Whitehouse Chef 04 - Grace Under Pressure Read online

  Aunt Belinda wasn’t often rendered speechless, but I’d thrown her a doozy this time.

  “So they got their hooks into you, too, did they?” she finally said.

  “I’ve always wanted to work there.” That was true enough. Although I thoroughly enjoyed my time in New York, I’d always intended to move back to Emberstowne and seek out a position at Marshfield. Admittedly, I hadn’t expected to make that change until much later in my career. Mom’s illness had accelerated my plans. And here I was.

  “What you find so intriguing about that place, I’ll never understand. Those people stayed hidden in their castle and wouldn’t give us townies the time of day. No way. And your mother didn’t have a problem with that. She spent so much time there, I swear she believed she lived there. That’s one thing I’ll say about Amelia. She had delusions of grandeur.”

  “Not at all,” I answered, annoyed. “Mom appreciated beauty. I do, too. That’s why I’m thrilled to work there. I get to be part of history.”

  She made an unpleasant noise. “I guess I can’t blame you and I can’t blame Amelia either,” she said.

  Here it comes.

  “It’s all our mother’s fault. She was the one feeding us lines about how great the Marshfields were. Amelia bought into the great Marshfield mystique, hook, line, and sinker. But I was too smart for that. I saw the place for what it really was—a way for the rich to get richer at the expense of poor people who had to pay ten dollars just for the privilege of saying ‘Oooh’ and ‘Ahh’ over some old pieces of junk.”

  I had heard versions of this more times than I could bear to remember. I didn’t intend to waste any more time listening, especially since I knew the inevitable second half was about to launch.

  “I better get going,” I said.

  As though she hadn’t heard my attempt to disengage, Aunt Belinda segued into her favorite rant, one I could almost recite by heart. “My mother thought the sun rose and set on Amelia. Your mother was the golden child.” Belinda tsked. “I was my father’s favorite. But he died first and then it was up to my mother to make decisions about who gets what. Just because I didn’t see the appeal of the Marshfield millions, our mother didn’t think I was worthy enough to inherit the house you’re living in. No, she left that to your mother. What did I get? A piddly insurance policy.”

  That insurance policy and a few additional savings accounts, I knew, had netted Aunt Belinda a substantial sum. More, in fact, than the house had been worth at the time of our grandmother’s death. The fact that Belinda had spent it all right away seemed a detail she always managed to forget. The house had naturally increased in value over the years. Yet my aunt insisted on comparing apples and oranges.

  I thought about my sister, Liza. She’d gotten the cash, I’d gotten the house.

  History repeats itself. Would Liza eventually hassle my children about how unfairly she believed she’d been treated? Would I ever have children? The pain of Eric’s sudden departure was still raw, as if it had happened yesterday. As was the hurt I felt from my sister’s quick exodus right around the same time. I had no proof, but . . .

  As if reading my mind, Aunt Belinda asked, “You hear from your sister lately?”

  “No.”

  “That girl is a pistol. She sure knows how to live. When you hear from her, tell her to call me.”

  “Sure.” I was getting good at lying.

  We finally signed off, with my aunt promising to call again soon.

  Bruce and Scott were still upstairs. I’d stopped by Amethyst Cellars earlier on my way home. With its cherrywood décor, recessed lighting, namesake-colored sparkling crystal, and ever-changing displays, the shop was more a destination than simply a place to pick up a bottle of wine. In addition to their range of vintages, the boys also offered a variety of gourmet chocolates, and an assortment of gift baskets. Browsing there felt like being on vacation, and every time I stopped by, I told them so.

  Right now they were in the upstairs office hunched over a laptop, oblivious to anything else going on in the house as they came up with display designs and future plans for their store. I didn’t know the details of how or when this magazine feature would come through. I did know that there would be considerable lead time. But once their little shop was introduced to the readers of Grape Living, success was practically guaranteed. The two men were excited about plans for expansion and how to use the magazine’s article as a springboard to national distribution.

