Grace Among Thieves (8 page)

John turned a terrified face toward me.

“I’m asking the questions,” Flynn said, “not her.” He snapped his fingers in front of John’s nose. “Come on, guy, we’re running out of time here. What did he look like?”

To me, John had always epitomized restraint, eloquence, and strength. Reduced to near tears, his hands shook as he brought them up in supplication. “I don’t remember.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Flynn shouted. The aggressive detective was clearly out of control. I’d rarely encountered him without his partner, Rodriguez, and I suddenly realized I hadn’t ever appreciated what a loose cannon Flynn could be.

I moved forward. “Listen,” I began.

“You.”
The word dripped with disdain and I was struck again by the change that had come over him. Freed from Rodriguez’s tether, his true personality was unleashed. He pointed over my head, toward the opposite door. “Get out of my sight.”

Frances gasped.

Tendrils of heat curled behind my eyes. “Excuse me?”

“Both of you,” he snarled. “You get involved where nobody wants you. You screw things up and then everybody says how great you are. How much smarter you are than the
Podunk
police. Well, I’ve got news for you.” He shook his still-pointing finger between us. “Neither of you are getting your noses in this one. This is police business and you’re not going to make fools of us this time. You understand?”

Frances huffed. “Well, of all the—”

He advanced on her. “Get out of my sight or I’ll have you arrested for obstruction. That goes for both of you.”

This was stupid and I didn’t have time for stupid. “You can’t arrest us,” I said.

“Watch me.”

John cleared his throat. “He wasn’t very tall. Average height.”

We stopped arguing to listen.

Straightening in his seat, John leaned forward. “I’d put him in his mid- to late forties, graying hair, average build. No, wait.” He closed his eyes a moment, concentrating. “Slim. Yes. I remember thinking his clothes looked baggy. He was wearing the regular staff uniform—the blue blazer and tan pants. Light blue shirt. Striped tie.”

I knew what our standard uniform looked like, but I also knew John picturing the guy piece by piece might help him recall even more. Flynn looked ready to interrupt to ask for specifics other than clothing. I hoped he would keep his mouth shut and not disrupt John’s train of thought.

Fortunately John started talking again before Flynn could blow it. “No facial hair. Light complexion but he had a summer tan.” He pointed to his own eyes. “Pale here underneath, like he wears sunglasses. I never got very close to him, though. It could have been shadows playing tricks.”

Again John closed his eyes. “Wait.” We waited. A moment later, eyes still clenched, John said, “He had something sticking out of his collar. On his right side. Something pointed and dark.”

Flynn rolled his eyes. “Lot of good that will do. He’s probably changed clothes by now.”

John opened his eyes and fixed a glare at Flynn. “It wasn’t a piece of clothing. I couldn’t get close enough to be sure, but I think it was either a birthmark or maybe a tattoo.”

“You can’t be sure, but now you got close enough to recognize a birthmark?”

Frances harrumphed. “With an attitude like that, it’s no wonder you need Grace’s help to solve these crimes.”

Flynn turned purple, his face contorting in rage.

Frances had again chosen the most inappropriate moment to express a negative sentiment, but this time the unexpected support came as a welcome surprise.

The young guard stepped between them. “Can I be of any assistance here?” he asked. Flynn spun, looking ready to pounce, but apparently realized Thrush was part of the security team. I watched the short-tempered cop’s shoulders relax.

“Yes,” Flynn said. “This man needs to be interviewed. My partner and I will do it together, but I need to bring him upstairs while the task force questions the rest of his tour group.”

I’d disliked Flynn before, but after this blow-up, I despised the twerp. He rocked back and forth, balancing on the balls of his feet. “You can come with me,” he said to Thrush. “We’ll get this guy upstairs while the GSW victim is being transported to the hospital.”

“GSW?” Frances asked.

“They think they’re so smart and they don’t even know basic lingo,” Flynn said to Thrush as he rolled his eyes. “Gunshot wound,” he said to Frances in a condescending voice. To John, he said, “Your group will have to stay in town tonight.”

“We’re scheduled to leave in the morning.” John was beginning to regain some of his vitality. I supposed dealing with idiots will do that for you.

“We’ll see about that,” Flynn said, “I can’t promise. What I can tell you is that the victim upstairs isn’t going anywhere. He’s staying for a couple of days, at least. My partner and I hope to clear this in the next forty-eight hours and we’ll need him here to identify the guy who killed the girl.”

“You have someone in custody already?” I asked.

