Grace Cries Uncle (4 page)

Rodriguez made his laborious way up the slight incline that ran along the back of my property. Flynn and I stayed with him even though we both could have made the trek in about half the time.

“Snowed again yesterday.” Rodriguez swung an arm out, pointing at the footprints ahead of us. “These, leading to your house and back, are from me and my partner.” His words came out in billows of white, chopped and heavy with effort. “No footprints around the body, except for the kids' who found him. So we know he was there for some time.”

“The uniforms first on the scene said the victim had snow on him, too. That's probably why no one noticed him until this morning.”

“Kids found him?” I asked.

“Yeah. Your neighbor's son and daughter went out to play. Wanted to make snow angels. Found the guy ‘sleeping' in their yard. Turned out to be dead instead.”

“Grace, hello? Grace?” I turned toward the high-pitched
greeting to find my neighbors from across the street, an older brother-sister team, making their way toward me.

I let out a little groan.

“What's wrong?” Flynn asked.

“Nosy people,” I said under my breath. “What's worse is that I can never remember if their names are Carl and Chris, or Chris and Carla.”

The siblings, both in their sixties and wearing identical blue parkas and forest-green rain boots, slogged uphill on short legs. He was slim, she was not. By the time they reached us, their breath was puffing out from their slack lips, shooting into the cold air like smoke from a steam train.

The brother asked, “What's going on?”

“I don't know yet,” I said.

The sister pointed. “That's the coroner's van, isn't it? Is somebody dead? What have you gotten into this time, Grace?”

When she started walking uphill again, Flynn stopped her. “This is a crime scene,” he said. “I can't let you go any farther.”

“You're letting
her
go up there.” The brother pointed at me, looking petulant.

“Miz Wheaton may be able to identify the victim,” Rodriguez said. “Now, if you'll excuse us.”

“Identify the victim?” the brother repeated as his sister yelped. “Is it someone we know?”

Rodriguez held up a hand to quiet their rising hysteria. “We'll update you as soon as we can.” He pantomimed scanning the street. “Which house is yours?”

They pointed at the same time, their extended arms forming a giant
V
behind them. “That one,” they said in unison.

“I will be sure to stop by to talk with you when we're done here.” Rodriguez may have noticed Flynn's impatience as the younger detective bounced on the balls of his feet, but missed Flynn rolling his eyes. “Why don't you wait for me there?”

The siblings seemed disappointed to have gotten all dressed
up in their heavy outerwear only to be turned away, but when Rodriguez added, “And I'll tell you as much as I can, all right?” they acquiesced.

“Don't forget us,” the sister said.

Flynn raised his voice to their departing backs. “Not a chance of that.”

The far end of my property backed up to three other yards: Tooney's place to the west, a neighbor I didn't know to the north, and a family with two kids to the east. As we headed uphill, I caught sight of a handful of uniformed officers rubbing their hands together and breathing into their fists as they stomped the ground to stay warm.

“We talked with the kids' parents, who are about as eager to get out of this town as your buddy Pedota was,” Flynn said, with a scathing look at me. I thought about Todd Pedota and his involvement in the last murder investigation. Flynn was right. The moment my former neighbor had been exonerated, he'd put his house up for sale and disappeared. “They're horrified to have their kids stumble across a dead man, as you might imagine. And because of all the murders that have taken place at Marshfield, they're convinced you're somehow involved.”

“I'm not,” I said.

Flynn smirked. “Those two people in the parkas seemed ready to blame you, too.”

The coroner's van was parked between two homes, back end doors open in anticipation of its grisly cargo. Rodriguez raised a hand in greeting to the two men standing next to the dark vehicle. “That's the new coroner,” he said. “You meet him yet?”

A heartbeat later it registered that he was talking to me. “Uh, no. No reason to.”

“Good guy.” Rodriguez's words were still breathy and brief. I found myself wishing he'd stop talking and conserve energy.

Two of the uniformed officers around the body stepped
aside to give us a better view. The victim was lying faceup, arms spread on either side of his body, as though entreating the skies for help. As heavily stained as it was with blood, I recognized the suit. And even though his expression—eyes closed and openmouthed—was unfamiliar, I recognized the man immediately.

“That's him,” I said. “That's the FBI agent who came to my door.”

I shivered as the evidence technicians finished taking photos, collecting samples, making notes, and conferring with Rodriguez and Flynn. Yesterday's chill was nothing compared to the icy cold we were experiencing today and I wasn't properly outfitted. Expecting this to have been a quick trip out to my yard and back, I'd pulled rubber rain boots over my fuzzy socks and grabbed the nearest jacket I could find—my trench coat. No hat, no mittens. The coat was lined, but against the sharp breeze it was like wearing a bedsheet. My hair twisted up and around my head; my eyes watered.

