Grace Takes Off (17 page)

“This is precisely why I am willing to talk with you in his absence. I have a problem.
I need his help.”

“WHAT HAPPENED?” I ASKED.

“I believe my son is stealing from me again.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “How can that be?” I asked. “He lives here in the
States and you’re—”

“Who else could it be? I have recently discovered that he has been in contact with
one of my employees. Secretly.”

I thought about how Bennett believed he might have seen Pinky working at the villa
but I kept that to myself for the moment. “What’s missing?”

“Money, of course. My accountant noticed discrepancies in the household finances.
Funds have been drained over a considerable length of time. Small enough amounts to
escape scrutiny. I was lucky my accountant thought to look more deeply. It is obvious
to me that my son didn’t want me to suspect.”

“How could he have—”

Pezzati’s ire flashed. “By working with Antoinette, how else? She lived here as my
trusted cook, which gives her full access to my home. Who knows how much she has stolen
for Gerard? How much she kept for herself?”

Antoinette?
I didn’t know whether I was more relieved or distraught over the fact that Pezzati
apparently had no clue about Pinky, or about his missing skull. Well, not yet at least.

“Bennett will want to talk with you about this the minute he gets out.” I eyed the
door, wondering how much to share with Signor Pezzati. “He had an inkling . . .”

“Of Antoinette’s deceit?”

“No,” I said quickly. “He . . .” Stalling, I said, “He . . . wasn’t sure your possessions
were secure. He wanted to ask you about that, but there were always others around.”

Pezzati was silent for several long seconds. I could hear him breathing—a soft, yet
labored sound. “What was it he wanted to know?”

The news about the skull being stolen—or, more accurately, the news of it
allegedly
being stolen—shouldn’t come from me. After all, Bennett hadn’t yet proven the switch.
“Signor Pezzati,” I began, “you and Bennett have been friends for a long time. You
should wait for him to explain it to you.”

I could practically see him shaking his head. “I do not accept that. What if Antoinette
was not working alone?”

Even though Rodriguez and Flynn believed my theory was a long shot, I couldn’t discount
the nagging suspicion bouncing around in my brain. With Pezzati already aware of theft
in his home, how much would it hurt if I told him about the skull?

“First, I need to ask you a few questions.”

From the noise on the other end of the line, it was clear Pezzati wasn’t happy with
the delay.

I started with the question uppermost in my mind, “Who—that is, who specifically,
arranged for our chartered plane home?”

“I do not understand. What does your flight have to do with my son?”

“Bear with me, Signor Pezzati.” I wiggled forward in my chair, lowering my voice even
though there was no one nearby. “When our original flight was canceled, someone in
your home located that replacement flight. Do you know who made those arrangements?”

“I assume one of my servants.”

“Which one?”

“How should I know? Was there a problem? If so, let me know and I will chastise whoever
is responsible.”

“There was a problem on the flight,” I said in a hurry, doing my best to keep Pezzati
calm. Failing. “I wanted to talk with whoever it was, to warn them that the police
may be visiting as they investigate.”

“Police? What sort of problem did you have?”

“Is Irena there?” Surely she would be easier to communicate with. Calmer, too. “May
I speak with her?”

“What does she have to do with any of this?”

I would have loved to have asked if she’d noticed Angelo talking with SlickBlade while
we were at Troppo or if she could recognize Pinky from a description. Trying to pry
that information from Nico Pezzati would prove challenging to say the least.

“Nothing, really,” I began.

“Then stop stalling and tell me what I need to know.”

I drew in a deep breath at the rumbling anger in his voice. “Perhaps it would be better
if you spoke with Bennett first.”

“Young woman, you are trying my patience.”

Just as I resolved myself to recounting Bennett’s theory to Pezzati as gently as possible,
I heard the unmistakable sound of the meeting breaking up. Layered chatter and boisterous
blurts brought me to my feet. “I think Bennett may be available,” I said. “If you
wouldn’t mind holding on for just a minute . . .” I didn’t wait for him to reply.
This room’s phone was an old-fashioned corded model. I put the receiver down before
hurrying out into the hallway.

Bennett and Deinhart stood apart from the rest of the group at the far end of the
corridor. Engaged in deep conversation, neither was aware of my scrutiny. The rest
of the board members were still emerging, talking among themselves as butlers herded
them toward the staircase.

Reluctant to interrupt what appeared to be an important discussion, I dithered for
a few indecisive seconds. The conversation between the two men intensified. Their
voices rose. When Deinhart thrust a pointed finger into Bennett’s chest, all bets
were off.

“What do you think you’re doing?” All thoughts of Pezzati forgotten in that snap of
a second, I dashed across the room, vaguely aware of Bennett’s startled expression.
Hands on hips, I got into Deinhart’s space, much the way he’d gotten into mine. “You
are in Bennett’s home. How dare you assault him?”

