Chapter Fifty-Four

Lucien Kite Estate

October 30

L ucien Kite’s house manager, Willoughby Daniels, stood at the entry to the catering kitchen wearing his usual uniform of perfectly pressed khaki pants and a blue blazer. At the rear door, his wife, Gretchen, the frantic cook, was barking at the hired party staff and stabbing at the alarm panel.

“Access the second-floor balcony bar from the yard! You’re setting off the motion sensors using the inside stairs.”

Just as she silenced the alert, another quadrant flashed. “Who is in an upstairs bathroom?” she bellowed, trying and failing to silence the system. She turned desperate eyes to Willoughby, who smoothed his yellow tie and strode forward.

“Do you need another lesson?” he asked as he deftly silenced the alarm.

“No, I need a house manager to oversee these idiots so I can get back to managing the prep cooks—the job I am paid to do.”

Willoughby chuckled. “It’s off, Gretch. Go back to wrapping figs in bacon and baking mini quiches. I’ll walk around upstairs until they leave—make sure none of the minions decide to pocket the family jewels.”

Appeased, Gretchen smoothed down his lapels. “I’ll set aside some lamb chops and those caviar potatoes you like.”

“Bring them to the guest house. I’ll snag a bottle of Chianti, and we can have a pre-party of our own before tomorrow’s chaos.”

“It’s a date. Now get out of my kitchen.”

The black door opened, and a heavy-set man wearing baggy jeans, work boots, and a sweatshirt with “Perfect Pipes Plumbing” printed across the front stuck his head in. He had a handlebar mustache that reached his ears. “Gretchen?”

The housekeeper eyed the unfamiliar plumber. “Where’s Bodie?’

The man stepped fully into the room, and Willoughby slid closer to Gretchen. He didn’t like the way this guy was eyeballing his wife. “He’s got the flu.” The guy winked. “I’m his much better-looking younger brother, Butch.” The plumber scanned the space and whistled. “I haven’t been here before. Nice digs. I bet the pipes give you hell, though.”

Gretchen flirted back, “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

Willoughby stepped in front of his wife. “It’s a leaking pipe in one of the upstairs bathrooms. I’ll show you.”

Butch pointed his toolbox at Willoughby. “Ah, the man of the house. All righty, let’s get to it. Looks like you’re throwing a shindig.”

Willougby didn’t bother correcting the plumber. If the man thought he was the homeowner, all the better. “This way.”

The two men walked through the house so Willoughby could point out the water spot in the ceiling. After taking him upstairs, he showed Butch the offending pipe.

“You’ve had a problem with this before?”

“Yes. Your brother repaired it six months ago.”

The plumber smoothed over his mustache in thought and said, “I’ll know more once I get in there. These old houses don’t have access panels. I’m guessing I’ll have to replace a fitting. These old copper pipes can survive anything. Trouble is, someone back in the day used PVC or galvanized steel to redo the bathroom.” He pulled a wrench from his toolbox and shook it at the shower wall. “That shit don’t last. Now—”

Before the idiot could continue this mind-numbing plumbing lecture, Willoughby said, “We’re hosting a large party tomorrow, so I need this fixed today.”

“Not a problem, boss.” The plumber tapped the plaster with the wrench. “I’ll grab some tarps from my truck and get to it. I should have the parts I need—”

Thankfully, the doorbell gave Willoughby a convenient excuse to leave. “I’ll check in on you in a bit.”

“Copy that.” The plumber saluted with the tool, and Willoughby hurried down the stairs to greet the expected visitor.

He opened the door with a flourish. “Miss Gautreau, right on time.”

“Thank you, Willoughby. Nice to see you under better circumstances.”

“Indeed. Mr. Kite is out for the day, but he’s instructed me to give you the full tour. The only place to avoid is the kitchen. My wife may take a cleaver to an unwelcome visitor.”

Clara chuckled. “I understand completely. I’m looking forward to the party. The preparations must be elaborate.”

Willoughby led Clara to the right side of the split grand staircase. “You have no idea. Shall we?”

Her striking blue eyes scanned the art in the main foyer. “Could we start on the first floor and work our way up? That’s normally how I do it; that way, I can keep my tour notes consistent.”

