Grace Cries Uncle (13 page)

“Oh my God,” Liza said, dropping her head back to stare at the ceiling.

“My folks, too.” Tooney grew more animated. “They were huge fans of his. When I was born, they considered naming me Charles, but I'm really glad they didn't.”

“Charles is a lovely name,” I said.

“Yeah, but Charlie Tooney?” he asked. “You ever see a Starkist commercial?”

“Ooh,” I said. “Good point.”

“For crying out loud, are we going to reminisce about boring old movies and TV shows all day?”

I ignored Liza's complaint. “Bronson is a wonderful name,” I said. “I'll do my best to remember to use it. It may take me a while to break the habit.”

“You can keep calling me Tooney, Grace. I don't mind.”

Liza threw her hands up. “What is it with this town? Everybody here is madly in love with my sister.” She shook her head and twisted her lips. “Gotta tell you, Bronson,” she said, stressing his name, “I don't see the attraction.”

He gave a matter-of-fact shrug. “Then it's your loss.”

The business district of Emberstowne featured a plethora of quaint stores, restaurants, coffee shops, and other small enterprises—like my roommates' Amethyst Cellars—much as one might expect in touristy areas. These establishments owed their livelihood to the masses who visited Marshfield annually and the Chamber of Commerce, which took great pains to preserve the town's considerable charm.

Thus, whenever residents needed to shop for various and sundry items unavailable in our local shops, they headed out of town to the nearest big-box store. Located off the expressway, twenty minutes from our business district, it was the best option for finding what I needed today.

At this early hour, the store's wide aisles were empty. The few shoppers present zipped in to pick up what they needed and zipped right back out. Exactly my plan.

There were three prepaid cell phones on display worth considering and a handful of others out of my price range. I had no idea how long Liza planned to stay but I wanted to
be able to reach her if necessary. There was no way I'd go so far as to add her to my mobile account, but a prepaid cheapie could provide me peace of mind.

Only one cashier had her light on—lane eight. She couldn't be much older than nineteen, with pale hair pulled back into a messy bun, stayed-out-late red eyes, and earrings that were too heavy and dark to do her any favors. I got in line behind a couple unloading their handheld basket. Preoccupied with plans for the day, it took me an extra second to recognize them. “Mr. and Mrs. Tuen,” I said.

They both turned at the sound of my voice. “Ah, Miss Wheaton,” Jim said. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”

“I must apologize for not being able to come down when you visited the other day.”

Daisy patted my arm. “Think nothing of it,” she said. “We know you're busy.”

“Thank you. I was very disappointed to miss talking with you.”

Jim finished adding their items to the conveyor. Basic vacation needs, it seemed: a six-pack of bottled water, shampoo, generic aspirin, several magazines, and a bag of salty snacks. “Yes, yes,” he said. “But we trust we will see you Tuesday night?”

“Tuesday night?” I asked.

“Bennett's reception.”

“The reception. Of course,” I said, giving myself a little smack in the head. “It's too early for my brain, I guess.”

They both laughed politely.

Jim excused himself to complete his transaction with the cashier. “It seems we are destined to have our conversations whenever my wife and I are making purchases.”

My turn to offer a considerate chuckle.

As he signed the small payment screen, Jim leaned back into the conversation, speaking quietly. “Would you happen to know if Malcolm Krol will be attending as well?”

Malcolm Krol—the name zinged an immediate
recollection of the blond gentleman with the Australian accent who had visited Bennett earlier this week. “I . . . uh . . . don't know,” I said.

Daisy and Jim shared a meaningful glance. “But you know who he is,” Jim said. Not a question, more like a confirmation.

“We met briefly.” I hoped my helpless shrug would prompt them to tell me more about Bennett's mysterious visitor.

Daisy's crow's-feet wrinkles deepened around her eyes. “We only wish our encounter with him had been brief.”

Jim placed a restraining hand on his wife's arm. “Let's not speak ill of those who are not here to defend themselves.” They finished their purchase and moved forward as the cashier handed them their bags. Jim thanked the young woman, then nodded to me. “Until Tuesday,” he said.

