Grace Cries Uncle (5 page)

In my own office later that afternoon, I decided to call Rodriguez and Flynn to find out if they'd had any luck discovering who'd killed Alvin Clark. Neither detective was at the station. I considered trying their cell phones, ultimately deciding not to disturb them. I left a voicemail instead.

Seconds after I dropped the receiver back into its cradle, my phone rang. From the display I knew that the call originated from our main welcome desk on the first floor.

“Want me to answer that?” Frances shouted from her office.

“I got it,” I said, and picked up. “Grace Wheaton.”

“Miss Wheaton, this is Evelyn down at the front desk,” she said.

I would have recognized her warbling voice without clarification. “What can I do for you?”

“There's a Mr. Krol here to see Mr. Marshfield.”

Bennett hadn't mentioned anyone by the name of Krol to me. But then again, Bennett had been keeping secrets lately. “Does he have an appointment?”

“He says he was supposed to be here earlier but his flight was delayed. I tried upstairs but Mr. Marshfield isn't picking up his phone. His butler, Theo, doesn't know where he is, either. I thought you might.”

“Unfortunately, I don't know have any idea where he is at the moment. Did Mr. Krol tell you what this is in regard to?”

Evelyn placed her hand over the mouthpiece, though I couldn't imagine why she wanted to shield her conversation. When she returned, she said, “Mr. Krol says that he has a business arrangement with Mr. Marshfield.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “He won't give me any details.”

“That's fine, Evelyn. I'll come down to meet him while Frances locates Bennett. Sound good?”

“Yes, thanks, Miss Wheaton.”

Having overheard, Frances had already taken up the quest. “Who do you suppose this visitor is?” she asked as I crossed her office. “The Mister usually keeps you updated on his appointments.”

“Not this time, apparently.”

“I'm telling you,” she shouted to my back as I headed out, “he's planning a surprise. Mark my words.”

I took a staff stairway down to the main level and let myself through a segment of the velvet-rope barricade that delineated tourist boundaries. Hurrying across a corridor where a family of six walked abreast, taking up the entire width, I excused myself and pushed through.

I caught sight of Bennett's guest from about thirty feet away. Tall, with the kind of blond hair that managed to look tousled and professional at the same time, he cut a dashing figure in his charcoal suit. Seventy-five-year-old Evelyn stared up at him with undisguised adoration, and although he was about half her age, he appeared to be enjoying Evelyn's company.

“I'm Grace Wheaton,” I said when she regretfully directed his attention to me. “I'm sorry Bennett Marshfield isn't available at the moment. How may I help you?”

He shifted the camel overcoat he carried in order to shake my hand. “Very pleased to meet you,” he said in a warm Australian accent. “Evelyn informs me that you're the palace manager for the estate.”

I doubted Evelyn had used those exact words.
Palace manager
wasn't a term I encountered often, but it always made me smile. “I suppose you could say that.”

“I'm Malcolm Krol.” He handed me a business card.

These days, when anyone can achieve quasi-professional results using a desktop printer, business cards are generally unimpressive. Not so that of Malcolm Krol. I recognized the high-quality linen stock and noted the raised printing. Deep maroon lettering against a creamy background provided the man's name and phone number, nothing more.

“What business are you in, Mr. Krol?” I asked.

Our visitor either perpetually maintained an amused expression, or he recognized me as a gatekeeper and decided to play along. His eyes were unreadable but he appeared to be tamping down a tolerant smile.

Evelyn piped in, clearly eager to rejoin the conversation. “He had an appointment with Mr. Marshfield this morning at eleven,” she said, adding absolutely no useful information whatsoever. “His plane was delayed.”

Krol reached across the desk to touch Evelyn's arm. “That's right. And if the airline had gotten me here on time, I would have had my meeting with Mr. Marshfield and been out of your hair.”

I waited for him to answer my question. Instead, he lowered his voice. “Have you any idea when my colleague will be available?”

Colleague? That label suggested he and Bennett had worked together in the past or had plans to work together in the future.

