Whitehouse Chef 04 - Grace Under Pressure Page 6

  Flynn’s eyes widened and I thought he might leap across the desk to grab me, but Rodriguez waved him down. Licking his lips, he recited and scribbled into his notebook at the same time. “The deceased bears a resemblance to Bennett Marshfield, owner of the estate. Possible anyone attempting to break into mansion’s private rooms expected to find Mr. Marshfield. Got it.” Focusing on me, he said, “Now, what about these letters? Why didn’t we hear about them last night?”

  I was dumbfounded. To me, these letters were the most important clue of all—why wouldn’t the entire department have this information? “I explained, last night, that I didn’t know where they were. That’s why I called you. I found them this morning.”

  Flynn again looked ready to jump up, eager to do something—anything. I could relate. Rodriguez nodded again. “Gonna let me see them?”

  I’d taken my gloves off during the plethora of phone conversations, dropping them on the desktop where I’d noticed Flynn eyeing them suspiciously ever since he’d walked in. Now I pulled them back on and answered his unasked question.

  “As assistant curator here, I regularly deal with precious artifacts. These . . .” I held up my gloved hands and wiggled my fingers, “. . . are standard operating procedure for me. Nothing weird about it.”

  “Why would you say that?” Flynn asked. “Why do you feel the need to make excuses?”

  Rodriguez shut his eyes tight for another half second before he confirmed my suspicions. “Flynn, we are not investigating the lady. She isn’t a suspect.”

  Flynn seemed more disappointed than he had any right to be. I tried ignoring his eager scrutiny as I opened the folder and turned it to face the two detectives. The originals were here, my copies safely tucked in a file drawer. I could have predicted the first words out of Flynn’s mouth.

  “Where’s this original?” he asked, lifting the newest threat and scrutinizing it.

  “I don’t know. Abe told me he intended to show it to Bennett . . . that is, Mr. Marshfield. When I left him, Abe was heading up to Mr. Marshfield’s study. I assumed he took the letter with him, but from what I understand, it wasn’t found on Abe’s body.”

  Fidgety Flynn asked, “No one told us anything about this last night when we were here. We thought we talked to every one of the witnesses. Where were you?”

  Rodriguez again held up his hand. Although still in his relaxed position in the chair across from me, I could see his ire growing. He flipped back through his notes. “We interviewed two housekeepers, Rosa Brelke and Melissa Delling,” he began. “That Rosa’s eyesight’s not so good,” he said with a pointed look. “She says she thought she saw a man in there, but he disappeared when she looked back.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “So she says. But like I said, the woman’s eyesight’s terrible. I asked her to look at some mug shots. I think it confused her.”

  “What about Melissa Delling?”

  “I would consider bringing her in for a lineup if we ever get that far. She saw someone, too.” Back to consulting his notes: “Said he was between thirty-five and fifty, under six feet, slightly overweight, wearing dark clothing. With that description, it could be just about anybody. She says she got a look at his face, but didn’t recognize him.”

  “Well, it’s something, at least,” I said.

  “We also interviewed your head of security, Terrence Carr. When we asked to speak with Mr. Marshfield, we were told he was indisposed and would see us in the morning.” Rodriguez made a so-so motion with his head and gave me a pointed look. “In most circumstances, we would not wait until the next day, but Mr. Marshfield is well respected here in Emberstowne. We made an exception.” Returning his attention to his notes, he added, “But I see no mention of you. Who did you talk to last night?”

  I couldn’t remember the officer’s name. “It was very hectic,” I began, aware of Flynn squinting at me. “I had helped Mr. Marshfield to his room when the call came out that Abe was . . . dead.”

  Rodriguez nodded, urging me on.

  “Mr. Marshfield was understandably distraught, so I decided to stay with him even after the doctor administered a sedative.” I shrugged. “The drug took a while to take effect.” I remembered feeling at odds as I’d sat there next to the bed. It seemed wrong to leave Bennett all alone but it seemed equally wrong not to oversee the goings-on in the study. I’d reasoned that Carr would handle the mechanics of the investigation, and I would handle Bennett.

