Grace Under Pressure (17 page)

“It won’t wait forever,” Bruce said, gesturing us into the parlor. “And there are few bad days that can’t be turned around with a good Cabernet and a healthy dose of chocolate.”

 

 

LATE THAT NIGHT AS I STARED AT THE CEILING of my room—the same room I’d shared with Liza when we were very little—I thought about the twists and turns of life that had ultimately brought me back to where I’d started. The wine should have made me sleepy, but my mind raced with disconnected thoughts.

This room used to be my mother’s when she’d lived here as a child. My grandmother had occupied the master bedroom, which she’d reportedly shared with her husband on those rare occasions he returned home. He came back only for money, food, or other sustenance. I thought of Liza. I guess that tendency ran in our family.

From all accounts, my grandfather Peter Careaux had been a huckster. Quick to talk anybody out of a buck. Quicker even to spend it—as long as it was on himself and not his wife or two young daughters.

I imagined he’d been a lot like Taft—just on a much, much smaller scale.

I probably should have at least started going through those investor files.

With my bedroom window open, I could hear frogs croaking out to one another in the murky night. A cool breeze lifted the sheer curtains and drifted past my wine-warmed skin. I thanked God it wasn’t raining. I didn’t know how much longer the roof would hold out.

What was it about this house? Why did we all come back? When my grandmother died, my mom and dad moved our family to Chicago, leaving this old Victorian to the whims of renters whose backgrounds they didn’t check thoroughly. It wasn’t until years later, after my dad had passed away and I had moved to New York, that my mom had insisted on moving back. By then the house had suffered, almost too much. But my mother was a stubborn woman.

Maybe the house was bad luck.

Maybe I should sell and get away from here.

I blinked and turned onto my right side so I could stare out the window at the high branches of the tree just outside. I had no idea what kind of tree it was and I felt oddly sad about that. I’d lived here so many years and yet . . . and yet this hadn’t ever really been my home.

I should walk away tomorrow and get a job elsewhere. A person with my experience would be snapped up in a minute. Yeah, right. In this economy? Leaving would allow me to step away from Abe’s murder. Abdicate responsibility. I could sell this house, take the money, and make my way in the world the same way Liza did—with absolutely no regard for anyone’s happiness but her own.

How easy it sounded.

I swallowed. Was Eric with her?

Shadows moved across my ceiling as cars drove past, their headlights reflected in my neighbors’ windows, their glow arcing across my room. I heard the soft
shush
of one making its way slowly down our small street. I heard the bass beat of another, its rhythm quick and syncopated, reminding me that we had teenagers in the neighborhood.

If the house really was cursed, maybe the reason my parents’ marriage was good was because they’d moved away. Maybe if I hadn’t brought Eric here, he would never have met Liza.

And maybe I should stop dwelling on such things so late at night when the world is dark and life holds little promise.

I closed my eyes and whispered, “Stop!” hoping to change my brain’s path by sheer force of will. I told myself to think about my roommates and how lucky I was to have them in my life. I thought about my job, which—despite this week’s tragedy—was exactly where I’d always wanted to be.

Inexplicably, my conversation with Jack Embers this afternoon popped into my mind—his warning to be careful, and his parting comment about not knowing me well. What did that mean, exactly? Or did it mean nothing at all?

And on that last lingering thought about Jack, I finally fell asleep.

“THEY SAID THEY CAN’T.”

With my concentration broken by Frances’s pronouncement from the doorway, I pressed a finger next to the line I’d been reading to hold my place, then processed her words.

“Who can’t what?”

“The Mister’s attorneys say they don’t have Taft’s investor information in spreadsheet form. The files they sent were based off of their hardcopies.”

Well, that dashed my hopes. “Darn.”

“They also said that the information they sent earlier was only done so because Marshfield Manor is one of their favorite clients. They wanted us to know that our request for the list of investors was highly unusual, but they were willing to help Mr. Marshfield.” Frances sniffed. “Like they have anyone bigger than the Mister.”

I looked down at the files I’d been poring over, blocks of text so dense they made my eyes wiggle. “In other words, this is as good as it gets.”

“Looks like.”

I wrinkled my nose then placed a yellow Post-it note where my finger had been, and stood up. “I need a break.”

“Would you like some coffee?”

You could have knocked me over with a feather. “Uh, thanks, no. I’m good.”

“Have you found out anything?”

I consulted the notes I’d scribbled. “Ever hear of . . . ?” I rattled off a few names.

She shook her head.

“So far, they’re some of the biggest losers in the Taft Ponzi scheme,” I said. “I don’t know what I can find on any of them, but I’ll look them up on the Internet. You never know what will pop.”

“You want me to contact the agency we sometimes work with?”

“Agency?”

Frances’s eyes took on a conspiratorial glow as she moved closer to my desk. “We engage a service every once in a while.”

“Like a private detective?”

She nodded.

“Not Ronny Tooney?”

“Fairfax Investigations. This agency is extremely discreet.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll look into it.”

“They’re real good. They know everything about everybody.”

“Even more than you?”

For the first time since I’d met her, Frances laughed. A short, high-pitched bark. “Maybe not that good.”

The outer office door slammed and a woman’s voice called. “Is anybody here?”

Frances frowned. “Oh no. Not her.”

I had no idea who she meant.

Two seconds later, the owner of the voice strode into my office. Wearing a bright pink sleeveless tank with a matching cashmere cardigan draped over her shoulders, pristine white linen pants, and strappy sandals, she looked like an ad for summer in the Hamptons. “Where’s my father?” she asked Frances. Then addressing me, she asked, “And who are you?”