“Malcolm?”

I turned to see Bennett jogging across the main hall. He
waved a greeting and closed the distance between us in seconds.

As the two shook hands, Bennett gestured toward me. “I see you've met the estate's manager.” To me, he said, “Thank you for greeting my guest. Frances let me know you were down here.” Bennett's smile was strained.

“My pleasure,” I said. “I was just asking Mr. Krol about his business.” Holding the man's card aloft, I casually flipped it back and forth. My message was clear—I wanted to know more.

“Of course,” Bennett said, lifting it from my fingers. “I will be sure to talk with you later. For now, Mr. Krol and I have much to discuss. And I believe Frances requires your assistance upstairs.”

There was no question about it; I was being dismissed. I didn't like it one little bit.

“I'll talk with you later, then,” I said.

“Very nice to make your acquaintance, Ms. Wheaton,” Krol said. “I hope we meet again.”

*   *   *

Frances didn't require my assistance, but I wasn't surprised to discover Bennett's fib.

“He probably doesn't want you to know what he's planning for you,” Frances said when I explained his odd behavior.

“I think there's something else going on. I can't put my finger on why, but Bennett seemed extremely bothered by the fact that this Krol and I were talking.”

“You have a knack for figuring things out. Of course the Mister would be upset. A little bit of digging on your part and you'll spoil his fun.”

“If that's true, then Krol would have known who I was. He didn't seem to have ever heard of me before.”

“Oh, ho,” Frances said, pushing herself back in her chair and affecting a haughty air. “Aren't we a little full of ourselves?”

“You know what I mean. Whether I like it or not, Bennett tells everyone about my role here. Which is why the DNA isn't much of a secret anymore. Bennett has a very tough time keeping things to himself.”

“You are right about that. And you say this guy's card didn't have much information?”

“A phone number. And I don't even have that information to trace because Bennett plucked the card out of my hands.”

“Do you remember the area code at least?”

I closed my eyes and did my best to envision it. “I think it was either four-one-five, or four-one-nine. But I can't be certain.”

Frances had taken a while to warm up to the idea of using computers but now surpassed me with her speed at Internet searching. She tapped her keyboard. “Marin County, California, or”—more tapping—“Toledo, Ohio.” Glancing over at me, she got a gleam in her eyes. “You could always ask your friend Ronny Tooney to find out more about this guy for you. How many Australian Malcolm Krols could there be?”

“Tempting though it is, I can't. If Bennett wants to keep secrets, I need to respect his privacy. Using Tooney to investigate—when Bennett pays his salary—seems very wrong.”

“Have it your way.” The glint in her eyes dimmed.

As I crossed into my office, I heard her mutter, “Goody Two-shoes.”

Bruce and Scott were watching television in the living room. I was in parlor, about to shut my book and call it quits for the night, when the doorbell rang.

I glanced at the clock on the mantel; it was a few minutes before ten. Bootsie had been asleep on my lap prior to the interruption. Now we were both on our way to find out who was visiting at this late hour.

Bruce reached the front door a couple of steps ahead of me. “Are you expecting anyone?”

“I left a message with Rodriguez and Flynn this afternoon,” I said. “Maybe they decided to stop by?”

The look on his face let me know that he didn't believe that scenario to be likely, either.

“Check first,” I warned.

Bruce flipped on the porch light and peered out. “It's a woman,” he whispered.

Scott came around to join us. “Maybe it's another Fed?”

Bruce swung open the door. “Can we help you?”

She was slim, wearing distressed blue jeans and a dark
navy pea coat. Her fluffy red scarf was decorative, rather than sturdy, and her cowboy boots were covered in snow.

“Hi,” she said, focusing her attention on me, “are you Grace?”

“Do I know you?”

She had golden hair that fell to her shoulders and heavy, straight bangs. With hollow cheeks, big eyes, and a heart-shaped face that ended at a rather narrow chin, she was more gaunt than pretty.