While we were saying good-bye, I became aware of another shopper joining the line behind me. I didn't pay any attention to him until after the cashier asked if I'd found everything I needed, and I responded that I had.

Before she could scan my item, the man behind me plucked it out of her grasp. “Now what would an upstanding resident of Emberstowne need with a prepaid cell phone?”

I spun. “Excuse me,” I began, but the quasi-polite reproach I'd intended died on my lips. The man from my front door—the fake FBI agent, the second and still-alive one—had twisted the blister-pack holder and was skimming the words on the back.

“Look at these features,” he said. “These burner phones are getting more sophisticated every day.”

“Give that back to me.”

He handed it to the cashier. Far from the flat, blank stare he'd worn when we first met, the playful wink he flashed was aimed to make her swoon. The cashier's breathless thanks left no doubt the ploy had worked. And from the man's self-assured grin, it was clear he was used to such reactions.

The cashier, eyeing the credit card I'd pulled out, tapped the pay station. “Swipe over there, please.”

The fake FBI guy had placed deodorant, mouthwash, disposable shavers, and a mystery paperback on the conveyor. “Those phones are still traceable, you know.”

As I completed payment I worked up a dismissive glare. “Thank you for that insight, Mr. McClowery, or whatever your real name is.”

The cashier's bloodshot eyes glinted, taking in our conversation. She handed me my purchase without another word.

McClowery flicked his fingers against the bag in my hands. “No burner phone in the world can help Eric now.”

I yanked the bag up. “This isn't for Eric. This is . . .” I'd been about to say that it was for my sister, but that was none of this guy's business. “I told you I haven't seen Eric and I don't expect to. Whoever you are, you can stay away from me.”

“We don't want
you
,” he said, speaking softly. “My ‘thug brethren,' as you call them, merely want to have a talk with your former fiancé.” As he pulled out his wallet to pay, he gave me that dead-eyed stare again. “Tell me where he is and you never have to see me again.”

“Trust me,” I said with as much swagger I could muster, “nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

“Tell me where he is and your troubles are over.”

“My troubles are already over,” I said, wildly faking it. “The minute I leave here, I'm calling the police on you. Again.”

I pivoted and made for the doors, which were about fifty feet away. Resisting the urge to run or glance back at him, I didn't even take time to zipper my coat. Once I made it into the parking lot, I hurried to my car, threw the bag on the passenger seat, and drove off. It bothered me that I was shaking, but it bothered me even more that this angry man still apparently believed I knew Eric's whereabouts.

Eschewing the radio, I spent the entire silent ride to Marshfield mulling my situation. I didn't call Rodriguez and
Flynn as I'd threatened to, but I planned to do so once I was safely in my office.

Frances looked up when I stormed in.

“Eric must be around here somewhere,” I said. “Why else would all these brutes suddenly converge on Emberstowne?”

“What happened?”

I told her about my interaction with the second fake FBI agent. “I didn't sign on for this,” I said. “When Eric left, I thought he was gone for good. All of a sudden, I'm in the middle of . . . whatever this is.”

“Would you really tell that guy where Eric was if you knew?”

“Probably not.” I blew out a breath of frustration. “I have nothing but contempt for the guy but that doesn't mean I want to see him killed.”

“And you think they plan to do that?”

“I can't figure out what anyone's plan is.”

She leaned forward on her desk, her fleshy forearms like loaves of dough set out to rise. “Don't put yourself in danger to protect him.”

“Ha!” My laugh came out harsh and quick. “I have no intention of doing that.”

“You may be doing it already.”

“What do you mean?”

She worked her lips in and out, buying time. “By providing asylum for your sister, you're keeping yourself in the bad guys' crosshairs. If she goes, maybe Eric follows; maybe not. Like you said from the start—she's at the center of all this. Toss her out and I bet your troubles disappear, too.”

I scratched the back of my neck. “I'd be lying if I didn't admit the same thought had crossed my mind.”

