Whitehouse Chef 04 - Grace Under Pressure Read online

  While I was intensely curious, I didn’t want to hamper their investigation by constantly badgering them for updates. I placed my Post-it note on the line I’d been reading and picked up my walkie-talkie.

  “Terrence,” I said, when our head of security responded. “Have you heard anything about how the investigation is progressing?”

  He muttered something unintelligible, but was clearly displeased. “Nothing new. I’m overdue for an update. I’ll get back to you if I hear anything.” Again he grumbled, but this time I made out the word idiots before he clicked off.

  Great.

  I sat back, making my leather chair squeak. Alone in the office, I stared out the window and wondered, not for the first time, why everything about this investigation felt so haphazard. Was it because those in charge were inexperienced? The local police had assured us that they’d assigned their best detectives to the case. I had come to understand they were the only ones on staff.

  I thought about the bank robbery two hundred miles away from us. I understood why so much manpower had been diverted to that crime, but that didn’t make Abe’s death any less important. The trail was getting colder by the moment. While I never considered myself an expert, even I knew that the first twenty-four hours after a murder were the most crucial. We were well past that time frame now.

  Consulting my to-do list, I realized I still hadn’t been able to reach Geraldine Stajklorski, our guest from hell. I dialed her again, and again got her voicemail. Rather than leave a message this time, I opted to hang up.

  The enormous list of those who had lost money with Taft sat on my desk like an unpleasant lump. I thumbed through the pages of printout and realized, for the first time, how hopeless it was for me—one person—to sort through this information on my own. Fanning it again and again, feeling the soft flow of air as the pages flipped by, I wondered if Scott and Bruce would be willing to help out this weekend. Of course, weekends were their busiest times, but maybe if I offered to bring in one of our favorite dinners . . .

  Standing up, I sighed. Even three people working twenty-four-hour days couldn’t effectively analyze this pile in a week. We needed help.

  Frances? Maybe. She seemed to thrive when presented with challenging tasks.

  I rubbed my forehead. I needed to do something, not just sit here and feel useless.

  Flynn had sent me a memo late last night informing me that Bennett’s private rooms had been cleared for use again. Which meant I had a window of opportunity to poke around a little bit on my own. Time to finally do something real. I decided to alert the housekeeping staff first.

  To my surprise, Rosa answered the phone. “Ya?”

  “How are you doing, Rosa?”

  She made a so-so noise. “I not complain. What you need?”

  “The police have cleared out of Mr. Marshfield’s rooms,” I began.

  “We go in there now? Clean out?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” She shouted to someone nearby. To me, Rosa said, “We have it done before the Mister come back from funeral.”

  It dawned on me that Rosa had been in Marshfield’s employ about as long as Abe had. “You aren’t attending the memorial service?”

  Another noise, this one an unmistakable sound of fear. “Funeral no help him now.”

  I didn’t quite know how to respond to that. Fortunately, she didn’t seem to need prompting.

  “We clean. Maybe two hours. Okay?”

  I said that would be fine and Rosa hung up. I grabbed the keys and trotted up the back stairs.

  At the topmost door, I shivered with an unexpected thrill of fear. As acting curator/director of Marshfield Manor, I had the right—the responsibility, in fact—to inspect every inch of the mansion. But entering Bennett’s private sanctuary like this felt strange, yet more than a little exhilarating. Just like the time I’d snuck into my parents’ room looking for a treasure map.

  The day before, my parents had been arguing in the basement, presumably to hide their fight from Liza and me. Whenever they had words, I panicked. And since my dad lost his job, they’d had words often. This time, I was only about eleven years old and I hadn’t understood the nature of their argument—I just knew it had something to do with money and our house. My dad, after many months, had finally lined up a job in Chicago. My mom was insisting we keep the Emberstowne house despite the expense of doing so. “We need that money to live,” my dad said. “Think about the girls.”

  I heard discussion about renting it out, but Liza was downstairs with them, whining. Loudly. The discordant cacophony of their angry conversation coupled with my sister’s cries served to drown out a good portion of their words. But I clearly heard my mother say, “I showed it to you.”

  To which my father answered. “You treat it like some sort of treasure map. It’s nothing, Amelia, nothing. It’s worthless.”

  Words like treasure map are magic to an eleven-year-old, and two days later I discovered where it was hidden. Late at night I was supposed to be sleeping but I’d had a bad dream. Dad was out and Mom was in their room next to her oak dresser. She’d pulled the lowest drawer out all the way and set it on the floor next to her.

  I’d been about to speak to her, but the strangeness of her movements stopped me. I watched her lovingly caress some old pieces of paper before stashing them into the hollow bottom of the furniture. As she eased the drawer back into place I backed away. She never knew I’d seen her.

  The next morning, I couldn’t wait to have a look. As soon as I thought I could get away with it, I snuck into their bedroom and headed straight for my mom’s dresser. My parents were in the backyard discussing the move with one of the neighbors. I quietly and stealthily pulled Mom’s bottom drawer out all the way.

  Crouched in front of the gaping rectangular hole where the drawer had been, I reached my little hands down deep into its dark emptiness and felt around until my fingers skimmed the edges of folded papers. They crackled a little as I pulled them up into the light and I sensed, even at that tender age, that these were papers of importance. I’d found my treasure map.

