Grace Against the Clock

Book 5: A Manor House Mystery

by Julie Hyzy

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

With the town clock in desperate need of repair, local lawyer Joyce Swedburg and her ex-husband, Dr. Leland Keay, are trying to put their differences aside to organize a benefit at Marshfield Manor to raise money to restore the beautiful timepiece. While Grace Wheaton, the mansion's curator and manager, appreciates the opportunity to support such a good cause, the tension between the unhappy exes is giving her the urge to put both of the organizers in time out.

But after Leland collapses on stage during the festivities, poisoned, Grace suspects there was more going on behind the scenes. Now, she's in a race to catch a ticked off murderer, and, if she's going to prevent anyone else from getting hurt, every second will count . . .

Release date: July 1, 2014

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 304

Sample

Chapter 1

Joyce Swedburg tucked her fingers into the crook of Bennett’s right arm. “Dear man, it’s been too long. How have you been?” Without waiting for a reply, the statuesque woman draped her free hand over the other and pressed close, hugging the way a toddler might cling to a parent’s leg. “You’re as handsome as ever, you devil you.” Her lips spread into a serviceable smile as she turned to address her companion. “Don’t you agree, Leland?”
Frances nudged me—like there was any chance I might miss Ms. Swedburg’s over-the-top performance.
Dr. Leland Keay extended his hand to Bennett. “Good to see you again.”
Almost as tall as my boss, Keay’s dark features contrasted with Bennett’s fair skin and white hair. Keay was younger, by about twenty years, and beginning to sprout gray at his temples. This, along with his Barry White voice, made him quite the attractive package.
He was dressed in a tweed hunting jacket that sported suede elbows and a matching patch at one shoulder. His white shirt was starched, his slacks expertly creased. Handsome and successful, Dr. Leland Keay was widely considered to be Emberstowne’s most eligible bachelor.
I’d encountered Keay several times as we prepared for the fund-raiser scheduled for tomorrow night and had come to the opinion that, eligible or not, the rest of Emberstowne’s single ladies could keep him. Even though he was a world-renowned cardiothoracic surgeon with a reputation for being witty and charming, I found that Keay carried himself with a faint disregard for others and a perpetual absentminded air.
Keay and Bennett shook hands vigorously—the way men do when they’re happy to see one another but not comfortable enough to hug. The action should have dislodged Joyce Swedburg from her perch at Bennett’s side, but the woman held on for dear life. Both to Bennett’s arm and to her achingly artificial cheer.
The five of us were gathered in a wide, empty section of Marshfield Manor’s basement. Accessible via a single stairway, it offered a fun, unusual spot to throw a giant party. And that’s precisely what we planned to do.
Two connecting rooms had been reserved for our festive fund-raiser. This, the main section of the party area, would be set up for glittering socialites to enjoy appetizers and drinks. A perfect spot for mingling until the show began. The expansive space was airy and inviting, thanks to creative lighting and creamy-yellow brick walls. The ceiling was brick, too, crafted into neat, arched rows. At our feet was the kind of creaky wooden flooring you might find in an old department store or VFW dance hall. It gave the place charm.
Because we were belowground and centrally located beneath the mansion, no natural light streamed in. In a burst of brilliance, Joyce had arranged to rent six giant flat-screen televisions to serve as faux windows. These had been installed the day before, positioned vertically on two facing walls, and had been programmed to display live views from the highest vista of the closest mountaintop. If you looked closely, you could even see tiny Emberstowne bustling below.
With the dynamic “windows” in place, this main mingling area could have been mistaken for a refurbished warehouse loft in a gentrified urban setting. Banquet-sized and gorgeous, this section had never been included in any public tours. If we ever decided to utilize this area in the future, I’d consider making the flat-screen installation permanent.
“I can’t tell you how delightful it is to be working with you again, Bennett.” Joyce wagged a finger near his chin. “Your insights at the Chamber of Commerce have been missed.”
Bennett acknowledged her compliment. “And I am sorry to have relinquished my seat there. Unfortunately, I’ve been occupied with many other endeavors. I hope you understand that I couldn’t occupy a spot if I was incapable of delivering my best efforts.”
She tugged his arm closer and rested her head against his shoulder. “You’ve more than made up for it with your generous endowments.”
Sliding sideways, Bennett extricated himself from her double-handed clutch. “Grace and Frances have been keeping me updated with your plans. We are honored that you’ve chosen to host the benefit here at Marshfield.”
Joyce floated away from Bennett as though it had been her idea to break their physical connection. “There is no more perfect setting in all of Emberstowne. Except perhaps beneath the Promise Clock itself. But can you imagine having this affair in the streets? Then anyone would be able to join the party.” She gave a dramatic shudder. “We can’t allow that.”
