Grace Interrupted Page 3

  I yanked my hand back. “Thanks, but I think I’ve had enough of your battles for one day.”

  “Ooh,” he said, making his lips all pucker-y. Moving close enough for me to see the yellow flecks in his brown irises, he curled his mouth into what he probably thought was a provocative smile. This treatment might work on a lot of women, but I wasn’t one of them. Not any longer at least. “You don’t really believe what those ladies said, do you?” he asked softly. “No one really understands me, you know? I try to be a good guy but all I ever get . . .”

  His attention shifted to just over my shoulder. For a split second, I wondered if it was a ruse just to get me to drop my guard and turn, but Kincade’s body language suddenly shifted, too. No longer relaxed, no longer focused on me, his posture grew rigid and his eyes wide. He whispered under his breath, “How the . . . ?”

  I turned to see what had grabbed his attention. Jack and Davey were about twenty feet back, headed toward us. Jack was in the lead, carrying a clipboard. He saw me. “There you are,” he called, waving hello with his free hand. Davey followed, a couple steps behind him.

  I felt a rush of air as Zachary Kincade bolted past me. He took Davey down in a flying tackle, Davey giving a woof of shock as they hit the ground, their bodies skidding hard against the uneven brick pavers. Grappling, the two combatants grunted and rolled while Pierpont and I shouted. Jack dropped his clipboard and jumped in to wrestle the two apart. Davey, having quickly recovered from the surprise of being attacked, fought back with fierce desperation.

  I froze to the spot for three heartbeats before I thought to call for help. As I spoke into my radio, I realized I’d registered the look of utter surprise on Davey’s face. I got the clear impression he’d never seen Kincade before. But Kincade obviously had an ax to grind. In fact, he was grinding right now. Using his body to keep Davey immobilized, he smashed the younger man’s face sideways into the ground with one hand while punching him with the other, shouting something about “a long time.” Davey managed to pry an arm out from beneath Kincade and grabbed at his attacker’s shirt, straining to pull him off.

  Next to me, Pierpont threw his hands up. “Oh, oh, oh!”

  Unable to get between the two, Jack wrapped himself around Zachary’s back, struggling to immobilize the man’s arms. Though still punching and grunting, Kincade was tiring. He wasn’t able to both fight Davey and fend off Jack, and the moment Jack wrestled Kincade into an armlock, Davey writhed away and leaped to his feet. Blood dripped from his now-crooked and obviously broken nose. “What is wrong with you?” he shouted, wincing as he wiped his face with the back of his hand.

  Security came running. Behind them, a flock of nosy tourists huddled around the near corner to watch the mess. They were certainly getting an eyeful.

  I offered Davey a tissue from my pocket which he accepted. Jack, meanwhile, had pinned Zachary Kincade’s arms behind him and was shouting close to the man’s ear. As security took over and dragged Jack away from his captive, Pierpont, who had been stricken silent after his outburst, hurried over to me to apologize. “I am so sorry. I don’t know what got into Zachary.” He turned to his comrade, repeating Davey’s words. “What is wrong with you?”

  Rubbing his hand across his cheek and flinching, Kincade sat on the ground with one knee up and one arm draped across it—the picture of relaxation. Except, of course, for the blood dripping from his lip. With Terrence off escorting Rani and Tamara to the local police, our overtaxed and undertrained security guards looked at one another as if to say, “What now?”

  Kincade stared up at Jack, then looked to Davey, then back again. Squinting, he seemed to see Jack with new eyes. He wiped his lip and asked, “I got it wrong, didn’t I?”

  Ignoring him, Jack made his way over to Davey, whose nose was beginning to swell. Jack took Davey’s head in both hands and examined his brother’s face. “It’s broken, bro,” he said. “We’re going to have to get you to the emergency room.”

  Zachary Kincade shouted from the ground, “It’s you, isn’t it? Not him. You’re Jack Embers.”

  Jack spun. “Do I know you?”

  Kincade spit blood onto the ground next to him. “You shaved your beard,” he said. “Now I see. I forgot to take the years into account. Your brother looks just like you did back then.”