The momentary advantage I had in surprising the man caused him to take a wary step
backward, but a heartbeat later, he’d collected himself. He leaned sideways to make
eye contact with Bennett. “I see why you keep her around.” He straightened. Referring
to me as though I wasn’t there, he continued, “She’s certainly not bad on the eyes,
but I find it hard to believe that she’s not a curse. I mean, what with all the murders
here lately . . .” His lips flatlined. “Makes a man think twice about doing business
with you. No one wants to be carried out feet first.”

Without another word, he spun on a shiny heel and started down the corridor at a quick
clip. Theo, the butler, moved to intercept. Deinhart flung a hand in the air as though
to dismiss any assistance. With a helpless shrug, Theo followed him anyway.

“Well,” I said, furious now, both for myself and for Bennett. “He’s a piece of work,
isn’t he?”

Bennett chuckled. “That’s just his manner. His bark is far worse than his bite. Vandeen
is out of sorts. The deal went through, exactly as we’d hoped, much to his disappointment.”

“You’re in the clear then? There would be no benefit to killing you to prevent closing
this deal?”

Bennett placed a hand on my shoulder. “How did I get so lucky to have you watching
my back? I hate to disappoint you, but this was just the second-to-the-last step.”
He wagged white eyebrows over crinkling eyes. “If I get hit by a truck, the deal’s
off. Today, however, we took an important step. Our legal teams will now finalize
all the documents. Until the board and I sign and certify those documents, I’m still
vulnerable.”

He must have reacted to the look on my face because he was quick to change from teasing
to comforting. “Don’t worry so much, Gracie. Vandeen is no threat. At least not to
my personal safety. When it comes to business, he’s a worthy adversary, but he wouldn’t
stoop to such a despicable method of achieving his end.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” I said, then gasped when I remembered. “Signor Pezzati!
He’s on the phone.” I explained the situation.

“My poor friend.” As we strode toward the study, Bennett asked, “Did you tell him
about my suspicions about the skull?”

“I was about to, but then the meeting broke up. I thought the bad news would be better
coming from you.” We crossed the threshold into the room, where the receiver still
lay atop the table. “When I saw Deinhart poke you I couldn’t stop from reacting. I’m
sorry.”

“No harm done, I’m sure.” Bennett said. He lifted the device. “Nico?” he said. He
pulled the phone away from his head and looked at it the way people do when they’re
met with an unexpected noise. “Dial tone. He must have hung up.”

“Oh no.”

“It’s just as well,” Bennett assured me as he dropped the receiver into place. “I
haven’t yet had the chance to pull out my old photos of the skull. I’ve been holding
out hope that I’m mistaken.”

“Except you know you’re not mistaken, don’t you?”

He gave me a look, which was answer enough.

As distressed as I was to have caused Signor Pezzati the aggravation of waiting, I
was silently relieved. In the man’s worked-up state, he wasn’t in any shape to discover
that one of his most prized possessions was gone now, too. From the little I’d gathered
about Pezzati, he was quick to make decisions, opting to listen later, but only when
necessary. Bennett, a far more methodical person, would only feel comfortable talking
to his friend once he had examined the photos and could present his proof with confidence.

“Where do you have these pictures?” I asked.

Bennett’s eyes sparkled. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

I FELT GUILTY LEAVING THE BUTLERS AND ASSISTANTS TO CLEAN UP AFTER THE MEETING.
Bennett was clearly unfazed. The gentle sounds of china and silverware being gathered
faded as we headed down the corridor, and I thought about how living one’s entire
life in the company of servants sure made for a different outlook. Bennett was wonderful
to his employees, generous and kind. His butlers, chauffeurs, and indeed most of the
staff, would eagerly stand up for him because they knew he cared about them. For all
his wealth and privilege, Bennett maintained an air of approachability. He was loved
for that.

We took a sharp left into a part of this level I’d never visited before. Bennett caught
my quick glance back at the busy staffers. “It makes you uncomfortable, doesn’t it?”

I didn’t understand what he meant. This part of his private rooms was illuminated
less ostentatiously. The hall was narrower and all the doors on both sides were shut.
“This area, you mean?”

He slowed to allow us to walk side by side. “Having servants do all the work. That
bothers you.”

I gave a one-shoulder shrug. “I’m not used to it.”

His mouth twisted. “Even after the trip to Europe? You seemed to be able to relax
and enjoy yourself when everything was taken care of for you there.”

“Vacations are different.”

“Are they now? Good to know.”

The hallway opened into a wide expanse. I’d studied as many of the floor plans as
I could get my hands on, though I knew from personal experience that not all the building’s
secrets were recorded on paper.

