by Julie Hyzy
Praise for the national bestselling Manor House Mysteries
GRACE AMONG THIEVES
“Very believable and well researched . . . The characters are well drawn and believable . . . [A] reliable series with an interesting setting, a capable heroine, and interesting puzzle to work out.”
—The Mystery Reader
GRACE INTERRUPTED
“Hyzy has another hit on her hands.”
—Lesa’s Book Critiques
“A most intriguing and engaging read.”
—Once Upon a Romance
“Hyzy will keep you guessing until the end and never disappoints.”
—AnnArbor.com
GRACE UNDER PRESSURE
“Hyzy creates the well-researched and believable estate of Marshfield Manor, part mansion and part museum . . . Well-drawn characters like busybody secretary Frances, handsome landscape architect Jack, and stalking wannabe PI Ronny are supported by lively subplots, laying series groundwork to rival Marshfield Manor’s own elaborate structure.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“A strong, intelligent, and sensitive sleuth . . . Each page will bring a new surprise . . . A must-read for this summer!”
—The Romance Readers Connection
“Julie Hyzy’s fans have grown to love Ollie Paras, the White House chef. They’re going to be equally impressed with Grace Wheaton, a young, competent woman taking over a job she loves. Hyzy is skilled at creating unique series characters. Readers will love Grace.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
Praise for the New York Times bestselling White House Chef Mysteries
AFFAIRS OF STEAK
“Hyzy shines in this volume. Affairs of Steak proves unequivocally that this series burns as bright as the sun during a sweltering D.C. summer.”
—Seattle Post-Intelligencer
“These are wonderful books, enjoyable to read, hard to put down, and they make you really look forward to the next one in the series.”
—AnnArbor.com
BUFFALO WEST WING
“[A] top-notch mystery writer. Adventure, intrigue, and a dash of romance combine for a delicious cozy that is a delight to read.”
—Fresh Fiction
“A captivating story from the very first page until the end . . . Great job, Julie Hyzy. Another all-around great read!”
—The Romance Readers Connection
EGGSECUTIVE ORDERS
“The ever-burgeoning culinary mystery subgenre has a new chef-sleuth . . . The backstage look at the White House proves fascinating.”
—Booklist
“A quickly paced plot with a headstrong heroine and some recipes featuring eggs all add up to a dependable mystery.”
—The Mystery Reader
HAIL TO THE CHEF
“A gourmand’s delight . . . Glimpses at the working class inside the White House . . . An engaging chef’s cozy.”
—Midwest Book Review
“[A] well-plotted mystery . . . A must-read series to add to the ranks of culinary mysteries.”
—The Mystery Reader
STATE OF THE ONION
“Pulse-pounding action, an appealing heroine, and the inner workings of the White House kitchen combine for a stellar adventure in Julie Hyzy’s delightful State of the Onion.”
—Carolyn Hart, author of Dead by Midnight
“Topical, timely, intriguing. Julie Hyzy simmers a unique setting, strong characters, sharp conflict, and snappy plotting into a peppery blend that packs an unusual wallop.”
—Susan Wittig Albert, author of The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose
“From terrorists to truffles, mystery writer Julie Hyzy concocts a sumptuous, breathtaking thriller.”
—Nancy Fairbanks, bestselling author of Turkey Flambé
“A compulsively readable whodunit full of juicy behind-the-Oval Office details, flavorful characters, and a satisfying side dish of red herrings—not to mention twenty pages of easy-to-cook recipes fit for the leader of the free world.”
—Publishers Weekly
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Julie Hyzy
White House Chef Mysteries
STATE OF THE ONION
HAIL TO THE CHEF
EGGSECUTIVE ORDERS
BUFFALO WEST WING
AFFAIRS OF STEAK
FONDUING FATHERS
Manor House Mysteries
GRACE UNDER PRESSURE
GRACE INTERRUPTED
GRACE AMONG THIEVES
GRACE TAKES OFF
GRACE
TAKES OFF
JULIE HYZY
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com.
GRACE TAKES OFF
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2013 by Julie Hyzy.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-101-62438-8
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / July 2013
Cover illustration by Kimberly Schamber.
Cover design by Rita Frangie.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
To my favorite English teacher, Donna Wojtulewicz Sifling, who encouraged my writing when I needed it most.
Acknowledgments
I adore visiting historic mansions—always have. Marshfield has become the manor house of my dreams, and although I’ll never own anything like it in the physical sense, I’m delighted to be able to wander its rooms, and even better, to invite readers to join me in discovering its secrets.
So many friends have helped me get details just right for Grace’s newest adventure. My good friends Hannah Dennison (Vicky Hill Exclusives Mysteries) and Betty Hechtman (Crochet Mysteries) provided lots of valuable information about charter airline travel. And major thanks to “The Poison Lady,” Luci Zahray, for her pharmaceutical suggestion.
Thanks to my lovely eldest daughter, Robyn, who helped me out with art-related questions; my lovely middle daughter, Sara, for (as always) being the first to read and critique; and to my lovely youngest daughter, Biz, for copyediting suggestions as well as coming up with a fun title.
We weren’t able to use that one, but it gave us a chance to giggle. I love my girls!
Many thanks to my blog sisters, The Cozy Chicks (www .cozychicksblog.com), and my friends at CozyPromo. It’s wonderful to be part of such helpful and supportive groups. Writing may be a solitary endeavor, but as friends we’ve become a team.
I am absolutely thrilled to be working with my wonderful editor, Michelle Vega, again. I’m grateful for, and delighted by, her ever-enthusiastic support. I owe a debt of gratitude to copyeditor Erica Rose at Berkley Prime Crime, who shows enormous patience with me despite my missteps with commas. And, as always, many thanks to my agent, Paige Wheeler, who negotiates contracts with cheerful aplomb.