The Chamber of Commerce, with Joyce as volunteer event planner, intended to raise money to refurbish the area surrounding the giant town clock, which had served as an unofficial entrance to Emberstowne for more than a hundred years. Named the Promise Clock because the citizens at the time believed that Emberstowne held great promise for success and prosperity, it lightly resembled Le Gros Horloge in Rouen, France.
The Promise Clock, which had lived up to its titular reputation until recently, was colossally sized. Set in the center of a massive archway that connected two now-abandoned buildings, the Renaissance-inspired glory differed from Le Gros Horloge in a couple of key ways: Our town’s clock, though somewhat less ornate, sported both hour and minute hands; and the edifice’s span was almost double that of its French predecessor.
That the arch’s width allowed for two-way traffic to pass beneath it was not the problem—the lack of traffic was. Very few residents traveled through that part of town anymore.
Over the past several years, in one of the ripple effects of the Great Recession, the touristy section of Emberstowne had begun to condense. Businesses at the edge of town had either moved to a more central location or shuttered completely. The establishments already on Main Street, like Hugo’s and other mainstays, had weathered the rough patch and were now enjoying a resurgence of business, but the area surrounding the Promise Clock had become a ghost town.
With weeds sprouting in the middle of the pavement, unrepaired sidewalks, and lonely buildings with broken windows, the only promise it held now was that this was an area best avoided. Though rich in history, the stretch was sorely lacking in commerce, making it Emberstowne’s biggest embarrassment. If it weren’t for the presence of the clock, the entire section of town might have been razed.
Tomorrow night’s fund-raiser had been conceived when costs to improve the roads and landscaping and to help smarten up the buildings far overran original estimates.
Despite the deterioration of the surrounding area, the clock’s inner workings ran on time and Emberstowne had expended the effort necessary to keep the clock’s face unmarred. In the past year, however, experts had noted structural problems. At the recent switch to daylight savings time, a worker who had crawled inside the arch to adjust the hands had nearly fallen through when the crumbling construction disintegrated beneath him.
All maintenance updates on the clock had been halted until a full overhaul and repair of the arch could be done. That took time. And money.
Tomorrow night’s benefit sought to solicit contributions from wealthy benefactors willing to donate a thousand dollars per person for the privilege of attending the Marshfield party. Bennett had generously offered to supply the space as well as the food. He’d also purchased tickets for a few of us on staff, to attend as his guests.
Although I’d been in contact with Joyce over the past few months, she’d been working most closely with our catering staff and with Terrence, our chief of security. Today was the first time she and Leland had shown up together. Until now I’d believed she was simply the head of the clock benefit committee and he the president of the Chamber of Commerce. I hadn’t been aware that the two had been married to each other once upon a time. Frances had provided that little tidbit moments ago.
Bennett waved his hand as though to encompass the space around us. “I must confess, however, to being surprised when Grace told me that you’d chosen this particular room for the party.”
I whispered to Frances, “How long have they been divorced?”
My assistant got that eager-to-gossip gleam in her eye. Drawing a hand up in front of her mouth while ogling the two in question—a conspicuous gesture that practically screamed that we were talking about them—she murmured, “Five years.” Her tadpole brows leaping high with glee, she added, “There’s quite a story there.”
“Not now,” I said.
Joyce was nearly as tall as her ex-husband. She sauntered over to him, ran a hand down the length of his tailored jacket sleeve—I could only imagine how soft that luxurious fabric was—and addressed Bennett over her shoulder. “Leland first suggested we hold the event upstairs in your foyer and adjoining rooms, but he has no imagination, do you, Leland?”
He didn’t answer. Arm-rub or no, he didn’t appear to be paying attention.
Joyce reached the far end of the space and turned around with an expression that was half bored, half amused. I got the impression that this woman had been born to perform. She extended both arms, hands upraised, looking a great deal like the Imperia statue in Konstanz, Germany, though offering far less cleavage, thank goodness.
Raising her voice, she adopted a beleaguered tone. “Everyone who visits Marshfield has seen the foyer,” she said. “Hundreds—no—thousands of people pass through your front doors each day, clutching their precious tickets. And what do they see first? The foyer. Forgive me, Bennett, but it’s not special.”
Leland wandered to the far end of the first room, stopping at the juncture where it ended and a small hallway leading to the auditorium began.
