Grace Under Pressure by Julie Hyzy Page B

the cops do.”
    Addressing the elderly gardener, Carr modulated his tone. “What we all need to realize is that by interfering, this Tooney idiot is hampering the real investigation. If you see him around, Earl, call me on the radio. Okay? He doesn’t belong here.”
    Turning to Jack I asked, “So what happened—what did you tell the fake detective?”
    I could tell Carr had been about to ask the same question.
    The defensive fury in Jack’s eyes slipped away. He rolled his shoulders and took a breath before answering. “There are people going in and out of the mansion all the time,” he began. “So at first I didn’t think anything of a man in coveralls walking behind the western section of the house.”
    “You saw him?” Carr asked. “What did he look like?”
    “He was pretty far away, and the sun was in my eyes.” Pointing eastward, he continued. “I was up there, in that little gorge. I thought it was Kenny at first—which is why seeing him around the grounds didn’t bother me. But then I noticed Kenny was standing about fifty feet away from me. I called to the guy. He turned and started to run. I ran after him. But the guy was fast—I lost him in the trees.”
    Carr had been jotting notes as Jack spoke. Now he looked up, gesturing with his eyes toward the hotel. “The trees? The ones closer to the road, or the ones behind the hotel?”
    “Road,” Jack said. “And before you ask, I did call it in. But by the time I got ahold of the dispatcher, all hell had already broken loose.”
    “Come up with me. I want the detectives to hear this.”
    Jack patted Earl on the shoulder. “You gonna be okay for a little while out here by yourself?”
    “I been running these grounds since before your daddy could crawl,” he said without looking up. “You go on ahead.”
    “I’m going in, too,” I said. “I have a few other people to talk with.”
    The three of us strode to the house and parted company at the back entrance. Carr and Jack headed up while I took the stairs down to the basement.
    Bennett Marshfield’s grandfather, Warren, Sr., hadn’t spared any expense when building his mansion. Even this belowground level was filled with decorative detail. Although less opulent than the upper stories, the hallways and rooms—which formerly housed staff living quarters—were cheerful and bright. The high windows allowed shafts of natural sunlight to bounce down onto the polished floors. Paintings—though not any of the real masters—adorned walls at regular intervals, each piece of artwork accompanied by a small plaque explaining the style, the medium, the time period. Warren Marshfield had been known for his penchant for educating others. Staff included.
    I mulled over my discussion with Jack Embers. Embers, as in Emberstowne, I assumed, since Earl had referred to Jack as a hometown boy. The municipality had been founded shortly after the Civil War by the Embers family who had—briefly—been the town’s most important people. That is, until the Marshfields discovered the beautiful area and moved in. I was mildly surprised the town name hadn’t been changed to honor them. I wondered if Jack was a direct descendant of the original Embers family.
    None of this mattered today, however. What mattered was finding the killer, and once Jack told the real police about the man he’d seen, maybe the authorities would put out an all-points bulletin. Or whatever it was they did these days to apprehend criminals.
    So far, Emberstowne’s finest hadn’t impressed me overmuch. I hoped they were more astute than they appeared. They had demanded that all personnel report to the mansion today, whether scheduled to work or not. That was something, at least. Maybe now with the place on virtual lockdown there would be little chance of Ronny Tooney sneaking in to gum up the works.
    I took yet another flight of steps down to one of the sub-basements. These areas housed the massive laundry room; miscellaneous storage