Grace Cries Uncle (9 page)

I shrugged. “Who knows? It's the best idea I can come up with.”

“There's not much more you can do,” he agreed. “But if you need anything, just ask.”

Bruce leaned sideways. “Or even hint broadly. We've got your back, Grace. You know that.”

“I do. And I appreciate it.”

When I got home, I hung up my coat and said hello to Bootsie, who seemed unusually eager to snuggle. Walking from the kitchen into the dining room, I called out, “Liza? You here?”

“Yeah,” she replied from the front of the house.

From her raspy reply, I got the feeling my shout had woken her. Still holding Bootsie, I continued through the parlor and crossed the front foyer to find my sister in the living room. She was sprawled across the long sofa in front of the television, whose volume was so low I had to step in front of it to see what she was watching.

“Six o'clock news,” I said. “Anything of interest happening in the world?”

She boosted herself into a sitting position and ran her fingers through her disheveled hair.

“Six o'clock?” she repeated. Stretching her arms as she clenched her eyes, she yawned then blinked and regarded the window quizzically. “At night or in the morning?”

She was wearing the same yoga pants and T-shirt I'd given her last night before bed. “Have you been sleeping all day?”

Rubbing her ear, she stared up at me. “That thing.” She pointed at Bootsie. “That thing kept waking me up.”

“I told you to close your bedroom door.”

“I don't mean last night. I meant during the day, here.” She patted the sofa cushions on either side with her palms. “That cat wouldn't leave me alone. It tried to sit on my chest. I've got hair all over me.” To emphasize her point, Liza spread her fingers and wiped at the front of her shirt.

“I don't see any hair. Are you sneezing? Sniffling?”

That stopped her, mid-wipe. “Huh,” she said. “No.”

I shrugged. “One thing I forgot to do yesterday was show you how to work the burglar alarm.”

She blinked again, as though willing herself awake. “You have an alarm system?”

“When you're more alert, I'll show you how it works.” I made a mental note to remember to change the security code the moment she moved out. “If you ever leave the house, I'd like you to set it.”

She grumbled something about how I was able to afford such a thing.

When I started back for the kitchen, she padded behind me in stockinged feet. “You don't have much to eat here.”

I half-turned. “There's plenty. We have leftovers from last night. Not to mention vegetables in the bin and basics in the pantry.” Bootsie had been nuzzling against my fingers, hinting for a head rub. I accommodated her and pointed with my chin. “Did you even look?”

“Of course I did.” Her tone was defensive. “I was looking for, you know, easy things like frozen dinners I could heat up in the microwave. I had to eat cold cereal.”

“Poor baby,” I said. “Why didn't you have the leftover ratatouille? I'm sure the boys didn't finish it up.”

She looked away. “Meh. I hope you have something better planned for tonight.”

As much as I wanted to suggest that she was perfectly capable of making dinner for herself—if not for us all—I held my tongue. Once she began contributing to the household she moved from guest to roommate. I didn't want her to get that comfortable.

“I hope pork tenderloin meets with your approval,” I said, “but before I get started, two more things.”

By this time, we'd returned to the kitchen and I'd let Bootsie scamper away. She knew her dinner was coming soon and that I'd need both hands to get it for her.

“What's that?” Liza asked.

“Aunt Belinda mentioned your phone was out of order. What's up with that?”

My sister looked away. “Got behind on the bills. They canceled my service.”

“Do you still have the phone?”

She shook her head. “I had to sell it for money to get here.”

The situation was worse than I'd feared. At this rate, Liza might be staying with us for months rather than days.

“What's the second thing?” she asked.

“I have a friend I'd like you to meet. His name is Ronny Tooney.”

“Boyfriend?” she asked with a spark of interest. “I thought you said you weren't involved with anyone.”

“A friend,” I repeated, scribbling Tooney's number on a piece of paper and handing it to her. “I'll arrange for you to meet in person in the next day or so. If you need help while I'm out, though, that's who to call.”

She gave the paper a cursory glance, then studied me. “Seems weird. Why would I need anyone's help while you're gone?”

“Who knows, Liza? If there's one thing I've learned to expect from you, it's the unexpected. I intend to be prepared for anything.”

*   *   *

The next morning I called Bennett from my office. After he answered and we covered a few basics, I said, “I ran into Phyllis Forgue last night at Amethyst Cellars.”

He repeated the name. “Why does that name sound familiar? Do I know her?”

“She seems to know you. In fact, she seemed to want everyone within hearing distance to know what close friends you two are.”

“Phyllis Forgue,” he said again as though trying to conjure up an image from the feel of the words on his tongue. “Oh, wait. Is she a tall, striking woman, lots of red hair, convinced that every eye in the place is on her?”

“That's the one.”

“She does command attention. She would be so much more attractive if she didn't flaunt how fascinating she finds herself.”

I giggled even though I shouldn't. “Perfect summation.”

“You didn't tell her that I won't be attending the FAAC this year?”

“Of course not. But I get the impression she'll be crushed when you don't show.”

He made a noise of impatience. “Unfortunately, she's one of those expected to attend Tuesday night's reception here.”

“And she didn't mention it?” I asked. “She strikes me as the type to wave an invitation in the air for everyone to admire.”

“We've sent notice to key players in an effort to generate buzz, but have made it clear that the party is open to all FAAC attendees.” He seemed eager to change the subject. “Phyllis Forgue is one of the many reasons why I've chosen to skip the event this year.”

“She wants to meet with you privately. Today, in fact. I promised I'd call her to let her know. I assume you're busy?”

He didn't answer immediately. “Let me handle that one,” he finally said. “What's her number?”

I gave it to him. “Are you sure? I'd be happy to take care of this for you.”