  My heart pounded as I lifted the edge of the first page. I started to read. I got as far as the words “My dearest Sophie.”

  “Grace Louise!”

  I jumped ten feet.

  My mother stood in the doorway, Liza clinging to her leg. She stuck her tongue out at me before launching into her sing-song pronouncement, “Told you, Mommy. Gracie was sneaking into your stuff.”

  All I remember next was a flurry of activity as my mother grabbed the pages from my hands and slammed the drawer back into place, all the while lecturing me on privacy. She quizzed me repeatedly about what I’d read. Despite the fact that I assured her I hadn’t seen anything, she was unappeased.

  “Have to find a new place to keep these now,” she said half to herself, half to me.

  “I won’t do it again,” I promised.

  Maybe it was the plea in my voice begging for forgiveness, but at that moment she turned to me and her expression softened. “Someday,” she said, tapping the sheaf still in her hand, “I’ll show this to you. But you’re too young now. And these papers are too important for me to leave out. Do you understand?”

  I didn’t, but nodded vigorously.

  When my mom had fallen ill, it had occurred to me to ask her about the papers, but the cancer had taken her so quickly I didn’t have the heart to do anything but focus on her comfort. At the very end she said something to me, grabbing my hand and whispering about papers, but by then it was too late for her to form coherent sentences, and the moment was lost.

  After she died and Liza took off, I was in charge of going through my mom’s effects—to clean out and get rid of stuff. I’d kept an eye out for the papers but they appeared to be long gone. I hadn’t had time to search through the dozens of boxes my mom had stored in the attic but those were things she’d kept since my grandmother died, and I doubted the papers were in there.

  Now, with
that bitter memory suddenly blasting through my mind, I hesitated before unlocking the door to Bennett’s apartments. But the knowledge that I wouldn’t have another opportunity to look around the crime scene spurred me forward. The key turned with a soft click and as I pulled open the door, I stepped firmly out of my comfort zone.

  A vague, unpleasant odor met me as I made my way to the study. Stale and musty smells mingled with a sick metallic tang. I had heard that Bennett hadn’t entered this part of the corridor since Abe’s death. I understood why.

  While today’s weather promised sun and mild temperatures—consistent with spring in this part of the country—these rooms remained lifeless and dim. The wood-grain walls, rather than provide a warm welcome, were dark and cold. Reaching down, I flicked the switch of the nearest floor lamp, practically sighing with relief when warm, yellow light flooded the immediate area.

  My heart was skip-beating, my face flushing with excitement, and I was annoyed by these reactions. I had every right to be up here and every good reason as well. It wasn’t just morbid curiosity that impelled me, it was the very rational belief that the police’s involvement seemed pretty lackluster thus far. Had Abe’s murder received the task force assistance we’d expected, I probably wouldn’t have any need to go exploring on my own. But I loathed incompetence. While I believed Rodriguez and Flynn were doing the best job they could, I also believed that the two detectives were in over their heads.

  At the study door, I stopped, suddenly less sure of myself. What exactly did I expect to find here that the police had overlooked? What possible insight could I offer that veteran staff members could not? I bit my lip and almost turned back.

  My fingers tightened around the set of keys in my hand and I drew in a deep breath, immediately sorry because the smell in this room was far worse than it had been in the hall. That, however, was what decided me. “We need windows open in here,” I said aloud, partly to dispel any further hesitation, partly to announce my presence. But to whom?

  The room’s area rug was pulled back on itself, exposing the wood floor, a dark stain reminding me where Abe had lain. I tiptoed around it, making my way across the room to the windows, pushing the heavy curtains back in order to reach the crank to open them. The first one wouldn’t budge. Neither did the second, nor any one of the four windows that should have opened easily. I took a closer look and realized these sections were permanently sealed. That proved, at least, that the killer didn’t come in through the window.

  So where had he come from?

  Nobody seemed to have a theory about that. At least not one they cared to share.

  I heard a scuffling noise and stepped out of the room again. “Hello?” I called.

  No answer. It might have been one of Bennett’s cats. Although they were generally free to roam the mansion as they pleased, they had been confined to the lower levels while the crime scene remained live. I was certain that if Bennett knew we’d received the all-clear, he’d have released them at once.

  I returned to the study and crossed the room to stand with my back to the windows. This must have been where the killer stood. I let my gaze wander around the room’s perimeter, though it was difficult to keep my eyes from the stain on the floor. I listened for some sound—hoping for one, actually—of other people up here with me. But everything was silent. Like a tomb.

  The study was aptly named and if it hadn’t been the scene of a murder, I would have liked this room very much. Bookshelves lined three walls and there was an intricately carved panel inset into the oak shelves on the east wall. A low persimmon sofa sat in the room’s center, just behind where Abe had fallen. One wing chair in a coordinating paisley sat perpendicular to the couch, a small table with crystal goblets between them. Dust covered everything. Although I knew there were state-of-the-art technologies available for fingerprinting, I saw that the police had left black powder on just about every surface in the room, save the books.

