Whitehouse Chef 04 - Grace Under Pressure Page 7

  Although I hadn’t known Abe long, I already knew I would miss him. He’d always been gracious and kind to me. And he’d been an effective buffer where Frances was concerned. Maybe he’d simply gotten used to her, but her attitude hadn’t seemed to bother him at all.

  I crossed the patio toward the low wall border, looking for Old Earl, the head groundskeeper. Like so many of the staff members, Old Earl had been in Marshfield’s employ for a very long time. I even remembered him from when I used to visit as a child. He always hid a plastic bag filled with Starlight mints in his pocket, and would hand them out to those of us who knew they were there. He and I hadn’t had much opportunity to work together since I started here, but I was eager for that to change.

  These days, Earl moved more slowly. With his slouched posture and weakened right knee, he used a cane to make his way around the grounds and complained—loudly—about everything that wasn’t getting done. We all knew it was just his frustration talking. Earl just wasn’t able to keep up with the grounds as well as he once was. I spotted him carrying a tiny potted pansy in his free hand, shuffling past one of the outbuildings.

  We all referred to these outbuildings as sheds, although the term was a misnomer. These structures housed garden equipment and other sundry landscape items of course, but “shed” wasn’t a sufficient description. Outfitted with running water, heat, and refrigeration units, these lovely cabins—which dotted the estate’s landscape—kept our groundskeepers from needing to return to the main residence for food and other basic needs. There were families in this world who would be happy to live in such sheds.

  “Earl,” I said, hurrying over. “Do you have a moment?”

  His ruddy face had a drapey look that crinkled into a smile—like a cheerful shar-pei—when he recognized me. “Hey there, Ms. Wheaton,” he said touching the pansy pot to his khaki hat in a mock salute. But then his smile faded away almost immediately. “Can’t rightly say good mornin’ now, can I? Not this mornin’, at least.”

  “How are you holding up?” I asked.

  His cane made soft indentations in the damp ground as we made our way to one of the planting tables next to the outbuilding. “All right, I guess.” He shook his head in direct contradiction to those words. “I suppose I’ll get by.” He placed the pansy pot on the tabletop, and fished into the pocket of his canvas coveralls, as he tilted his head toward the house. “How’s the Mister?”

  “Bennett is . . . holding up,” I answered, realizing how lame such things sounded. Weren’t we all holding up? What else was there for us to do? Falling apart wasn’t an option. Not with so much responsibility ahead.

  Earl pulled a crinkled plastic bag from his pocket, fished out a Starlight mint, and offered it to me. “Peppermint helps you think,” he said as I unwrapped the candy and popped it into my mouth. He joined me, then took back my empty wrapper. “I’ll make sure these don’t end up on the lawn.”

  Working the mint into the side of my cheek, I said, “I wanted to ask you about yesterday, Earl. Were there any members of your team out back when the break-in occurred? The detectives will be talking to everyone today, but I thought I’d try to help them corral witnesses to streamline things a bit.”

  He hung the handle of his cane on the tabletop and dragged over an old stool, lowering himself to sit. Just as he did so, he stood up again and dusted off the seat. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Ladies should sit.”

  I declined. “But you go ahead, please.”

  He smiled his thanks, his dirt-encrusted fingers working the soil around the pansy to free it from its tiny pot. “You know Jack, don’tcha?”

  I shook my head.

  Concentrating on the pansy, he reached down under the table, pulled up a larger pot, and dragged over a bag of dirt. “This one’s needing some TLC,” he said. “Jack’s not one of the gardeners on staff, he’s a landscape architect. He don’t work here regular. Got his own company in town. But he helps us out.”

  “He’s a consultant?”

  He stopped working long enough to answer. “Yup. And I like to think I helped him get where he’s at. I used to talk to him about growing things back when he was just a little tyke. Now he’s the one teaching me. I guess that’s what’s called enjoying the fruits of my labors.” Working the pansy into the new pot, he continued. “Jack’s a good kid. Got real talent, and he’s a local boy.” Squinting outward, he pointed toward the gardens. “We don’t only grow plants here at Marshfield; we grow family, too. Been doing that for years. That’s how all of us started here way back when.” He gave me a sad look. “Sorry, don’t mean to put you city folks down.”