  Jack stared wordlessly.

  Kincade pushed himself to his feet and waved the security staff away. “Don’t worry, I’m done. Getting too old for this garbage anyway.” He brushed himself off and stepped forward. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  Jack took his own step forward, inserting himself between Kincade and Davey. A protective move no one missed. “No. Should I?”

  “My name,” he said, “is Zachary Kincade.”

  Jack paled.

  Hatred burned in Kincade’s eyes. “Thirteen years ago, you killed my little brother.”

  Chapter 3

  OUR SECURITY STAFF ITCHED TO TRUNDLE yet another guest off to the local police station, but Davey refused to press charges. Jack pulled his brother aside; I was close enough to overhear. “He attacked you,” he said. “He should be arrested.”

  Davey’s mouth set in a determined line and his eyes tightened against the pain. “No, Jack,” he said, his voice low and intense, “I want nothing more to do with that family, okay?”

  “But the police need to get this on record,” Jack insisted. “We have to document this. You know what happened last time.”

  “Just drop it.”

  “Davey . . .”

  “I’m not pressing charges,” Davey shouted. Then more quietly, he added, “I need to get to the hospital, okay? Like right now. I’m not feeling so good.”

  Jack threw a scathing look at Zachary Kincade but Davey gripped Jack’s shoulder, dragging back his brother’s attention. “Let it go, bro. We all need to let it go.”

  Pierpont was buzzing around Kincade, alternately asking how he was feeling and chastising him for his behavior. “What on earth were you thinking? What do you mean about your brother?” He pointed at Jack. “What are you saying? What did he do?”

  Kincade didn’t answer. Instead, he consulted with the police long enough to confirm that no charges were being brought against him. He turned to me and winked. “One good turn, eh?” Addressing Pierpont, he said, “Let’s get back.” Without waiting for his colleague to answer, he set off walking. It was a long way to the re-enactors’ camp. Pierpont scuttled after him, and managed to convince him to wait for a ride.

  Jack watched the whole thing before shaking his brother’s grip from his shoulder. “Fine.”

  I was desperate to know more about Kincade’s accusation—and especially why Jack hadn’t denied it—but didn’t want to intrude on such a tense family moment. At times like these, I call upon my organizational skills to see me through until I’m able to think straight again. Keeping busy keeps me sane, so I radioed for a shuttle to pick up the re-enactors and for a golf cart to take Jack and Davey to their car. The moment Kincade and Pierpont were gone, however, I couldn’t stop myself. “What was that all about?” I asked Jack.

  He waved me off. “Not now.”

  I didn’t know how to take that. “Later, then?”

  He sighed. “Not tonight.” Without facing me, he added, “Looks like I’m canceling again.”

  Davey sat on the ground. Using two fingers from each hand, he applied gentle pressure to the sides of his nose.

  “Don’t do that,” Jack snapped. “Wait for the doctors to examine you. You might knock something out of place.”

  Davey gave a humorless laugh. “Yeah, because everything is in perfect place right now.” Blood dripped into his beard and wound its way through to fall on his pants leg, but Davey didn’t seem to notice. Then, as though he’d finally processed the prior conversation, he looked up. “You two have a date tonight?”

  Jack crouched next to his brother. “We’ll reschedule.”

  “No, that’s stupid. Keep your date. I’m not
a kid. I can handle this by myself.”

  “I’m not about to leave my little brother alone in an emergency room with a broken nose. Let’s go.”

  His use of the words little brother coming so soon after Kincade’s claim made for an eerie echo. Was I the only person here who didn’t know what was going on? Exactly what had happened thirteen years ago?

  The golf cart pulled up and I gave the driver instructions as Jack and Davey settled themselves. Jack never made eye contact with me. Not even when the golf cart pulled away. Not even when I said, “Call me later, okay?”