  When I’d finally emerged a couple of hours later, the corridor was still bustling with activity. An officer had spied me approaching and escorted me to a far corner of the hall with an admonishment to not get too close to the crime scene. He’d taken my statement and then urged me to leave the area immediately. During my interview, I’d made it a point to mention the threats we’d received. “The officer I spoke with asked me a bunch of questions about the letters, but assured me the matter was already being handled.” I shrugged. “I assumed that meant he told the detectives in charge . . . You.”

  Rodriguez and Flynn exchanged a look I didn’t understand. “Was the officer in uniform?”

  “No,” I said slowly. “He was in plainclothes, but wore a shoulder holster.” I pointed to Flynn. “Just like yours.”

  Rodriguez rubbed his temple. “Can you describe him?”

  A funny feeling began to form, like my stomach curling in on itself. I spoke more quickly, eager to get the information out as fast as I could. “He was about my height, maybe five-foot-eight or -nine. A little paunch right here . . .” I indicated the love handle area. “His hair was thinning—I’d put him at about fifty. Ordinary face. Not bad looking, but not handsome either. Does that help?”

  Flynn muttered what might have been an expletive.

  “What?” I asked.

  Rodriguez pointed to an area just above the bridge of his nose. “Did he have a mole, a dark one, right about here?”

  “I don’t remem . . .” I started to say, then stopped myself. “He did. Yes.”

  Flynn punched a fist into his palm.

  My twisting gut tightened. “What did I do? Who did I talk to?”

  Flynn shook his head, but Rodriguez ignored him. “His name is Ronny Tooney.”

  I must have made a face because Flynn said, “The guy’s a real weirdo.”

  “He’s not part of your department?”

  Rodriguez harrumphed, looking suddenly tired. “Took an online course and thinks he’s a private detective. He must have been monitoring calls again.” This time, when the older detective wrote in his book, he scribbled hard. “The idiot keeps showing up at our crime scenes. Nine times out of ten we find him and toss him before he does any damage.” Looking up at Flynn, he added, “Let’s bring him in for questioning. See what he has to say.” He tapped a thick finger on the folder in front of us. “Dollars to doughnuts Tooney is out right now trying to find these letters. He thinks if he solves one case he’ll be in business for life.”

  Rodriguez pulled a plastic evidence bag from his belt and asked me to place the original letters inside. After I did, I removed my cotton gloves.

  “How did this guy get into the mansion?” I asked.

  Pushing himself to his feet, the detective shot me a wry smile. “You saw how it was yesterday. People don’t know what to do when there’s a crime. They panic. Folks are coming and going and nobody is really sure who’s who. We don’t get many murders in this little town, thank God, but I’ve seen it happen even with car accidents or break-ins. Victims spot someone who looks official and it’s natural to trust them. Broke my heart once when a young couple’s car got broadsided by a drunken idiot. Miraculously everyone was okay, but the woman’s purse got stolen in the aftermath. Who took it? No idea. There were paramedics, cops, bystanders in and out of the car. Lots of people stepping forward to help. But one of them was a thief. And nobody ever figured out who.” He stopped a moment. “Couple was on their honeymoon, too. Half their spending money in the wife’s purse.” He rais
ed his eyebrows. “Makes a good case for carrying plastic, you know. Can always cancel those.”

  Flynn looked reluctant for our interview to end. I got the impression he wished he could interrogate me one on one. But Rodriguez was making for the door and Flynn had no choice but to follow.

  “What about Percy?” I asked. “Did you find anything out about him?”

  “The fat guy who caused the disturbance?” Rodriguez was shaking his head even before I could answer. “Full name Percy Lepore. He don’t know squat. We tried sweating it out of him, but all we could get was that some guy—a guy he never met before, of course—offered him a hundred dollars to raise a ruckus. The timing was pretty specific, so we know the two events are connected, but other than the lame description Percy gave us, we’ve got nothing to go on.”

  “What did the guy look like?”

  Flynn narrowed his eyes at me. “Average guy. Average weight. Twenty to fifty years old. Wearing a dark baseball hat, dark jeans, and a navy blue T-shirt.”

  “That’s it?” I asked. “No other description, like skinny? Heavyset?”

