Grace Interrupted Page 9

  I wasn’t sure that Mr. Wrong qualified as funny either.

  “Lyle would show up in the middle of the night, on school nights even, and sing to her outside the house, begging her to marry him. Half the time he was drunk. It scared us more when he showed up sober. We eventually got an order of protection . . . which he complied with. For a while.”

  I waited.

  “But then the gifts started to show up outside Calla’s window. Her room was on the second floor,” Jack said. “This was no small effort. He started with normal date stuff, like stuffed bears and costume jewelry. Calla loved it. Thought it proved how much he cared and was oh-so-eager to take him back. But we managed to talk her out of it.” His eyes tightened again. “Then came the DVDs. Movies that all followed a theme: serial killers stalking teenage girls. He must have run out of cash then, because he started leaving pictures.”

  “Pictures?”

  “Of Calla, clearly taken when she was unaware. He splattered them with red paint, and drew lines across her neck. He scribbled notes warning her it was time to leave her family and grow up.” Jack’s mouth set in a grim line.

  “Didn’t that violate the order of protection?”

  “Only if we could provide evidence that it was Kincade who left them. No one ever saw him around our house. We couldn’t press charges until we could prove he was behind it.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  “Nope. The man was careful. He skirted the law and made our lives a living hell. Finally, my mom and dad decided to do an intervention. They called me home from college and we sat Calla down and talked with her, told her how we felt.” Jack cleared his throat. “Reminded her how much we loved her.”

  “She ignored you?”

  The corner of Jack’s mouth curled into a smile. “No. She listened. Turned out she was scared out of her mind and relieved by the family’s support. She’d been afraid we might condemn her for making such a bad choice.”

  “That’s not the end of the story, is it?”

  “Lyle,” Jack said, making eye contact again, “wouldn’t go away. Calla couldn’t go to school on her own without having to worry about him waiting for her, always trying to get her to come back. The restraining orders didn’t do much good. Nothing did. Even when my dad and Keith and I decided to have a ‘talk’ with him. You know, man-to-man.”

  Three men to man, he meant. From the ferocity sparking Jack’s eyes as he talked, I got the feeling they intended some serious intimidation. “Who’s Keith?”

  “Older brother,” Jack said with a look that told me he was surprised I didn’t know that. “We didn’t take Davey with us. He wanted to come too, but he was only a kid—maybe fourteen, fifteen years old at the time. And my dad was a cop. We thought with him along we could talk some sense into the idiot and let him know that plenty of other cops would be watching out for him.”

  “Your dad was an Emberstowne cop?”

  He nodded.

  I wanted to ask how come this tidbit of information hadn’t come up before. “If he was on the force, then why was it so hard to get Kincade arrested when he violated the order of protection?”

  “He lived up north in a different town. Had an alibi for every infraction we charged him with. His family was well-off and I think his dad had friends in that town’s police department. Nobody would do anything to stop him.”

  “That’s wrong.”

  “That’s small-town politics.”

  Bootsie opened her eyes long enough to stretch and reposition herself with a little whuff of contentment. We both watched her as I waited for Jack to continue.

  “Go on,” I said.

  “Not much more to tell,” Jack said. “He kept bothering Calla, and we made it clear he needed to back off.”

  “You threatened him?”

  Jack sat up so quickly Bootsie leapt off his lap. “She’s my sister. What do you think?”

  I held my hands up. “I’m not passing judgment. I’m just trying to understand.”

  “We got into a scuffle.” Jack traced his finger along his scar. “That’s where I got this.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “I admit I threw the first punch. But then we both got into it, and Keith didn’t want to see his little brother get pummeled, so he jumped in,” he explained. “My dad tried to break it up and ended up hurting his back. Pretty bad, in fact. Laid him up for over a month. The cops came and we were escorted away. I can still see the smirk on Lyle’s face when he told us we were lucky he didn’t press charges.”

  “When was Lyle murdered?”

  “About a week later.” Settling back in the chair, Jack went on. “I didn’t know anything about it until the police showed up at my apartment at school. They took me in, read me my rights, and questioned me for hours.”

  “They didn’t charge you?”

  “They wanted to. Heck, they wanted to charge me, my dad, and Keith. But Dad was laid up with his back injury. Keith had been at work the whole time, and although I hadn’t left my apartment all that weekend—I was studying for finals—it was just lucky I’d ordered a pizza and that the delivery guy remembered that I’d tipped him.” He stared away again. “As alibis go, it was pretty weak, but it was enough to keep me from being charged with murder.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “They never caught who did it. But everyone in Emberstowne believes I’m guilty.”

  “That can’t be true.”

  He laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “You asked me a long time ago why Marshfield Manor is my only real client.” He sat up. “I’ll tell you why. Because Bennett Marshfield was the only soul who would take a chance on me after all that. The stress from the murder threw me off my game. I flunked the few finals I managed to take, and skipped out on others. I couldn’t stand the scrutiny, the pressure. I dropped out of school my last semester.” His mouth twisted downward. “I was pre-law. Had my career all planned out. Heck, I had my entire life planned out.”

  I sucked in a sharp breath of realization. “What was her name?”

