Free Grace Against the Clock (A Manor House Mystery) by Julie Hyzy Page B

don’t know,” I said. “Even though both Keay and Rodriguez got the cold and clammies, there were differences in the way they went down.”
    France wagged a finger. “Not all heart attacks are by the book, you know.”
    I sighed, restless. “Who was Keay meeting? Why couldn’t anyone find him?” I held up my hands as though grasping the air around me for answers. “Cherk claims Keay wasn’t behind the stage, and yet, that’s where he turned up. He said ‘injection.’ Of all the last words he had to choose from, why ‘injection’? He was a preeminent cardiothoracic surgeon. If he was having an attack why wouldn’t he say ‘heart’ instead? And why did he smell like liquor when Serena insists the man never drank a drop? Nope,” I said. “There are too many unanswered questions.”
    The two stared at me in silence for a long moment.
    “You really do have a hard time letting things go, don’t you?” Bennett asked.
    “Only when they don’t make sense,” I said. “I can’t help it. I prefer it when loose ends are tied up.” I took a look around as the cleanup continued. “I hope Rodriguez is okay.”

Chapter 9
    Even though Sunday was usually a day off for me, I returned to Marshfield to oversee Cherk’s student team as they took down the stage and repacked all the photographs the man had brought for the presentation but never got a chance to show. Frances joined me.
    When they were almost finished, Frances and I took a very Jane Austen–like turn about the room, examining the area closely to see if there was anything amiss.
    Cherk had been a brisk taskmaster, but now that his students had completed their jobs and were on their way back to unload the truck at the theater, he became very chatty.
    “You here at Marshfield certainly know how to throw the kind of party that gets the whole town talking,” he said. “I was initially disappointed not to be able to make my presentation, but who can compete with a dead body followed by a cop suffering a heart attack, all in the same room?”
    “You’re too kind,” I said, returning his sarcasm.
    “That detective went down so quickly after Keay died—I started to worry who might be next.” When Cherk’s face creased into a grin, I suppressed a shudder. One minute he was fish-faced, the next, Dracula. Now a scary clown, complete with fake smile. The deep lines set in his pale skin made him look like an aged person wearing white greasepaint. Except he wasn’t all that old. And that was his natural skin tone.
    “I called Flynn this morning,” I said. “Rodriguez is stable, but may be looking at valve-replacement surgery.”
    Frances had already heard this update. She made a
tsk
ing noise. “And to think that he could have had Dr. Keay perform the surgery, if only he’d had his heart attack a week sooner.”
    Cherk said, “Poor planning on his part.”
    Frances apparently missed the mockery. “Dr. Keay was the best heart surgeon these parts have ever seen.” She got a familiar look in her eye and adopted an enticing tone. “He certainly turned his life around.”
    “Oh?” Cherk asked. “Do I detect the delicious waft of gossip?”
    “Don’t you know?” Frances asked sweetly, warming to the opportunity to share what she’d hinted at. “I know Grace wasn’t living here at the time, but I’m not sure when you moved here.”
    Cherk didn’t answer the unspoken question. “Spill, darling. Please. You have me on tenterhooks.”
    She perked up. “I thought you’d never ask.”
    Frances had warned me shortly before the benefit that there was a story behind Joyce Swedburg and Leland Keay’s divorce. Now, as she settled in, I got the feeling we were about to hear the whole sordid tale, whether we wanted to or not.
    This time, I opted to let her continue. With all the unexplained happenings from last night, I thought it might behoove me to know a little more about the late Dr. Keay and people in his life.
    Tugging at the hem of her