“Ms. Singletary,” Frances said with deference. “It’s nice to see you.”

Puzzle pieces dropped into place. Hillary Singletary, Bennett’s stepdaughter from his second wife. For her part, Hillary didn’t seem to share Frances’s sentiment. She ran a French manicured hand through her blond bob, momentarily exposing mousy gray roots. I knew she was in her mid-forties, but except for that flash of gray and a few tiny lines near her eyes, she looked fabulous. Trim, tiny, and well preserved, if I’d passed her on the street I would have tagged her for thirty-five.

Until now I hadn’t met the woman, and from all accounts that made me one lucky girl.

Extending my hand, I said, “I’m Grace Wheaton—”

She and I shook. “So you’re the new Abe.”

“Uh,” I said, momentarily thrown, “I doubt anyone could replace him—”

“But you intend to try, don’t you? Now that he’s gone.” Her smile fell flat. “I’m here for the wake this afternoon.”

Frances gasped.

Hillary Singletary had clearly expected that reaction. “My father told me I had to come,” she said, sounding more like a recalcitrant teenager than a woman of the world. “I don’t know why. I hate these things.”

Regaining her composure, Frances cocked her head. “Your father told you?” she asked, her voice an elongated exaggeration. “Your father? I could have sworn he passed away last year.” She affected a confused look. “Whose wake did I go to then?”

I watched their little interplay, realizing much had gone on between these two over the years.

Hillary rolled her eyes. “You know what I meant.” Sighing, she continued. “My
stepfather
, Papa Bennett, called me and told me I needed to be here today. And whatever my fath—Papa Bennett asks of me, I do.”

Frances made a noise that could have been anything, but sounded to me like a snort. “Yeah, right.”

“Excuse me?” Hillary said.

Frances didn’t answer. She was out the door in seconds, slamming it behind her.

Hillary turned to me. “Why on earth do they keep that woman on staff? She’s always been a total b—”

“Can I get you something?” I asked before she could get the word out. “Coffee, tea?”

She took a seat without being invited to do so. “How long have you been here?”

“Just a few months.”

“Mmm.”

I had no idea what that meant, so I changed the subject. “You must have known Abe pretty well. You grew up here, didn’t you?”

“More or less.” She leaned back in the chair and crossed her legs. All she needed was a diamond-encrusted cigarette holder and her image as an aging spoiled brat would have been complete. Except . . . every movement was too studied, too careful. From her rapid blinks, to her shifting attention, to the way she repeatedly clasped her hands, she was far from relaxed. She should have come off as a woman of power, withering the new girl with a mere glance. But this chick was nervous.

Her discomfort emboldened me. “I understand the memorial will be held at Forest Lawn,” I said. The small cemetery was technically on Marshfield property, but its location did not appear on any tourist map, nor was anyone allowed in without proper authority.

“You’re not going?” she asked.

“I wasn’t invited.”

She sat up, interested. “Why on earth not?”

I shrugged, choosing to sidetrack rather than answer. “Do you live in Emberstowne?”

“God, no.” She waved a finger northward. “I’m about a hundred miles from here. Still no hotbed of excitement, mind you, but at least I’m not half a day away from the nearest major airport.” Pressing her lips together, she seemed to consider me for a moment. “So, are you married?”

“No.”

One perfect eyebrow arched. “Kids?”

“No.”

Shifting forward, she leaned her elbows on the desk. “Then what in the world are you doing here working with old geezers? You’re young, you should be out enjoying life in a big city like New York or Chicago. Someday you’ll be sorry you didn’t sow your wild oats when you had the chance.” She made a clucking sound, then narrowed her eyes. “Unless of course, you’re here because of a man. Is that it?”

Hillary Singletary delving into my private affairs made me wholly uncomfortable. Part of me wanted to knock down her assumptions and let her know that I’d spent a good number of years in New York City. And any oats I’d sown were my business. I started to ask if she needed me to arrange a room for her at the hotel this evening, when Bennett walked in.

“Hillary, how nice,” he said, his expression belying his words. “Frances said you’d arrived. Thank you for coming.” He crossed the room and took the wing chair next to Hillary’s. Turning his attention to me, he smiled. “How are we doing?”

I wanted to ask Bennett about some of the names I’d uncovered during my perusal of the Taft files, but not in front of his stepdaughter. I got the distinct impression that the less I divulged in her presence, the happier we all would be. She had a rapt, eager look to her, as though waiting for some tidbit to snatch up and devour. It was rare I had such an instantaneous negative reaction to someone, but Hillary oozed insincerity.

Answering Bennett, I mentioned a few small housekeeping issues then added, “Other than that, we seem to be doing well today, all things considered.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. “As we discussed,” he said, handing them to me. “Have you spoken with the detectives?”

These were, no doubt, the keys to the private residence, but Bennett’s expression led me to believe he didn’t intend for Hillary to know that. “Not today, not yet,” I said. “Has something happened?”

He waved my concerns away but leaned forward in his chair. “I want to know that the manor’s interests are not being ignored. You’re keeping up on things, aren’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Good girl.”

Hillary watched our interchange with keen interest, much like a spectator at a tennis match. “ ‘Good girl?’ ” she echoed, a peculiar smile on her face.

I thought she might be making a comment regarding Bennett’s use of the word
girl
. While I might have issues being referred to in that manner by a contemporary, it seemed wrong to impose such politically correct sensibilities on a man of Bennett’s age. He’d grown up in an era where
girl
was not only inoffensive, but complimentary. He meant well and that’s all that mattered to me. I tended to cut elderly men a little slack. Especially when that older man happened to be my boss.