  He didn’t move, but his eyes flashed. “Becke,” he said. “She couldn’t handle it either. Being engaged to a murderer was not part of her life plan. Can’t say that I blame her.”

  “But you’re not a murderer.”

  “Tell the world that.”

  “There’s got to be—”

  “There isn’t,” he snapped. “I looked into everything. I was desperate to prove myself. For Becke’s sake.” His voice hardened. “And now”—he stretched out his arms southward, toward Marshfield—“I plant flowers for rich people.”

  His bitterness rattled me. I didn’t know how to react. As usual I said the first thing that popped into my mind. “But I thought you loved what you do.”

  His gaze softened. “I’ve learned to.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Not your fault. Not mine, either.” He fidgeted and looked toward the door, as though now that the story was out he couldn’t wait to get away from me.

  “How is Davey?”

  “Broken nose.” Jack got up. “The police questioned him last night, but he was sedated after surgery and I was his alibi. Too bad he slept so much. He could have been mine. Your friend Rodriguez and that woman he’s working with pulled me down to the station for questioning.”

  “What happened?”

  “They think I did it, no doubt about that. But there’s not enough to hold me yet. They stressed ‘yet.’ And they warned me not to leave the area.” Pacing the room, he kept talking, almost to himself. “I hate this. I hate what it’s done—and doing—to my life and to Davey’s. He used to be such a happy-go-lucky kid. He used to look up to me. Even he believes I killed Kincade.” Jack stared at me. “Lyle Kincade, that is. Ever since that murder, Davey has been different. He pulled away from me. From the family. Like he lost his way in the world, too. It was hard on my folks, hard on all of us.” His voice drifted off. “Lyle Kincade ruined my family o
nce. Now that his brother’s been murdered, too, it’s starting all over again.”

  Chapter 10

  I WISHED I COULD COME UP WITH SOMETHING profound to say, something to ease the tension, to bring back the Jack I knew. But the truth was, the Jack I thought I’d known and the real Jack were different people. The telling of the story created a new distance between us rather than generate any sense of intimacy. A divide had formed, widening by the second. Jack saw himself as an outsider, that much was clear. It explained a lot. And although I wanted to reach out and help him, I knew there were no words to do so. Not now at least.

  Changing the subject, I tilted my head toward the door. “What made you come dig up my daylily roots today?”

  Jack gave me a look that was at once wary and amused. “I got your messages . . . you probably guessed that. I wanted to call you back, but every time I picked up the phone, I froze. I didn’t know how to explain. To be perfectly honest, I didn’t want to. I wanted to pretend nothing had happened and just walk away from it all.”

  “But?”

  “That wasn’t fair to you. I borrowed Davey’s car and came up with an excuse to be here. I knew that once I saw you in person I’d have the guts to start talking.”

  “I’ve been furious with you.”

  For the first time he smiled. “I got that impression.”

  “I was worried, okay?”

  The doorbell rang, preventing him from commenting. Instead, he pointed. “You better get that and I’d better be going.”

  “So soon?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Davey’s alone. I worry about him. By the way, he’ll be back at work tomorrow.”

  “You think that’s wise?”

  “It will be good for him.”

  Jack accompanied me to the front door. As I swung it open, I gasped. “What are you doing here?”

  Behind me I heard Jack make a noise of disgust. “On second thought,” he said, “maybe I should stay long enough to help you take out the trash.”

  Ronny Tooney stood about five steps back from my front door, as though eager to prove he wasn’t a threat. Clutching a dark gray fisherman’s cap in both hands, he smiled sheepishly. “Good afternoon, Miss Wheaton,” he said after a nervous glance at Jack. “I hope I’m not bothering you all. I just heard about what happened down at the manor and I thought you might want a little help.”

  “I’ll take care of this,” Jack said as he pushed past me.

  I grabbed his arm. “Jack.”

  He stopped long enough to meet my eyes.

  “Not a good idea,” I said. “Not today.”

  “But this guy . . .”

  “I’ll take care of it. You go home.”

  He listened to me, but before he left, he shot an angry glare at Tooney. “Take some friendly advice and back off.”

  I wasn’t afraid of Tooney, but I wasn’t about to let him into my house, either. I didn’t want to risk Bootsie running out, however, so I stepped onto the porch the moment Jack got into Davey’s clunker and started it up. “So, what do you want?” I asked.

  Tooney watched until Jack pulled out and the car turned the far corner before asking, “Are you seeing him?”

  I pasted on a chilly smile. “That’s none of your business.”

  Tooney shrugged. “You think he did it?”

  “Mr. Tooney . . .”

  “You can call me Ronny.”

  “No thanks.” There were times, like this one, when I wished I had the talent of delivering zinger put-downs. I’d met Ronny Tooney almost immediately after Abe had been killed, when Tooney had attempted to insinuate himself into the investigation. Since then, the man had never let up. In his early fifties, carrying a fair amount of middle-aged spread, and with a prominent mole right above the bridge of his nose, he was hard to miss. He’d recently completed a course in private investigation and was eager to build up his clientele. Unfortunately for Tooney, all of Emberstowne saw him coming and ran the other way. “The police are handling the investigation,” I said. “If they need your help they know where to find you.” Did they ever.

