Grace Among Thieves Part 4

"She's not so bad, you know."

I c.o.c.ked an eyebrow. "Has all that female flirting addled your brain?"

"I feel sorry for her. Sure, she looks all put together, but she has to work at it. Hard. And the cracks are beginning to show. She wants to be happy, but doesn't have a clue how to get there."

I thought about that. "You're pretty insightful."

"Now I know you're exhausted. Say good night, Gracie."

He was right. I stood. "Good night."

Chapter 5.

FROM ALMOST THE TIME I'D REALIZED I WAS allergic to Bootsie, she'd s.h.i.+fted her sleep pattern, voluntarily accommodating me as though aware of my discomfort. Instead of sharing my pillow the way she had from the start, she'd taken to making herself comfortable behind my knees, nestling into their crook every night, while I stroked the side of her face until we both fell asleep.

She lifted her head when my alarm went off at four. "Sorry, kiddo," I said, scooching away so as not to disturb her slumber. I needn't have worried. As I tucked my feet into my big yellow slippers, I glanced back. She'd rolled over, sound asleep again. Lucky cat.

Forty minutes after waking, I was out the door. Although nothing required my presence at the filming this morning, I wanted to make certain that the treasures featured today were described accurately. And after Nadia's warning, I didn't want to leave anything to chance.

I parked in my usual place in the underground employee lot, leaving Hillary's bottle of wine there to retrieve later. Instead of cutting through the mansion I went straight outdoors, making my way around to the front. The early morning air was cool and damp, filling my senses with that gorgeous mossy scent of green, and tickling me as though the dew were settling directly on my skin. Shuffling through the soft underbrush, I breathed deeply. Life was filled with promise and hope. Today was sure to be a good day.

I came up a small rise and turned at the mansion's northeast corner, surprised to see trucks parked outside the giant front doors. They were panel trucks, very similar to the one I'd rented when I moved here from New York. These, however, were solid black rather than bright yellow, and bore no logo whatsoever.

Corbin and his team were a.s.sembling outside the front doors when I arrived. Marshfield's outdoor spotlights kept the area bright as day, but the darkness that sheltered the woods beyond gave me a creepy s.h.i.+ver. I heard a wolf howl.

Corbin sipped from a steaming cup as he directed the bustling activity. "Wow, you guys are early," I said as his crew pulled tripods, flash umbrellas, and lighting equipment from the backs of their vans.

"That's why our clients like us," he said. "We show up when we say we will and deliver more than we promise."

About fifteen people dressed in black T-s.h.i.+rts and jeans unloaded equipment with minimal conversation. Intent on their tasks, they gave me no more than a pa.s.sing glance as they ferried lights and big black boxes trimmed in chrome up to the front door.

"I heard there was a mix-up with your accommodations in Emberstowne. Where are you staying?" I asked.

Corbin scowled. "We were staying at the Waltham Arms," he said, "but a union dispute broke a couple days ago. There's no way we're crossing picket lines, so we had to find another place with room enough for the duration. The only place with vacancies was this rinky-d.i.n.k Oak Tree Hotel. More like motel, if you ask me."

I knew of it. Quite a drop in opulence from the Waltham Arms.

Corbin squinted up at the sky. "They predicted a clear day. I hope it doesn't get too hot in there." He waved a hand in the general direction of the equipment. "I always work up a sweat around those lights. And I have an idea for a few additional outdoor shots. I walked past the garden yesterday. It's magnificent. My compliments to your staff."

"They'll be happy to hear it," I said, thinking that this would give me an excuse to contact Jack. Maybe one of these days, he and I could have a real adult conversation. At this point, I was less interested in pursuing a romantic relations.h.i.+p than I was in setting things right. I wanted us to be friends if we could. If not, I wanted to know why. I deserved that much.

"What's the grimace for?" Corbin asked.

Embarra.s.sed to have my emotions play across my face, I stammered, "I'm sorry. Just something on my mind."

Corbin's bright eyes sparkled in the dim light. "It's a man, isn't it?"

I hoped the flush I felt didn't show. "That obvious?"

"I have two daughters. They're both married now, but I remember that look. I always saw it when their boyfriends messed up and my daughters were trying hard to forgive. Rationalizing, justifying." He shot me that wacky grin. "Am I close?"

I smiled. "Closer than I'd like to admit."

"If you'll indulge an old dad's intrusion, I'll tell you what I told them: Your guy is going to make you frown once in a while. That's life, kiddo. But if there are more frowns than smiles, maybe it's time to take another look around."

"Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."