The doctor raised his voice to be heard over Joyce’s. “Where are the bathrooms?”
Joyce rolled her eyes. “Why on earth are you worried about that now?”
“Why do you think?”
She held a hand to her forehead and briefly closed her eyes. “You see what I have to deal with?”
Leland turned to me. “Quite a few of my patients are attending. Several are elderly and may be experiencing incontinence issues.”
I answered him. “They’re down the alcove to your left.”
He pointed. “What’s to the right?”
We’d been over this before. “That’s where David Cherk will be presenting ‘A History of the Promise Clock’ for the guests,” I said. David Cherk was a lauded, eccentric photographer who was regularly called upon to chronicle historic moments, and whose work adorned the interiors of most of Emberstowne’s municipal buildings. “That’s the auditorium.”
We used the term auditorium loosely. There were no seats, no lights, no sound system, no stage. Like an auditorium, however, the room was fan-shaped, wide at the entrance and narrow at the deep end, which was where the presentation would be held.
Keay disappeared to inspect the accommodations. I exchanged a glance with Frances. Among my concerns with holding the event down here were fire exits, capacity, and washroom facilities. There was only one official entrance to the space, down a narrow stairway that led from an EMPLOYEES ONLY door on the main level. We would have security officers stationed there tomorrow night to assist guests in finding their way to the party. But if anything should happen that might cause people to stampede out, the restricted egress had the potential to become a dangerous bottleneck.
Weeks ago, at my urging, Joyce had agreed to meet with a representative from the fire department to ensure that the event wouldn’t violate code. We’d gotten the all-clear, but I still would have preferred to hold the benefit on Marshfield’s main level. I was certain that we could have found a location that was special enough for this gala event.
Although there was only one official door to the party space, an emergency exit had been added some years back, probably when the mansion first opened to visitors. It evacuated into the employee underground garage, and accessing the exit involved hitting a crash bar, which set off ear-splitting alarms.
I wandered that way now, as Bennett, Joyce, and Frances chatted among themselves. Ahead of me, the auditorium was dark. I tried to envision how David Cherk’s entertainment would play out. He was due here soon. We’d set up this last-minute meeting between all parties for late in the day, when the mansion was closed to visitors. I wandered back into the main room and glanced at my cell phone to check the time. Almost as if I’d been clairvoyant, the device signaled a text.
Joyce, Frances, and Bennett looked up. “David Cherk is here,” I announced as I pulled up my walkie-talkie to alert Terrence to show the man in. Right on time.
“Oh dear.” Joyce held a palm up to her powdered cheek. “That man gives me the creeps. He has odd opinions about the strangest things. So precise and peculiar.” She shook her head and tsked loudly.
I understood where Joyce was coming from, though we could do without the theatrics. David Cherk wasn’t the sort of person I’d choose to hang out with in my free time, but Joyce’s comment still rankled.
With three skinny, black-clad assistants in tow, Cherk descended into our midst. The first time I’d met him, I’d been convinced that he purposely sucked in his cheeks. After a few minutes of conversation, however, I’d come to understand that his skeletal look wasn’t an affectation. Right now, as he smiled in greeting, I marveled at how mirth could appear so cold.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” he said to us in his sharp, starchy voice. “Are we all ready for the breathtaking presentation I have planned for tomorrow night?” He gave an exultant sigh as he clasped his long-fingered hands together in front of his chest. “So few of our citizens make time to visit the historical office to learn about our town and experience my artistry. I intend to give them a hint as to what they’re missing.”
Joyce inhaled deeply through her nose, making her nostrils clamp shut with effort. “David, darling.” Grasping his shoulders, she air-kissed him next to both cheeks. “So delightful to be working with you on this project. I can’t wait to see what you have in store. I would love to stay now and hear all about your little plans, but I’m needed elsewhere.”
Cherk blinked, clearly as surprised as I was.
“My understanding was that we were supposed to finalize everything during this meeting,” I said to her.
“And things are finalized. Everything is lovely, dear. See you tomorrow.”
“But the whole reason we set this up—”
“Other commitments. You understand.” She raised her hands helplessly. “You’re so capable, Grace. I’m not the least bit worried.” She ignored Frances, walking past her to rest both hands on Bennett’s arm. “Save me a dance tomorrow evening, my precious man. Will you?”
Bennett shot me the briefest glance. Ever the gentleman, he clapped a hand over one of hers. “Of course.”
Dr. Keay returned from the bathrooms, looking confused by the recent arrivals.
“Time to go, Leland,” Joyce said.
“Did I miss something?”
Joyce shot him an icy glare. “Don’t you always?”