Years ago—during Marshfield’s era of live-in servants—this area had been one of the
spots staffers gathered at the end of their shifts, to share stories, complain about
their days, or sit in rocking chairs and do mending. There were other, similar spots
throughout the mansion. This one, new to me and a good distance from Bennett’s regular
living quarters, appeared to have been abandoned a long time ago. While there was
no apparent dust, nor cobwebs—every room was kept clean—the creaky-floored expanse
felt lonely and desolate.

Bennett seemed charmed by my fascination with the forgotten space. I wanted to take
a moment and breathe in the memories that had been created here. When my grandmother
had worked at Marshfield, had she been part of the crowd? Or was she off on one of
her secret rendezvous with Bennett’s father?

Not that I believed I’d be able to conjure up any spirits or know for certain what
life here had been like, but even as my hand grazed the curved beauty of the wainscot
rail, I felt the power of the past.

“We’ll come back another time. For now, this way.” He made a right into an even narrower
hall, which came to an abrupt stop after about ten feet at a munchkin-sized door set
into an
A
-shaped wall. Crouching, he grabbed the doorknob. “I have no idea why they made this
entry so small,” he said as he pushed his way in.

I ducked and followed him, finding myself in an attic that—despite the short door—had
high enough ceilings to allow us to stand. Like so many other attics, it was full
of hot dust and cobweb-filtered sunlight. Airborne motes, disturbed by our arrival,
shot upward and slowly floated to silently land atop the furniture, steamer trunks,
hundreds of boxes, and other echoes of the past that were stored here.

My breath felt thick as I said, “Wow.”

“Indeed.”

The exposed wooden eaves, the piles of . . . stuff . . . were like my attic at home.
Like any attic, really. But this one went on and on. Bennett kept moving forward,
pulling lightbulb chains to illuminate the area as we progressed. While the windows
and occasional skylights helped, there were many hidden corners that were too dark
to see into clearly.

I couldn’t stop myself from pointing to all the boxes, “This is all your stuff, too?”

He turned to give me a penetrating look. “Are you suggesting I have too many possessions?”

“Far from it. I’m thinking about what a treasure trove this is. I could spend a month
up here.” Rotating in place, I took it all in then amended, “More like three months.”

“I’m glad you approve,” he said, then gestured. “Over here.”

Bennett led me to a giant oak bookcase that was at least eight feet wide and six feet
tall with glass doors every twelve inches or so. He moved to access one of the shelves,
but I stopped him. “How in the world did something this huge get in here?” I asked.
“There’s no way it fit through the door we came through.”

Bennett winked. “I’ll tell you later. For now, let’s have a look.”

The oak-trimmed door opened with a goose-pimpling squeak. “It’s been a while since
you’ve been up here, I take it?”

Bennett didn’t answer. He reached in to pull out a faded red leather album, the cover
of which had been tooled in gold with the family crest. “I used to keep scrapbooks
for each year,” he said, giving a self-conscious shrug. With the side of one hand,
he wiped off some of the dust.

“Why is it up here?” I asked as I peered around him. “Are there more of them?”

He half turned to give the bookcase an appraising glance. “Probably twenty, I’d say.”

“But why—”

“Marlis didn’t like anything around to remind her of Sally,” he said. “Most of these
scrapbooks are from the years before she died.”

“Ah.” That explained a lot. I’d heard about how jealous Marlis had been of Bennett’s
relationship with his first wife.

“I’m glad I didn’t bend to her demands that I throw them away.”

“What?” I asked, incredulous. “She wanted you to dump them?”

“Burn them, to be precise.” He scratched the back of his head. “I should have realized,”
he said absentmindedly, “this was a compromise. One of many.”

I bit my tongue. It wouldn’t do well to speak ill of Marlis. She’d been gone for many
years, although her personality apparently lived on in her daughter, Hillary.

Bennett dusted off the side of a steamer trunk and sat down. I joined him, taking
another quick glance around before turning my attention to the album on his lap. What
other priceless mementos from Bennett’s life were stored up here, forgotten over the
years?

He paged through the early part of the scrapbook, running his hand along every entry
as though caressing it. He lifted and turned each thick page without comment, but
as his gaze lit upon old black-and-white photos, postcards, and clippings from newspapers,
he alternately smiled and looked wistful.

Dust settled around us, grit baked into my skin. Amid the occasional whispers of paper
being flipped, Bennett heaved deep sighs. He still said nothing.

My nose itched. I wiggled it instead of scratching, hesitant to make a move that might
spoil the moment.

Tiny corners had broken off the edges of several pages and as Bennett turned them,
I could see how brittle the paper had become. These albums needed to be returned to
the main floors where they could be preserved. They were, after all, Bennett’s history.

“Here we are,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper.