She waited.

When I finally looked up, I caught Frances watching me with a gentle expression in her eyes. Pity, perhaps? She blinked it away so fast I could pretend I hadn't noticed. “I can't,” I said. “I can't throw her to the wolves.”

“She's plenty capable of fending for herself.”

“But what kind of person does that to another human being?” I shook my head. “Sure, I could wash my hands of the whole business. McClowery would have his bait and I'd have my life back.” Ever since Liza appeared, I'd operated on autopilot, protecting my sister even though I wished her gone. Here, now, putting it into words for Frances helped me understand my own motivations. “That's not who I am.”

“You're right. It isn't,” she said. “So what do we do about it?”

Before I could answer, the office phones rang. Frances looked at the display. “Emberstowne Police Department,” she said, then handed me the receiver. “Tell them that man was harassing you.”

“Grace Wheaton,” I said into the phone.

“Hey, yeah.” It was Flynn. “We have another update for you.”

“About the man who was killed?”

I could almost hear him shake his head. “Nah.” Flynn's tone was different this morning. Oddly amused. “You know that guy you chased off your porch last night?”

“I was going to call you about him,” I said, sitting up. “Why? What did he do?”

“Ah . . .” Flynn drew out the sound. “Rodriguez and I dug into the guy's background. Came up empty on criminal records. We planned to try again this morning. I got in early to get started.”

“What did you find?”

He made a noise that I could have sworn was a laugh. “Right in the middle of a follow-up phone call, guess who walks in asking for me and Rodriguez?” He didn't wait for a reply. “Yep. Sam McClowery is sitting here as we speak. Told me a little bit about your conversation in the checkout line this morning.”

“Wait, what? Why did he come to you?”

“Turns out he's legit.” Again, the low chuckle. “Sam
McClowery
is
an FBI agent. I verified everything myself, not two minutes ago.”

“But . . . but . . .”

“I know. Kind of a shock, isn't it?”

I had no words.

“I explained how our victim came to visit you claiming to be FBI. Agent McClowery is beginning to understand why you were skeptical when he presented his bona fides.”

“No way,” I said. “He threatened me. Today, in the store. Would a real government agent do that?”

“They do what's necessary.”

“What has Eric gotten himself into? Why are they looking for him?”

“There's a question I can't answer.” He covered the mouthpiece and I couldn't hear more than low mumbles. When Flynn returned to the phone, he said, “Agent McClowery has a few leads he plans to follow today. He said he'll stop by your house tonight. I hope you'll give him a warmer welcome this time.”

When we hung up, I stared at Frances for a long moment. “Well,” I said when I found my voice. “I didn't see that coming.”

I brought Liza back home that evening via the underground passage. Tooney—that is, Bronson—mopped sweat from his forehead as he thanked me for coming home earlier than usual. Liza watched Tooney with predatory satisfaction as he explained that, although Hillary and Frederick had popped in during the day, he'd been worried that my sister was bored.

She'd skimmed her fingers along his upper arm and didn't react when he flinched. “Bored? Not me,” she said.

“I'm sorry,” I whispered to him before we left.

“It's okay, Grace. I'll be better prepared next time.”

When we were finally back at my house I asked Liza, “What did you do to that poor man?”

“Gave him a little thrill, that's all. What is with you people? You're all so stuffy and straitlaced.”

I ignored her.

“I'm probably the most exciting thing that's happened to this town in a long time.”

I smiled in spite of myself. Knives, guns, bombs, poisons.
Not to mention treachery and murder. We'd had more excitement in the past couple of years than most cities experienced in a decade. “Yeah, probably,” I said.

“Cut me a little slack then,” she said, dropping into a kitchen chair. “I'm adding spice to your life. Admit it.”

I handed Liza the prepaid cell phone. While she fiddled with it to figure it out, I started getting Bootsie's dinner together.

“Why did you get this for me?” Liza asked. “I don't understand.”

“I want to be able to reach you. And for you to be able to reach me. In case of emergency.”