  CONFUSED, AND MORE THAN A LITTLE BIT hurt at Jack’s brusque dismissal, I headed back to the house intending to write up reports on the afternoon’s events and get myself ready to go home. Where Kincade went, chaos wasn’t far behind, apparently. That was evident to me even after just meeting him. I wasn’t thrilled to have trouble like him remain on property for the coming week, but I reminded myself that more than two miles separated the encampment from the main house. Kincade hadn’t had a chance to repeat his invitation for me to come visit him. At this point he probably preferred I stay far away. That would keep us both happy.

  Before I opened the servants’ entrance door, I glanced back. Only a few security guards stood where Kincade and Davey had gone down in a tangle of arms, legs, hatred, and anger. What did Kincade mean when he said that Jack had killed his brother? I knew so little about Jack Embers. But I intended to find out more as soon as I could.

  My office was on the third floor of the mansion’s west wing. The double disturbance this afternoon had kept me here well past my usual quitting time. But without a date to look forward to tonight, I saw no rush to leave. It would be a quiet house until my roommates got home. Scott and Bruce wouldn’t close up their wine shop until after nine at least. The only thing that waited for me right now was an empty refrigerator and a thick pile of bills.

  Frances, my able yet incorrigible assistant, should have taken off an hour ago. I opened the door to the anteroom that served as her workspace, and jumped.

  “What has been going on down there?” she demanded. “What’s with all the excitement? Who were those women with the Taser? Whose nose got broken?”

  “Geez,” I said, backing away from her. In hindsight, I realized I should have anticipated this. Frances was the nosiest person I’d ever encountered and there was no way she would have left the manor if there was dirt to be dished. The woman survived on a steady diet of gossip. No exaggeration. Not for the first time I wondered what, or who, waited for her at home. For all her eager chatting about others, Frances was vigilantly closemouthed when it came to her own business.

  I was about to give her a quick cursory rundown when Terrence burst in. “What happened now?” he asked. “I just heard that victim in the first scuffle was the perpetrator in a second altercation. Is Embers okay?”

  Frances perked up. “Jack Embers?”

  I didn’t like the gleam in her eye. She’d warned me before that Jack was “trouble,” but I hadn’t taken her up on her offer to tell me all she knew about him. In the short months I’d been working with Frances, I’d learned that if you didn’t live according to her strict personal code, which apparently changed from situation to situation depending on who was involved, there was something urgently wrong with you. I bet she got a lot of enjoyment talking about me behind my back.

  “Jack’s fine,” I answered. “His brother . . .” I faltered, “. . . had an accident.”

  “What about you?” Terrence asked. “Were you hurt at all? How’s your arm?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “I wasn’t touched.”

  “We don’t want you getting hurt again.”

  I’d been injured some weeks prior, during a do-or-die altercation just one floor above. “Thanks, Terrence,” I said, massaging my arm. Although my bandages had come off a while ago, the memory would remain forever. I had a newfound respect for the dangers police detectives faced every day and vowed never to get so personally involved in that kind of situation again.

  “Good to hear,” he said, then pointed to my office.

  “Thanks for staying late, Frances,” I said to my assistant, “I’ll see you Monday.”

  She made a noise, but didn’t argue. I led Terrence into the next room and shut the door. We both waited to start talking until we heard Frances leave.

  When I first started working here, this spacious room had been Abe’s office. Frances and I had shared the anteroom she now inhabited by herself. I knew she wasn’t thrilled by the fact that I’d taken over this gorgeous space, but I didn’t waste time worrying about it anymore.

  I took my seat behind the giant oak desk as Terrence settled himself across from me in one of the two red leather wing chairs. He stared out the mullioned windows at the final rays of sunshine peeking around fast-gathering storm clouds. People tended to stare out the windows here; I couldn’t blame them. The stunning southern view grabbed me every time I walked in.

  Terrence hitchhiked a thumb back toward Frances’s office. “How do you put up with her?”

  “She comes with the territory,” I said. “Bennett decreed that Frances can’t be let go or reassigned until she’s ready to retire. She’s been with the manor for almost forty years.” I lifted my shoulders. “And she’s good. I mean, really good at her job. Granted, if she were to leave tomorrow, the place wouldn’t fall apart, but we would definitely be in for a long, bumpy ride without her.”

