Whitehouse Chef 04 - Grace Under Pressure Page 19

  “She said what?”

  His eyes clouded momentarily, then narrowed. He waited.

  From the time I was a little girl and Liza had told our mom that I’d been searching for that “treasure map,” I hated snitches. Divulging Hillary’s confession to Bennett now, to get myself out of this jam, seemed wrong. But I had no intention of losing my job because Hillary had itchy fingers and a late-to-the-party conscience.

  “I went up to the study to look for anything the police might have missed,” I began.

  Bennett propped his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepled his fingers. I’d known the man long enough to recognize he was striving to maintain calm.

  Wanting to give the impression that I was entirely at ease, even though my head pounded with every heartbeat, I sat back a little. “I know it probably sounds silly, but I wondered if the killer might have been hidden in the drapes when Abe came into the room, so . . . I tried it.”

  Bennett’s hands dropped into his lap. “Go on.”

  “Just then I heard scuffling from the next room—a room I didn’t even know existed.” I shrugged. “I was up there alone and a little nervous. I thought maybe the killer had come back. I decided to stay hidden.”

  Bennett blinked. “You didn’t ask Hillary to accompany you up to the study to look around?”

  I shook my head. “Is that what she told you?”

  Taking a deep breath through his nose, Bennett answered slowly. “Not exactly, but that is what I was led to believe.” He shifted in his seat. “How, precisely, did you run into Hillary?”

  Before I could open my mouth to answer, commotion from the other room made us both jump.

  “Where is she?” By the time the words were out of her mouth, Hillary was in my office, red-faced and fuming. Her hands in the air, she yelled at me, “What did you tell those detectives?”

  Again, I didn’t have time to respond. Bennett had turned to face her, and Hillary took a step back. “Oh,” she said dropping her hands to her sides. “I . . . I . . .”

  Bennett stood. “Come in, Hillary. Sit down. We were just talking about you.”

  Her face stayed red, but I caught her nervous swallow as she crossed the room and took the seat next to Bennett’s.

  “So,” he began. “Why don’t you tell me, truthfully this time, what went on in the study Friday afternoon.”

  Hillary shot me a vicious look. “Why should I? She already gave you her side of the story. You’re going to believe her. You’ve always believed everyone except me. Even when I was little.”

  Softly, Bennett said, “That’s because you always lied.”

  I was like a fly on the wall during this family meeting and I wanted no part of it. Switching to a more pressing topic, I said, “Maybe we should discuss the possibility that the killer used the secret room and staircase.”

  Bennett frowned. “Impossible. No one knows about that room.”

  I wanted to suggest that Hillary wasn’t exactly the most trustworthy individual, and that there might be lots more folks who knew that secret, but I couldn’t come up with a diplomatic way to put it fast enough.

  Hillary, however, was quick. “Now everybody knows about it. Because of her.” Pointing an accusing finger, her voice rose. “She told the police and they came to interrogate me. They consider me a suspect. Can you believe it? I’m appalled. I was mortified.” Still pointing, she stood, growing more animated by the second. “I insist you fire her on the spot, Daddy. She’s out to ruin me.”

  Frances was getting an earful, that was for sure. She didn’t even need to skulk by the doorway—Hillary’s voice probably carried down the hall to every other department on the floor.

  Still seated, Bennett stared up at his stepdaughter. “Sit down, Hillary. You’re making a fool of yourself.”

  Her pretty face went redder still, and her mouth twisted downward. I thought she might cry. “She’s lying to you, Daddy. Can’t you see that? She is trying to make herself look good by sharing secrets—our family secrets—with outsiders.”

  Through clenched teeth, Bennett repeated, “Sit down, Hillary. And tell me why you went to the study Friday when you were expected to remain at Abe’s memorial service.”

  Swallowing hard, Hillary sat. “Whatever she told you is a lie.”

  My discomfort peaked. I almost wished Bennett would fire me on the spot so I could run screaming from this place and not look back. Why was my dream job turning out to be so very different than I’d expected?