  I wondered about that. Was it that the cops didn’t expect that the killer bothered with the tomes, or was it just impossible to lift prints from leather bindings?

  The aggravation of not knowing such things—of not even knowing what might be missing from this room—made me feel utterly helpless. Jack’s description of the runaway man carrying something made me believe an item had been stolen from this room. But what? Until Abe’s death, I’d never been up here so I had no idea of what might be missing. That’s where Rosa’s expertise would come in. She would probably spot any absence right away.

  The floors creaked as I walked slowly around the room, still not entirely certain of what I was looking for but so desperate to do something that I refused to give up.

  Unfamiliar as I was with the layout on this level, I thought that the inset panel, while lovely, seemed to take up space that should have been used for more bookshelves. I knocked on the carved oak, keeping my ear close. It didn’t sound hollow. It sounded like any wall would sound when knocked upon. Like knuckles on wood.

  Okay, fine.

  Undeterred, I returned to the hallway and turned right. I decided there must be a room next to the study but I couldn’t figure out how to access it. I walked along the long corridor wall, looking for a door. None. The paneled wall extended down to the cross hall where it turned, then ended at a window. It was as if there were a mystery room just beyond. But with no way to get inside.

  I returned to the study and crossed to the windows. Fat swaths of sage green fabric bookended the bright expanse, rising nearly ten feet to the rod near the ceiling. I fingered the heavy draperies, pulling the fabric out wide to examine it. Could a man hide within these folds? Only one way to find out. I stepped into the mass of cloth and tucked myself tight against the wall. Standing absolutely still, I tried to imagine how a killer might have secreted himself here, lying in wait for Bennett, and stepping out long enough to kill Abe instead.

  Too bad there was no way to know how well hidden I actually was. Maybe I could convince Terrence, or even Frances to accompany . . .

  I heard the unmistakable click of a lock turning, close enough that it had to have come from inside the study itself. I was about to step out from the protection of the draperies but some innate instinct froze me where I stood.

  Field-testing my cover under these circumstances was not the plan I’d had in mind. But trying to convince my gut that it would be smarter to make my presence known wasn’t working either. Rigid with panic, I tried forcing myself to step out from the shadows, but in the two seconds it took for a nearby door to open and someone to enter the room, I knew I couldn’t do it.

  Every breath I took suddenly sounded ridiculously loud. At the same time, adrenaline coursed through my body, forcing me to breathe harder, faster. I opened my mouth to keep the noise down, dreading the need to swallow or sneeze. Trying not to think about either.

  I stared up at the drapery hooks, hoping the focus would help me keep still. As much as I wanted to know who had come in, there was no way to peer around the curtain without rustling the fabric and giving away my position. And how would I explain my reasons for hiding in the curtains in the murder room? This was not how the director of the estate should behave. I could just hear Frances gossiping about it now. It might be years before I regained my credibility—if ever. The potential for embarrassment sealed me to the spot.

  Whoever had come in apparently didn’t want to be noticed either. The door was closed shut with the quietest of movements.

  Realization stopped me cold. What if the murderer had returned to the scene of the crime? Trite as it sounded, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. I listened as the intruder tiptoed around the room, apparently searching for something. Items were moved about, glassware clinked softly, and books were slid out and replaced.

  The knowledge that the killer might be back looking for something he left—or neglected to acquire—on his last visit, shot cold sweat out of every pore of my body. My knees quivered and I panicked that my struggles to remain standing would
give me away. Embarrassment evaporated. Survival instinct kicked in.

  I could make a run for it—the element of surprise would give me a good head start—but the sudden weakening in my legs made me doubt I’d get far enough fast enough.

  The tiptoed steps moved closer to the window—the intruder was now to my right, near the room’s eastern corner. If I was going to make a move, it would have to be now. I just needed to make certain I bolted when the person wasn’t looking my way. Blowing out a quiet breath of decision, I reasoned that I could race around the sofa and make it to the door by the time the killer raised his gun. With any luck, I’d be out the door by the time he pulled the trigger.

  My heart pounded in my throat as I inched closer to the drapery’s edge and, with great trepidation, peered around it into the room.

  In an instant, my brain shifted gears, and I stepped out from behind the fabric. “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  Hillary Singletary’s flushed face went through about a dozen expressions in the two seconds it took for her to reply. She pointed to the window and mustered an accusatory tone. “Why were you hiding in the curtains?”

  I sensed I had the upper hand here, and pushed it. “When I heard you sneaking in, I thought the killer might have returned, so I took cover.” It sounded perfectly reasonable. I took a step closer to her. “Where did you come from? Why aren’t you at the memorial?”

  She shook her head, and for the first time I noticed tiny flecks of dust in her hair. “All that crying . . . I couldn’t stand it another minute.” Clearly flustered, she glanced at the room’s carved panel, then back at me. Brushing dust off her clothing—to buy time, I assumed—she made a point of looking at the mantel clock.

  Having not been wound for several days, the clock had stopped. Right now it read eight-twenty. Whether morning or evening, the time was way off.

  In her hurry to get away from me, however, Hillary apparently didn’t notice. “It’s late,” she said with a sigh. “I should head out.”