Grace Sees Red (8 page)

“What can he do? He doesn't consult in Rosette, does he?”

“Not that I'm aware of, but—”

Bennett finished the thought. “He could be another ally.”

Rodriguez nodded. “Tell him what's going on; he'll have a unique take on all this. And if it turns out that the victim did die from insulin poisoning, Frances's lawyer will try to argue it was a suicide. You're going to want someone to tell you what to look for in an autopsy to prove or disprove that theory.”

“What if someone else killed Gus and is trying to frame Frances?” I asked.

Rodriguez rubbed his forehead. “Let's hope it was a suicide. But either way, Joe could be a big help.”

Though unconvinced, I said, “Okay, I'll call him.”

Flynn's voice drifted in. “Get me out of here.”

“I gotta run before I have to arrest my partner for homicide.” Rodriguez squeezed my shoulder. “We'll be in touch. Hang in there.”

Later, when Frances left the office to take a washroom break, I put in a quick call to Bronson Tooney. Even though she'd given approval to bring the private investigator into the fold, I knew that overhearing me talking to him would cause her aggravation. Contacting him was better shared after the fact.

“How are you?” I asked when he answered.

“Always better when I'm talking with you, Grace.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “But I'm pretty sure you're not calling just to chitchat. This is about Frances's situation, isn't it?”

“How did you know?”

“Word gets around.”

That was fast.
“She stepped out for just a couple of minutes, so I don't have long to talk.”

“She doesn't want you to bring me in on this, does she?”

“At first she didn't. But we can use the help. She really wants to keep this on the down-low.”

He made what sounded like a growl.

“Is there a problem?” I asked. “Don't you want to help Frances?”

“It's not that,” he said quickly. “It's about keeping this quiet. I think it's too late.”

“Oh no. Any idea where the leak started?” I asked.

“Where do they ever start?” he asked. “But that's not as important as helping Frances. I already started looking into Percy's background.”

“You knew Frances was married?”

“Yeah.”

“And that she visited Percy at Indwell every weekend?”

“I only found out about that a few years ago.”

“A few years ago?” I repeated. “And you never told me?”

He gave a soft laugh. “You know I'd do anything for you, Grace, but this was Frances's secret and I saw no reason to share it with anyone.”

“You're a good man, Bronson.”

He cleared his throat, and I could imagine his soft face glowing pink the way it always did when someone paid him a compliment. “It might be a good idea for Frances to come up with a list of people she knows,” he said. “She's been visiting there for what, about ten years? I'm sure she's amassed a collection of friends as well as foes. That will give me a place to start. You never know what might turn up.”

“That's a great idea,” I said. “I'll suggest it to her.”

“Listen,” he said, “I know you said she'll be back any second, so how about I stop by your house tonight to go over the details?”

I thought about it. “You've heard about what's going on at Amethyst Cellars, haven't you?”

He said he had.

“That means Scott and Bruce will probably be home. And even though word of Frances's trouble is spreading around town, I don't want anyone hearing it from me. Would you mind if I swung by your house after work instead for a few minutes?”

The question seemed to take him by surprise. “Sure,” he said. “No problem. Sounds like a great idea. I'd like that.”

“Good, I'll see you then.”

When Frances returned, I got up and headed into her office, taking a seat across from her. “When do you meet with Lily Holland again?” I asked.

“She's supposed to call me today.”

“She seems very capable.”

The phone rang. Frances leaned close to peer at the caller ID. Her brows shot up. “Speak of the devil.” Frowning, she picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

I boosted myself, intending to give her privacy but she waved me back into my seat with an impatient glare.

“Yes,” she said into the phone. “I do. Yes, I am. Yes, they have.”

Frances was clearly on her best polite behavior.

After a couple of seconds, she said, “Would you mind if I put you on speaker? Grace Wheaton is here in the office with me and I'd like her to hear what you have to say.”

Frances pressed the button to engage the speakerphone. As soon as I heard background noise, I said, “Good afternoon, Lily. Thanks for keeping in touch.”

“I have only a few minutes right now,” she said quickly. “I plan to chat with a colleague in Rosette later today. She's very familiar with their judges and courts. It's always good to have as much insider information as possible.”

Barely pausing to take a breath, she went on, “What I was telling Ms. Sliwa is that Gustave Westburg's autopsy took place this morning, but results from toxicology may not be in for a little while longer.”

“So there's still doubt that he died of natural causes?” I asked.

“Until evidence proves otherwise, the police are investigating this as a possible homicide.”

“How many homicides a year does Rosette usually experience?” I asked.

Lily gave a quick laugh. “You and I are on the same page, Ms. Wheaton. Zero murders. Squeaky clean for as far back as records go. Believe me, Rosette is pinning its hopes on
this being a false alarm. Even one homicide in Rosette spoils its pristine record.”