  “Hillary,” Bennett said, his voice dangerously low, “where is the music box right now?”

  His question surprised the heck out of me. Apparently it flabbergasted Hillary as well. Her eyes went wide, tears pooling in her lower lids. “I put it back. I swear I did. I put it back before Abe was killed. But now it’s gone.” Sending me another scathing look, she started to cry. “Why did you have to tell him that?”

  Bennett stood. “She didn’t tell me anything. You just did. Now let’s leave Grace to do her work.” To me, he said, “I’m very sorry about all this. Carry on.”

  Taking a shaky Hillary by the elbow, he led her out of the room.

  Two seconds later, Frances peeked around the doorway. “I thought you were a goner for sure.”

  “Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  Rattled by the squabble, I stood up and stared out the window. A sunny day. About time we had a few nice days in a row. Tourists were navigating the hedge maze while others posed for pictures, and in the distance I saw a group of them on horseback taking the “Backroads” tour. I leaned toward the glass, straining to see who might be working on the grounds this morning. I could have stayed there, staring, but right now I had work to do. I sat at my desk to read the Fairfax investigative reports. Jeremy Litric. Rupesh Chaven. They, along with several others, had been the names on my radar since I’d received the investor reports. But these two had turned up as the most intriguing.

  Jeremy Litric, fifty-six years old, was the fourth-generation owner of Litric Furnishings. The company had been in his family since his great-great-grandpa emigrated to the United States in the late 1800s. Started on a shoe-string, the little furniture store grew to become a design empire, with each successive son adding his personal stamp. What was once a company that offered basic furniture to new immigrants had become a major player in the world of avant-garde design. Litric had believed Taft’s plan would transform him from millionaire to billionaire by the time he turned fifty-five. Hadn’t happened. Instead, trying desperately to recoup unexpected losses, Litric dipped into company funds to invest on additional “sure things” Taft promised. At the same time, economic upheavals in the world sent the sales of luxury goods into a tailspin.

  Jeremy Litric’s father and grandfather—both still alive—now watched helplessly from the sidelines as the company they’d lovingly grown from seedling to towering oak toppled from Jeremy’s dealings with Taft.

  I made a few notes. He was definitely worth keeping on the list.

  As was Rupesh Chaven. A relatively young man, he had lived the life of ease from the time he was born. His parents, both doctors, had been killed in a car accident several years earlier, leaving their money and substantial insurance policies to their only son. Rupesh, pursuing his master’s in criminal justice, had been engaged to Anya, a woman he’d met in school. Convinced he was ensuring his future security, Rupesh invested with Taft. When his investments went south, however, his devoted Anya went AWOL.

  I thought about Eric and his reaction when he discovered that my inheritance consisted of one big house and several hundred repairs. “I feel your pain,” I said to the report in front of me. I understood the fury, and the desire for revenge Rupesh Chaven was going through. No doubt he was better off without his money-grubbing betrothed but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

  Could Chaven or Litric have killed Abe, believing they were targeting Bennett? Sure: Both were in or near Emberstowne on the day of the murder; both had come to co
urt the day Bennett provided testimony; and both were of sufficient physical condition to get in, get out, and get away. The report provided photos; Litric’s fit the suspect’s description of middle-aged and average height.

  Another handful of suspects were either not in town the day of the killing, or were too old or too frail.

  The packet Fairfax had prepared included newspaper clippings on all my subjects. A photo taken outside the courtroom the day Abe was killed showed Jeremy Litric shouting and raising his fist at Samantha Taft. Mrs. Taft was shielded from the onslaught by her limo driver. How the Tafts could afford such luxuries when their investors were left destitute was beyond my comprehension.