The dozen or so staffers sipped from steaming paper cups as they went about their work, speaking only when necessary, as though reluctant to dispel the morning's tranquility. Corbin noticed me watching and handed me one of the extra coffees he had nearby.

"Wow," I said, after a quick sip, "this is strong."

"Can you think of a better way to get a group moving this early?"

We talked a little more and then I pointed to the vans. "You don't have any logo on the sides of your vehicles."

"You ever work for a film company?" he asked.

"No."

"Well, let me tell you. The entire world has stars in its eyes. You hang out a filmmaker s.h.i.+ngle and every DiCaprio or Streep wannabe comes knocking at the window to ask if they can be an extra, or audition, or whatever. We tell them that it's not up to us-that's the casting director's role."

"Aren't you the casting director?" I asked.

"They don't know that, do they?" He winked. "Seriously, that's why we took our identification off the trucks. We could be anything: movers, laundry service . . ." He got a mischievous look in his eyes. "Shadowy transport for serial killers."

I laughed politely. After two murders on Marshfield property, I didn't find his humor particularly funny. "Let's hope we don't have to worry about that."

"Don't worry. I do extensive background checks before I hire my employees, and most of them have been with me for at least ten years."

"Most?"

He surveyed the area, squinting. "I don't see . . . Oh, there." He gestured with his chin and I followed his gaze. Two men were unloading large silver boxes from the back of one of the vans. "Those guys-a couple of freelancers-they're new to me with this job."

"Freelancers?" I repeated, feeling a little queasy.

"Don't worry. They've worked for other film companies like mine and came with excellent references. I interviewed them both personally. They're good, hard workers. Trustworthy. You could stake your life on that."

I hated when anyone said that. Sure it was just a cliche, but staking one's life, or saying the equivalent of "to die for," always bugged me. Now that I thought about it, that quirk of mine was fairly recent. It had started right after the first Marshfield murder.

I looked at the two men. Neither struck me as appearing overtly evil, nor angelic. Both were of average height, average weight, and without distinguis.h.i.+ng features. I'd have to say they were both simply ordinary. "Did either of them work at the Kane Estate recently?"

Corbin didn't recall. "Harry," he called. "Donald Lee."

The two glanced up as Corbin waved them over. They exchanged the briefest of looks, one I took to mean: "Why are you pulling us away from what we need to do?" But both dutifully put down their gear and hustled over.

As he introduced them, they extended their hands and nodded acknowledgment. Up close, Harry Hinton was in his early forties and moved in a loose-limbed way. He was thin, had hollowed eyes and a sallow complexion.

Donald Lee Runge was slightly older and slightly larger, with a receding hairline.

"Ms. Wheaton here was wondering if either of you worked on a film project at the Kane Estate recently."

The two men exchanged another look. "No," Harry said. "Any particular reason?"

"I hoped to borrow ideas from their project to enhance ours." That was a fib, but an innocuous one.

After more small talk, the two men asked if there was anything else I needed. When I said there wasn't, they returned to their duties.

"Harry and Donald seem very capable," I said neutrally.

"He prefers Donald Lee," Corbin said with a shrug.

Weren't serial killers and a.s.sa.s.sins often identified with middle names? There was that unpleasant thought again. I needed to stop ruminating about murders here at Marshfield. That wasn't what we were known for. Well, at least not until I started working here.

"Something wrong?" Corbin asked.

"No, nothing. Thanks."

Corbin lifted his paper cup in a mock toast. "No time like the present," he said. "It's been nice chatting, but we'd better get started. Feel free to watch. Don't worry about being quiet until we call for silence. Just try to stay off camera."

"That won't be a problem," I said. "The last thing I want to see is my face on the DVD."

He shook his head. "Sorry to tell you, but Bennett specifically requested your presence."

"What?"

Corbin grinned again. "He'll be there with you, so no need to get stage fright."

"Hardly stage fright," I said. "I don't belong. Bennett is the owner, not me."

"He seems to think of you as family."

Though cheered by Corbin's words, I felt it wouldn't be right for me to take a spot that was reserved for family, not unless it was ever proved that Bennett and I were, actually, related. And the chances of that happening were . . . well, weren't.

"I'll talk to him," I said.

Corbin finished his coffee and tossed it into a waste bin they'd brought with them. "Good luck with that."

Inside, Marshfield Manor was quiet as a mausoleum. The overnight spotlights glowed, transforming our every move into a dance of silhouettes along far walls. Gym-shoed footsteps across the marble entryway bounced, creating a cacophony of eerie squeaks. Terrence was already there, dispelling the shadows with each flick of the lights. "Good morning," he said.

