Grace Sees Red (21 page)

“I see where you're going,” I said. “If Gus dosed himself, why pick up all but one syringe cap?”

Bennett sat forward. “Could Gus have become too disoriented to notice the one on the floor?”

Tooney frowned. “But he would've had to have disposed of the rest of them somewhere, right?”

“Right,” I said. “The cops searched through Gus's wastebaskets. Nothing there.”

“So then whoever dosed him took the vials and their caps out of the room,” Tooney said. “But whoever it was missed one.”

“The one that Santiago found rolling around on the floor,” Frances said. “Nosy creep.”

“I'm sure that's why one vial is completely missing,” I said. “Once the killer realized that a cap had gone astray, he or she couldn't return the obviously used vial to Percy's refrigerator.”

“The killer probably never anticipated Santiago's involvement,” Bennett said.

Tooney nodded. “Exactly. Which means—”

“That Santiago is probably not our killer,” Bennett said.

I wrinkled my nose. This wasn't new news.

Frances bristled. “How does any of this help me? It doesn't, does it?” She pointed a finger at Tooney. “You go ahead—keep eliminating other suspects. Why not? It's not like the Mister pays your salary or anything. I'm sure that's exactly how he wants his money spent—helping total strangers stay out of trouble.”

Bennett and I exchanged a glance. Though we both
understood that Frances was disappointed by Tooney's information—or rather, lack thereof—I wanted to keep her spirits up. “Sometimes we have to take a step back before we take a step forward.” My words felt as lame as they sounded.

“For me, a step back means being locked up behind bars. No, thank you.” She stared Tooney down. “I only just met the new coroner and he's done more for me than you ever have,” she said. “Thanks for nothing.”

My office phone rang. Frances glanced at the display on her console. “It's the front desk,” she said and picked up.

Her brows danced high on her forehead, but all she said was, “Yes, fine. She'll be right down, I'm sure. Yes. Got it.”

When she hung up, she glared at Tooney. “Did you forget Anton?” she asked.

“Anton?” Tooney said. “No, Grace—”

“You remember Gus's best friend, don't you? Or wasn't he on your list of people to investigate?” she asked him. Before he had a chance to respond, she turned to me. “He's here. Wants to talk with you.”

“He's here? Now?”

“In the flesh.”

“Okay, I'll go talk with him.” This was unexpected. “But before I do, you need to know that Tooney didn't follow Anton because I asked Bruce and Scott to investigate him.”

“You did? What were you thinking?”

“They're in the same line of business,” I said. “Doesn't matter now. But don't blame Tooney, okay? Why does Anton want to talk with me?”

“No idea.” She shook her head. “They're showing him to the Birdcage Room right now. He'll wait for you there.”

Tooney shuffled to his feet. “I'll keep at it. I'll keep shadowing these people. I promise I'll come up with something, Frances.”

I got up to accompany him out. “I'll be back as soon as I can.”

As Tooney and I made our way downstairs, I said, “Frances is going through a rough time. On a good day, she's brittle
and ornery. With all that's going on, she's having a tough time holding it together. She needs to lash out. I'm sorry you took the brunt of it.”

“She has every right to be angry,” he said. “I should have found something to help her by now.”

When I arrived at the Birdcage, I scanned the sea of small tables where a smattering of guests conversed quietly, sipping morning beverages and enjoying house-made pastries while mellow music drifted through the air. It took me a moment, but I finally spotted Anton. Hands clasped behind his back, the thickset man stood silhouetted against the curved, two-story grid of windows that gave the room its name.

Sensing my approach, perhaps, he turned as I reached him.

“Nice to see you again, Anton,” I said. “What brings you to Marshfield this morning?”

His face broke into a wide smile. “You are a vision.” Spreading his arms to encompass the surroundings, he said, “A perfect jewel in a magnificent setting.” Before I had a chance to react, he grabbed my shoulders and kissed me on each cheek. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

I hadn't realized we were on such comfortable terms. Taking a step back, I indicated one of the nearby empty tables. “Please, join me.”

The moment we sat, one of the Birdcage waitresses came by. The young woman attempted to hand us menus, but Anton
said he didn't care to order. “Nothing for either of us, then,” I said. The moment she was gone, I turned to him. “I confess I'm curious as to the reason for your visit today.”

Much like the posture he'd assumed Sunday after learning of Gus's death, Anton sat hunched, leaning hard on the table, hands clamped in front of him. His face was etched with lines. “Frances did not kill my friend. She should never have been arrested. The police are making a mistake by investigating her.”