Chapter 2

The moment Joyce Swedburg and Leland Keay departed, Cherk strode over and nodded toward the door. “That woman. She’d like nothing better than to see me fall on my face.”
“Then why would she have engaged your talents for the benefit?” I asked.
Cherk’s dark, sunken eyes, his ever-present five-o’clock shadow, and the curling twist of shellacked, dark hair over a deep widow’s peak made him look like an evil minion from a 1950s horror film.
“Joyce Swedburg has no choice. She’s a moth—a social, parasitic moth who lives a delusional life, believing herself a butterfly—and she’s stuck with me for this event because I’m the best this town has to offer. She gets her show, I get exposure. But we are trapped dealing with each other for the duration. Let me assure you: Neither one of us is turning cartwheels with joy.”
Surprised by his venom, I went momentarily speechless.
David, however, had more to say. “Joyce Swedburg is convinced I possess the soul of an automaton, rather than that of an artist.” He grimaced in her wake. “The woman is an ignorant fool.”
Bennett stepped forward. “I’m certain your exhibit will be well received,” he said, “and then Ms. Swedburg will be more than happy to brag that she had faith in you from the start.” To me, he added, “If you don’t require my presence any longer, I’d like to get back upstairs to attend to a few phone calls.”
“Thanks for coming down, Bennett,” I said. “We may not have accomplished anything, but I suspect it meant a lot to Joyce to have you here.”
Bennett gave a good-natured snort. “Who knows what that woman truly thinks? She says what she believes everyone wants to hear. If it weren’t for her talent as a fund-raiser, I’d be happy not to have to deal with her ever again.”
Cherk wiggled his fingers in the air. “Count me in on that.”
“Then we have a quorum,” Frances said.
Bennett’s mouth twisted downward. He looked away, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t have said anything. She’s a decent human being, deep down.”
“Deep down?” Frances asked. “Where are you looking? There isn’t enough depth in that woman for a respectable search.”
Visibly pained by having spoken unkindly about Joyce, Bennett turned to me. “I will see you tomorrow night at the benefit. I’m looking forward to meeting your young man again.”
“And he’s looking forward to seeing you.”
The “young man” Bennett referred to was Adam, lead singer of the well-known but not quite superstar-level band SlickBlade. Adam and I had met under difficult circumstances and, after a rocky beginning, had taken gentle steps toward forging a relationship. He lived in New York City, and that, coupled with the fact that he was often on tour with his band, meant that he and I didn’t get to see each other too often. I was okay with that. At least for now.
“Are you bringing a date, Frances?” Bennett asked. “You haven’t mentioned anything.”
My assistant’s cheeks colored. “It’s enough that I’m attending this soiree on a weekend, isn’t it?” Then, as though remembering who she was talking to, she amended, “Not that I don’t appreciate you buying my ticket. I didn’t mean that. But no, I’m not bringing anyone.”
“A shame,” Bennett said, which I thought was an odd response. He didn’t elaborate. “Good enough. I’ll see you all later.”
“We plan on blocking off a portion of this room for food storage,” I said to David when Bennett had left. We’d arranged to have antique ornamental screens brought in to hide necessary refrigeration and heating units. “I hope that won’t hamper your plans to set up.”
“Joyce, for all of her aggravations, is an effective organizer. I know precisely how much space I need to leave for you. She was very clear on that detail. Don’t worry.”
Cherk’s assistants hadn’t stopped working while we were talking. They kept busy unloading the props and decorations, barely speaking to one another.
I led Cherk to the auditorium, where he shouted, “Hello,” up toward the ceiling three times. When he smiled, he showed large yellow teeth. “The acoustics are tolerable.”