Flynn looked up with dead eyes but didn’t answer. He grabbed John’s elbow to hoist him to his feet, but John shook off the detective’s grip. “I’m fully capable of getting up myself, thank you.” Yes, John was beginning to regain spirit. “Mark Ellroy,” he said to me. “He’s going to need a place to stay once he’s released from the hospital. We’re only booked at our hotel here until tomorrow night.”

I immediately understood. “If Mr. Ellroy is required to stay in town, he’ll need a place to stay.”

John nodded. “Can you take care of that?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “I’ll arrange to have his things brought over and we’ll get him set up at the Marshfield Hotel.”

Flynn seemed confused by our conversation. I felt no need to explain.

Apparently, however, John did. “Thank you,” he said to me. To Flynn, he added, “This woman, who you so nastily dressed down, will be taking excellent care of your gunshot victim. It would behoove you to be nicer to her.”

Flynn shrugged him off and led the small group out the door.

Chapter 9

I SENT FRANCES UPSTAIRS AND DECIDED TO stop by the entrance hall to see how things were progressing for the task force. The detectives on site weren’t as pointedly rude as Flynn had been, but after providing me with minimal updates, they made it clear that they would prefer I wait in my office until summoned. Several of the incarcerated guests shot me looks of unrestrained desperation, but when I offered to have them moved to the Birdcage Room, where we could provide coffee and soft drinks, one of the task force detectives snarled, asking me if I thought this was a tea party.

“Leave this to the proper authorities,” he said. “That would be us.”

Truth be told, I was happy to be given a reprieve. As I started for my office again, I remembered my earlier state of mind—itching to take on the killer with my bare hands—and I gave a sad laugh at my own foolhardiness.

Who was I to take on such a monster? I’d gotten lucky twice. I wasn’t about to push my good fortune by sticking my nose where it didn’t belong. I had neither the skill set nor the resources to be any help whatsoever.

This morning I’d practically skipped up the stairs to our offices. Now, every trudging step I took made me feel as though I wore lead weights on my feet. My impression of Lenore was that she’d been misguided but ultimately harmless. She’d taken this vacation to get away from the fallout at the end of a difficult marriage. She’d been trying to do something positive, something for herself, and it had all been stolen away in a heartbeat.

Weariness borne of sadness kept me company all the way up.

I opened the door to Frances’s office. She looked up when the door opened and spoke as though she’d expected me to walk through that very minute, as though we were continuing a conversation that was already under way. “The golden horn.”

It took me a minute to remember we’d ordered an emergency inventory. “It’s missing?”

Frances’s eyes lit up the way they always did when she was about to impart bad news. “Right out of its display case.”

The carved horn was a replica of an 11th-century oliphant, or hunting horn. Six originals were known to exist, but these had been carved from elephant tusks. The one stolen from us was a reproduction Bennett had acquired twenty years ago. Although he loved the graceful curves of the original horns, he didn’t approve of owning real ivory. In fact, all the ivory items that his father and grandfather had accumulated in their lifetimes had been taken off exhibit and placed in storage. Bennett didn’t want tangible proof of man’s cruelty on display in his home, nor did he want to profit by releasing them to the marketplace. The hunting horn that had been stolen held all the beauty of an original, but had been carved out of solid gold.

“But . . .” I could tell from her artificially bored expression that she already had an answer for me and that I wasn’t going to like it. “That display case is on camera.”

“The viewfinder’s angle was changed. Deliberately.”

“For how long? Did no one notice?”

She held up a notepad. She made a show of perching her reading glasses on her nose, but I had no doubt she’d already memorized the facts and could recite them blindfolded. “I called down there the moment I found out about the theft,” she said over the tops of the lenses. “This is what I found out: A note was sent to security, informing them that several cameras around the manor, including this one, would be adjusted during the DVD filming today. It was signed Corbin Shaw.”

“What? Corbin knows better than to—”

“He didn’t send the note.” She waggled her brows. “At least, that’s what he claims.”

Dumbfounded, I tried to make sense of it all. “Is anything else missing?”

“Not so far. And before you ask, and I know you will, I have security trying to determine who adjusted the camera angles. I mean, if these were physically moved it ought to be pretty obvious who got close enough to the equipment to do it.”

I suspected that whoever had gone to such lengths to reroute cameras would have taken precautions necessary to ensure anonymity. “Is security—”

“They’re going over every minute of tape as we speak. They’ll keep us informed.”

“Thanks, Frances.”

She gave me a look that said, “What did you expect?” and then asked for an update.