From her end of the line, I heard a door open in the background.

“Hang on,” Lily said, and we could tell by the sound that she'd covered the mouthpiece. Seconds later, she came back. “I've been called into a meeting, but I wanted to stress a few things before you and I talk again. Are you still there, Ms. Sliwa?”

Frances made a face at the phone. “Oh, for crying out loud, go ahead and call me by my first name.”

“Good. That's a start, at least.” Was that impatience in Lily's tone? “I told you yesterday that I don't want you discussing this matter with anyone beyond Ms. Wheaton and Mr. Bennett.”

“Call me Grace,” I said. “But our local homicide team already knows. They paid us a visit this morning.”

“I'd be surprised if they didn't know. That's fine.”

I had to chime in again. “And the private investigator Marshfield keeps on retainer.”

Frances shot me an inquisitive look. I mouthed, “I called him.”

Lily drew in a deep breath and asked, “Anyone else?”

“No,” we said together.

I leaned over to scribble a quick note to my assistant. “Give Tooney names.” I double-underlined: “From Indwell. Everybody involved.”

Frances rolled her eyes and frowned.

“Good. I have no doubt the story will leak,” Lily said. “That's inevitable. But Frances, under no circumstances should you speak with the media. No newspaper interviews, no phone calls. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” she said. “Perfectly.”

“And under no circumstances are you to speak to the police without me. You understand?”

Frances's patience was wearing thin. “Of course,” she said with a labored sigh. A split-second later she blinked,
then stared at me, as though a thought had just occurred to her.

“All right then,” Lily said. “I'll be in touch as soon as—”

“Hang on a minute,” Frances said, sitting up straighter. “I know you don't want me stirring up trouble at Indwell but there aren't any restrictions on Grace, are there? She's free to go out there and talk with people, isn't she?”

“Legally, there are no restrictions on either of you, but I believe it's in your best interests to—”

“All I'm asking is if Grace can go out there and look into this for me.”

“I cannot condone interfering with a police investigation.”

Frances swatted the air. “I'm not talking about
meddling
. I just think it wouldn't hurt for her to ask a few questions. Get to know the people involved.”

“Again, Frances, I cannot condone—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Frances said. “We got it.”

I couldn't see Lily's face, but I could tell from the tiny sounds coming from her end of the line that she was more than a little annoyed. “There are safeguards in place to protect the innocent,” she began. “There is no need for individuals to involve themselves in the justice system.”

“Loud and clear,” Frances said. “Anything else before we hang up?”

“As always, if you have any questions, or need me, please feel free to call.”

“Great. Thanks. Go ahead to your meeting.” Frances grinned at me. “Bye,” she said. And hung up.

I stared at her. “She's your lawyer. You don't want to make her your enemy.”

Frances looked happier than I'd seen her all day.
“Pheh,”
she said. “It's her job to represent me whether she likes me or not.”

“That's no excuse for rudeness.”

“I wasn't rude,” Frances said, looking genuinely taken aback. “I'm efficient. And I think Lily will come to appreciate
that. But that doesn't matter right now. Did you hear what she said?”

“I heard everything she said.”

Frances shot me a scathing look. “I mean about you being free to go investigate. I won't be there to help you, of course, but if you bring back your findings, we can discuss it all here. Before you know it, you and I will have this case solved.”

Tooney's house sat next door to mine. Bennett had purchased the home for our loyal investigator about a year earlier, almost immediately as soon as its prior owner, Todd Pedota, had put it up for sale. The discovery of an underground tunnel that linked our two homes probably had something to do with my former neighbor's quick departure. That, and the fact that a killer had used the passageway to frame Todd for murder. The moment charges were dropped, he left town. And the moment he was gone, Bennett snapped the place up.

It was no secret that, after all the frightening situations we'd faced the past few years, Bennett's primary goal was to keep me safe. Having Tooney right next door—willing and able to be at my side in the few minutes it took to traverse the tunnel—gave Bennett extraordinary peace of mind. And, after having seen the hovel Tooney had lived in, it did my heart good to see my friend enjoying more comfortable accommodations.

I parked in my own driveway, noting that—again—both Scott's and Bruce's cars were there. Until Amethyst Cellars reopened, the boys would probably be home every night.

Crossing the yards, I made my way over to Tooney's and hurried up the steps to his front door. Though the days were getting longer and the sun was finally beginning to show signs of wanting to stay, the late-afternoon breeze made me wish I'd thrown on my trench coat instead of leaving it in the car.

Tooney answered the door before I had a chance to ring the bell. “Right on time,” he said. The big man's expression didn't often shift, but whenever he smiled I was startled by how completely his features transformed from homely and plain to genuinely handsome.