One of the assistants interrupted. “Where does the stage go, Mr. Cherk?”
“Stage?” I asked.
He tut-tutted. “A platform, really. It will raise me up about eight inches off the ground, but even that small amount will allow better viewing for those stuck in the back of the room. From what I understand, we’re expecting a hundred donors.”
“Ninety-four at last count.” I took another long look around. Our catering team would bring in folding chairs once the rest of the space was arranged.
Two of the assistants walked by, carrying very long, and apparently very heavy, rolls of purple velvet. I pointed. “What’s that?”
“Curtains, of course. If we’re to have a presentation here, we’re going to do it properly. I rented these from a theatrical supply house. By the time we’re set up, this will look like Carnegie Hall.”
“Can’t wait to see it.”
Next to me, Frances gave what sounded like a grunt.
Two more young people arrived to join Cherk’s team. “You have this many assistants?” I asked.
Bringing his hands up to face, he tapped the sides of his nose with his index fingers. “Are you always so full of questions?”
I didn’t answer.
With affected patience, he continued, “For your information, these are college students I hired to give me a hand. Theater majors, all. They’ll assist today and with the disassembling as well. I get the benefit of their expertise. They get extra credit in their courses.” Cherk rubbed his nose and started tapping it again. This was either one strange habit or the man had a tic. “Their professor is a friend of mine.”
“Convenient,” I said.
Two young men carried metal piping and heavy boards, which would eventually be connected together to form the stage. They worked hard, but clearly knew what they were doing. When they needed to ask Cherk a question or request clarification, they were respectful and quick. The stage came together at the far end of the room, right before our eyes.
“See how we’ve set up wings on either side?” he asked, pointing as the platform was assembled. Two of the assistants unrolled the purple velvet, ran a metal pole through a pocket at the top, and eased the entire length up into place. “This gives me the ability to hide the workings that will make the show come alive.”
“Like the man behind the curtain in The Wizard of Oz?”
Ignoring me, he blurted a sharp exclamation at the assistants and ran off.
Frances had been quiet for a while. The moment Cherk was out of earshot, she said, “Ninety-five.”
“Excuse me?”
“Ninety-five people are coming to this fund-raiser as of the most recent count.”
“That’s great.”
“Jack will be here.”
“He will?” I knew I couldn’t hide my surprise, so I didn’t bother trying. “Isn’t that a lot of money to spend on a benefit? Especially for someone who’s back in school?”
“The Mister paid,” she said. “You know how he is; he likes to keep everybody together, like a family. Even though Jack isn’t working at Marshfield anymore, the Mister thought that he ought to be here, so . . .” She let the thought hang.
“Bennett didn’t tell me.”
“He only arranged it today.”
I pulled in a deep breath.
“Good thing you’re bringing that Adam fellow as your date,” she said.
Not for the first time did it feel as though Frances had read my mind. This news made me especially glad that Adam was coming to town.
Although Jack had professed a willingness to rekindle whatever it was we’d started, recent changes in his life made me doubt his sincerity. His long-ago fiancée, Becke, had returned to Emberstowne, newly divorced with two little kids in tow. Jack had offered his father’s deserted home as a rent-free place to stay. There was still unsettled business between the two of them and I refused to be caught in the middle.
Frances added, “Plus the fact that Jack is an Embers . . .”
She let that thought hang, too, but I understood. Jack’s family had been among the first to settle in the town. The place was named for them, for heaven’s sake. With the historical theme, it made sense for Jack to be here. A long line of Embers men and women had, no doubt, trekked beneath the Promise Clock.