“No, not yet.” She laughed. “My name is Nina Buchman.” She peered into the house, as though looking for something. “Can I come in?”

Just like the FBI agent had the other day, Nina affected a shiver. She carried a brown leather tote that appeared filled to bursting, and she shifted from foot to foot, tapping her boots against each other to dislodge accumulated slush. The tote appeared weather-beaten and well-worn. The boots looked new.

“Maybe if you tell me what it is you want?” I said, with a lilt to phrase it as a question.

“Sure, sure. Of course.” She laughed again. Her teeth were big for her small mouth, and with her über-narrow face and shiny hair she reminded me of a thoroughbred. Attractive, strong, willful.

Bruce backed up, allowing me to take point. I felt him touch the back of my arm—a silent gesture of warning. But I'd felt it, too.

She brightened her smile. “I'm new in town and interviewing for a job. I need somewhere to stay until I find a more permanent place.”

I turned to Bruce and Scott. They looked as perplexed as I felt. “Why are you
here
, though?” I asked. “At our house?”

Her eyes went wide. “Don't you have a room here to rent out?”

“No,” I said. We did have a spare bed and bath upstairs and, at one point, had considered taking on another roommate
to help with expenses. We'd scuttled those plans, however, once Bennett had insisted on paying for renovations.

“You don't?” The tone in her voice went far beyond disappointed. More like disbelief. As though she knew about that vacant spot upstairs. How could she? A second later, her tone shifted completely. “Is someone else living here?”

I started to close the door. “Good luck with your search.”

“Wait.” Again, she tried to see deeper into the house. “Could I come in for a little bit? Maybe you can give me ideas of where to look?”

“Are you telling us that you moved to a new city with no place to stay?”

“I have a hotel,” she said. “But I don't care for the place. I really prefer a more homelike environment.”

“There are a couple of nice bed-and-breakfasts right off Main Street.” Scott indicated the general direction. “Three blocks that way and one block up. You can't miss them.”

She sucked in her top lip and gave another shiver. “What about for a few nights?” she asked. “You don't have room for
one
person for a couple of nights? I could sleep on the couch.”

“I thought you had a hotel.”

“I do,” she amended quickly. “But the, um, convention is messing me up. I'm really in a bind, here. Can't you help a girl out?” Tears formed in the corners of her eyes. She held a gloved hand to her mouth. “Please?”

Bruce made a sound low in his throat. I couldn't tell whether that meant he was caving in to her pleas or reminding me to stand strong.

Too many odd things had happened in Emberstowne in the years I'd been here. Too many suspicious occurrences. Flynn's warnings about the limitations of my burglar alarm popped like mini-fireworks in my brain. This woman looked helpless, but a nagging feeling of something being amiss—that tingle of fear that so many of us ignore—decided it for me.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “We can't help you. Good luck.”

“But—”

“Sorry,” I said again. And as difficult as it was, I shut the door.

“Grace,” Scott said. “Are you sure we can't do anything for her?”

“What if she killed the FBI guy?” I asked.

Scott blanched. “Do you really think so?”

“I don't know. We can't know. But don't you think it's weird that she knew my name? She knew we had a room here?” I pointed upstairs.

“That was a little odd,” Bruce said.

Scott and I made our way into the parlor. I picked Bootsie up and cuddled the little cat close as I made my way to my favorite wing chair and sat down.

“The FBI guy, Alvin Clark, knew my name, too. And he wanted to know who else was living here,” I said as I stroked Bootsie's fur. “This is too much of a coincidence. I don't like turning my back on people in need . . .” I let the thought hang.

“Her story about the hotel seemed suspect,” Scott agreed. “At one point she made it sound as though she had nothing for tonight, but then when we pressed, she backpedaled.”

“Exactly. This doesn't add up to anything good. And are we to believe she's going door to door looking for a room to rent?”

Bruce finally rejoined us. “I turned off the light inside the hallway,” he said. “So I could watch her without being seen. She stood on the porch for a minute, assessing the house.”

“Why would she do that?” I asked.