“Thanks for letting me stop by.” I didn't bother to ask how Tooney knew what time I usually arrived home after work; the man made it his business to know everything going on in Emberstowne. In fact, I believed that his knowledge of the town's goings-on rivaled Frances's. Not that I'd ever suggest such a travesty to my assistant.

“Anytime, Grace. Anytime at all.” He ushered me through the small front foyer and led me deeper into the house. Even though I'd been here a handful of times during its renovation, the floor plan, flip-flopped from mine, always took a little getting used to. My parlor was to the right, Tooney's to the left. I followed him in.

My first thought was to wonder if anyone, including Tooney, had ever stepped foot in the parlor since the new furnishings had arrived. This elegant room, with its raspberry walls, overstuffed upholstery, and decorating magazines fanned carefully on each end table “just so,” had originally been staged for a portfolio photo shoot months ago. From the looks of it, nothing had changed since then. The place even still smelled new.

Although these living conditions represented a huge improvement for Tooney, I wondered if the middle-aged bachelor ever truly felt comfortable in his new digs.

“Have a seat,” he said, extending a rough hand toward the wing chair nearest the fireplace, “Or would you be more comfortable in the living room?” He took two steps sideways and switched directions with his hand.

Before I could answer, he asked, “Would you like
something to drink? I have fresh coffee made. And I still have those two bottles of wine that Hillary gave me as a housewarming gift. They're from Amethyst Cellars, so I know you'll like them.”

Despite myself, I grinned. I was here to discuss Frances's plight, but Tooney's attempts to play host touched my heart. “I'd be too afraid I might spill,” I said with a laugh. Having perused the parlor, I turned around and peered into a navy blue–themed living room. “Look at this place. It's as gorgeous and clean as the day you moved in.” I crossed the living room to run my hands over the cream-colored sofa's seat cushions. “Has anyone ever sat here?”

Tooney's cheeks colored. “I don't get a lot of company.”

I spun, surveying the rest of the space. “Where do you watch television?”

He gestured upward with his eyes. “My room. It's comfortable up there.”

“I'm sure it is, but it doesn't look like you enjoy the rest of your house.”

“Eh . . .” He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “No sense in messing up all the new things. I'd rather keep everything clean so that if Mr. Marshfield ever wants to sell the place, he won't have to redecorate again.”

“Tooney.” I crossed to him and laid both hands on one of his forearms. He tensed. “Bennett has no intention of selling. He bought this for
you
. This is your home for as long as you care to live here. Don't try to keep it nice for someone else. Live in it. Enjoy it.”

His cheeks burned brighter than ever. “I am.” He shifted his weight. “In my own way.”

Acting on impulse, I said. “How about we talk in the kitchen? Would you mind?”

I got a quick impression of panic on his part. As though he hadn't ever considered the heart of the home to be a suitable location for guests.

Before he could refuse, I trotted past him through the dining room, marveling again at how peculiar it felt to be walking through a house that was identical to mine, yet not.

“Grace, just a second—”

When I stepped into the kitchen, I smiled. “Now this is more like it.”

“I'm sorry about the mess,” Tooney said, coming around from behind me. He rushed ahead of me to pick up the shirts and jackets he'd draped over the backs of a few chairs. “I wasn't expecting you to come in here.”

“This isn't so bad,” I said. It really wasn't. Other than the clothing—which he snatched up, zip-zip-zip—the only additional “mess” to speak of included a newspaper spread across the tabletop, two empty beer bottles next to it, and a small pile of dishes soaking in the sink.

Tooney scooted past me to open the basement door. He threw the bunched-up garments down the stairs and turned to face me again, chagrined. “I try to keep things clean around here but sometimes—”

“Bronson,” I said, remembering to use his real name. “This is great. I feel much more at home in here.”

“You do?” he asked.

I laughed as I dropped my purse on one chair, pulled out another, and sat down. “You should see our house sometimes. Bruce and Scott stay on top of things way better than I do, but there are days when it's simply too much for all of us. Messes build fast, don't they?”

Looking a bit more relaxed now, he started to lower himself into the chair across from mine. “Hang on,” he said, stopping himself. “Did you want coffee? Or I'd be happy to open up that wine I mentioned. I don't know when I'll ever have a chance to serve it otherwise.”

“I'm fine,” I said. “Honest.”

He looked so profoundly disappointed that I stopped him before he sat down. “On second thought,” I said, “after the past couple of days, a glass of wine would be perfect. But only if you'll join me.”

His soft features creased into a wide smile. “Great,” he said. “I'll be back in a second.”

He disappeared into his dining room, returning moments later carrying a bottle and two stemmed glasses. He placed
the glasses on the tabletop and squinted at the wine's label. “This one's a tempranillo,” he said. “Is that okay? Or would you prefer the merlot?”

“Tempranillo is one of my favorites.”