“The man who was shot, Mark Ellroy, has been taken to the hospital,” I said. “I’ll be heading over there soon to check on him. He may need help transitioning from his current hotel to ours. I’ll see to his belongings, but there may be more I haven’t anticipated.” Frances’s expression was one of pure skepticism and I couldn’t imagine why. Continuing, I explained, “The police want to keep him in town until they have a chance to question him thoroughly.”

“Can you do that?” she asked. “Up and move him without his okay?”

“I’ll make sure I talk with Mr. Ellroy first before I touch anything of his.”

She seemed to approve. “Poor man,” she said. “His whole vacation will be ruined.”

“Worse for Lenore.”

“I wasn’t forgetting about her,” Frances said, miffed. “I’m thinking about what that poor man has to face next. Your detective friends have been made to look like fools twice now in the span of a few months, so they’re desperate. You know how some doctors order fifteen more tests than a patient really needs to avoid being hit with a malpractice suit?” When I nodded, she continued, “I think the Emberstowne police are so worried about you showing them up again that they’re encroaching on Mr. Ellroy’s civil liberties. He should be allowed to resume his vacation if he likes.”

That was a whole lot to assimilate at once. I blinked. “Would
you
be able to enjoy a vacation after the person standing next you was killed in cold blood?”

“I just think he should have been consulted before he was ordered to stay here.”

“Point taken, Frances. And for the record, I agree. I’ll talk with him.” I glanced up at the office clock. “I don’t want to leave here with the police still on-site, but they’ve made it clear I’m not needed.” I took a moment to consider my options. “Flynn said they would be questioning John while the paramedics transport Mr. Ellroy. Maybe if I hurry down to the hospital right now, I can talk to him about relocating to the Marshfield Hotel before Rodriguez and Flynn arrive.”

“Good luck avoiding those two.”

* * *

AFTER ATTENDING TO A FEW MORE DETAILS, I struck out for the hospital. Sunny, muggy heat engulfed me the moment I stepped out of my car to hurry to the entrance. I wanted to rush, but found it difficult to move quickly without working up a sweat. I skirted around an ambulance idling outside the ER, and wondered if it was the one that had transported Mr. Ellroy.

The moment the doors whooshed open and I stepped through I lifted my arms, hoping to halt the outpouring of perspiration. The hospital’s brightly lit admissions area—white tile walls, cobalt blue floors—was blessedly cool, but my goose bumps weren’t due to the chill. I knew I’d never be able to escape the immediate reaction I always experienced when encountering that fake-fresh scent that every hospital shares. I’d been in this one far too often with my mother to ever permanently shake its effect. The appalling aroma came in waves bearing hope, fear, and tension laced with antiseptic, stale coffee, and bleach. I wondered if all hospitals belonged to a co-op where they purchased the same “Let’s try to cover the odor of illness” fragrance to pipe in by the gallon. Somebody ought to tell them it wasn’t working.

Today looked to be a slow day in the ER. Plastic steel-frame chairs lined the walls. All empty. I walked through the quiet passage to a high-top circular desk that sat between two sets of automatic doors, both sets clearly labeled,
NO ADMITTANCE WITHOUT AUTHORIZATION
in bold red lettering. A young, uniformed Emberstowne cop lingered nearby, watching a car commercial on a ceiling-mounted TV.

The woman at the circular desk didn’t appear eager to authorize my entrance. With tightly curled brown hair, a trim build, and crisp movements, she gave off a vibe of efficiency and addressed me with one of those brisk up-and-down assessments.

“You want to see a patient,” she repeated after I introduced myself. Not a question. “A gunshot victim. And you don’t have authorization.”

“He was shot at Marshfield Manor.”

“You already said that.”

The Emberstowne cop perked up and turned toward us.

“I need to talk with him about where he’ll be staying once he’s discharged,” I said. “I promise I’ll be brief.”

“We take our patients’ right to privacy seriously here.”

Arguing my case wasn’t going to work. I switched tactics. “You’re right,” I said. “You have no reason whatsoever for letting me in to see him . . .”

Her eyes narrowed. She was waiting for the “but,” so I gave it to her. “But I believe Mr. Ellroy will want to see me, given the choice. Do you think it would be possible”—I was treading lightly here—“for you to ask if I could have five minutes of his time?”

She started to answer, but I interrupted.

“If he says no, I’ll leave. Easy as that.”

She picked up a pen. “Spell your name for me, please.”