  Flynn snorted. “Everybody looks skinny next to that guy.”

  Almost out the door, Rodriguez started when he bumped into Frances in her favorite eavesdropping position. Recovering, he twisted to talk to me. “The fat kid was a patsy. He saw a way to make a quick buck and he took it. Dumb as a box of rocks, that one. We’ll keep an eye on him but until we come up with a suspect and a chance for a positive ID, there’s no reason to hold Mr. Lepore. We got everything out of him we’re going to get.” Rodriguez started to walk away, then turned back. “For now, that is.”

  For the first time all morning, I sensed determination in the relaxed detective’s demeanor. His eyes sparkled when he added, “Do me a favor, Ms. Wheaton. Look around, speak with your staff. See if there’s anybody we need to talk to who we might have overlooked. We’ll be in touch.” He tapped his notebook to his temple and turned to Flynn. “Let’s go upstairs,” he said. “Have another walk around the crime scene.”

  Flynn gave me one last glare—warning or confusion, I couldn’t be sure—and sauntered off to follow his partner.

  Chapter 8

  THE MINUTE THE TWO MEN LEFT, I HEADED for Frances’s desk. “What do you know about Bennett’s involvement with the T. Randall Taft case?”

  She shrugged as if to say “not much,” but her eyes glittered. “Why? You think Randall Taft hired a hit man? I heard what you said about Bennett and Abe looking alike from the back.” Folding her arms across her ample chest, she nodded sagely. “I was thinking the exact same thing. Why don’t the cops look into possibilities like that? I mean, pheh, a robbery? Give me a break. If they were smart they’d take a look at Frank Cassano.”

  “Cassano?” I said skeptically. “Capable of murder?”

  “Did you know he’s divorced because he got caught cheating on his wife?” In her element—gossiping—Frances didn’t take a breath. “He probably would’ve gotten away with it, too, except the woman he was seeing had a mean little dog who jumped up on the bed and bit him in a . . .” she wagged her eyebrows, “. . . very sensitive spot. How do you explain that to your wife?” Looking pleased with herself, she added, “Brings new meaning to the term lapdog, don’t you think?”

  “Thanks for sharing, Frances,” I said, wishing she hadn’t. “But Cassano doesn’t really strike me as a killer. More like an angry blowhard.”

  “A man who cheats on his wife is probably capable of murder, too,” she said. I didn’t quite understand how one followed the other, but I kept my mouth shut. “And he’s a pain in our backsides. The Mister really doesn’t have any enemies except him.”

  A man in Bennett Marshfield’s position often had adversaries he didn’t even know existed. I couldn’t discount Cassano completely but I believed the timing with the Taft news was more than coincidence. That was the angle I wanted to explore. “How long have Bennett and T. Randall Taft known one another?”

  She considered that. “Long time. Twenty, thirty years, I’d say. Bennett’s older than Randall by quite a bit, but I seem to remember hearing their names together a lot. Their wives were good friends, too.”

  “Bennett’s first wife, or second?”

  “Second,” she said sadly. “The first wife, Sally, died young. Then came Marlis.” The look on Frances’s face told me exactly what she thought of wife number two. “Sally was barren—or so everyone said. I think Bennett was so desperate to have kids that he married the first woman who looked fertile. Marlis already had Hillary, proving she was capable of giving birth, so he snapped her right up. Big mistake. No babies here.”

  “Do you know anything about Randall Taft’s Ponzi scheme?”

  “Only that I’m glad Taft didn’t come knocking on my door. These days, who’s got money to lose? Not me.”

  “Why wasn’t I told that Bennett was scheduled to testify in court yesterday?”

  She shrugged. “The Mister keeps a lot to himself. Especially personal stuff. I think he talked to Abe . . .”

  We both let the thought hang.

  “You’re a resourceful woman,” I said.

  Frances looked confused. “Sometimes.”

  “Do me a favor. We pay a service to keep us updated on all news and articles that are published about Marshfield Manor, right?”

  She snapped her fingers. “You want me to ask them to clip news on Randall Taft, too?”

  “Yeah, and have them backtrack. I want to know everything about this from the time the story hit.”