“We need to ask you a few more questions, Miz Wheaton,” Rodriguez said when he noticed me rubbing my nose with the back of my bare hand. “But there's no reason for you stand out here in the cold.”

“It's not that bad.” As uncomfortable as it was out there, I didn't want to leave until I knew what had happened.

He waved aside my lie and called to one of the two men standing by the idling coroner's vehicle. “Hey, Dr. Bradley, would it be okay if Miz Wheaton warms up in your van? She's our best witness so far.”

The taller of the two men stepped forward. Brown curls twisted out from around his knit cap and although he looked to be only in his late thirties, he walked with a cane. His shiny black jacket sported the county emblem rendered in gold with his title, “Coroner” embroidered beneath. With his alert eyes and serious demeanor, he definitely looked the part.

“I'm fine,” I said.

“So this is the legendary Grace Wheaton,” the man said.
Letting go of his cane long enough to remove one glove, he extended his right hand to me. “I understand you kept my predecessor busy. I'm Joe,” he said as we shook. “Happy to meet you.”

“Same here,” I said instinctively, although I would have been content not to have dealings with our county coroner. Now or ever.

“Your hands are freezing,” he said. “Come on, the cab section ought to be toasty.”

“I'm fine, really.”

He'd tugged his glove back on and grabbed hold of his cane again. Lifting it slightly off the ground, he tapped it against his leg. “Injury,” he said, even though I hadn't asked. “I pretend I'm Willy Wonka. Come on.”

I didn't want to be a bother, but I was beginning to lose feeling in my fingers. “Thanks.”

We trudged around the vehicle together. “I know that spending time in the coroner's van is probably not on anyone's bucket list”—though his words were deadpan, amusement sparked his eyes—“but it will keep you out of the wind.”

When he opened the passenger door, a wave of blissful heat engulfed me so completely that I was suddenly okay with the idea of hanging out in the death-mobile. “It's wonderful in here,” I said. “Thank you.”

“There's not something I hear every day.”

I pointed to the driver's side. “Are you joining me?”

Sliding a glance outside to where the body lay, he seemed to consider it. “I've done a preliminary examination, but they may need more input before they move him. As delightful a prospect it would be to enjoy the warmth, it's probably best if I make my way back.”

Across from me, the driver's-side door opened, bringing a rush of icy air. Flynn climbed in, settling himself behind the wheel before pulling the door closed again. He blew air into his fists then leaned forward to talk across me, addressing the coroner, who remained outside holding my door.
“Thanks, Doc. This shouldn't take long. We'll be out of your hair before you load up.”

Dr. Bradley gave Flynn a nod of acknowledgment. To me, he said, “Again, it was very nice meeting you. Too bad it was under these circumstances.” The man didn't smile, but I swore I detected humor in his eyes. “Be well, Ms. Wheaton. I would say I hope to see you again soon, but most people don't take that the right way.”

When I laughed, a tiny corner of his mouth tipped upward. He nodded and shut the door.

Flynn pulled out a tissue, blew his red nose, and got right down to business. “Are you one hundred percent certain that's the guy who came to your door yesterday morning?”

“That's him. No doubt about it.”

“What did he want?”

I recounted the brief conversation to the best of my ability, reminding Flynn that I'd cut the exchange short and that the FBI guy said he'd be back later.

“Do you remember his name?” Flynn asked.

“Alvin Clark.”

He seemed impressed that I was able to come up with that. “Which office was he out of?”

“No idea,” I said. “Except for the badge, his photo, and his name, there wasn't much real information there.”

“And you have no idea what he wanted to ask you about?”

“None whatsoever. He wanted to know who else lived with me, but I wouldn't tell him.”

“Why didn't you call us?”

“Why would I?” I asked. “Having an FBI agent show up at one's front door isn't usually a reason to alert homicide detectives.”

“What if the killer is really looking for you, but shot this FBI guy because he got in the way?”

“Why would anyone be after me? That doesn't make any sense.”

“Yeah, but the situations you get involved in don't always follow logic. You ought to be more careful, you know.”

I couldn't see how answering the door for an FBI agent constituted reckless behavior but I didn't feel like arguing. Flynn asked me a few more questions, but I had little more to add.

“Want me to walk you back to your house?” he asked.

“I think I know the way.”

“That's it, Grace. Be a smart aleck. Things happen around here, and they always seem to involve you. You ought to think about taking precautions.”

“I have,” I said. “We installed a very sophisticated alarm system. If anyone tries to break in, the service and the police department will be alerted.”