  “I’m not ‘city folks,’ ” I said. “Well, not originally. I was born in Emberstowne.”

  His draped eyes twitched with skepticism. “You don’t talk like you’re from around here. How’s come I don’t know you?”

  “I spent a lot of time up north,” I said, then pointed to the minty bulge in my cheek. “But I remember how you used to sneak these to me when my mom wasn’t looking.”

  He grinned but still looked confused. “Wheaton, eh? I don’t know that name. You married?”

  “No,” I said, “but you might be more familiar with my grandparents’ name. My grandma used to work here, in fact. Her last name was Careaux.”

  He straightened. “Sophie? You’re Sophie’s kid?”

  “Granddaughter.”

  “Shee . . . yeah. Granddaughter. Wow. Time flies.”

  A voice from my left interrupted. “Good morning, Earl. What do you have for me today?”

  Earl said, “Speak of the devil.” Jerking a thumb at the newcomer, he said, “This here’s Jack Embers. Mark my words: Him and his company are the ones going to take over when I retire.”

  Although the day was cool, Jack had evidently been hard at work for most of the morning. Perspiration trickled from his dark hairline and splotches of sweat covered most of his gray T-shirt. He was tall—a full head taller than me—and that was saying something. With military-short hair, he was muscular though not ripped, carrying an extra ten pounds. The added weight suited him, but then again, I always preferred a sturdy build. His skin suggested an adolescent battle with acne and the jagged white line slicing across the left side of his face suggested a battle of another kind. Where had he gotten that scar? An accident? A fight?

  Jack sidled close enough to clap Earl on the shoulder. “Nobody can replace you, buddy. Not in a hundred years.”

  Clearly pleased, Earl’s face reddened even more. He waved Jack away. “Oh, go on.”

  “I’m Grace Wheaton,” I said, extending my hand.

  Jack took a step toward me but before we could shake, he gave his right hand a look of disgust. “Sorry,” he said, holding it up for me to see. “Been playing in the dirt. But I know who you are.” He raised his chin to indicate the expansive grounds. “Talk about grapevines,” he said with a wink, “out here word travels fast.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “I was very sorry to hear about Abe Vargas,” he said. “He was a good man. They catch the guy yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You heard I might have seen the guy?”

  That took me by surprise. “No, I didn’t. You saw the killer?”

  Jack shrugged. “Might have. I talked to the police about it yesterday.”

  “They asked me to ask around. You’d think they might have mentioned a witness.”

  “Yeah, well, I get the impression the cops in this town are in over their heads,” Jack said. “The guy I talked with yesterday didn’t even ask for my contact information. He was in the middle of questioning me when he just took off.”

  Uh-oh. “Did he have a mole right about,” I pointed to the area just above the bridge of my nose, “here?”

  “How did you know that?”

  Just as I was about to tell him about Ronny Tooney, Carr joined us outside. “Let everyone on staff know that no one gets near Mr. Marshfield without prior clearance from me,” he said by way o
f greeting.

  I started to interrupt, but he stopped me.

  “I’ve got two armed guards keeping watch over him ’round the clock. Nobody’s getting past them.” He pointed to Jack and then to me. “You both wanted to talk with me about something. Who wants to start?”

  Jack made a “ladies first” gesture so I jumped right in and told them all about my encounter with Ronny Tooney, explaining how I’d given my statement to him, erroneously believing he was a plainclothes detective. As I spoke Jack worked his jaw, probably feeling the same combination of frustration and stupidity I was experiencing. “I didn’t realize,” I said. “He looked so official.”

  Carr squeezed his eyes shut and massaged his brow. “Great,” he said through clenched teeth. “This is just great.” Opening his eyes, he glared at Jack. “And what about you?”