  “That’s a good idea.” Frances reached for the telephone. “I should have thought of that.”

  I started for the door, patting my hip. “I’ve got my walkie-talkie if you need me. But it looks like the complaint calls have died down, so you should be okay here for a little while.”

  “Are we opening tomorrow?” she asked.

  “Won’t know until this afternoon at the earliest.”

  “Where are you going?”

  I’d called most of the department heads to check in, striving to be the voice of calm in this storm, letting them know we would reopen just as soon as the police gave us the all-clear. There were, however, a couple of departments I couldn’t reach—probably because staffers were busy doing their jobs rather than sitting idly by the phone. I decided to visit these departments in person. “Outside, first, then down to the basement to talk with some of the staff.”

  “I could call them to come up here.”

  Sure, I thought. So you can listen in.

  “No thanks,” I said. “While I’m gone, though, would you do me a favor and pull out any information we might already have on T. Randall Taft?”

  I left her and headed down the back stairs. I called Carr on my walkie-talkie to alert him about the uninvited Ronny Tooney—a problem we needed to address quickly. But he cut me off before I could even broach the subject.

  “Hold up on any sensitive communication via radio,” he said. “What’s your location?”

  I told him.

  “I’ll meet you outside in twenty. In the meantime, keep the lines as clear as possible.”

  “You got it.”

  He clicked off, leaving me further worried. Was there another security breach? I blew out a breath and hurried the rest of the way, but as I cleared the final landing, I stopped for a moment to gaze out the window. Teams of garden professionals dotted the south lawn, busy trimming, cutting, weeding, and planting under the soft sun. Though a gauzy mist hung overhead, the day had cleared up nicely. Outside the mansion suddenly seemed the safest place to be.

  I made my way down the expansive corridor, with only the ticking clocks to keep me company as my shoes tap-tapped along the tile. This area was usually filled with happy, chatty tourists at this time of day, and the home felt empty without their energy. As I entered the silent Birdcage room, I paused a moment. Yesterday’s fracas with Percy had been the beginning of Marshfield Manor’s worst day. I replayed scenes in my mind and r
ealized how flawlessly we had been set up.

  And yet . . . the fact that an intruder had made it into the house during the melee should not have surprised me. Our security protocols were outdated, and our force largely untrained. Changes were in the works, but they hadn’t come soon enough for Abe. But who would have expected violence in such an idyllic location? I was as guilty as the next guy of never expecting a major crime to happen here.

  My footsteps beat a lonely pace across the Birdcage’s marble floor as I made my way to the back garden exit. There was a chill in the room that had nothing to do with the temperature and I was happy to push the tall glass door open and step into the hazy sunshine.

  Immediately outside the Birdcage was a massive tile patio, with umbrella-topped tables provided for tourists to sit while they waited to be seated indoors or just enjoy a view of the grounds. To the west, our hotel was just visible over a low rise. Beyond that were the stables, where guests could schedule trail rides. To the east, more than a polo field away, was our forest. And to the south were our gardens, so beautiful it almost hurt to take it all in.

  These tables were a recent addition—and even better—they had been my suggestion. I’d gotten the idea after a visit to Cà d’Zan, the John and Mable Ringling mansion in Sarasota, Florida. The terrace, overlooking Sarasota Bay, was one of my favorite places on the property. I loved the sense of belonging created by the area, and I sought to re-create that feeling here at Marshfield. This would be our first spring and summer with a welcoming patio, and I looked forward to seeing how it would be received.

  I thought about Abe. While he hadn’t been the most accommodating individual I’d ever known, I was surprised when he’d agreed to the patio plan and further surprised when he allowed me to get started immediately. “Why wait?” he’d asked. “That’s what you were hired for, isn’t it? New ideas. If that’s what they want, that’s what they’ll get.”

  The furniture had been delivered and set up two weeks later. Amazing what could be done in a short period of time when money wasn’t an object. I sighed as I ran my hand along the back of a rattan chair. Crafted in a similar style, they were a lighter color than those in the Birdcage and sturdier for outdoor use. Abe and I thought it best to have both areas matching in theme.