Free Grace Under Pressure by Julie Hyzy Page A

on my door. These days, who’s got money to lose? Not me.”
    “Why wasn’t I told that Bennett was scheduled to testify in court yesterday?”
    She shrugged. “The Mister keeps a lot to himself. Especially personal stuff. I think he talked to Abe . . .”
    We both let the thought hang.
    “You’re a resourceful woman,” I said.
    Frances looked confused. “Sometimes.”
    “Do me a favor. We pay a service to keep us updated on all news and articles that are published about Marshfield Manor, right?”
    She snapped her fingers. “You want me to ask them to clip news on Randall Taft, too?”
    “Yeah, and have them backtrack. I want to know everything about this from the time the story hit.”
    “That’s a good idea.” Frances reached for the telephone. “I should have thought of that.”
    I started for the door, patting my hip. “I’ve got my walkie-talkie if you need me. But it looks like the complaint calls have died down, so you should be okay here for a little while.”
    “Are we opening tomorrow?” she asked.
    “Won’t know until this afternoon at the earliest.”
    “Where are you going?”
    I’d called most of the department heads to check in, striving to be the voice of calm in this storm, letting them know we would reopen just as soon as the police gave us the all-clear. There were, however, a couple of departments I couldn’t reach—probably because staffers were busy doing their jobs rather than sitting idly by the phone. I decided to visit these departments in person. “Outside, first, then down to the basement to talk with some of the staff.”
    “I could call them to come up here.”
    Sure, I thought. So you can listen in.
    “No thanks,” I said. “While I’m gone, though, would you do me a favor and pull out any information we might already have on T. Randall Taft?”
    I left her and headed down the back stairs. I called Carr on my walkie-talkie to alert him about the uninvited Ronny Tooney—a problem we needed to address quickly. But he cut me off before I could even broach the subject.
    “Hold up on any sensitive communication via radio,” he said. “What’s your location?”
    I told him.
    “I’ll meet you outside in twenty. In the meantime, keep the lines as clear as possible.”
    “You got it.”
    He clicked off, leaving me further worried. Was there another security breach? I blew out a breath and hurried the rest of the way, but as I cleared the final landing, I stopped for a moment to gaze out the window. Teams of garden professionals dotted the south lawn, busy trimming, cutting, weeding, and planting under the soft sun. Though a gauzy mist hung overhead, the day had cleared up nicely. Outside the mansion suddenly seemed the safest place to be.
    I made my way down the expansive corridor, with only the ticking clocks to keep me company as my shoes tap-tapped along the tile. This area was usually filled with happy, chatty tourists at this time of day, and the home felt empty without their energy. As I entered the silent Birdcage room, I paused a moment. Yesterday’s fracas with Percy had been the beginning of Marshfield Manor’s worst day. I replayed scenes in my mind and realized how flawlessly we had been set up.
    And yet . . . the fact that an intruder had made it into the house during the melee should not have surprised me. Our security protocols were outdated, and our force largely untrained. Changes were in the works, but they hadn’t come soon enough for Abe. But who would have expected violence in such an idyllic location? I was as guilty as the next guy of never expecting a major crime to happen here.
    My footsteps beat a lonely pace across the Birdcage’s marble floor as I made my way to the back garden exit. There was a chill in the room that had nothing to do with the temperature and I was happy to push the tall glass door open and step into the hazy sunshine.
    Immediately outside the Birdcage was a massive tile patio, with umbrella-topped tables provided