  “I gave the guy my statement, too,” he said. “How the hell could this guy have gotten away with this? Didn’t you check credentials?”

  Carr took a step forward. “Have you met the team I inherited? Not one of them has actually been trained in security. They’ve been instructed on pointing out the washrooms and keeping kids from climbing on the furniture. There are no emergency protocols set up. Nobody here has any experience on the street, and this place has never even run a safety drill. How many times do you think any of these people have had to deal with a murder? Zero. Nobody knew what the hell to do yesterday, and we’re just damn lucky that no one else got hurt.” He held a finger up close to Jack’s face. “I admit that mistakes were made. And I take responsibility. But it wouldn’t hurt to pay closer attention yourself. Next time somebody questions you, maybe you ought to check before spilling your guts.”

  Eyes tight with anger, Jack edged forward. A tiger ready to leap.

  From behind me, Earl spoke up. “If this Ronny fellow sneaked in here because he’s trying to help figure out who killed Abe, then I don’t see what’s so wrong about that.” He turned his back to us, resuming work on his pansy. “Maybe he’ll get the job done before the cops do.”

  Addressing the elderly gardener, Carr modulated his tone. “What we all need to realize is that by interfering, this Tooney idiot is hampering the real investigation. If you see him around, Earl, call me on the radio. Okay? He doesn’t belong here.”

  Turning to Jack I asked, “So what happened—what did you tell the fake detective?”

  I could tell Carr had been about to ask the same question.

  The defensive fury in Jack’s eyes slipped away. He rolled his shoulders and took a breath before answering. “There are people going in and out of the mansion all the time,” he began. “So at first I didn’t think anything of a man in coveralls walking behind the western section of the house.”

  “You saw him?” Carr asked. “What did he look like?”

  “He was pretty far away, and the sun was in my eyes.” Pointing eastward, he continued. “I was up there, in that little gorge. I thought it was Kenny at first—which is why seeing him around the grounds didn’t bother me. But then I noticed Kenny was standing about fifty feet away from me. I called to the guy. He turned and started to run. I ran after him. But the guy was fast—I lost him in the trees.”

  Carr had been jotting notes as Jack spoke. Now he looked up, gesturing with his eyes toward the hotel. “The trees? The ones closer to the road, or the ones behind the hotel?”

  “Road,” Jack said. “And before you ask, I did call it in. But by the time I got ahold of the dispatcher, all hell had already broken loose.”

  “Come up with me. I want the detectives to hear this.”

  Jack patted Earl on the shoulder. “You gonna be okay for a little while out here by yourself?”

  “I been running these grounds since before your daddy could crawl,” he said without looking up. “You go on ahead.”

  “I’m going in, too,” I said. “I have a few other people to talk with.”

  The three of us strode to the house and parted company at the back entrance. Carr and Jack headed up while I took the stairs down to the basement.

  Bennett Marshfield’s grandfather, Warren, Sr., hadn’t spared any expense when building his mansion. Even this belowground level was filled with decorative detail. Although less opulent than the upper stories, the hallways and rooms—which formerly housed staff living quarters—were cheerful and bright. The high windows allowed shafts of natural sunlight to bounce down onto the polished floors. Paintings—though not any of the real masters—adorned walls at regular intervals, each piece of artwork accompanied by a small plaque explaining the style, the medium, the time period. Warren Marshfield had been known for his penchant for educating others. Staff included.

  I mulled over my discussion with Jack Embers. Embers, as in Emberstowne, I assumed, since Earl had referred to Jack as a hometown boy. The municipality had been founded shortly after the Civil War by the Embers family who had—briefly—been the town’s most important people. That is, until the Marshfields discovered the beautiful area and moved in. I was mildly surprised the town name hadn’t been changed to honor them. I wondered if Jack was a direct descendant of the original Embers family.

  None of this mattered today, however. What mattered was finding the killer, and once Jack told the real police about the man he’d seen, maybe the authorities would put out an all-points bulletin. Or whatever it was they did these days to apprehend criminals.