He and I worked together to ensure that Corbin's crew had everything they needed, and then we stood back to watch. I was impressed by their conscientiousness as they s.h.i.+fted lighting and navigated around priceless treasures.

Later in the morning, Corbin gestured toward Terrence with his eyes and said, "I know he's keeping a close watch on us all." Our chief of security stood with his back to a nearby wall, arms folded, taking in the entire event. He'd done this every day since filming began, bringing along a dozen additional guards, who formed a rough perimeter around the entourage. No one would be able to sneak anything out under such close scrutiny. I was feeling better by the moment. "Makes me feel like a criminal," Corbin said.

Time flew, and I felt as though I'd taken a crash course in DVD production. I followed the team around, peering over shoulders as crew members gauged lighting, composition, and placement, and marveling at the ease with which the team handled equipment-and talent-as they brought Corbin's visions to life.

After several extended sequences shot in the banquet hall, they called a wrap for the day and the team snapped into teardown action. Within minutes, they were carting equipment out the front door.

In the midst of it all, we heard a woman exclaim, "What's going on?"

Hillary appeared in the doorway. Hands on hips, her feet were spread apart as though expecting to play an intense game of Red Rover. Lasering her gaze at Corbin, her tone switched to plaintive. "Why did you start without me? Corbin, you promised."

When he looked to me for guidance, I sighed. "We talked about this yesterday, Hillary."

Her eyes lit up. Clearly a more appealing scapegoat than Corbin, I bore the brunt of her anger as she wheeled on me. "Oh, I get it," she said, her mouth tugging down at the corners, "you're trying to muscle me aside. You're jealous of the fact that that I'm Papa Bennett's daughter and you're not."

In my head, I silently corrected, "Stepdaughter."

"Let me tell you something about my father," she went on. Again the little plink in my head: "Stepfather."

"Family means everything to him," she said, stopping just short of being nose to nose with me. "You may think you're important to him, but he's using you because you're good at your job. Like Abe was."

I knew Bennett had regarded Abe as family, and I watched that recollection dawn across Hillary's face a heartbeat later. "You know what I meant," she said, as though she hadn't undercut her own argument.

"I have your bottle of wine in the car," I said. "Would you like it now, or do you prefer to pick it up later?"

My abrupt change of subject had the antic.i.p.ated effect. Her perfect little eyebrows arched as her mouth opened like a surprised codfish's. A half second later, however, she'd resumed her prim, injured air. "I appreciate you bringing it in. But I'll pick it up later at your office."

She gave a little nod of acknowledgment, then latched on to Corbin. Physically. Wrapping both hands around his bicep, she practically cooed in his ear, "What exactly do you have in mind for my scenes?"

Chapter 6.

MAYBE IT HAD BEEN THE EXTRA-STRONG coffee, but after a thoroughly enjoyable and enlightening morning, even Hillary's diatribe couldn't ruin my mood. I retrieved her gift-wrapped wine bottle from my car and practically skipped up the stairs to my office on the third floor of the westernmost wing.

This section of the mansion housed our administrative office and, immediately above, on the fourth floor, Bennett's rooms. Calling his living s.p.a.ce "rooms" was a bit of a misnomer. To describe them that way conjured up images of an elderly man living in a barren walkup with only a hot plate to fix his meals.

Bennett's living s.p.a.ce could easily have housed a family with eight kids, allowing each member to claim a room of his or her own. In addition to his own master bedroom and adjacent sitting room, he had a dining room that comfortably sat twenty, a library, billiard room, study, gourmet kitchen, butler's room, four full baths, and more miscellaneous guest rooms than he would ever need.

Although I'd visited upstairs often enough, I hadn't actually seen all of the rooms yet and Bennett hadn't seemed inclined to grant me access. I suspected the reason for that. Once, early on, I'd been required to a.s.sist in getting him safely to his bedroom. His personal s.p.a.ce had been crammed with antiquities and collectibles that Bennett obviously valued but which hadn't yet been catalogued.

Subsequent conversations, coupled with Bennett's need to bid at every auction he found out about, led me to understand that Bennett was a pack rat. A very upscale h.o.a.rder. He certainly had the means to collect anything that caught his fancy. The difference between reality-TV h.o.a.rders and Bennett, however, was that he had a team of maids who kept his collection sparkling. No mold and mildew. Just lots of expensive stuff.

I sensed he was embarra.s.sed to have had me see evidence of his overindulgence. Either that or he didn't want to scare me off with the workload. I had no doubt it would fall to me to catalogue and inventory his entire stash. I welcomed the challenge and had told him so. Maybe one of these days, when we weren't investigating murders, I'd have time to get to it.