  These two very enthusiastic businessmen were now in the enviable position of devising growth plans for the next two years and beyond. I was happy for them. And from a purely selfish point of view, I knew that the bigger their shop’s business, the more likely they both would stay here with me, sharing expenses in this big house. Helping me keep it maintained.

  There were too many things going wrong lately. I couldn’t imagine handling all this myself.

  When I’d moved here to take care of my mother, I’d been shocked by the house’s state of disrepair. As I nursed my mother—with help from the hospice folks, thank God—I’d discovered a talent for improvising and jury-rigging. I also talked my mom into taking in boarders. When Scott and Bruce applied for the spot, I knew they were a gift from heaven.

  All these months later, leaky toilets and dripping faucets were no challenge at all. I could shore up a fence post, change a light switch, and repair drawers that wouldn’t close. Scott knew his way around power tools and Bruce around cars. The three of us managed pretty well, most days. We did, however, call in help for the big projects. The next one on the list, a new roof, would have to wait until I saved up quite a bit more. Until then, we kept a couple of buckets in the attic placed in strategic spots.

  That reminded me. I trudged up to the third floor, pulling open the trap for the foldaway stairs, which led to the uppermost area. The attic smelled of old books and rotting wood. Dark beams rose steeply overhead, and at the room’s center, a tower rose high above all its neighboring structures. Though there were tiny windows up there, I couldn’t see anything in the dark. I just prayed that there were no bats in my belfry. This place was the stuff of which suspense novels were written. Gabled in four places with only the raw wood for a ceiling, the huge room boasted lots of dark corners where Mom had shoved old records and papers she hadn’t ever had time to sort through. Apparently that job now fell to me.

  Another day. Maybe another year.

  We kept a stack of empty five-gallon buckets near the top of the stairs. I pulled out two and slid them into place, gingerly removing the two that were already half full. They had predicted more rain tonight, and as I stared upward into the dark rafters, I realized I couldn’t let this repair go much longer. My salary was good but not so good to allow me to afford such extravagances like repairing my roof.

  The wind buffeted the side of the house, rattling the nearby windows. Such a lonely sound. Taking creaky steps across the rough-hewn floor, I made my way to the room’s far side, to stare out one of the windows. From up here everything looked small. I was four stories above the ground looking down on treetops and other homes.

  Emberstowne had been an idyllic place to be a child—I wondered what life would have been like had I grown up here. Sitting in the shadow of Marshfield Manor, we’d enjoyed the prosperity of tourism and the quiet of small-town life. Aunt Belinda, eight years older than my mother, had seen fit to run off and get married as soon as she turned eighteen. She hadn’t been back.

  The wind pushed one of the trees so far sideways it almost touched the ground. At the same time, the sky rumbled and a gust of chilled air worked its way between the window and frame to swirl the fresh smell of wet green around me. We were in for another storm.

  Chapter 11

  I ALWAYS PARKED MY CAR ON THE DRIVEWAY next to the house. The detached garage was so chock-full of junk and half-completed projects that no cars would fit inside. Fortunately for my two roommates and me, we had a sizeable driveway and we used it as a parking lot, much to ou
r neighbors’ dismay. A couple of them had pulled me aside to mention how unsightly it was to leave cars outdoors all the time. They also took the opportunity to point out a drooping eve on the house and places where the paint was peeling. As if I didn’t know.

  I was always very polite and thanked them for their concern, but vowed that next time I would sweetly suggest they could help pay for all these improvements if they wanted them so badly. But that next time never came. I cringed every time I was caught by one of these criticisms. Didn’t they realize I wanted my house to look as pristine and beautiful as theirs? Didn’t they know I was trying my best to get there?

  The neighbors were relentless. And lately their complaints were coming more often.

  So when I whooshed open my umbrella to dash to my car, I wasn’t surprised to see someone waiting there for me. With his face obscured by the swoop of his umbrella, I couldn’t make out which of my neighbors it was. But I put money on it being Chuck.