  Bootsie appeared behind the storm door patting the glass with her front paws.

  “New roommate?” Tooney asked. “How’s the boys’ wine shop doing?”

  The fact that this man knew so much about me was disconcerting. Harmless? Probably. But annoying as all get-out. “I found her,” I said. “Couple days ago.”

  “Is that why you were walking door-to-door this morning?”

  I stared at him. “Don’t you have anything better to do than to pay attention to my comings and goings?”

  Tapping the glass in front of Bootsie with his knuckle, his voice went up a notch or two. “Hey, cutie,” he said, smiling, “you’re a sweetie pie, aren’t you?” Righting himself, he turned his attention to me. “I’m serious about my business and I know you’ve got troubles down at Marshfield. Again. I helped you out last time,” he said, “remember ? I think you owe me.”

  “The last time you ‘helped’ almost got me killed.”

  “That part wasn’t because of me.”

  I didn’t want to get into an argument with him. “I have a lot to do,” I said. “Including feeding the cat.”

  “So you’re keeping her?”

  “Until I find out who she belongs to,” I said, mentally slapping myself in the head the moment the words slipped out of my mouth. I hoped he wouldn’t pick up on them.

  Too late. “Hey,” he said, enthusiasm blooming, “I can do that for you. I take pride in my work, no matter how small the job. I’ll find out where she came from.”

  “No, really. I’m—”

  “And I’ll poke around a bit in town. I’m sure there’s scuttlebutt about the murder at the manor. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “No . . . no . . .”

  He placed his hat atop his head, tipped it, and bounded off my porch before I could stop him. “Thank you, Grace!” he shouted over his shoulder.

  “Great,” I said to myself. “Just great.”

  JUST AS I SETTLED MYSELF WITH A SANDWICH and a glass of lemonade, my cell phone rang. It had been only about twenty minutes since Ronny Tooney left. I had a feeling it was him calling. I was wrong. And it took me a moment to place the breathless voice.

  “Ms. Wheaton?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you on your day off . . .”

  Light dawned—Rob Pierpont.

  “. . . but something has come up.”

  Gripping the phone tightly, I asked, “Is anyone hurt?”

  “It’s more than that . . .” I heard him swallow.

  “More than anyone getting hurt?” I envisioned another dead body, a second murder among the Civil War re-enactors. “Did you call the police?”

  “No, no, it’s not like that. It’s a problem we’re having.” I could almost see him bouncing with impatience.

  “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

  “You know how I am about avoiding anything farby. The fact that I’m speaking on a telephone should lend some weight to my words.”

  “All right, Mr. Pierpont. Please go on.”

  “It’s about the police. They’re still here and they’re stopping and questioning every single person in our camp. The officers refuse to allow anyone to participate in drills until they’ve been questioned. But we have plans. A schedule. This is throwing everything off. Worst of all, they won’t let us handle weapons. Our own weapons.”

  “You have to remember, Mr. Pierpont, they have a murder to investigate.”

  “Yes, yes, and we’ve given them plenty of room. In fact, we moved two sections of tents just so that we’d be out of their way. Were they happy that we’d been so accommodating? No. They were angry because they hadn’t had a chance to process those tents yet. What in the world needed to be processed? We didn’t move Zachary’s tent. We left that one alone.”

  Had Pierpont not watched a single crime-based television show in his life? You never moved anything
without approval. “What made you decide to move tents?”

  “To be frank, it wasn’t my idea. Jim Florian took care of that. He suggested we separate ourselves from the activity going on with the police. That way we could resume our schedule. But it’s not working.”

  “I can’t stop the police from doing their job,” I said. Nor would I want to.

  He sighed. “It’s not just the police, though. It’s other guests. People staying at the hotel. The murder is pulling gapers out of the woodwork. Strangers are getting into everything. Upsetting our plans. I think they’re contaminating the crime scene, too. Dozens, maybe even close to a hundred guests have driven their automobiles up into our encampment area. Motorized vehicles! Do they not understand that their very presence ruins the illusion? They say they want to see what we’re doing, but it’s clear they just want to poke their noses into where the murder happened.”

  “Security isn’t keeping them away?”

  “Does security care if twenty-first-century vehicles are cluttering up our sight lines? No. Nor do they care about maintaining the illusion of the 1800s. All they worry about is making sure no one walks past their precious yellow tape—and yet people are tramping through there all the time. Gawkers, all of them. We asked them nicely to park their cars where ours are parked—well out of sight. But no! They claim that’s too far to walk.”

  I sighed. With our security department stretched thin between assisting the local police and maintaining control over the Marshfield property, there was not much I could do. The southern grounds were currently off-limits to guests. But people were like ants. They crawled in to get what they wanted and at this point there were just too many of them to control.

  “I’m sorry to hear you’re having difficulty,” I began, “but I’m not sure what can be done at this point . . .”

  “I know it’s your day off, and especially after yesterday’s tragedy, I truly hate to involve you, but I have a request . . .”

  “What do you need?”

  “First and most important, I need order. The police are running amok here. As soon as we get one of our drills set up, they come along and ruin it.”