Grace Among Thieves Part 5

Although we didn't have a murder on our hands right now, we did have the not-so-small problem of missing items. Terrence had already alerted the local police department and I would probably need to talk with Detectives Rodriguez and Flynn soon myself. One of their colleagues, Tank, who had proven to be a valuable ally, had recently returned home to Michigan. Not for the first time did I wish they'd sent Flynn up north instead.

My cranky a.s.sistant was at her desk, as always. Her graying hair was piled high on her head and her gla.s.ses low on her nose. The crystal eyegla.s.s chain that wrapped around the back of her neck seemed to have been chosen to coordinate with her lilac-colored twinset. Over time, I'd noticed that Frances favored shades of purple. She raised tadpole eyebrows over a baleful glare when I bounded in. "Good morning, Frances," I said. "A gorgeous day, isn't it?"

"How much coffee have you had this morning?"

I ignored that. "I think Corbin got some excellent footage today."

She sent a pointed stare at the clock on her desk. "Are they gone yet?"

"Packed up and disappeared before the first guest stepped foot on the grounds."

"I'm surprised the Mister agreed to this idea."

"I'm not. Marshfield Manor needs to establish its brand. We have one of the most beautiful homes in the world here, and we haven't even begun to showcase it to its fullest potential. Just you wait," I said, "you'll see how this will take off."

She snorted. "You mean like some of the Mister's belongings are taking off? You know they're not growing legs and walking away on their own. Mark my words, bringing all these strangers in and giving them free rein of the house, you're asking for trouble."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Of course you will." Her scowl punctuated her sarcasm. Changing subjects, she said, "You're going to fall on your face, you know."

Recently my unpleasant a.s.sistant had become ever so slightly less so. In fact, on occasion, she'd been almost nice. Which is why I was surprised to have her predicting my downfall again. She hadn't done that for weeks. I thought she'd finally gotten used to me. "Bennett seems pleased by all this," I said, truly puzzled by her p.r.o.nouncement. "I don't think he's going to fire me because we're filming a DVD."

She huffed and rolled her eyes. "Why you always think the worst of me I'll never know."

Now I was truly lost.

"I'm trying to warn you about cras.h.i.+ng. You're too upbeat for someone who's been here since the crack of dawn. The minute you sit down and relax for more than five minutes, you're going to deflate."

"I don't know, Frances," I said, "I'm feeling particularly great today. Maybe it's the weather. Summertime makes me believe anything is possible."

She sniffed. "I thought that was supposed to be spring."

"Maybe I'm simply in a good mood."

Turning her attention to the papers on her desk, she made a face. "So what else is new?"

HOURS LATER, EXCEPT FOR A QUICK VISIT from Hillary who'd stopped in long enough to retrieve her gift-wrapped wine, the afternoon had gotten heavy and quiet. I was loath to admit it, but Frances had been right. I stared out the windows through dry and scratchy eyes, knowing that I ought to get up and move around or risk falling asleep in my seat. The door between our offices was open and when Frances's chair creaked, it roused me from my torpor in time to look busy before she made it across the threshold.

I glanced up, acting surprised to see her, pretending she was interrupting some very important business.

"Looks like I was wrong," she said. "You're still hanging in there."

Giving credit where it was due, I allowed myself a yawn. "No, Frances, you're right on the money. I'm zoning out here."

I could tell she was surprised that I'd admitted she was right. "Maybe you should take off, then." She glanced over at the clock. "There's not much more left to the day and you're not going to get a lot accomplished if you're exhausted."

"That's true enough."

"You start shorting yourself sleep, you're going to get sick."

I didn't have a chance to respond before she eased into the wing chair across from me. Hesitant, yet sly, she regarded me with interest. "Not that it's any of my business . . ."

Immediately my hackles-whatever hackles are-zinged to attention. "What's up, Frances?"

"How is Jack Embers these days?"

This from the queen of gossip. "Why do you ask?"

"Haven't seen him in a while."

I didn't respond, but that didn't stop her.

"He used to come by here all the time and it wasn't to visit me. Back when Abe was in charge, Jack stopped by once a season, if that. Up until the recent"-she shrugged, obviously searching for an appropriate word-"unpleasantness, he used to visit you a couple times a week."