Again he hesitated. “No need, Gracie. I'm perfectly capable. Thank you.”

When we hung up, I stared at the phone for a long moment. It wasn't like Bennett to hedge. What was going on?

*   *   *

Rodriguez and Flynn showed up late in the afternoon. Their unanticipated appearance seemed to throw Frances for a loop. “They want to see you,” she said without ceremony. “How many times do these two need to stop by?”

Flynn rolled his eyes as he loped across the room and sat down across from me.

Still at the door, Rodriguez addressed my assistant. “My apologies,” he said to her, though I caught the hint of amusement in his eyes. “This is a matter of some urgency.”

“It better be,” Frances said.

“As much as we enjoy the delicious coffee and cookies you always provide for us, I'm afraid we don't have time to spare today.”

That perked her up. Following Rodriguez in, she took her usual spot on the couch.

“It's about the victim,” Flynn began. “We uncovered a little more information. We found out why he was in Emberstowne. He was looking for someone.”

“My sister?” The words leapt from my mouth before I could think twice.

Rodriguez must have read the alarm on my face. He leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. “She worries you that much?”

“I'm jumpy, I admit. Let's start again. The fake Fed was looking for someone, got it.” I pulled in a deep breath. “Do you know who?”

Flynn consulted his notebook. “We have the guy's name
but it doesn't mean anything to us. He's not a resident of Emberstowne. He lives in California, but started out in New York.”

“California again,” I said.

“Yeah,” Flynn said. “We can't figure out what this guy's tie to Emberstowne is, and since the victim visited your house, we decided to check with you. Does the name Eric Soames mean anything?”

“Eric? He was looking for Eric?”

Frances knew precisely who Eric Soames was. Her posture rigid, her expression gloriously shocked, she stared at me, openmouthed.

“You know him?” An accusation rather than a question. Typical Flynn.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “He's my sister's husband.”

Rodriguez gave an extended grunt of surprise. “There's a twist I didn't see coming.”

I wanted to remind him that I'd suggested Liza's appearance in Emberstowne might have been connected with the victim's visit to my house.

“Did you ask your sister about this man?” Rodriguez asked. “Give her both names we came up with?”

“I did,” I said. “She didn't recognize either one.”

“Eh,” Rodriguez said without skepticism. “He might have other aliases we haven't uncovered.”

“What did this fake Fed, the victim, want with Eric?” I asked.

“We don't know yet,” Rodriguez answered. “That's part of what we're trying to find out. We had no idea why he came to Emberstowne, but the tie to your sister explains a lot.”

Flynn had been studying me closely. “Have
you
seen him?”

“Eric?” I asked. “No. My sister thinks he may come after her, though. She left him last week.”

Flynn started to ask another question but Rodriguez cut
him off. “Miz Wheaton, we don't understand what's going on here yet, and we're relying on you to help us put these pieces together.”

I gave a brief nod.

“How well do you know Eric Soames?” Flynn asked.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Frances press her hands down on the tops of her knees as though fighting to stop herself from leaping into the conversation. It was clearly taking every ounce of restraint for her to keep from spilling the juicy story.

“I . . .” Putting it into words myself, however, was difficult. I faltered. Flynn's left leg bounced an exasperated rhythm. Rodriguez waited patiently. My two-heartbeat hesitation bothered me more than sharing the truth.

“Eric and I were engaged at one point.” There. Done. It was out. Lifting my hands in a motion that I hoped suggested c'est la vie, but probably conveyed helplessness, I said, “Though seeing as he took off with my sister while I was busy settling my mom's estate, I think I can honestly say that I didn't know him very well at all.”

Frances had leaned sideways to watch the detectives react. Flynn's mouth dropped open. He closed it quickly.

“They're married now, from what I understand,” I added.

Rodriguez rubbed a hand over his chin so roughly I was afraid the stubble would abrade his palm. “This Eric,” he began oh-so-carefully, “would you say he's capable of murder?”

A knee-jerk response bubbled up. I was about to say, “No, of course not,” but the truth was I had no idea. My helpless hands came up again. “I don't think so.”

“At least now we know why you're so willing to throw your sister under the bus,” Flynn said.

I shook my head. “She did me a favor,” I said, practically parroting Liza's words. “I dodged a bullet with that guy.”

Flynn smirked. “Our victim didn't.”

“If Eric turns up, I'll let you know immediately,” I said.

“More important than that”—Rodriguez leaned forward—“you were right. Your sister is probably involved.”

I resisted the urge to gloat that I'd told them so. “You believe Eric killed that FBI agent, don't you?”

“He's a person of interest, no doubt about it,” Rodriguez said. “I prefer not to assign guilt until I have all the facts in front of me.”

Flynn was giving me the evil eye. “Maybe your sister did it,” he said. “You believe she's capable of murder, don't you?”

I'd answered an almost identical question from Frances. “I do not,” I said.

“Couple days ago you thought this dead guy might be connected to your sister,” Flynn said, inching forward. “Now that he is, you're telling me she's innocent.”

“My sister is far from innocent,” I said. “And while I can't account for her whereabouts the day the fake FBI guy was killed, I can tell you that murder is not in her nature.”

Rodriguez raised his droopy lids, revealing a steely gaze. “What about self-defense?”

I thought about my own actions when I'd faced those who would do me harm. “I suppose it's possible.”

“If Eric Soames didn't kill Emilio Ochoa, then whoever did is probably looking for him.” Rodriguez's dark gaze met mine. “The killer is in Emberstowne. As is your sister. Whoever is looking for Soames may be looking for her, too. It's a coincidence we can't ignore.” He wagged a finger at his partner. “Let's go talk with the other Miz Wheaton.” To me, he asked, “Do you know where she is right now?”