He shrugged. “She finally turned around and headed back to the street, but not toward the bed-and-breakfasts. She headed west.”

“There's nothing that way but more single-family houses,” I said.

Bruce shrugged again.

“Two strangers at our door in the past three days,” I said. “And one of them was murdered. I'm not feeling bad about turning her away.”

Scott nodded. “When you put it that way, neither am I.”

I pulled out my phone. “I think this is worth mentioning to Rodriguez.”

*   *   *

Frances stomped into my office the next morning, hands tight at her hips. She wore eggplant-colored wool pants, sensible shoes, and over her white knit shirt, a thick beige cardigan embroidered with violets. She'd been about to say something, but stopped herself with a frown of displeasure. “It's cold in this room. Something wrong with your heater?”

I tugged my own sweater close as I gestured with my chin. “The price of my beautiful view.”

She stared out the tall mullioned windows that took up much of my southern wall. “I don't remember a winter this cold. Not for a long time.”

I offered a one-shouldered shrug. “When my family lived in Chicago, we got used to subzero temperatures.” I followed her gaze. The sun, behind heavy cloud cover, brought to mind the image of a shiny quarter submerged in slush. The gray glow did nothing to animate the flat blanket of white covering the rolling grounds below. “We haven't dropped below the teens since I've lived here. And today we're predicted to hit the low thirties. Practically a heat wave.”

She wrinkled her nose, then gave me a once-over. “Cold-blooded animals adapt to temperature changes better than warm-blooded ones do.”

Ever since Frances and I started getting along better, it had become more difficult for her to get under my skin. She didn't stop trying, of course. Sometimes I ignored her, sometimes I played along.

“And what am I to deduce from that pronouncement?”

“Stating a scientific fact.” Her halfhearted attempt to provoke me hadn't hit its mark. She shrugged off the disappointment. “I came in here to tell you that I couldn't find
anything on that Malcolm Krol in either Ohio or California. There are links to uncover home addresses—for a fee, of course—but nothing at all about who he is or what he does for a living.”

“I thought we agreed to let Bennett have his secrets.”

She pointed. “You agreed. Not me. What kind of amateur sleuth are you to leave this matter hanging? Which brings me to another matter—the dead guy in your yard? What are you doing about that?”

“Not my yard, and nothing.” I sliced my hands sideways across the top of my desk in emphasis. “This time it's up to Flynn and Rodriguez. Let the professionals handle it.”

“Hmph.”
She was about to say more when the sound of her door opening silenced us.

“Yoo-hoo. Anybody here? Grace? It's Hillary. I have a big surprise for you.” Frances folded her arms across her ample chest and shot me a “What now?” look.

I got to my feet. “In here,” I said.

While Hillary and I would probably never be close friends, we'd reached a point in our relationship where we respected one another and were now wary allies.

Frances spoke under her breath. “What kind of surprise do you think she has this time?”

I had no idea. I probably wouldn't like it very much.

Hillary walked into my office looking, as always, like a model who'd stepped fresh off the cover of a woman's magazine. Blonde, pert, tiny, and perfectly dressed and coiffed, she came in smiling until she caught sight of Frances.

“Oh, you're here, too? I suppose that's fine.”

“Don't keep us in suspense, please,” Frances said, arms folded.

Hillary wagged a finger at my assistant. “The surprise isn't for you.” She pointed. “It's for her.”

I'd remained standing behind my desk and worked to inject cheer into my tone. “What's up?”

Hillary waggled her head and grinned broadly, more
pleased with herself than I'd seen her in some time. “I came in to see Papa Bennett today and when I arrived I met someone downstairs at the welcome desk asking for you.” Her eyes were wide and full of merriment. “I thought it would be a fun surprise to bring that someone up here.”

“Who is it, Hillary?”

“See for yourself,” she said, then waved to whomever waited in the next room.

When Liza walked in, I nearly lost the ability to stand.

“Hey, Grace,” she said with an impish smile. “Long time no see.”