“Davey’s coming, too, I assume?” I asked, referring to Jack’s younger brother, who now worked for Bennett and lived in a cottage on Marshfield Manor’s property.
“He has a ticket. No idea if he plans to use it.”
The youngest Embers brother wasn’t a fan of parties and didn’t socialize much. “I suppose we’ll see.” I motioned toward Cherk, who was gesticulating wildly and shouting at his assistants. “Having a Davey and a David here at once could get confusing.”
“Are you kidding? One’s an athletic young man and the other is a walking corpse.”
I know she expected me to laugh, but I wasn’t feeling particularly amused at the moment. “With all of us Marshfield folks here as Bennett’s guests, it’ll be a miracle if they raise the kind of money they need. I hope people are generous when it comes to bidding at the silent auction.”
“Pheh,” Frances said. “Wait and see. The folks attending will be only too eager to prove how rich they are. Joyce Swedburg will get all she’s expecting and more. Mark my words.”
In almost no time at all, Cherk’s team finished and had packed up to leave. As they departed, our event planners from the Marshfield Hotel arrived to help finesse the scene. They were experienced in organizing weddings, showers, graduations, and other milestone celebrations often held at the hotel. Today they were charged with transforming this ruggedly beautiful basement into a place of elegance.
Frances and I stood back as tables were rolled in. Men and women, clad in black and white, snapped linen tablecloths into the air, allowing them to settle gently on one round table after another. A woman on a ladder reached high overhead to drape long stretches of tulle along the walls and to suspend more from the ceilings. Candles were placed here and there. They’d be lit the following day, shortly before the first guests arrived. I could already see how gorgeous this space, illuminated by the tall TV monitor-windows and flickering candlelight, would be.
“By the way, Frances,” I said as we moved deeper into the auditorium, “I appreciate you staying in town for the weekend. With as large a crowd as we’re expecting here tomorrow night, I feel better having both of us in charge.”
She pursed her lips and didn’t make eye contact. No one seemed to know what Frances did on weekends. All we knew was that she left town every Friday and didn’t return until Sunday evening. Beyond that, her life was a mystery. I didn’t push her and she never offered a clue.
The thought had occurred to me to have our sometime private investigator Ronny Tooney follow her to discover her secrets, but Frances’s life outside of Marshfield was none of my business and spying on her like that, simply to satisfy my curiosity, would be overstepping boundaries. Had our situations been reversed, I believed Frances would have had no such qualms.
“I’d better be getting time-and-a-half for this,” she said.
“Of course.” I tiptoed onto the makeshift stage, afraid of it wobbling beneath my feet. Within seconds, though, I realized that it was sturdier than I’d expected. “Nice,” I said.
Cherk’s student assistants had set up eight-foot-tall curtains on either side of the platform, and a wider curtain behind it. There was a sizeable space between the back of the center curtain and the rear wall. Plenty of room for Cherk to hide any equipment before and during the show. I was amazed at how quickly this end of the room had taken on the look of a serviceable, though miniature, stage.
“We ought to keep these students in mind if we ever want to hold a theatrical type of event down here,” I said. “They set this up so well and so quickly. It’s great.”
Even Frances seemed impressed. She perched her fists on her orchid-clad hips and gave the room a long look. “Not bad.”

Chapter 3

Back at our offices, Frances turned to me. “By the way,” she said as she sat behind her desk, “how are thi