  I hit the “unlock” button on my remote and called, “No time to talk today, Chuck,” as I opened the driver’s side door and slid in. No easy feat while trying to close an umbrella in slicing rain. Even though I wore a lined trench coat today, I shivered as I pulled my door shut.

  To my surprise, Chuck opened the passenger door and sat down, closing his umbrella in a smooth move. When he turned to me, I was even further surprised. Not Chuck.

  It took me a minute to place the face.

  “You’re Ronny Tooney,” I said, my heart jumping in alarm. “Get out of my car.”

  The morning was dark, and I could barely see across the street. My roommates were sound asleep upstairs. There was no one to help me if I called out.

  The half second it took me to process that I should get out of the car—now—was enough for Tooney to get ahead of me. He locked my doors from the control on his side. “I need to talk with you.”

  I unlocked the door on my side, and reached for the door handle.

  Too late. Tooney locked it again. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  It was like we were playing a stupid game. But I wasn’t having fun.

  “I don’t care what you want,” I said. “Unlock the damn door.” At that I used the remote in my right hand to unlock the car, and my free left hand to grab the handle. This time I was fast enough. I leaped out of the car, not caring about the wind and rain whipping at me as I ran up the steps to my back door.

  “Wait!” he called.

  I had my keys out and was fumbling to get the right one into the dead-bolt lock, but Tooney was right there. He tapped me on the arm. “I just want to talk to you.”

  I spun to face him. “Get off my property.”

  At that he stepped back. Neither of us had our umbrellas out, but while I was covered by my small porch’s overhang, Tooney had no protection whatsoever. “I’m sorry I startled you. It was wrong of me to get into your car.” He held his hands outstretched. “But it’s miserable out here. I’m sorry.”

  The guy didn’t look so scary. In fact, with his plastered hair and soaked trench coat, he looked like a drowned rat. “I’m not coming anywhere near you,” I said. “You’ve got a gun.”

  “I don’t,” he said, opening his coat to expose the front of his shirt and slacks. The shoulder holster he’d been wearing the other day was gone. He widened his coat and stood sideways, then turned to show me his other side. “See? No gun.” Squinting in the rain, he let the edge of his coat drop. “Please, just a couple questions?”

  I looked at my watch. “I have to get to work.”

  “Five minutes?”

  The last thing I needed to do was to complicate an already difficult situation by cooperating with the man who had led me to believe he was a real cop. With no umbrella—I’d dropped it just outside my still-open car door—but with the security of knowing that he at least wasn’t armed, I pushed past him. “Not a chance.”

  Within seconds, I was back in my car with the doors locked. As I started the engine, Tooney ran out in front of it, pressing both hands on the front of my hood. Like he thought he was Superman trying to stop a speeding locomotive. “I’ll call you later,” he said. “I can help you.”

  He stepped away, holding up a hand as I drove past, looking soggy, sorry, and ridiculous. I needed help, all right. But I wasn’t about to get it from the likes of him.

  “IS THE MANOR OPENING TODAY?” FRANCES asked the moment I walked in.

  I dropped my purse on the desk, frustrated by the early morning altercation with Ronny Tooney. “As of last night, I couldn’t get an answer from our detective friends. I hope so. But I owe them a call on another matter.”

  “What happened to your hair?”

  I pushed back my damp locks and checked out my reflection in the glass of the grandfather clock. “Ick.”

  “It’s all indoor parking here,” Frances reminded me unnecessarily. “How in the world did you get so wet?”

  Today she had on another turtleneck sweater—a virtual duplicate of the one she wore yesterday—except this one was pale blue. “I don’t have an attached garage,” I said.

  She laughed. “Oh that’s right. You live in that old monstrosity on Granville.”

  Her comment set me off-kilter. Why the personal attack? It was bad enough that I didn’t seem to have anywhere to turn, but now Frances was taking potshots at where I lived. What major faux pas had I made in karma-ville to deserve such consistently rotten treatment?