“We know that,” I said gently. I hoped Anton's visit today wasn't merely to express solidarity. “But lacking concrete evidence that proves otherwise, the police seem all too willing to prosecute.”

He continued to stare at his clenched hands.

“You wouldn't have any information that could help exonerate Frances, would you?” I asked.

He rubbed his thick thumbs together several times before answering. “That is why I am here.” Finally looking up long enough to make brief eye contact, he said, “What I have isn't evidence, but it is insight.”

I tugged my chair closer to the tiny table. “Go on.”

“I have struggled in my heart with whether to say anything or not, but I find I must.” He flicked another glance up at me. His bloodshot eyes were heavy-lidded; shiny, capillary-speckled bags pouched beneath them. “I have no proof, only speculation.”

“Tell me,” I said.

He worked his lips much the same way he'd worked his thumbs a moment earlier. “I have known Gus most of my adult life,” he began. “And so I have known his sons ever since they were children.”

I sat up straighter.

“Gus was hard on them both, to be sure. He was not a cruel man, but neither was he kind. The boys avoided him, always. Their mother didn't help matters. When she divorced Gus, she worked hard to turn the boys against him. Not that it took much effort on her part. By then they were adults who had already embarked on their own lives.”

“Where is she now?”

“She died some years ago. Although the boys were bereft, they weren't stupid. They recognized that their elderly wealthy father had become ill and that their obligatory visits and birthday phone calls probably weren't enough to ensure them an inheritance. So they attempted to reconcile with Gus, telling him that the only reason they stayed away was for their mother's sake. They promised they'd become real sons to him now that she was gone.”

“You know this?” I asked.

“I watched it happen.”

“And did they?” I asked. “Become real sons to Gus?”

“Gus was a very smart man,” Anton said. “He saw through their charade. He knew what they were after.”

“And you believe one—or both—of them may have killed Gus?” I asked. “But why? If he was as ill as you say, why not maintain the happy family illusion and wait for their father's inevitable demise?”

“Because they believed—mistakenly—that every penny spent at Indwell was that much less they'd inherit.”

Though I remembered both Harland's and Dan's complaints about the cost of housing Gus at Indwell, I picked up on Anton's word choice. “Mistakenly?”

“Gus took out a life insurance policy several years ago.”

“The two-million-dollar policy?”

“That's the one. Harland and Dan are beneficiaries.”

“So I understand,” I said. “However—and not to be so cold about it—why wouldn't they simply wait for Gus to die a natural death?”

“Because Gus took out that policy only to appease them. They wanted a look at Gus's will; they were afraid he'd written them out.” Another bloodshot glance to ensure I was paying attention. “He had. That's what I'm here to tell you. Gus left everything to me.”

I felt my jaw drop. “Wait.” I attempted to process what he'd just revealed. “You?”

He nodded sadly. “I found out myself only yesterday. Gus added a codicil, or whatever it's called, explaining his
reasoning. He said he knew his sons were money-grubbers. The only reason he waxed poetic about keeping the fortune in the family and made certain they both knew about the insurance policy, was to fool them into believing he would leave his entire estate to them. To stop them from constantly bothering him about his money. And it worked.”

“Are you telling me that the sons inherit nothing?”

“They are still entitled to the proceeds from that insurance policy. And Gus bequeathed a token amount for both. My friend believed that would be enough to keep them quiet, to prevent them from challenging my claim.”

“But this means—”

“It means, first of all, that I had motive.” He brought his gaze back up to meet mine and held firm. “Even though I didn't know the terms of the will until yesterday, the fact that Gus's death is being investigated as a homicide changes everything. The boys could argue that their father was planning to change his will again—this time to include them—but before he could, I killed him.”

“But you said that they didn't know the terms of the will, either.”

“They still don't. They will soon enough. That doesn't mean they won't try.”

I studied the dull face across the table. Could I be staring into the eyes of Gus's killer right now?

“You see why I struggled about telling you all this,” he said. “As soon as the police learn the details of the will—which will happen by the end of the week, I'm told—I'll become suspect number one.”

“What do you expect from me?”

“I've done homework on you,” he said. “You have a reputation for finding the truth. I wanted to help you by giving you my story. The truth as I see it.”

To help?
I wondered.
Or to throw me off?

“Two more things,” he said, holding up a corresponding number of fingers. He grimaced, then made a very obvious assessment of the room to ensure no one could hear. He
lowered his voice. “The day before Gus died, I brought him a . . . gift.”

“What kind of gift?”

He glanced around the room again, then whispered, “A bottle of alcohol. In a jar with no label.”

