Grace Among Thieves Page 3

  “Daughter,” Hillary said.

  “Stepdaughter,” Bennett corrected.

  “My mistake.” John handled the moment with a hint of a smile and I wondered if he’d intentionally misidentified her. “As I mentioned earlier, Mr. Marshfield has generously opened his doors to the public to share his treasures with all of us. While I possess extensive knowledge of the manor’s history, no one is better versed in it than Mr. Marshfield here.” He smiled encouragingly at Bennett. “Would you be so kind as to regale us with a story about the banquets your father hosted back in the day?”

  Bennett glanced over to me. I gave a “Why not?” shrug.

  “If you insist, I’ll share one of my particular favorites.” He cleared his throat and began. “When I was twelve, my father invited Judy Garland to stay with us for a few days.” He waited for the crowds’ collective “oohs” to die down before continuing. “This was the year before my aunt Charlotte died. She’d been an enormous fan of The Wizard of Oz . . .”

  I’d heard many Marshfield family stories, including this one. Overwhelmed with excitement about Judy Garland’s upcoming visit, Charlotte had hired a well-known pianist and invited fifty of her closest friends and their children to attend. The plan was to coax Judy into entertaining the guests with a medley of show tunes. At the very last minute, the famous woman’s assistant called to cancel the visit. Judy’s little daughter had apparently come down with a bug, one that she’d most generously shared with her mom. Judy developed a bad case of laryngitis. She sent her sincere regrets.

  Charlotte didn’t cancel. Instead, she convinced the pianist to accompany guests as they stood up and sang for the crowd. One ten-year-old girl, Sally, utterly unable to carry a tune, belted out a thoroughly unpleasant rendition of “Over the Rainbow.” Her joy and exuberance, however, were contagious and she finished to thunderous applause.

  That wasn’t all she’d won. At the tender age of twelve, Bennett fell in love. The two youngsters became inseparable. As soon as she turned eighteen, he married her.

  Bennett embellished, keeping our guests enthralled, but I tuned him out. Not because I didn’t enjoy hearing him tell the tale, but because I’d noticed that someone else had tuned him out, too. The disinterested guest was a tiny woman with white-blonde shoulder-length hair. She had turned her back to the group and was inching ever farther away. A moment later, she disappeared behind the crowd. I casually circled around, intent on keeping her in sight.

  Another tourist noticed me watching her. Standing toward the back of the small gathering, he was at least six feet tall, with dark hair in what my mom used to call the perfect haircut for a man: short and parted on the side, with neatly trimmed sideburns. He gave me a quizzical, though not unfriendly glance. I read it as him asking if I needed help. I raised a hand in thanks, holding him off, and he returned his attention to Bennett’s talk.

  The petite woman had snaked her way back along the tour route. Behind the banquet hall was the Music Room, a round, high-ceilinged space that jutted out to the north from the main structure. Designed for maximum acoustical pleasure, I wondered how much better young Sally’s song might have sounded had she performed in here. Of course, that might have made it worse.

  In either case, I had a feeling I knew where my quarry was headed. Our docents fielded many questions every day. One of them was, “Where does that door lead?” always accompanied by a curious finger point.

  Just inside the Music Room’s entrance, a door had been built into its wall, matching so perfectly as to render it almost undetectable, save for the narrow gap that defined its perimeter and a small lever mechanism that released it to swing open. Maps we handed out at the start of each tour made no mention of the small area built between this room and the banquet hall. There wasn’t much in there of value, but rules were rules.

  I turned the corner in time to catch the woman slipping past the velvet ropes, headed directly for that door. John’s was the last tour that had been allowed in and docents assigned to this area had apparently taken off once the group had ambled past. This meant that there was no one around to catch her in the act. Except me.

  She didn’t look from side to side, didn’t pause. Without missing a beat, she pinpointed the lever mechanism and pulled at the door.

  I called out, “What are you doing?”