She stopped poking at the buttons long enough to look up. “You expect an emergency?”

“I've learned to be prepared for anything.”

Bootsie padded around the corner, probably smelling the food I'd pulled out for her. I placed her filled bowl on the small area rug near the counter and waited for her to pounce.

Back arched, she edged along the room's perimeter.

“Who is that Frederick guy, anyway?” Liza asked.

Bootsie froze in place for a split-second before spinning around and racing out of sight.

“What have you done to my cat?” I asked, crossing the room in three strides to see where Bootsie had gone. She wasn't in the dining room.

“Nothing,” Liza said with a little whine in her voice. “How could I? I've been in the other house all day.”

“Don't touch her. Got it?”

I turned around in time to see Liza roll her eyes. “I don't. I avoid her like the plague.”

Taking a seat across from her, I started in on the news of the day. “Guess what, Little Sister? It turns out that the man who showed up here last night really is an FBI agent.”

She ran a hand through her hair. “No way.”

“Way,” I said. “He's coming by again tonight to talk with you.”

“What does he want with me?”

“I suppose we'll find out. I'll go out on a limb here and guess that he believes you can help him find Eric.”

“No, no, no.” She dropped both elbows onto the tabletop and splayed her fingers across her forehead. “How would I know where he is? I'm trying to keep away from him.”

“So you say.”

Her mood shifted from rattled to irritated in the millisecond it took to make eye contact. “What do you think? That I'm pretending? That I'm meeting Eric on the sly and we have some elaborate conspiracy planned?”

The doorbell rang. I pushed away from the table. “I wouldn't put it past you.”

She followed me through the dining room and parlor, complaining the entire way. “Fine. I'll talk with this FBI guy. You know I wouldn't lie to the law.”

I threw a scathing look over my shoulder.

“No really,” she said. “I wouldn't.”

I made sure to peer out the window before I opened the door. “It's not the FBI guy.” It was a woman. She stood sideways, her head turned toward the street as though she'd just heard a noise she couldn't place.

“Who is it?” Liza asked.

Instead of answering her, I pulled open the big door.

At the sound, the woman turned. It was the same one who had come to ask about renting a room. I went momentarily speechless. “Hello again,” I said.

Before I could get another syllable out, she tapped her chest. “Oh good, you remember me.” She had on a more winter-worthy jacket this time, but still wore cowboy boots and the fluffy red scarf. She carried the same brown leather tote, filled to bulging. “Can I come in?”

“I don't see the point. We still don't have room for boarders.” I began closing the door.

“Wait, please. One question.”

“What?” I asked, against my better judgment. “My roommates gave you good suggestions for places to stay.”

“Everything is booked solid.” She bit her lower lip, and lifted her brows in one of the most pathetic puppy dog looks I'd ever encountered. “This convention lasts for only a couple more days. Couldn't you let me stay here until the hotels open up again?”

“This is ludicrous,” I said. “I don't believe for a moment that you're here to rent a room.”

“Your couch, then. I said I'd sleep on your couch.”

“Whatever your real story is, I'm not buying it.”

Liza had skittered away when I'd first opened the door. Curiosity, or perhaps relief that it wasn't the FBI man, had brought her out of the shadows. “Who is it?” she asked, coming up behind me.

I started to close the door, this time for good.

I don't know if it was the look on Nina's face or the gasp from my sister that stopped me. Either way, I twisted between the two women like I was watching a furious game of Ping-Pong. Score: Liza distressed, Nina exhilarated.

“Go away,” I said to the woman on the porch. “Don't come back.”

I slammed the door as firmly as I could, leaning against it as blistering red-hot fury simmered in my chest. “What was that all about?”

Liza pretended not to understand, but her eyes were wild. “What do you mean?”

I pointed. “Nina Buchman. Who is she?”

Liza tried to adopt a “you're crazy” glare, but failed. “How should I know?”

“You recognized her,” I said, pushing off from the door to follow Liza into the parlor. “And she recognized you. What in the world is going on here?”