  Similarly, Rupesh Chaven had a documented run-in with the decked-out Mrs. Taft. In another headlined newspaper clipping, he was reported to have been questioned by police after the Taft household received threatening letters. Handwritten in a distinctive cursive style, the missives were linked to Chaven, who did not deny sending them. He was quoted as saying: “There is no law in this country against expressing one’s viewpoint. Everything I stated in those letters is true. I promise to see justice done. If Mrs. Taft considers that a threat, then perhaps she should be the one being questioned.”

  Litric and Chaven both suffered devastating loss. If they couldn’t get to the Tafts—he in custody, she accompanied by bodyguards—it stood to reason that they might target Bennett instead. I decided to focus on these two for now. And then, in a moment of brilliance, I picked up the phone.

  Fairfax Investigations answered after one ring.

  I identified myself and requested surveillance on both Jeremy Litric and Rupesh Chaven. The woman on the other end of the line didn’t question my intent. “I’d also like to order a report on another individual,” I said.

  “Subject’s name?” the woman asked.

  “Samantha Taft.”

  The woman on the other end tapped her keyboard. She asked for more information on Mrs. Taft, some of which I didn’t have. “We will generate a preliminary report within twenty-four hours. Will there be anything else?”

  “Thanks, no,” I said, feeling like I was finally doing something constructive. I took a deep breath and opened my grandmother’s personnel file.

  “I’m heading to lunch,” Frances called from the doorway. “Do you need anything before I leave?”

  I assured her I was fine, but she came to stand in front of my desk, twisting her head sideways to check out the file. The woman was not exactly subtle. “You had no trouble finding what you were looking for?” she asked.

  “None whatsoever. You’re a peach.”

  She gave me a shrewd glance. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

  I waited until she left. Then, finally alone with my grandmother’s file, I dug in.

  Chapter 23

  I DROPPED MY HEAD INTO MY HANDS AND stared down at the words I’d just read. “As of November 12, 1947, employment is terminated for Mrs. Sophie Careaux of the housekeeping department. As of this date, it is determined that her condition prevents her from adequately carrying out her responsibilities.”

  My mother had been born in February 1948. This meant Gram had been fired for being pregnant. That didn’t exactly surprise me. Back in those days, before civil protections were put into place, capable people were terminated based on race, religion, or even their looks. No, this wasn’t the eye-opener. What had taken my breath away was the note paper-clipped to the termination notice.

  The flowery handwritten missive on Marshfield stationery was signed by Charlotte Marshfield. If I had my Marshfield ancestry right—and I did—Charlotte was the senior Warren’s eldest daughter and the junior Warren’s sister. That made her Bennett’s aunt, a woman long deceased. Charlotte had died young, unmarried, and childless, leaving her brother, Warren, Jr., and his son, Bennett, the only heirs.

  Apparently, the family fortune was something Charlotte kept close tabs on. Her note read:

  My dear Mrs. Fitch,

  I hope this communication finds you well. While I continue to be impressed with the quality of hired help your office provides my family, I have found a matter that is quite disturbing and I trust you will see to the timely correction of such. One of the young housekeepers you have engaged on our behalf, a Sophie Careaux, has proven herself to be far too eager to be of service to my brother, Warren. Mrs. Careaux, herself a married woman, has abdicated her wifely responsibilities in her constant inappropriate attentiveness. Additionally, she is with child. I am certain her husband would prefer she stay home to prepare for the birth of their baby. Please see to it that Mrs. Careaux is adequately compensated for the hours she is owed.

  Sincerely,

  Charlotte Marshfield

  Was Charlotte suggesting that my grandmother had had an affair with Bennett’s father? I did some quick math. My mom had been born in 1948, Bennett almost a decade earlier. His mother had died when Bennett was very young, and his father, Warren, Jr., had never remarried.

  This hurt my head. And my heart.

  Charlotte’s inferences led straight to another possibility. That my mother and Bennett were half siblings. All of a sudden, pieces of my life—of my mother’s life that had never made sense—fell into place. Chunk, chunk, chunk. It was all there. All the time. I’d just never seen it.