  So far, Emberstowne’s finest hadn’t impressed me overmuch. I hoped they were more astute than they appeared. They had demanded that all personnel report to the mansion today, whether scheduled to work or not. That was something, at least. Maybe now with the place on virtual lockdown there would be little chance of Ronny Tooney sneaking in to gum up the works.

  I took yet another flight of steps down to one of the sub-basements. These areas housed the massive laundry room; miscellaneous storage areas; and the clunky machinery required to keep the house warm, cool, and properly humidified. The scent of hot cotton and bleach hit me at the entrance to the laundry room. Although the door was wide open, I knocked at the jamb. Eight hair-netted women leaned against washers, dryers, and folding tables. Most held mugs in their hands. At my knock, they straightened. “Wait,” I said as they quickly scattered. “I need to talk with you.”

  They eyed me suspiciously. Our head of housekeeping, Rosa Brelke, sat on a folding chair. She’d evidently been holding court.

  “I understand that we’ve all suffered a major shock,” I said to the group. “It’s natural to want to talk about it. It’s good that you’re doing so.”

  Melissa Delling stood behind Rosa, clearly uncomfortable. For her part, Rosa seemed recovered enough from yesterday’s trauma to shoot me a knowing look. She lumbered to her feet and made her way over with a pronounced waddle. “You want me to come talk to the police again, yes?” she asked.

  “I’m sure the police will be down here later but for right now, I want to ask you a few questions, myself.” I nodded toward Melissa. “Both of you.”

  The younger woman looked surprised but it was the reaction of the rest of them—rushing out the door as quickly as possible—that made it clear I had interrupted a coffee klatch. A thirty-something woman with four inches of black roots in her white blond hair and undisguised anxiety in her eyes tapped me on the arm as she walked past. “No harm done. Just talking here.”

  “I understand,” I said. “What’s your name?”

  The fear in her eyes sparked. “Yvonne.”

  “It’s been rough for all of us the past couple of days, Yvonne,” I said. “I’m not down here to double-check on you. I’m here to talk with Rosa and Melissa.”

  Clearly, these people had been affected by the death of a colleague, but when it came down to it—in an economy as volatile as this one—they were more concerned about how Abe’s death affected them personally.

  Rosa and Melissa eyed me warily. “Thanks for staying,” I said when everyone else was gone.

  Rosa grunted as she settle
d herself onto her folding chair with Melissa standing next to her. For the first time, I got a good look at the younger woman. I put her in her late twenties, although her hands, rough and red, looked as though they belonged to someone much older. She wore a silver claddagh ring—facing inward—on her wedding finger. Her pale face was freckled and lovely. She watched me as warily as the other women had, but with a sadness in her eyes that seemed out of place in someone so young. That’s what finding a dead body will do to you.

  I glanced around and noticed several more metal chairs leaning against a nearby wall. I dragged two of them over and squeaked them open, inviting Melissa to sit. She looked as though she would prefer to be anywhere but here. Was I so frightening? I suppose I might be. No one knew that until I had a better sense of the big picture, I didn’t intend to initiate any personnel changes. That would come later, if at all. But there was no assuaging the fear I sensed in every single staff person’s demeanor when they interacted with me.

  “I’d like to ask you just a few questions about yesterday. You both gave the police your statements, didn’t you?”

  Rosa shrugged. Melissa nodded.

  “I understand you both saw someone in the study.”

  “He was there.” Rosa raised her hands and clapped them in the air. “Then he gone!”

  “What did he look like?”

  Rosa frowned. “Dark pants. Dark shirt. I no see his face.”

  “How old, about?”

  Another frown. “I not know so good ages. Young kid. Maybe like you,” she said to me. Turning to Melissa, she asked, “That right?”

  Melissa made a face. “Not so young,” she said. “But I only got a quick look. I told the police that. It all happened so fast.”

  I nodded, trying to encourage her to talk more. When allowed to ramble, people often reconnected with memories they’d forgotten they had. “Were you outside the room when you heard the gunshots?”