Liza shook her head, hands dancing. “You're imagining things.”

Squaring off opposite her, I folded my arms. “Right here, right now,” I said. “No lies. No omissions. Who is she and what's going on?”

Liza flopped into my favorite wing chair and leaned her head back against the upholstery. “She works with Eric.”

I didn't budge. “Doing what?”

“Don't know exactly. I didn't even know her name until you said it just now. They've been working together for a while.” With a halfhearted laugh she got up to pull the room's curtains closed. “Kind of shutting the barn door after the horse gets out. Isn't that what Mom used to say?”

She returned to the chair, giving a quick appraising glance around the room, as though double-checking that there were no other ways to see inside. Pulling her knees up, she wrapped her arms around her legs and stared up at me. “That's it. And now she knows I'm here. Which means Eric knows I'm here.” She flung one hand upward. “Or will, momentarily.”

“If he's with this other woman,” I said, making the obvious assumption, “why is he coming after you?”

She leaned forward, her feet hitting the floor with vehemence as though to force the words out faster. “He isn't
with
her. Not like that. They're colleagues.” Twisting her hand in the air again, she slumped back. “Or something.”

I waited.

“He wants me back,” Liza said in a small voice. “That's why he's after me. He'll do anything he can to win me back.”

“Uh-huh,” I said.

“Fine, don't believe me. See if I care.”

“Why do you keep so many secrets?” I asked.

Maybe it was my frankness—pure curiosity, stripped of judgmental overtones—that persuaded her to answer in kind. “We all have secrets, don't we?”

I sank into the sofa opposite her. “I suppose.”

“Mom had lots of them.”

“What do you mean?”

Liza gave me a look that suggested she pitied my
ignorance. “You know as well as I do that this house meant more to her than it should.” She waved her index fingers to encompass our surroundings. “Anyone else would have given this place up if her husband needed the money as much as Dad did. Not Mom. Even though we couldn't afford the upkeep. Why do you think that is?”

My heartbeat quickened. Could Liza know that our mom's biological father—Bennett's father—purchased this house for our grandmother back when our mom was a baby?

“She loved Emberstowne,” I said.

That pitying look again. Liza rested her elbows on her knees and clasped her hands together. “The only reason a person keeps a money pit like this house is because they're tied to it on an emotional level.”

My breath was quick and shallow. I hoped my cheeks weren't blazing red. Did Liza know? Had our mother shared the family secrets with her? Why not with me?

“You still don't get it, do you?” Liza asked.

My mouth painfully dry, I could do no more than shrug.

“Look at you. Look at me.” She sat up straight and lifted her hands. “We barely resemble each other. I think Mom had an affair.”

Relief
whoosh
ed out of me so fast I got lightheaded. “Is that what you think?”

Mistaking my reaction for shock, Liza laughed. “Why do you insist on wearing rose-colored glasses, Grace? Or are they blinders?” She seemed far more delighted than she should have at the prospect of our mother having had an extramarital dalliance. The idea was preposterous; our parents' marriage had been as solid as they come. But people like Liza—willing to deceive those she loved—had to believe that everyone around her was capable of duplicity as well.

“I . . . wow.” Pulling my mangled thoughts together, I took a deep breath. “That's quite a stretch,” I finally said.

“It fits. You have to admit it. Mom had all sorts of papers she hid from us. Like the Treasure Map. I wonder what ever
happened to that after I snitched that you found it. Did you ever come across it again?”

I had. Finding it had helped me make the connection between our family and the Marshfields.

The doorbell rang again. Liza jumped up. “I'm not here,” she said, hurrying into the kitchen. “Tell her she was mistaken. Give her a fake name. Or tell her I left the minute you shut the door on her. Tell her I ran off to . . . to . . .”

The rest of her words were lost as I dragged open the door once again, ready to let Nina Buchman know that my next step was calling the police.

“Ms. Wheaton?”

Caught short again, I took a moment to recover. I ran my hand through my hair and unlocked the outer door. “Agent McClowery. Come on in.”