  Whatever it was, I’d had enough.

  “You are talking about my home,” I said. “And you will stop. Now.”

  The tadpole eyebrows arched upward, but she didn’t say a word.

  “Now,” I said, changing the subject. “What have you learned about Bennett Marshfield’s involvement with T. Randall Taft?”

  Even as she protested, “It’s only been twenty-four hours,” she reached around to her credenza and pulled out a file. “They sent me some recent notices to get us started.” She handed it to me. “These are copies of articles that appeared over the past few days.”

  “You received these via e-mail?” I asked, impressed. “It’s about time somebody on staff became Internet savvy.”

  She shook her head. “Fax.”

  I bit back my disappointment. “Soon,” I said. “We will rectify this, soon.”

  Frances moaned her familiar lament. “I don’t like computers. I don’t like the idea of a machine being smarter than I am.”

  I held up my hand. Unbelievably, it stopped her.

  At that, realization dawned. No one was going to come down from on high and promote me into Abe’s job. If I wanted to be the manager of this enormous estate—if I wanted the title of curator/director—I was going to have to start acting like one. And that meant assuming all responsibilities. At least until I was ordered to stop.

  I tapped the file folder against my palm. “Two things,” I said. “First, I’ve seen the job you do around here. We both know you are perfectly capable of mastering a computer. Second,” I squared my shoulders and nodded toward Abe’s office, “effective immediately, I will be moving in there. If there is anything you need before I move all my things in, this would be a good time to recover them.”

  Frances didn’t react. I wondered if it was hard for her to maintain that poker-faced expression.

  “Any questions?” I asked.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Good, then please get Detective Rodriguez on the phone for me. We need to find out if we’re opening our doors this morning.”

  Ten minutes later the intercom buzzed, startling me out of my reading. I had opened the file and found about fifteen articles, most of which delivered a version of the same basic story but worded a little differently under each individual byline. The best, most comprehensive, had been written by a staff reporter for a major financial publication. I saved my place as I hit the intercom to reply.

  “Yes, Frances?”

  “The detective says he’ll be by shortly.”

  “Did
you ask him about opening the mansion to visitors?”

  “He said he would cover that when he gets here.”

  “Great.” It was already almost eight o’clock. We’d instructed the entire staff to be in position, poised to act just in case we got a last-minute all-clear. It was looking increasingly likely that we would be sending a significant portion of our staff home.

  I was about to verbalize my disappointment, but stopped myself just in time. What was wrong with me? The manor would stay closed for as long as the detectives needed us to keep it closed. Abe was dead and his killer was still on the loose. Although we had a business to run, what we needed to keep uppermost in our mind that one of our own was dead and the detectives were doing their level best to find the guilty party. I had fallen into the trap of being so concerned about overseeing the tourist trade, that I’d begun treating Abe’s murder as an inconvenience—an obstacle to getting things done.

  I’d lost sight of what was important.

  Uncharitably, I wondered if this was how my sister, Liza, felt all the time.

  “Thank you, Frances,” I said, finding my voice. “By the way, have you heard what arrangements are being made for Abe? Do you know when his family will be having the wake?”

  “Abe didn’t have any living relatives,” she said. “The Mister is taking care of everything. There won’t be a wake. And the funeral will be private. Just those of us who knew him best.”

  “I understand.” Rather than making me feel left out, this disclosure made me glad that Abe had his Marshfield Manor family to say good-bye. “Thanks.”

  I returned to reading the financial article. The story not only provided significant background on Taft, it also clearly explained how Ponzi schemes worked. The pyramid was an apt example. The swindler, in this case, T. Randall Taft, promised significant returns to eager investors. When certificates of deposit and bonds were paying less than 5 percent, Taft promised his people 14 to 17. Unheard of in this market. But people believed him. They gladly handed their investment portfolios to Taft based on his promises to multiply their wealth.