Noticing the plumber carrying a load of canvas tarps down the open upstairs hall, Willoughby saw the wisdom of her suggestion. He didn’t want the noise and clutter distracting him. Lucien Kite had been very specific about this visit. He was to stick to Clara Gautreau like glue. His exact words were She doesn’t take a piss without you standing in front of her. “Of course. May I call you Clara?”

“Yes, please do.”

“Then, Clara, let’s start in the solarium.”

“That sounds perfect.”

Willoughby had to admit the tour was a refreshing change of pace. The century-old home had over sixty rooms and numerous nooks and back hallways. He hadn’t been in some of them in over a year. Clara had adored the sixteenth-century fainting couch in the parlor and gushed over the Gaugin in the formal dining room. Other objects were less impressive. Kite’s commissioned portrait, which depicted him as a Hun, hung at the top of the stairs. Clara’s expression upon seeing it was one of a person who had just smelled bad cheese. Willoughby had to fight back his chuckle. The painting was absurd.

An hour after Clara’s arrival, they were standing in the sitting room of Kite’s suite. This wing of the house also held the primary bedroom, a pool room with a bar, and a small study.

Clara took diligent notes as she admired the furnishings and architecture. “Is the bedroom ceiling vaulted?”

“Shall we take a look?” Willoughby asked.

“Oh, I just assumed—”

“Mr. Kite insists you see any room you like. Including his private chambers.”

She wrinkled her nose at that but followed him into the expansive space. Clara was particularly drawn to the Edward Hopper hanging opposite the bed. It was Willoughby’s favorite painting in the house. It was also the artwork that concealed the wall safe. Of course, Clara would have no way of knowing that. In awe, she examined the depiction of a row of storefronts along a dirt road. Clara stepped to the right to see it from another angle, then to the left.

“The oriel window in the sitting area is particularly interesting. The carvings were done by a famed woodworker.”

Willoughby watched as Clara followed his extended hand, but as he turned, a looming shadow in the doorway halted him.

The plumber was staring unabashedly at Clara’s ass. Willoughby sidestepped and blocked his view.

Butch scratched his chest. “Good as new. Took a little hunting, but I found the corroded joint. Don’t use that shower for forty-eight hours. The plaster under the tile needs to dry.”

“Very good. Leave the bill with Gretchen and see yourself out.”

“Will do. I just need to grab my tarps and tools, and you’ll never know I was here.”

“God willing.”

Willoughby stood behind Clara at the ornate bay window and watched as the beastly plumber loaded his van and drove away. Clara turned to him with a bright smile. “And the pièce de résistance?”

“Right this way.”

They walked side-by-side down the hall, stopping at the double doors to Lucien Kite’s office. The two suited guards who had been instructed to remain there for the duration of Ms. Gautreau’s visit stepped away, and Willoughby entered the code on the keypad. Then, he pushed open both doors. His gaze went immediately to the spot above the fireplace where Somewhere hung.

Clara stepped to the mantel without hesitation and gazed up at the painting Kite had stolen from her father. Willoughby joined her.

“I know Mr. Kite doesn’t think much of it, but it is quite lovely.”

Clara sighed. “It’s even more beautiful than the first time I saw it.”

“Well, this concludes the tour, my dear.”

“Oh, I wanted to ask, is there really a spiral slide?”

Willoughby grinned. “Would you like to see it?”

“Definitely,” she replied.

Willoughby led her down the long hall in the opposite direction. At a nondescript closet door, he whispered conspiratorially, “The morning after last year’s party, I found two guests passed out at the foot of it— in flagrante delicto .”

“That must have been quite a shock.”

“To say the least.” He pulled open the door, revealing the swirling metal structure. “The home’s original owner was a toy manufacturer. He had this built for his grandchildren. I think we had better take the stairs.”

Clara stepped back into the hall. “Please extend my thanks to Mr. Kite. The visit was very illuminating.”

Willoughby nodded and led Clara down the stairs. The entire experience was bizarre. He guided Clara through the house as if they didn’t all know she was casing it. He pointed out architectural features like a museum docent, and she took notes like an avid student. One thing was certain; he never for an instant let Clara Gautreau out of his sight.

As he watched her drive away, Willoughby couldn’t help but think if anyone could steal Somewhere out of Lucien Kite’s Fort Knox of a study, it would be her.