“Illegal moonshine?”

His whole body jerked. “How do you know about such things?”

I shook my head, reluctant to share details about a guest at Marshfield who had been murdered using the high-octane alcohol. “I have my sources.”

Anton allowed a small grin. “The good news is that Gus loved the stuff. He thought it was hilarious whenever I was able to sneak it in under the nurses' noses. I brought a new supply about once a month. We barely made a dent in the newest bottle. Just had a couple of shots, then hid it in his armoire.”

“What's the bad news?”

“It's missing.”

“From Gus's room?”

Anton nodded. “I talked with Harland and Joslyn. They haven't seen it. Neither has Dan. They said they looked through both armoires and it wasn't there.”

“Maybe the police confiscated it.”

“That's what I'm afraid of. If they open the jar and figure out what it is, they'll be after me in a heartbeat.”

Maybe they should be,
I thought. But what I said was, “I can understand your concern.”

“I know you're working with Frances's attorney. Do you think there's any way you could ask her if they found a jar of clear liquid about this size in Gus's room?” He positioned his hands to indicate. “Not knowing is killing me.”

A faint memory tickled my brain. “You said he hid it in the armoire?”

“Yes,” he brightened. “Have you seen it?”

“No, sorry.” Though Percy had talked about sharing scotch with Kyle, he'd never mentioned anything about illegal moonshine. “But I'll make some discreet inquiries.”

“I'd appreciate that.”

“You said two things. What else?” I asked.

He pulled in a deep breath and blew it out. “Harland is deep in debt.”

“How do you know this?”

“Gus took a great deal of pride in his business acumen. Harland has no such talent. He and Joslyn have overspent and under saved. They're facing retirement with nothing to show for it. Harland couldn't bring himself to admit his failings to Gus. And, to be fair, Gus would have ridiculed him mercilessly. Several months ago, Harland came to me and asked to borrow a significant sum.”

“You gave it to him?”

Anton spread his hands. “I've known them since they were boys, remember? Harland promised that when his day came, he would pay it all back, with interest.”

I thought about Tooney's report that Harland and his wife had been pricing expensive cars. “And Harland now believes his day is here?”

“I assume he does. But it isn't,” Anton said. “Now that I've seen the will.”

“He's still entitled to half of that two-million-dollar policy.”

“True,” Anton said. “But compared to the value of the estate, that's pocket change.” He glanced around the Birdcage. The place was beginning to fill up. “I've taken too much of your time,” he said as he got to his feet. “I'm sorry.”

“You've given me a lot to think about.” We made our way toward the mansion's front doors. “Harland and Dan aren't going to be happy when they get the news.”

“They'll come gunning for me, make no mistake. That's another reason why I wanted to share this with you. Harland and Dan may try to pin Gus's murder on me in the hopes of nullifying the will.”

“And you wouldn't like that at all, would you?”

He caught the unspoken accusation in my words. “I'm a very wealthy man in my own right. I don't need Gus's money, and I honestly don't even want it. When my friend first fell
ill, he declined rapidly. I was sure we would lose him. But after he moved into Indwell, he rallied. Gus was a grumpy guy. Maybe the fact that he had more people there to torment gave him a reason to wake up every morning.” Anton chuckled. “Indwell is expensive, but it was worth every penny. If Gus had run out of money, I would have gladly shared my fortune to keep my friend happy and alive.”

Despite myself, I was moved by Anton's impassioned speech.

“Remember,” he said, “Harland believed his father's money was being wasted at Indwell. I'm not convinced Harland or Dan killed Gus, but if one of them did, I suspect it was because they sought to halt the financial bleed.”

Before we parted at the front door, Anton grasped my shoulders and again followed with a quick kiss to each cheek. “You are a good friend to Frances. And now to Percy.” He winked at me. “I only hope I have been some small help.”

I waved as he made his way down the front stairs to board the estate shuttle. The minute he was gone, I dragged my cell phone from my pocket. As I crossed Marshfield's stately first floor, I dialed Bruce. His phone went directly to voice mail. “Hey, on second thought,” I said in a message, “don't bother investigating Anton Holcroft for me, okay?” I debated a split second, then added, “Let me rephrase that: I'd rather you
not
contact Anton Holcroft at all.”

I hung up and made my way to the staff stairway, then dialed Scott's phone. It, too, went straight to voice mail. “I'm sure I'm being overly cautious here, but humor me, okay? I'd prefer it if you and Bruce do
not
get in contact with Anton Holcroft. At all. Something has come up. I'll explain when I can. Call me.”