Grace Under Pressure (7 page)

“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

“You never asked. If you hadn’t been talking so loud in there, I probably still wouldn’t know what you were doing.” She stared at me with a saccharine smile, bringing those tadpole eyebrows together. “You have to trust me,” she said. “It’s the only way you’ll get things done around here.” She pulled out a manila folder from a purple hanging file labeled “Old applications.” The smile was still frozen in place as she handed it to me. “Here you go.”

“You didn’t think to pull these out yesterday?”

Her forehead creased and I realized she really hadn’t thought to do that. “How was I supposed to know these might be connected to what happened? Bennett sure didn’t think they were important.”

Yeah, I wanted to say. And now someone’s dead. Instead I asked, “Why was it filed with applications?”

“Because nobody would think to look there,” she said with a shrug. “Abe believed in being careful. It’s a lesson worth learning.”

“But he trusted you?”

Oblivious to my sarcasm, she nodded. “Of course.”

Letters in hand, I beeped Carr on the security channel and asked him to have the police stop by as soon as they were able.

“Roger that,” he answered.

That done, I eased into my desk chair and shook out the file. It was a slim folder, with four individual sheets inside. Abe hadn’t kept the envelopes, so I had to guess the order in which they’d arrived.

Three originals, four copies. All in twelve-point Courier font, the letters had been typed in all caps on cream-colored construction paper that appeared slightly water damaged. Odd. These days, everything was done on standard office paper. If I were sending a threat, I’d be sure to use the most plain, widely available materials around. Much tougher to track down when everyone owns the same stock. This gave me hope that the authorities might be able to glean clues from these sheets.

I read the photocopied note—no doubt the most recent one:

Well, wasn’t that succinct?

For an extortion letter, it was woefully short on direction. Pay what? And to whom? I was about to scan the other three missives for clues when I stopped. There was no telling how many fingerprints had already marred the originals, but I sure didn’t want to add mine to the mix. I pulled a pair of white cotton gloves from my desk drawer and put them on. I always kept extra gloves handy just in case I needed to inspect a valuable artifact. This mansion was home to thousands of treasures, some of which could be harmed by coming in contact with skin oils.

Safely snug in my gloves, I took the letters over to the copier and made duplicates for my files. Frances watched me, her confusion apparent. “Two sets of copies?” she asked. “What do you need two copies for?”

Instead of answering, I glanced at the grandfather clock near the door. “It’s almost nine. Are the switchboard operators ready with that script?”

“Of course.”

How the woman maintained such efficiency even as she eavesdropped was beyond me. “Good.” Making a bold decision, I gathered originals and copies and made for Abe’s office. “I’ll go over these in here,” I said as I reached for the door. “When the police arrive, show them in, please.”

She scowled.

Two seconds later, Abe’s desk phone beeped with an interoffice alert. I picked up the handset. “Yes, Frances?”

“Should I start moving all your personal items in there?”

I stared out the window at the sea of greenery below, forcing myself to remember that I was still relatively new and that Frances would naturally feel protective of the mansion and all who worked here, living and deceased. I didn’t care for her surliness, and we would definitely address her attitude in an upcoming review, but for the next few days until we settled into our new roles, I decided to cut her some slack.

“No, thank you,” I said with patience I hoped communicated through the phone.

She clicked off, and just as she did, the phone’s base began lighting up with the flicker of incoming calls. We had an old-fashioned corded system, with push-button access to different lines. I glanced toward the fireplace, where a gleaming gold mantel clock ticked one minute after nine. Here come the complaints. Right on time. I just hoped most of our disappointed patrons would be mollified by our efforts. We had some of the nicest, most personable staffers on our switchboard. I had faith in them.

Finally able to get a good look at the warning letters, I studied them one at a time. What I guessed to be the first letter was also the most verbose:

There was information regarding a bank account number in another country and specific directions as to how to wire funds into it. Five hundred thousand was a lot of money, but apparently not enough of a threat to worry Bennett. I wondered if he would have taken it more seriously if the extortionists had asked for more.

I got my answer in the next letter.

Five million certainly upped the ante, but still Bennett hadn’t seen fit to take these missives to the police. Not to speak ill of the dead, but it occurred to me that Abe should have taken the situation into his own hands and alerted the cops whether or not Bennett approved. This was serious. And yet Bennett had believed that, if ignored, the problem would go away. The letter gave the date of Friday, the 20th. I leafed backward through the calendar and decided that this one probably referred to either February or March. At least we were narrowing down the time frame.

The third letter was cryptic.

Okay, I mused, leafing through the calendar again. A Wednesday after February or March twentieth. I got up, opened the door, and waited for Frances to complete her phone conversation before asking, “Did anything happen here at the manor during February or March? Anything bad? On a Wednesday?”

“Nope.”

“You’re sure?”

“Abe made sure to keep an eye open that week. And the next week, too.”

That week? I felt a tingle of excitement. “So you remember the date these letters started arriving?”

“We got the first one on January eighteenth.”

Why did I keep forgetting that Frances was the oracle and that I should always consult her first? “Thanks, Frances,” I said, grateful for the information. I jotted dates down. “This may help.”

“Anything else?”

“As a matter of fact,” I said, “there is.”

She folded her hands on her desk, but kept one eye on the flashing phone lights. “That call is for you.”

“In the future,” I began, “I would really appreciate if you wouldn’t always wait to be asked. When you have pertinent information, please share it.”