  He squinted toward the wall, as though he possessed X-ray vision. “I don’t know . . . she seems more work than she’s worth.” Snapping his attention back to me, he said, “So what happened out there?”

  I brought him up to speed, and when I told him about Kincade’s pronouncement that Jack had killed his brother, Terrence scowled. “What did Jack have to say?”

  “Nothing. He didn’t answer. But when Kincade identified himself, Jack recognized the name.”

  “You sure?”

  Nodding, I continued. “He seemed shocked. Upset.” I told Terrence about Davey’s reluctance to press charges and his comments alluding to events that had happened in the past. “There’s history there, but I don’t know what it is.”

  Terrence didn’t either. He and I were both still relatively new hires at the manor. We were an influx of “new blood” designed to help bring the old beauty into the twenty-first century and we had our work cut out for us. Emberstowne was a peaceful little hamlet with Marshfield Manor its crowning jewel. Increased tourism would provide jobs, thereby helping everyone in town, and we were charged with making that happen. We both possessed energy, verve, and determination. What we didn’t have was the down-home knowledge—the flesh-and-blood history—of Emberstowne’s inhabitants.

  Although I’d been born here, I’d grown up in Chicago and then spent several years in New York. I’d returned to Emberstowne to care for my mom, and when a spot opened up at Marshfield Manor for an assistant curator and estate director, I’d jumped at the opportunity. Sometimes I wished I’d lived here all my life. Sometimes I wondered why I stayed.

  “What happened with the two women?” I asked.

  “The local PD took them both home. They called the husbands home from work to take responsibility for the women. Both men had no idea about the mission their wives were on.”

  “What about Muffy?” I asked. “Did you meet her?”

  Terrence rubbed his face. “Yeah, she was at the one woman’s house, waiting to find out what happened. Pretty little thing. Few years older than her friends, I’d guess. She seemed really upset by the whole situation. More upset that we knew that she’d been jilted than about her friends getting into trouble, if you ask me.”

  “But Kincade isn’t pressing charges, so they’re not really in trouble anymore, are they?”

  He made a so-so motion with his head. “They could nail the blonde one for concealing her Taser but that’s just a misdemeanor charge.”

  “So all’s well that ends well?”

  He
gave me a skeptical look. “Not as long as that Kincade’s walking around here. That guy’s a bundle of trouble.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “I’ll be happy when he’s gone for good.”

  Chapter 4

  FAT GRAY CLOUDS HUNG HEAVY AND LOW, warning of storms to come. As I drove home, I contemplated how the weather might affect our Civil War campers. For the most part, they’d picked a pretty good week for their drills. Except for the rain predicted tonight, the seven-day forecast called for warm temperatures and mostly clear skies. As long as they lived through tonight, they should be all set.

  I often stopped at my roommates’ wine shop, Amethyst Cellars, on the way home, but my instincts kept me moving tonight. As I drove past, I tried to catch a glimpse inside but it was too dark to see. A crack of lightning, a burst of thunder, and suddenly raindrops fat as poodles began making giant splats against my windshield. I flicked on my headlights and twisted on the wipers. By the time I eased around the next corner, however, the drops had morphed into buckets of rain that pummeled my windshield, making it impossible to see even with the wipers on full speed.

  When I made it to Granville, my headlights traced a watery path across the front-lawn fence of my Victorian mansion home. Well, mansion was a misnomer. Compared to Marshfield Manor, this house would barely qualify as servants’ quarters. What it lacked in stately elegance, however, it more than made up for in lived-in charm. It was all mine—an inheritance from my mom.

  I wished, not for the first time, for an empty garage where I could actually park my car. My roommates and I had promised ourselves that this year we’d clear out all the junk in our two-car detached garage, but so far all we’d done was stand in front of the mess, stare, and say, “Next week, for sure.” Next week never came. The path to hell is paved with good intentions, they say. And the path to my back door would be paved with puddles tonight.