He opened and poured the wine with a deftness that surprised me. I'd often wondered about Tooney's past. Had he ever been married? Had a serious sweetheart? The one or two times I'd tried to tease information out of him, he'd clammed up and become noticeably uncomfortable.

When he sat across from me, I lifted my glass to tap his. “To helping Frances,” I said.

“Yes, and . . .”

“And what?” I prompted when he let the thought trail off.

He hesitated. “And to finding out what really happened to the victim.”

I got the impression he'd intended to say something else but I went along with it. We tapped glasses again. “That would be ideal, but the sooner we get Frances extricated from this mess, the better. That's my number-one goal.”

Tooney and I spent the next half hour discussing what we knew thus far, what we needed to find out, and the best methods for following up. “It will be tough for you,” I said. “There's no way the police in Rosette will bring you in on this—they'll know that you're biased. And I don't know how much Indwell will cooperate, either.”

“I intend to keep a low profile,” he said. “With any luck, no one will even know I'm around.”

“Before I forget.” I reached into my purse. “Here are those names you asked Frances to come up with.”

“Thanks,” he said as he read over the list. “I'll get started right away. Anyone in particular she wants me to focus on?”

I shook my head. “The sons, Harland and Dan, probably stand to inherit. So that makes them suspects in my eyes. But both, apparently, have solid alibis.”

“I'll shadow them. See what kind of people they are. See if anything pops.”

“Whatever you can dig up will be greatly appreciated.”

When I mentioned Frances's fears about her grapevine finding out, he flinched.

“I don't blame her,” he said. “That group of busybodies is not nice.”

“Who are they?” I asked.

He shared a few names, none of which I'd ever heard before.

“I've lived here long enough to know most of the movers and shakers in town. How can I have not met any of these people?”

“Can't say. But they know you.”

I frowned. “So I've gathered.”

The moment I drained my last sip of wine, Tooney reached for the bottle to pour more.

I laughed, placing my hand over the top of my glass. “What are you trying to do, Tooney? Get me tipsy?”

He froze, mid-movement, alarm in his eyes. “No, of course not. I would never do that to you.” He sat down, cheeks red again. “I'm sorry. We were having such a nice time, I just thought you might like to keep talking a little bit.” With a shrug, he added, “Plus, I won't drink any more of this by myself. I wouldn't want it to go to waste.”

“You're right. We
are
having a nice time.” I removed my hand. “A half glass, then. Good thing I'm not driving.”

He poured carefully, giving me a fraction of the amount I'd had before, then topped off his own. “This is really excellent wine,” he said. “Bruce and Scott have a good thing going with Amethyst Cellars. I hope they're able to keep the place alive, even with these new obstacles.”

“Me, too,” I said, sipping slowly. “They work so hard.”

Tooney nodded.

Finished with business now, we were simply two friends enjoying a quiet moment together after a long day. Tooney swirled the ruby liquid in his glass before taking a sniff and sipping. When he caught me watching, he grinned good-naturedly.

“You're a wine drinker?” I asked.

“I am.”

I flicked a glance toward the two beer bottles by the sink. “Then why did you say that you probably wouldn't have opened the tempranillo on your own?”

He gave a very Tooney-like shrug. “Wine tastes better when it's shared.”

I smiled. “I like that. Fair enough.”

“Today's a treat for me,” he said. “This is special.”

“How so?” I asked.

“You and me,” he said, “we're always running around or busy or catching up in the middle of some crazy business. There's been a lot going on here in Emberstowne and at Marshfield these past few years. You and me,” he said again, this time lifting his glass to gesture, “we don't take time to sit and talk, you know, just for the heck of it.”

“You're right,” I said. “We haven't made time to hang out together.”

“I'm not looking to be your BFF, or whatever the word is these days.” He gave a sad smile. “But I'm enjoying this small chance to talk without Rodriguez and Flynn beating down the door.”

I laughed out loud at that. My friend Bronson Tooney, the slightly pudgy, middle-aged private investigator who'd been there for me every time I'd needed him was telling me that he needed me to be there for him once in a while as well. I could do that.

I leaned across the table and patted his hand. “You're a treasure, Bronson,” I said. “We're lucky to have you in our lives.”

“I'm the lucky one,” he said. “If it hadn't been for you believing in me, I'd still be trying—and failing—to get my private-eye business off the ground. You changed a lot of lives when you came to Marshfield. Mine included.”

It wasn't the wine—it was more the warm camaraderie—that spurred me to draw him out.

“It wasn't that long ago that you finally told me that your first name wasn't Ronny,” I said. “What else don't I know?”

He shrugged again, this time looking confused. “Nothing that would make any difference.”

“No, no,” I said. “That's not good enough.” I drained my glass again, stood, and poured us both a full measure, which garnered me a look of surprise from Tooney. “Come on, tell me about you. Where did you grow up? What are some of the big moments in your life?”