Bright eyes blinked at me a couple of times. Her fingers spidered over to the phone. “Your call is on line four.”

As I returned to Abe’s office, I heard her say, “Ms. Wheaton will be with you in a moment.”

“I UNDERSTAND MR. CASSANA,” I LIED RUBBING my brow while enduring the angry man’s diatribes over the phone was not a new experience for me. Not that I thought I’d ever get used to it.

The estate’s closest neighbor, Frank Cassano, had been my very first assignment. “Make him go away,” Abe had told me. “He doesn’t have a legal leg to stand on and he knows it. He’s just hoping to make enough of a nuisance of himself that we’ll give in.” With a look meant to inspire, I supposed, Abe had added. “We won’t.”

“Is it too much to ask?” Cassano shouted again, making me pull the receiver away from my ear. “All’s I’m asking is to be treated fair.”

He had been treated fairly. More than fairly, if truth be told. But the man wouldn’t listen to reason. Ever. We had gone over this at least twice a week for a month. When he’d insisted on speaking with Abe the other day, I’d assured him I was authorized to handle his complaint. He pushed hard to be connected to the mansion’s director but I refused, unwilling to be defeated on my first real challenge in the new job. Cassano would deal with me, and only with me. I’d made that clear. Now I bit the insides of my cheeks. “Today really isn’t a good day for this discussion—”

“Oh yeah? Why don’t you tell me exactly when you
will
feel like discussing it? Huh? You’re giving me the runaround.”

“That’s not true—”

“You calling me a liar?”

“Mr. Cassano,” I began again, working as much empathy into my voice as I could muster. “Maybe you haven’t seen the news. We had a tragic incident here yesterday. Abe Vargas—you’ve talked with him in the past—he was shot.” Getting the words out was harder than I imagined it would be.

“What?” The incredulity in his voice was unmistakable. “Is he okay?”

I swallowed. “No, Mr. Cassano. I’m afraid he’s not okay.”

Understanding quieted our unruly neighbor. But only momentarily. “Wow,” he said. “That’s really something. I’m sorry he’s dead, but that doesn’t fix my problem. Your boss there, Marshfield, cheated me and I’m going to make him pay. You got that?”

Before I could answer, he hung up.

And before I could put the receiver down, Frances was announcing my next call.

A dozen complaints later, I was ready to promise the next unhappy guest an all-expense-paid trip to Europe, if only I could get back to studying the threat letters. But it was not to be. The phone beeped again—this time, it was Frances on the intercom.

“Yes?”

“You wanted to speak with the detectives when they arrived?”

“Thanks, Frances, please send them in.”

The door to Abe’s office opened and Frances held the knob. “Would either of you care for coffee?” she asked sweetly. “We have iced tea, if you prefer.”

The two men demurred, and Frances, still smiling, nodded. “If you change your mind, please feel free to let me know.” She didn’t close the door behind her.

I stood to welcome my visitors, who introduced themselves and showed their badges. They were the same two men I’d seen upstairs this morning. Detective Rodriguez was older, taller, and rounder than his companion. What was left of his hair was more salt than pepper, and even though it was morning, he already had sweat trickling down the sides of his face. His pale green short-sleeved shirt must have been purchased thirty pounds ago, because the buttons looked ready to spring. He eyed the leather chair and sat down as soon as I invited him to do so.

By contrast, Flynn was lean, buff, and fidgety. Looking just as Hispanic as his partner, despite the Irish surname. He rolled his shoulders and neck, maintaining his balance on the balls of his feet, poised to run a marathon, shoulder holster and all. When Rodriguez gestured for him to sit, the younger man’s eyes flashed. “This is the victim’s office, isn’t it?” he asked me. I nodded, about to answer when he continued. “Where is your office?”

I pointed toward the door. “Just outside.”

“Why are you in here, then?” He shot a look toward Rodriguez. “Has this room been processed?”

Rodriguez smiled, teeth bright, holding up a pinkie-ringed hand. “I went through everything last night,” he said slowly. “Don’t worry, amigo.”

“Already?” Flynn’s head twisted as he took in all corners of the room. “There’s no fingerprint dust anywhere. And I don’t remember seeing any pictures of this room in the file.”

“You wouldn’t have. We didn’t take any photos in here.” Squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, Rodriguez took a deep breath. “If you remember from all your studying, we are working under the assumption that . . .” He pulled out a pair of reading glasses and consulted his notes. “That Mr. Abraham Vargas was killed in a botched robbery attempt.”

“We shouldn’t close off any paths until we’ve exhausted all possible options.”

To me, Rodriguez said, “My friend here is just transferred in from a big city up north. He is not used to our pace yet.”

Nor was I. Maybe it was all the years I’d spent in New York City before coming back here to live, but Rodriguez already struck me as a little too laid-back for a murder investigation. Although they proceeded to ask me all the questions I’d anticipated—how long I had worked here, where I had been during the time of the murder, did I know anyone who had a motive to kill Abe—their manner led me to believe that I’d been eliminated as a suspect already. At least in Rodriguez’s view.

To me, the botched robbery theory didn’t fit, so I floated my own hypothesis. “Did you consider that Abe might have been killed in a case of mistaken identity? He’s similar in size and coloring to Mr. Marshfield. And after all the threatening letters, it’s possible that whoever targeted Mr. Marshfield found Abe in the private residence and shot him by mistake.”