  With a yelp, she turned. I expected her to blush and apologize. Mostly, I expected her to retreat. She didn’t. Instead she yanked the door wide and stepped through.

  Chapter 3

  I SHOUTED TO HER, “STOP!”

  Catching someone overstepping was one thing. This woman’s outright disregard for boundaries and of authority—mine—was altogether different. I started after her, dragging my walkie-talkie up as I ducked around the nearest cordon’s brass post. I called for security. “Music Room,” I said into the device. “We’ve got a jumper.”

  Anyone who stepped off the prescribed path of the tour was termed a “line-jumper,” or “jumper” for short. Although we mostly dealt with curious children, adults occasionally needed to be herded, too, and they were always worse. Kids lost awareness of boundaries when they stepped out of line. Adult jumpers, on the other hand, believed the rules didn’t apply to them.

  The dispatcher acknowledged my request and I shoved the device back into my pocket.

  What if? My pulse quickened at the thought. What if this is one of our thieves?

  “Hey, you, stop,” I shouted again.

  The woman disappeared from sight. Windowless, the tiny area was dark, and I heard her stumble. I hit the light switch and caught her scrambling to stand up. She turned to face me, eyes panicked and wide, darting back and forth as though looking for escape. But the only way out was through me. About five feet wide by ten feet deep, with a low ceiling that made me duck, it was more accurately termed a closet than a room. Warren Marshfield, Sr., had it installed as a convenient hiding place for his family’s Christmas gifts when the house was built. With the tree and celebrations taking place in the adjacent banquet hall, it was the perfect alcove for his happy stash. As his children grew, however, the room wasn’t needed, and these days it remained empty and quiet.

  “You can’t get away,” I said. “I’ve called security.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  Her question was neither arrogant nor confrontational. From the look on her face and the plaintive tone of her voice, I got the impression she truly couldn’t fathom why I’d felt the need to call for help.

  “You’re trespassing,” I said. “Or hadn’t you noticed?”

  She perched a fist on her hip. I couldn’t tell if her reddening cheeks indicated embarrassment or anger, but she struggled visibly to compose her features. A few years younger than me, she was youthful enough to affect that “Yeah, so?” attitude teenagers often strike when confronted with an uncomfortable situation. For being in her mid- to late twenties, she wore a stylistically odd combination: elasticized hot-pink sweatpants over scuffed white gym shoes. On top, she wore a lace vanilla blouse with plunging neckline and gold hoop earrings the size and shape of pears.

  Streetwalker top, mall-walker bottom, I thought.

  “Please don’t get me into trouble. I didn’t mean any harm. I was just curious. And I have . . . a problem.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “Not like that. When I get something into my head I have to do it.”

  “That’s not much of an excuse.”

  “No, you don’t understand. If an idea pops into my head, like ‘Touch the railing with your right hand,’ I have to do it. Or like ‘Start up the stairs with your left foot.’ Stuff like that.”

  “And if you don’t do the thing that pops into your head? Then what happens?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Something bad, probably.”

  “But it never has?”

  “I don’t know. I never don’t do it.”

  “Sounds like OCD.” When she didn’t agree, I added, “Obsessive-compulsive disorder.”r />
  She shrugged. “I guess.”

  I heard the comforting sounds of people running. Several people.

  “Come on,” I said, wiggling my fingers. “Let’s go.”

  She gave a last look around, then touched two walls with two fingers each, making sure they hit at the same moment. “Okay. I really didn’t mean any harm. I had to see what was in here. And, like now, I had to touch it.”

  “Or something bad would happen?”

  She gave an uncomfortable laugh. “Sounds ridiculous when you say it. But it’s real to me.”

  I waved my hand to shoo her out the door in front of me. My plan was to keep an eye on her for as long as I needed to, but five uniformed guards surrounded us, relieving me of the duty the moment we emerged from the room.

  Our chief of security, Terrence Carr, stepped forward. Muscular and handsome, he could easily be the old Old Spice Guy’s doppelgänger. “What’s the problem?”