She waited for me to answer.

"Not that he was fooling anyone, I might add. We all knew he was sweet on you. What happened?"

The ultra-sincere look on her face wasn't fooling anyone either. Did she really believe I'd open up to her when it was guaranteed that my love life-or lack thereof-would immediately become fodder for lunchtime entertainment?

I sighed and smiled. "It's funny you should ask . . ."

She scooched forward.

"Because I was about to ask you the same thing," I said. "After that recent 'unpleasantness' you mentioned, whatever happened with you and Hennessey?"

Her eyes narrowed and she sat up straight. "Don't you have more pressing items to concern yourself with?"

"I'm sure we both do."

That shut her up. Thank goodness. I was in no mood to banter. I was about to tell her that I'd take her advice and knock off early, when my walkie-talkie crackled to life. It was Terrence. "Grace, switch channels."

I switched to a secure frequency as I stood up, gesturing for Frances to leave. She didn't budge.

"Terrence? What's up?" I asked, quickly adding, "Frances is with me."

He was out of breath. "Staff pa.s.sage in the east wing. Red stairwell. Get there as fast as you can."

"Got it," I said.

Frances followed me as I started for the door. "What happened?"

"I guess I'm about to find out."

Chapter 7.

I SHOT THROUGH THE DOOR THAT SEPARATED the administrative wing from the public areas, hurrying across the Gathering Hall, noting that attendance was spa.r.s.e. Owing to the time of day, that wasn't a surprise. I raced to the east wing. The red stairwell was the far one at the end of the hall, on the right.

When the house was designed and servants lived here, high up in the tiny, spartan rooms that lined this end of the mansion's top floors, a very wise, very efficient decision was made to paint each of the four stairway walls a different color, making for quick and easy identification in this end of the home.

I was still at least a hundred feet away from the turnoff to the red stairwell when groups of people came around the corner, heading the opposite direction guided by security guards. Chattering, exclaiming, and throwing glances over their shoulders, they allowed themselves to be shepherded toward the wide, central staircase. Several of the guards shot me questioning looks as I rushed past. I shrugged a reply, just as I heard Niles ask a family to please step downstairs and await further instructions.

Further instructions for what? I wondered. But I didn't stop to ask.

Making my way past the guest rooms on my right, I slipped under the velvet ropes that cordoned off a long hall. The red staircase was down this way.

I was about to rush in when I heard a shout from behind me. "Hey!"

I turned. Another guard, William, raised his hand. "Sorry, Ms. Wheaton. I didn't recognize you."

"What's going on?" I asked as I gripped the doork.n.o.b.

His mouth was set in a grim line. "Best you see for yourself."

Prepared for the worst, I took a deep breath and threw open the stairwell door.

The landing before me was empty. Light from the skylight above spilled down, illuminating the dust motes that floated overhead. This staircase was one of the larger ones in the home. Shaped like a giant square doughnut, its steps ran along its perimeter, with a square center that opened up to the skylight like a ten-by-ten-foot flue. I'd stepped onto the third-floor landing. There was one flight above me and, because this staircase descended all the way to the sub-bas.e.m.e.nt, four flights below.

Cries and exclamations rose up, echoing through the narrow chamber. Terrence's voice shouted above it all, straining to take command. I took a step forward, gripped the oak rail, and peered over the edge.

A woman lay at the very bottom of the stairwell, motionless. She was in a position so crooked, with so much blood pooling beneath her, that I had no doubt she was dead.

"Terrence," I called, but my shaking voice was too thin, the din from below too great.

I became aware of the backs of many heads, one level below me, staring down at the limp figure, as I did. Jostling for position, they swarmed the lower stairs, peering down, crying out, pointing.

I'm not coordinated enough to take stairs two at a time going down, but I ran as fast as I could, my breath coming in gasps as I pushed through the gaggle of onlookers. This part of the mansion should have been strictly off-limits. What could have happened to the woman at the bottom? Why all the gawkers? What were they doing in this part of the building? I needed answers. Now.

"Excuse me," I said darting between those jockeying for a better look. Whoever was dead must have fallen. There was no other explanation. I tried to tune in to what people were saying, but I moved too fast and they all seemed as puzzled as I was. "Let me through."

