I asked.

Frances had dropped any pretense of indifference and sat forward, straining to hear what Joe had to say. I held the phone a little away from my ear to help.

“Insulin isn't always the easiest thing to find, but because it's suspected, I'm sure the coroner took samples from Gus's body immediately. The presence of an overabundance of insulin doesn't definitively prove foul play, either.”

“It doesn't?” I asked.

“Gus could have had a pancreatic tumor. If that's the case, then his body may have produced an excess of insulin. The C-peptide test will answer that.”

“Okay,” I said slowly. “But I assume the coroner won't be willing to share that information.”

“Not until Frances is officially cleared, or formally charged, no,” he said. “But if that happens, her attorney should be able to get a copy of the full report. I'd be happy to take a look at it for you.”

I pulled back, sorry Frances had heard his casual mention of her being arrested. She crossed her thick arms, frowned, and turned to face the window.

“I hope it doesn't come to that,” I said.

I couldn't fault Joe Bradley for dispensing information with brisk, emotionless efficiency, but it felt odd to have
Frances's situation dissected with such antiseptic detachment.

“I haven't met Frances,” he said. “I don't know her the way you do. I do, however, know that it's got to be tough to sit on the sidelines and wait for the police in Rosette to either make their move or call a truce. It can't be easy.”

“It's not.”

“But Rodriguez and Flynn are here to help. As am I. Feel free to reach out anytime you need.”

I felt myself smile. Frances turned to face me just then. She made a noise of displeasure.

“I appreciate that,” I said. “We both do.”

When I hung up, we heard her office door open. Before I could say a word, she jumped to her feet, looking panicked.

I pointed to the clock that was just chiming nine. “It's Bennett and Randall Cummings,” I said. “Right on time.”

When sounds of Bennett conversing with another male drifted in, her shoulders relaxed.

I got to my feet to welcome the two men. “Who did you think it was?” I asked.

“I don't know,” she said, clearly flummoxed. “I don't know anything anymore. I'll go get coffee.”

With her head down, she nearly ran into Bennett as he and Randall came through the doorway, which separated the two offices.

“Whoa, Frances.” Bennett caught my assistant by her shoulders as he sidestepped out of her way.

“Getting coffee,” she said pushing past him and Randall, before rushing out of the room.

I made my way over to them. “Is everything okay?” Bennett asked after polite greetings.

“She's on edge,” I said. “And I don't blame her a bit. Come on in.”

I reclaimed the seat behind my desk as Bennett and Randall settled in across from me.

A large man with a tidy, receding hairline, Randall wore his customary dark business suit, pale dress shirt, and
conservative tie. I imagined he kept a closetful of white, cream, and pale blue shirts next to a rack of navy blue and ruby red–striped ties to pair with them. Made dressing every morning a piece of cake, no doubt. I tried to picture him in less formal attire but couldn't do it. Agewise, he split the difference between Bennett and me.

“How is everything this morning, Grace?” he asked. “I understand you're ready to move forward on our transition plan. Bennett has been eager to get this process started. He's looking forward to you taking over.”

I held up my hands. “I know I'm repeating myself, but you need to understand that I'm not pushing for control of Bennett's finances.”

“
Our
finances,” Bennett corrected.

“I know.” Randall beamed. “Bennett and I have worked together for many years and I'd like to believe he and I understand each other. Let's take it one step at a time. And if, at any point, you have a question, stop me. I'm happy to take as much time as we need.”

I sat back, not quite sure what to expect.

“This is a big step for you,” Randall continued. “My job is to make the transition as smooth and painless as it can be. You and I have worked together a couple of other times, Grace. I think that even though we have a lot of paperwork ahead of us, it won't be too arduous a process.”

There was something about this man's high energy that always improved my mood. “I'm sure it won't be.”

“Good.” He slapped his hands together, rubbed them, then said, “You ready to begin?”

“Almost,” I said.

That surprised them. “Bennett,” I began, “I have an idea I've been meaning to discuss with you.” Shooting an apologetic smile at the adviser, I explained, “With all that's been going on here recently, Bennett and I haven't had a moment alone.”

Randall slapped his hands on his knees. “I'll give you privacy.”

“No, no,” I said before he could get up. “This involves finances. And I'd like your opinion on this, too.” Turning to
Bennett again, I said, “I haven't brought this up with Scott or Bruce yet, but I was considering helping them out. Financially, I mean. Would you be okay with that?”