while,” I
said. “They had problems, and eventually, she moved away.”
“What about her family?”
“The notes in the file say she came
to live with the Grants at a young age. The file didn’t say why.”
I laid my head back on the seat and
closed my eyes. I needed the silence. I was afraid I was just going through the
motions. I couldn’t help but think I might hit overload soon. He must have
sensed my feelings. He glanced over at me and put his hand over mine.
***
Howard Grant’s mansion sat on three
acres of meticulous landscaped grounds. Carter pulled into the long-winding
driveway, and followed it to up to stone walkway. The ivory-stucco exterior was
framed with imported Italian Stone giving the home an air of opulence. They
were rich - extremely rich.
“This place is something.” He glanced
around at the posh surroundings.
As we headed toward the mahogany
doors, I noticed someone watching us from an upstairs window, but chalked it up
to my imagination. It was the middle of the night. Nobody knew we were coming,
did they?
Carter rang the doorbell. A few
moments passed before the butler, Jose Hernandez, answered the door. He seemed
hesitant to let us in. He glanced up the stairs, almost as if he was afraid
he’d be reprimanded for opening the door.
Sutter Beach Police, I’m here on
official business.” He flashed his badge and identification.
Jose realized he had no choice. He
pulled the door aside, and we stepped into the foyer. Italian marbled tiles
covered the floors and expanded down a long hallway, and onto a staircase that
went up to the second floor. In the center of the room, an imported Italian
chandelier was hanging from the cathedral ceiling, directly over the staircase.
Just then, a short and plump,
Hispanic woman with gray hair shaped into a tight bun, rushed down the hall.
Her eyes were wide, and her hands covered her mouth as if she knew something
horrific had happened.
Jose put his hands on her shoulder,
and willed her to be quiet. “Margarita, it’s the police. They are here to speak
with Mr. Grant.”
Margarita said a quiet prayer as Jose
excused himself to let Mr. Grant know he had guests. A moment later, Margarita
guided us toward the den, which was a room the size of a gymnasium.
Floor to ceiling bookcases were built
into the walls, extending at least twenty-feet high. The hardwood floors were
covered with expensive Persian rugs of burgundy and gold. Two off-white sofas were
centered in the room opposite each other, with mahogany end tables. Leather
wingback chairs sat at the corners, facing each other. It looked like a room
where a lot of political discussions went on, while smoke filled the air from
the cigars.
TWENTY-SEVEN
WE WAITED at least fifteen minutes
before Howard Grant graced us with his presence, bellowing about having
visitors at that time of night.
Carter showed his badge, again. “Mr.
Grant… I’m Detective Carter with the Sutter Beach Police Department. This is
Sydney McSwain. We’re very sorry to disturb you at this late hour.”
“No problem, Detective, I suppose
you’re here because you have something to discuss with me.”
“It’s about your housekeeper, Tamara
Marquez.” He waited a moment to observe Mr. Grant’s reaction. “I’m sorry, sir,
but she is dead.”
We both watched him, looking for some
display of emotion. He clenched his jaw, and turned his face away so we
couldn’t see his expression. A moment later, he seemed to realize our eyes were
on him. He started to pace the room. I couldn’t help but think he wasn’t
exactly stunned by the news. It was almost as if he expected a visit from cops
in the middle of the night.
Now, why would that be?
I was so busy watching Mr. Grant; that
I hadn’t picked up on the muffled cries from the hallway. When I glanced that
way, I noticed the butler attempting to comfort the maid and was trying to
usher her away. She was falling apart from the news.
Carter said, “When was
said. “They had problems, and eventually, she moved away.”
“What about her family?”
“The notes in the file say she came
to live with the Grants at a young age. The file didn’t say why.”
I laid my head back on the seat and
closed my eyes. I needed the silence. I was afraid I was just going through the
motions. I couldn’t help but think I might hit overload soon. He must have
sensed my feelings. He glanced over at me and put his hand over mine.
***
Howard Grant’s mansion sat on three
acres of meticulous landscaped grounds. Carter pulled into the long-winding
driveway, and followed it to up to stone walkway. The ivory-stucco exterior was
framed with imported Italian Stone giving the home an air of opulence. They
were rich - extremely rich.
“This place is something.” He glanced
around at the posh surroundings.
As we headed toward the mahogany
doors, I noticed someone watching us from an upstairs window, but chalked it up
to my imagination. It was the middle of the night. Nobody knew we were coming,
did they?
Carter rang the doorbell. A few
moments passed before the butler, Jose Hernandez, answered the door. He seemed
hesitant to let us in. He glanced up the stairs, almost as if he was afraid
he’d be reprimanded for opening the door.
Sutter Beach Police, I’m here on
official business.” He flashed his badge and identification.
Jose realized he had no choice. He
pulled the door aside, and we stepped into the foyer. Italian marbled tiles
covered the floors and expanded down a long hallway, and onto a staircase that
went up to the second floor. In the center of the room, an imported Italian
chandelier was hanging from the cathedral ceiling, directly over the staircase.
Just then, a short and plump,
Hispanic woman with gray hair shaped into a tight bun, rushed down the hall.
Her eyes were wide, and her hands covered her mouth as if she knew something
horrific had happened.
Jose put his hands on her shoulder,
and willed her to be quiet. “Margarita, it’s the police. They are here to speak
with Mr. Grant.”
Margarita said a quiet prayer as Jose
excused himself to let Mr. Grant know he had guests. A moment later, Margarita
guided us toward the den, which was a room the size of a gymnasium.
Floor to ceiling bookcases were built
into the walls, extending at least twenty-feet high. The hardwood floors were
covered with expensive Persian rugs of burgundy and gold. Two off-white sofas were
centered in the room opposite each other, with mahogany end tables. Leather
wingback chairs sat at the corners, facing each other. It looked like a room
where a lot of political discussions went on, while smoke filled the air from
the cigars.
TWENTY-SEVEN
WE WAITED at least fifteen minutes
before Howard Grant graced us with his presence, bellowing about having
visitors at that time of night.
Carter showed his badge, again. “Mr.
Grant… I’m Detective Carter with the Sutter Beach Police Department. This is
Sydney McSwain. We’re very sorry to disturb you at this late hour.”
“No problem, Detective, I suppose
you’re here because you have something to discuss with me.”
“It’s about your housekeeper, Tamara
Marquez.” He waited a moment to observe Mr. Grant’s reaction. “I’m sorry, sir,
but she is dead.”
We both watched him, looking for some
display of emotion. He clenched his jaw, and turned his face away so we
couldn’t see his expression. A moment later, he seemed to realize our eyes were
on him. He started to pace the room. I couldn’t help but think he wasn’t
exactly stunned by the news. It was almost as if he expected a visit from cops
in the middle of the night.
Now, why would that be?
I was so busy watching Mr. Grant; that
I hadn’t picked up on the muffled cries from the hallway. When I glanced that
way, I noticed the butler attempting to comfort the maid and was trying to
usher her away. She was falling apart from the news.
Carter said, “When was
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