“Uh-huh. But what happens when you open the door for the killer and let him in? No alarm will go off then, will it?”

I didn't know why he was trying to scare me, and I wasn't in the mood to take any more. “We're done here, right?”

He gave a quick nod.

I hesitated, but plunged ahead. “If you find out, would you mind letting me know why this Alvin Clark was here and what he wanted?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Thanks,” I said.

I was about to open the passenger door when Flynn said, “One more thing, Grace.”

I turned.

“A burglar alarm provides only limited protection. In the time it takes to transmit notice of a break-in and then for help to arrive, a murderer could kill you and be out of your house, leaving you bleeding on the kitchen floor. Maybe we catch him, maybe we don't. But at that point it's too late for you, isn't it?”

“Wow, thanks, Flynn,” I said.

Monday morning, my assistant stood in front of her desk, arms folded. Her tethered rhinestone glasses were perched at the end of her nose and she stared at me over their tops, her tadpole eyebrows arched. “Well?” she asked before I could even say hello. “When will the lab have results?”

“Good morning, Frances.” I pulled off my winter coat and hung it on the nearby rack. “How was your weekend? Did you do anything fun?”

“Stop stalling. I had my doubts you'd go through with it but I hear that you did. The lab must have given you an estimate.” Tapping her foot now, she continued to glare. “And while you're at it, bring me up to date on the dead guy in your backyard.”

“Not my backyard. My neighbor's.”

“Same difference. Who was he?”

“Don't tell me your gossipy minions missed the part about him being an FBI agent?”

Frances's brows jumped even higher.

I gestured. “Have a seat. I'll tell you all about it.”

Frances settled herself behind her desk and I took one of the two chairs opposite. My assistant loved nothing better than to gossip; she'd be eager to share my up-close-and-personal details with members of her clandestine grapevine.

Before I started, I held up a finger. “I want to remind you not to share anything about the DNA test with anyone.”

“Tongues are wagging around town,” she said, “even though I haven't breathed a word. My friends have been trying to get me to confirm.” She shook her head, making her chins waggle. “They're getting nothing from me. But the fact that I'm not talking is almost admission in itself.”

I sighed. “I really wanted to keep this quiet.”

“Best you can hope for at this point is keeping the results quiet. You never answered. When will you know?”

“About a week or so. Two labs are running separate tests. They'll wait until both sets of results are in.”

She gave a brief nod. “Now, back to your FBI guy.” Pushing up her purple sweater's sleeves, she leaned forward on thick elbows to listen.

Frances interrupted only twice during my summary: once to comment derisively on Bennett's generosity toward Tooney, and the other to ask what I thought the FBI agent wanted from me.

“Maggie Inglethorpe suggested that one of my neighbors may be under investigation,” I said.

“But you don't think so.”

“I don't know what to think,” I said. “The fact that the agent was found shot to death so close to my house has me on edge.”

Frances's mouth twisted. “At least the murder wasn't on Marshfield property this time.”

At the sound of Frances's door opening, I turned. Bennett strode in, his brow tight, his mouth set in a line.

“Gracie,” he said, his voice a growl. “What happened yesterday? Why didn't you call me?”

I got up to greet him. “There was no reason to alarm you.
In fact, I was just telling Frances about how Rodriguez and Flynn are on top of things. The fact that the FBI agent wanted to talk with me is simply a curious coincidence. I don't believe there's anything for me to worry about.”

“Anything having to do with your safety concerns me,” Bennett said. His gaze was still heated and direct. “I worry about you.”

I led him toward Frances's desk, where we both took seats. “I'm sure we'll find out more soon enough. I asked Flynn to keep me updated.”

Frances harrumphed. “And you think he will?”

“He'd better,” Bennett said. “I'm very concerned about this FBI agent's inquiry. The minute you hear more, I want to know about it. And if we discover the detectives are holding back on us, I'll have a talk with the chief of police myself.”

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves.” I held my hands out to both of them. “Flynn has been better lately. And Rodriguez seems particularly elated to be back on the job.”

Frances harrumphed again. I ignored her.

“What about that reception you talked about, Bennett?” I asked, in an effort to shift subjects. “I hadn't yet gotten to that topic with Frances. I really believe that she and I ought to be involved in the arrangements.”

Frances sat up straighter. “What reception?”

“It's nothing, really,” Bennett said. “I'm hosting a small get-together here at the conclusion of the Fine Art and Antiquity Collectors' convention.”

Frances looked from me to Bennett and back again. “The convention starts Saturday,” she said. “When were you planning on telling us?”

Looking as uncomfortable as he had when he'd first broached the topic, Bennett tried to dismiss its importance. “I've had my personal staff arrange everything. It's too much work for both of you and it has nothing to do with Marshfield Manor. This is purely a personal whim and I didn't want to trouble either of you.”