  “Everything’s under control,” I said. “But I believe we need to escort this guest off the property.”

  “No,” she cried, grabbing my arm. “Don’t do that. Please don’t kick me out. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t even touch anything. Except for the walls, I mean.”

  I eased out of her grasp. “This woman left her group and snuck into one of our off-limits areas.”

  Terrence stepped forward. “Let’s see some ID.”

  “You won’t kick me out, right?” she asked even as she dug into her purse. “I’m part of a group. They’ve got to be wondering where I am.”

  “Maybe you should have stayed with them,” he said.

  She kept her mouth shut and presented her driver’s license.

  Terrence squinted at the laminated card. “Your name rhymes,” he said. “Lenore Honore.”

  A flash of anger. “It’s pronounced ON-or-ay. Lenore ON-or-ay.”

  Terrence nodded acknowledgment. “Well, Ms. ON-or-ay, looks like you’ve overstayed your welcome.”

  From behind me, a booming voice. “Lenore!”

  We all turned. John Kitts stood with his arms akimbo. “What are you doing now?” To me, he asked, “What happened? Why is security here?”

  His tour group clustered around him, their faces bright with interest. I noted that Bennett and Hillary weren’t among the curious onlookers and decided they must have given up on my return. A sixtyish woman who looked as though she’d spent fifty-nine of those years in the sun, wagged a finger at Lenore. “Listen, missy, I told you to watch yourself. You’ve been a thorn in my side all day.” To John, “I told you she’d be trouble. But you didn’t listen.”

  Terrence must have experienced the immediate claustrophobia I had the moment the throng surrounded us because he held his arms out, pressing them to back up. “Everything is under control,” he said. “Let’s not get excited.”

  “Don’t use that tone with me, young man,” the woman said. “I have a right to be angry.”

  Terrence didn’t respond. Still holding tight to Lenore’s ID, he murmured to his guards to keep an eye on the situation, then stepped a few feet away and pulled up his cell phone. I knew what he was doing: a quick call to the Emberstowne Police Department to find out if little Lenore had a record. We’d suffered too many losses over the past few days to let any transgression slide.

  While Terrence was busy, John questioned Lenore, asking why she hadn’t stayed with the group. His tone was measured, even calm, but the tendons in his neck stood out in sharp relief.

  I scanned the group, seeking out the handsome man who’d caught my eye earlier. He was near the back, looking skeptical. Like a person who wanted to know more before he cast the first stone. When he noticed me watching him, he held up a hand in greeting and gave a rueful smile. I wondered if he and Lenore were traveling together. He was a bit older than she was but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Of course, if they were together, why wasn’t he stepping up to defend her?

  John continued his mild rant at Lenore while doing his best to prevent others in the group from drawing and quartering their wayward companion. Lenore was oblivious to their wrath, growing more confused by the moment.

  The sixty-something woman who’d complained earlier took a menacing step toward John and pointed to the girl. “Because of her, we’re going to be late for the show, aren’t we? They aren’t going to hold the curtain for us, are they?”

  John tried to speak but she jumped right back in.

  “We paid to see this show. It’s one of the things I was especially looking forward to and we should get to see the whole thing, not have to wait for intermission to be seated. So what are you going to do about it? We’re supposed to be back at the bus”—she tapped at her watch, a giant black-banded monstrosity with a face the size of silver dollar—“five minutes from now. We’ll never make it.”

  “Marlene, let me . . .” he began.

  “Does it look like this is going to be settled in five minutes? You told us we would only have a half hour to change and be back out the door. Why did you squeeze in this extra visit this afternoon, John? We’re coming back tomorrow. That is, if Lenore hasn’t ruined it for all of us. Maybe they don’t want us back now. Do you?” This last part was addressed to me, but I let John handle her.

  He did his best to manage the group’s uncertainties. “We may have a little more leeway than I admitted. Let me handle it. Why don’t you all start back for the bus now, and I’ll join you shortly.”

  “With or without her?” Marlene asked.