As I started down the final flight of stairs, I spotted Terrence and John, the tour director, on the lowest level. They were as far away from the woman's p.r.o.ne form as possible. Behind them, three doorways opened to maintenance corridors that ran like tentacles under the house. Right now the mouth of each was jammed tight with staff members crowding close to see what had happened.

John's face registered shock as he paced in small circles, his hands in constant movement-frantic, furious, helpless all at once. I looked at the woman again. Young, I thought. When I noticed pink sweatpants, her identification clicked. Lenore. It had to be. The body shape, size, hair: all right.

My gut's instant reaction ground me to a halt as I reached the bottom level. Oh my G.o.d.

I moved forward gingerly now, giving the death scene a wide berth. I caught Terrence's eye. "What happened?" I asked from behind John.

Still pacing, the tour director ma.s.saged his brow with one hand and grabbed at the air with the other, as though searching for answers. "Don't you have sensors on these doors?" he asked. "Shouldn't some alarm have sounded? How could this happen? How in the world . . . ?"

Terrence interrupted. "Grace is here, John."

John turned, but I could tell he wasn't seeing me. It was as though fifty thoughts were careering around in his mind at once, broadcasting fear, horror, and disbelief on his face as each emotion zoomed by.

"Grace." Terrence strove for control. "You stay here with John. Protect this area. I have to get up to find out why this happened. The crime scene is getting trampled."

I grabbed him before he could take off. Pointing to Lenore's motionless body less than fifteen feet away from me, I asked, "Crime scene? This wasn't an accident?"

Terrence's expression tightened. "She was pushed. Another tour member was injured as well. Ambulance is on its way."

He was gone, taking the stairs two at a time before I could press for more details. John had resumed making small circles in the tiny area. I looked up at the skylight, more than five floors above. Bewildered faces stared back amid shouting, pointing, and tears. "Step away," I heard Terrence roar as he ran. "Step away from the railings. Return to the designated tour areas. We will be questioning each of you."

The red walls high above closed in on me as I stood at the very bottom, trying to sort out what little I knew. I did my best to urge John into the nearest hallway. Though I had no idea what the forensic experts would need, the farther we stayed away from Lenore, the better.

The laundry ladies and maintenance guys who'd been drawn from their bas.e.m.e.nt alcoves to peer into the stairwell stared in shock at me, their eyes wide. "Please, folks. Let's not make this worse," I said to them. Spotting a staff member whose name I remembered, I designated her to be the leader. "Get everybody back to work, Monica. We'll let you know more later."

She complied as I pulled John toward one of the doorways. As soon as we were alone, I asked, "What happened?"

"The poor girl." His voice cracked. "I don't know."

Vibrating with agitation, the normally unflappable John was about to lose it. In a soothing voice, I did my best to talk him down, asking, "Terrence said someone else was injured?"

"Yes, yes." Now he gripped his hair with both hands. "One of the other guests, Mark, was shot."

"Shot?" I looked around. No one had said anything about a shooting.

John took a deep breath, clamped his eyes shut for a long moment, then opened them and fought for control. I could barely hear him. "Mark Ellroy. He's part of our tour. He was traveling alone, too, and he and Lenore sat next to each other on the bus, so I thought if I asked him to keep Lenore out of trouble . . ."

This wasn't explaining anything. I raised my voice. "I don't understand."

Noises from above prevented me from asking more. People shuffling, complaining, and crying created an angry din amid guards' shouts urging cooperation. Slowly, the noise dissipated and the scene finally quieted, but all I could think was that forensics would be a nightmare.

"John?" I urged.

John's gaze swept the floor behind me. His eyes tightened and reddened and I knew even before he turned away that he couldn't bear to look at her. Taking his arms, I pulled him around so that I was facing Lenore. Fortunately for me, John was large enough to effectively block the view.

Once settled again, he pursed his lips, then swallowed. "I'm not usually rattled," he said.

"I know."

"She was such a young thing."

"John. I need to know what happened upstairs. Where is this Mark Ellroy?"

"If he doesn't make it . . ." John's lower lids burned red. "These people are my responsibility."

"Take a deep breath. Tell me what you know."