Frances, eyes narrowed, appeared to be having the exact same reaction I had. “Who's coming?”

Bennett waved a hand in the air. “It's a short list, really. A few experts, a few key collectors in the world of antiquities.”

“And you didn't think Grace and I should be in on the planning?” she asked.

Bennett shot Frances a stern look. “I am allowed to comport my business dealings without your involvement, am I not?”

Frances tilted her head, not buying any of this. Nor was I.

“Not to put you on the spot, Bennett, but when you first mentioned this, you told me that you were working with the organizers of the FAAC. Now you say you put your personal staff in charge. You also just referred to it as a small get-together, but aren't more than a hundred people expected to attend?”

“A hundred guests?” Frances echoed.

Bennett shifted in his chair. “Did I say that?”

“You did,” I said. I didn't enjoy making Bennett feel uncomfortable but this situation felt wrong. “You are, of course, entitled to keep secrets from us. I understand if you don't want to trust us with certain—”

“This is not a matter of trust.” His brows came together again. “Certainly not.”

“It's okay, Bennett,” I said. “Whatever your reasons for keeping us away from this reception”—I made eye contact with Frances—“we may not understand, but we'll accept your decision. If you prefer we stay away, we will stay away. All we ask is that you keep us updated so that we're not blindsided when things like this come up.”

Bennett looked away, staring at the ceiling. He flexed his jaw, then said, “The reception is Tuesday night. The list of attendees hasn't been finalized yet and likely won't be until the last minute. There may be more than a hundred guests. Perhaps double that number. Much will depend on what items change hands during the course of the convention.
The organizers have been working with my personal staff and even I don't know all the plans for the evening.”

I studied Bennett as he continued.

“Because I was approached to host this event, I thought it best to allow those in charge to manage the details, thus sparing you both the additional responsibility.” He held out his hands, fingers spread. “You see why I didn't feel the need to mention anything?”

Despite his explanation and assertions, I sensed he was still hiding a key point from us, though for the life of me, I couldn't imagine what it was.

“Before we move on, two questions,” I said.

He sighed theatrically and folded his hands across his middle. “Proceed.”

“Why aren't you attending the actual FAAC convention like you usually do?”

“You're not attending FAAC this year?” Frances asked.

“He claims he doesn't care for the crowds,” I said. “And that he has no desire to go this year.”

Bennett's eyes sparkled and he pursed his mouth before answering. “Had I known I was to face the Spanish Inquisition I may have reconsidered visiting this morning.” Inhaling deeply, he said, “Allow me this one secret. I am, indeed, staying away from FAAC this year, and am instead hosting a separate event after its conclusion. My reasons are my own and you will both simply have to trust that I know what I'm doing.”

I knew we'd taken the issue as far as we could. “Which leads me to the second matter,” I said. “Tooney asked you if there was a specific item you're hoping to acquire and if this reception is the means to accomplish that. Is that what's going on?”

He looked away again, scratching the side of his temple, buying time. After what was probably no more than fifteen seconds, but felt much longer, he made eye contact with us both. “Mr. Tooney's talents are grossly underrated. I'm glad we have him on retainer as Marshfield's ally.”

Frances snorted.

“What is it you're looking for?” I asked, eager to join in on the journey. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

For reasons I didn't understand, my words seemed to cause Bennett pain. “I'm sorry, Grace. Not this time. I've already told you more than I should have. There is an item I hope to acquire, and I have it on good authority that its owner plans to attend the FAAC event. I prefer to conduct business here in my home, where I have the advantage. At this juncture I prefer not to divulge further information about the item and I will thank you both to put an end to this particular line of questioning.”

He stood. “If I'm lucky, I will receive news of this item as early as today, and perhaps all will be settled before the FAAC event begins. If that happens, I will be free to attend the convention after all.” Pointing to each of us in turn, he added, “That's enough for today. Grace, please keep me updated with regard to the murder investigation. And, more important, stay safe.”

When he left, Frances stared after him, tapping her fingers on her blotter as she chewed the inside of her cheek. “That's not like him at all.”

“I know,” I said. “It has me worried.”

She shifted to chew the other side. “Maybe you should let the matter drop.”

“This? Coming from you?”

She blinked a couple of times. “Know what I think?”

“Tell me.”

“He's buying you a present. For when the DNA results come back. You both already know what they're going to say, but once it's official he will want to commemorate the moment by giving you a gift.”

“I hadn't thought of that.”

“You think I'm wrong?” she asked.

“I don't know,” I said slowly. “That makes perfect sense.” And though it did, something still didn't feel right.