  “Let me worry about that. Head back now. All of you. Do you remember where the bus is parked?”

  “Of course we do,” Marlene snapped. “We’re not children.”

  She stormed out. The rest of the group followed. A few cast sympathetic glances at Lenore as they tramped after their outspoken comrade.

  As soon as they were out of earshot, Lenore asked, “Can I sit down?”

  The guards exchanged a look. “Yeah, sure,” one said. He spoke into his microphone, letting Terrence know we were changing locations, before escorting Lenore to the front vestibule, where we maintained benches for visitors’ use.

  I sidled up to John. “That was one unhappy lady.”

  “Lenore?”

  “No,” I said, surprised. “The ranting woman.”

  “Oh, she’s okay,” he said softly. “I had her on another trip. Really sweet person, assuming you don’t step out of line.”

  “Like Lenore did?”

  He rolled his eyes. “I understand Marlene’s frustration. We’ve been touring Emberstowne all day. We had a tasting at your friends’ wine shop by the way. Excellent, as always. We also watched a glass-blowing exhibit, and made about five additional stops. Lenore has been late getting back to the bus every single time.”

  “Ouch.”

  “These people want their money’s worth. They want to have all the experiences promised in the colorful and exciting brochure they received when they signed up. You get a problem child like Lenore in the group and it throws everything off. Marlene’s just blowing steam. By the time she gets to the bus, she’ll settle. She knows I won’t let the group down.”

  “What about getting to the theater on time?”

  He smiled. “I have a little pull with the management. Plus, I always build in more time than needed. A tour guide’s dirty little trick.”

  “Good for you.”

  “I’ll be glad when I can drop Lenore off at her final destination.”

  “When is that?”

  “Seven more days. Long days. This past one has been tough. Lenore is clearly the most challenging guest I’ve encountered in twenty-four years of giving tours.”

  “That’s saying something.”

  He glanced at his watch. “The sooner we wrap this up, the better. Where did your security chief go?”

  Just as he said that, Terrence returned. John and I joined the group of guards surrounding Lenore; I couldn’t help but notice that the look on Terrence’s face was more sad than st
ern. He handed Lenore her driver’s license. “Okay, Ms. Honore, you’re free to go.”

  She clutched the ID to her chest. “Really? Oh, thank you. I knew you were a nice person.”

  “Nice has nothing to do with it.”

  John heaved a huge sigh of relief, then addressed Terrence. “We’re scheduled to come back here for the full tour tomorrow. Is that going to be a problem?”

  Terrence considered it. “I’m not inclined to allow Ms. Honore back inside Marshfield.”

  Lenore’s mouth dropped open. Her expression slid from happiness to gloom in the time it took me to blink.

  “That is,” Terrence continued, “unless she promises not to step out of line again.”

  She lit up. “I do. I promise.”

  “And no touching.”

  “No touching,” she said.

  “I mean it.” Terrence pulled out a set of handcuffs. “You see these? You touch anything at all and we’ll wrap them around your wrists and haul you out.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, nodding vigorously.

  I hoped for her sake that nothing would “pop into her head” tomorrow that she’d feel compelled to do.

  To John, Terrence said, “You may want to consider making it a rule that no one walks away from the group alone. Institute the buddy system or something. Do whatever works for you as long as you make sure she’s never out of the group’s sight.”

  After a couple more reminders, John led Lenore away. Terrence and I walked them to the front door, where a shuttle waited to take them to the parking lot.

  “You let her off easy,” I said the minute they were gone.

  “Rodriguez vouched for her.”

  I could barely contain my surprise. Rodriguez was one of the town’s two detectives. Middle-aged and more eager for retirement than to make his mark on the world, his patience been stretched thin by two recent murders here at Marshfield. I liked the man and appreciated his style far more than that of his younger partner, the edgy, hyper-suspicious Flynn. Rodriguez giving Lenore a pass was good enough for me, but I had to ask, “She doesn’t have a record, I take it?”