  Gram’s infatuation with Marshfield. Her devotion to the home, the family. I’d always wondered how my mother had been born. By all accounts, Peter Careaux had disappeared for years at a time, carousing and taking up with women. Sometimes bringing them home to stay for a while. My mom never had anything good to say about her father. Never.

  But what if Peter wasn’t her father? Could that be why my mom and Aunt Belinda didn’t resemble each other? My aunt was short and dark, my mother tall and blond. Like me. Like Bennett.

  Blood rushed up to my face, and my breath came shallow and fast. If my mom was Bennett’s half sister, that made me his niece.

  I pressed my hands down flat on the paperwork in front of me and tried to focus. This was nuts. I was moving way too fast. There was no proof. I was clearly suffering from an acute burst of overactive imagination.

  “Back early,” Frances boomed from the doorway. I hadn’t even heard her come in. She stared at me. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I lied. Like she believed that. “I just thought of something I forgot and need to do when I get home. Thanks.”

  If I’d hoped to dismiss her, she didn’t take the hint. As she walked toward my desk, I had about two seconds to decide what to do. I didn’t want to scoop up all the papers on my desk and shove them out of sight, but I clearly didn’t want her to see the note from Charlotte. Frances was adept at reading upside down.

  Abe had kept a ledger record of all acquisitions, their placement, and current status. It was a big leather-bound book, about twelve inches by fifteen, and about two inches thick. I grabbed a corner of this big book and yanked it on top of the paperwork, covering most, but not all. “I wanted to talk to you about this,” I said. Breathing slightly easier now, I was nonetheless aware of Frances’s skeptical expression. “We will eventually need to put all this information on a spreadsheet.”

  “You mean on the computer?”

  I nodded, lifting the ledger’s front cover. Opened, it hid everything else on my desk. “I know it will take quite a bit of effort, but once the spreadsheet is set up, it should be a breeze.”

  Frances’s eyes narrowed. “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Yeah.” Reaching for the ledger, she grabbed the cover and tried to close it. “I’ll get started.”

  I grabbed the end closest to me. “But you don’t know how to set up a spreadsheet. I’ll have to show you.”

  “I’ve been working with the computer more than you realize.” She tugged. I held tight. “I think I got the hang of it.”

  Pressing both hands on the ledger—hard—I didn’t let it budge. “I want to go over a few things before you take it.”

  “You’r
e busy. Let me have it now. I’ll get it back to you later.”

  Frances’s phone rang in the next room. “I guess you better get that,” I said. “I’ll bring this by in a few minutes.”

  Her look told me this wasn’t over yet. But until I had a chance to sort all this out in my head, I wasn’t prepared to share.

  BRUCE AND SCOTT CAME HOME THAT EVENING to find me buried in paperwork. I’d opened every one of my mom’s boxes and rummaged through the first dozen or so when my roommates complained that their way into the dining room was barricaded. “Why the sudden rush to clean?” Bruce asked.

  Scott shoved one of the boxes with his foot. “You’re still in your work clothes,” he said. “Did you eat?”

  I started to say that of course I’d eaten, but I hadn’t. “Forgot, I guess.”

  “Stop.” Scott held up both hands as I bent to lift another box. “Right now. Stop.”

  Behind him, Bruce wore a solemn look. “You never forget to eat. What’s going on?”

  Curiosity had banished all else from my mind. If my mother was truly Warren, Jr.’s daughter, I knew she’d have kept a record here to prove it. The treasure map from years ago suddenly sparked with reality. I couldn’t stop myself from digging. Now two hours later, I was still at it, hungry, dusty, and worn.

  I told my roommates about my grandmother’s file and how I was convinced that if there were some familial ties between my mother and the Marshfields, there must be evidence of it here. “My mom never threw anything away,” I said. “Neither did I.” Looking at the mess, I felt disappointment slowly take over where my excitement had been. “I don’t know what I expected to find.”

  Scott nodded. “First, food. Then all three of us will sort through this pile.” He wrinkled his nose at the mess. “We’ll get through it much faster that way.”