I’d begun to do so when the doors to the right of the desk folded open like a double set of old-fashioned phone booths. The only difference was these mechanisms moved swiftly and silently rather than with an earsplitting screech. One of the paramedics who had helped stabilize Mr. Ellroy at Marshfield came through. He nodded to the attentive cop then lifted his hand in greeting when he saw me. “He’s going to be okay,” he said when he got to the desk. “Lucky that doctor lady was there. Not that we haven’t handled worse stuff on our own, you understand,” he added quickly, “but he was pretty worked up and she helped calm him down. They know each other?”

“They were all traveling as part of a group,” I answered. “Is she still here?”

“Back there, talking with the doc on duty. Looks like the bullet—”

The woman at the desk cleared her throat. “Excuse me, this visitor is not family.”

The paramedic rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, this lady is involved. Cut her some slack.” He shrugged as he addressed me. “I think it wouldn’t hurt if you got in there. He’s a little disoriented and wants to know what’s going to happen to the group if he’s stuck here in the hospital. He says he doesn’t want to ruin anybody else’s vacation.”

“That’s surprisingly thoughtful.”

“It was,” the paramedic said, “but he’s got some powerful pain meds rushing around in there. Patients can get a little loopy.”

The doors folded open again and the diminutive doctor from the group emerged. She headed toward us with purpose.

“Marlene?” I said.

“You’re from the mansion, aren’t you?” she asked, obviously recognizing me as well. “You’re the woman who runs the place, right?”

“That’s me.” I extended my hand. “Grace Wheaton. We really appreciate all you’ve done for our guest.”

She waved off my thanks. “He isn’t rejoining the group, is he?”

“The police would rather he stay. Ultimately, I suppose it’s up to Mr. Ellroy. That’s why I’m here, to suggest he remain at Marshfield until the detectives have time to question him thoroughly.”

Her mouth twisted off to the side in a reflective manner. I was sure she was about to argue about Mr. Ellroy’s rights the way Frances had, but she surprised me by saying, “That’s probably the best. After a trauma like this, he’s going to need time to come to grips with all that’s happened. This isn’t going to be easy for him. And hanging with a bunch of tourists who are out for a good time isn’t exactly optimal.”

“Good point.”

She winked. “You don’t get to be my age, honey, without picking up a little wisdom along the way. If you want my opinion—and you’re going to get it whether you do or not—I think he should stay here for as long as he needs to. I can’t remember where he’s from. Maybe Colorado or something?” She shrugged. “Wherever it is, it’s far enough that he can’t drop what he’s doing on a whim if he needs to come back. And he’s going to need to work through all this. Closure has a mind of its own. Comes when it wants to and not a moment before. You tell him to take his time.”

All this seemed to be enough for the efficient clerk because she jammed a laminated visitor card at me then pointed backward over her head. “Second bed on the left. The officer will escort you.”

The uniformed cop straightened, looking eager to be of assistance. Any chance to do something more than just stand sentry, I supposed. “Thank you,” I said to the woman, quickly excusing myself in case she changed her mind again. This time when the automatic doors folded open, I took a deep breath of the faux fresh air and walked through.

The second bed on the left had its curtains pulled back and I caught sight of my quarry immediately. He was shirtless, propped up in the bed, with bandages covering his upper left arm. I wouldn’t describe him as chiseled, but he was definitely in good shape. He glanced up as I approached and I watched recognition dawn. Up close, he was as good-looking as I’d first thought: dark, tousled hair; expressive brows that arched at my approach; a strong jaw; and what looked to be the beginnings of five o’clock shadow. Like the bandaged Indiana Jones as Marion Ravenwood tended to his injuries.

“How are you feeling?” I asked.

“They gave me pain medication, but”—he winced—“it doesn’t eliminate it. Just dulls it to an ache.”

“What did the doctor say?”

“I got lucky. The bullet didn’t hit bone and went right through. They stitched me up like Frankenstein.”

“May I talk with you for a little bit, or are you too tired right now?”

“Please,” he said, indicating the far side of the bed with a nod. I came around and saw a doctor’s stool. “I could use a little company. Have a seat.”

“If the doctor comes . . .”

“Let him get his own chair.” He tried to smile, but the pain held him back.

I remained standing. “Mr. Ellroy—”

“For heaven’s sake,” he interrupted. “We’re in an emergency room after a tragic afternoon at your mansion. If that doesn’t put us on a first-name basis, I don’t know what does.”

That made me smile. “I’m Grace,” I said.

“I remember, from John’s introduction yesterday. I’m Mark, but you probably already knew that.” He sent a quizzical glance directed toward the young cop, who hadn’t left the immediate area. “Am I under surveillance?” he asked.