I leaned closer. A thick portrait of Bennett and Nico—they were instantly recognizable—sat
centered on the brown page. The black-and-white photo’s edges were worn and rounded,
and below their grinning shot, with their arms across one another’s shoulders, a caption
was scrawled:
First week in Paris
.

“Looks like you two had fun.”

“It was quite a year.” Blinking, he turned to me. “I would love to explain the story
behind every photo, but that’s not what we’re here for, is it?”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

With a wry smile, he kept turning pages. “The skull adventure happened right about . . .”
He pointed. “Here.”

The two young men posed for a shot in front of the gallery they’d spoken of, the skull
held between them. “Who took the picture?”

Bennett laughed. “Nico approached a couple of girls who happened to be walking by.
Wound up with one of their phone numbers, too, if I recall correctly.” He flipped
another heavy page. “Here is where we took a few ourselves.”

There was one of Bennett posing with the skull in his “Alas, poor Yorick!” pose. Then
a similar one of Nico doing the same.

“The girls had moved on by then,” Bennett offered. “We took turns with the camera.
I took this one”—he pointed to a shot of his friend studying the skull in deep concentration—“when
Nico wasn’t looking. That’s when he found the mark.”

“And you took a picture of it?”

Bennett pulled reading glasses out of his breast pocket and placed them on his nose.
“Several.” He pulled the album closer, scrutinizing every shot. “Here,” he said, lowering
the book onto my lap. “Those three. Take a look.”

I brought the album closer because, although the photos were clear, they were relatively
small. “I see it,” I said, half in delight, half surprise. “The mark. It’s as clear
as anything.” It was. There was a deep gouge in the skull’s right side, roughly resembling
the
P
shape Bennett had mentioned. My turn to point. “Right there.”

“You sound shocked. Did you doubt me?”

“Not for a minute,” I said sincerely. “But seeing the mark so vividly after handling
the actual skull myself makes it more real.” A new weight settled on my shoulders.
“You are the only person who can prove that the skull has been stolen and replaced.”

“How would anyone know that I even suspect it happened?”

I thought back to that moment in Pezzati’s gallery, when Bennett had called me over
to examine the sculpture. “Whoever stole the original had to have been in the room
at that time.”

Bennett grumbled, skeptical. “I can’t believe I reacted in any way that might have
drawn attention to my surprise.”

“Think about it,” I said. “What if the thief
was
in the room with us? That person would know that the skull was fake, and as you and
Nico talked about finding it, they would realize there was a chance you might have
noticed the replacement. They’d be hyper-aware.” He nodded as I went on, “Could you
imagine their terror when you picked it up and examined it?”

“I wish I would have paid closer attention to everyone’s reaction.”

“Me too,” I said, trying to remember. “It was you, me, Nico, Irena, Angelo, and Cesare.
I didn’t think to notice them—I was so focused on you.”

He patted my hand. “Who can we eliminate? Besides ourselves, of course.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Nico. He’s the only one.”

Bennett was silent for a thoughtful moment. “Unless my old friend is disposing of
his possessions in an effort to collect the insurance money, I’d have to agree.”

The comment took me aback. “You don’t think that’s possible, do you?”

He hesitated. “Nico has always been less . . . scrupulous, shall we say . . . than
most in regard to legal matters. Where others see lines that shouldn’t be crossed,
he sees technicalities and loopholes.”

“Insurance fraud is a lot more than a technicality.”

“It is,” he said. “I highly doubt that Nico would stoop so low, even if he were having
financial difficulty. I’ll find out more when I talk with him. He’ll be honest with
me.”

If I were running a scam, the last thing I’d want to do is admit to it over a transatlantic
phone call where I couldn’t be certain who was listening in on the other end.

Bennett continued, almost talking to himself now. “I shouldn’t have spoken ill of
my friend. He’s been known to play fast and loose from time to time, but this . . .”
He let the thought hang as he heaved a deep breath. “This is not his style. I’m sure
he’s the victim here. I’ll call him later and let you know.”

“I’d appreciate that,” I said. Closing the album, I stood. “And I’d appreciate something
else as well.”

Bennett waited.

Holding the album in one arm, I gestured with the other. “How about we bring these
treasures back down into your rooms where they belong?”

“Who am I to argue with the manager of Marshfield?” He made his way over to the bookshelf
and began removing albums, one by one. There were thick ones and slimmer versions,
and it became clear that we wouldn’t be able to carry all of them in one trip.

I offered to come back later and carry the rest.

“On one condition,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“That you and I make a date.” He eyed the piles in my arms and his, and the remaining
books on the shelves. “Several dates,” he amended. “To go through these. I’d love
to be able to share some of our family history with you.”

Shifting the weight in my overloaded arms, I said, “I couldn’t think of anything I’d
like more.”