To my family: Curt, Robyn, Sara, Biz, Paul, Mitch, Grandma, and Claudia—my deepest gratitude for your unwavering support. Love you!
Contents
Also by Julie Hyzy
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 1
HOT AND FRAGRANT, THE AROMA OF RIPENING OLIVES ENVELOPED ME THE MOMENT THE limo door opened. I boosted myself from the shadowed leather backseat, blinking against the sudden brightness of the lazy afternoon sun. Our ride through Italy’s Tuscan countryside had been chilly, cushioned bliss, but the moment I crunched one foot on the gravel outside, I was engulfed again by the day’s oppressive heat.
Bennett Marshfield, my boss and benefactor of this whirlwind excursion, had come around from the other side and now offered me his hand to help me alight. How he managed to remain so cool and stately when beads of sweat exploded at my hairline, I didn’t know, but I accepted his assistance as the chauffeur held the vehicle’s door.
Bennett turned to him. “Will you be driving us to the airport tomorrow?”
The elderly driver smiled. “It will be my great pleasure,” he answered in heavily accented English. As he trotted to the limo’s trunk to retrieve our luggage, he added, “Signor Pezzati has arranged for me to be available whenever you have need.”
Bennett thanked him as we made our way up the path to the grand villa before us. The patchwork of stones beneath our feet had been worn to a shiny, flat surface over the centuries, making me wonder about the warriors who had trod this path before us.
“Some place Nico’s got here, eh?” Bennett said under his breath, though there was no one nearby to overhear.
Built in the fourteenth century and renovated countless times since, this former fortress was now home to one of Bennett’s oldest friends, Nico Pezzati. Smaller than Marshfield Manor—though not by much—it sprawled atop this hillside like a cat sunning itself on the back of a lush outdoor sofa.
My pale pink blouse—the one a saleswoman claimed would “breathe” but rather saw fit to absorb moisture from the air and deliver it directly to my skin—clung for dear life against the front of my chest and between my shoulder blades. As Bennett and I took the uneven stone stairs up to the home’s front doors, sweat rivulets raced down to pool at my waist. Another two minutes out here and I’d be drenched in my own perspiration. What a lovely way to meet Bennett’s old school chum.
To my great relief, the moment we reached the top step, thick mahogany doors swung wide, and a delicious rush of cold air swirled around us.
A young man in a crisp, white shirt greeted us in enthusiastic Italian. “Benvenuto, signore e signorina.” He flashed a smile that contrasted against his rich bronze complexion and switched to English. “Signor Pezzati anticipates eagerly your arrival.”
“Thank you,” I said as I stepped deeper into the oasis of cool. “We are very happy to have been invited.”
I gestured toward the car, but before I could voice my question, the young man answered me. “Your belongings will be sent upstairs ahead of you.”
“Thank you,” I said again. “And you are?”
The young man pressed his fingers against his chest. “I am Marco,” he said with a rousing, rumbling R. Sweeping his hand in front of us, he stepped backward, allowing us to pass. “Prego, please enter.”
As we’d driven up, I’d been struck by the villa’s austere appearance, tabby cat–colored bricks stretching outward and upward in bland, undulating monochrome. No doubt the structure had served well in its fortress days, but I’d had my doubts about how it would fare in its contemporary role as a Tuscan home for an elderly billionaire.
The moment I stepped inside the soaring foyer, however, I sucked in a breath of surprise. Yellow reflective walls, set ablaze by the sun streaming in from high skylights, made me believe the room was lined in gold. “Oh,” I said. Words escaped me, and I realized by Marco’s smile that he was used to such a reaction.
The floor, made of cobalt-blue tile, glimmered cool like a river. Marco urged us to follow it—and him—through a narrow walkway that led deeper into the home.
“Signor Pezzati wishes to visit with you on the terrazzo,” Marco said as we traversed a shadowed room where draperies were shut against the day’s relentless sunshine. The room featured painted wooden ceilings, thick green wall hangings, and a coat of arms displayed proudly above a fireplace that was almost as large as my entire kitchen. I knew Bennett to be an avid collector of antiques and priceless artwork, but what I could see in this room alone made me curious about how the Marshfield stash would stack up against Nico Pezzati’s. Decorated to within an inch of its life, there was almost nowhere in this room for my eyes to rest as I took in the walls, the furniture, and the knickknacks. Every horizontal space was crowded with pieces, some of which, even from this distance, I recognized as extremely rare.
Bennett maintained small talk with Marco as we made our way toward the terrazzo. “How long have you worked with Nico?” he asked.
“I am here for one year,” he said. “Signor Pezzati has been diligent in his teaching of me, and I have learned much of your language. You do not find I am difficult to comprehend?”
“Not at all,” Bennett assured him.
Marco flashed a glance over his shoulder, silently seeking my opinion. I smiled at his eagerness to impress us. “You are far, far ahead of where I would be after only one year of Italian,” I said. “You’ve made remarkable progress.”
“I hope to visit America someday.”
“Be sure to let us know when that day comes,” Bennett said. “You will be most welcome at Marshfield.”
We followed Marco along a circuitous path through several more rooms where the temptation to stop and examine the riches on display was overwhelming. I slowed my pace to be able to take in the plump furnishings, the gold-leaf walls, and the delicious, musty scent of history that permeated every inch of this home. I guessed that Villa Pezzati was about two-thirds the size of Marshfield Manor, but it easily housed three times the amount of treasures.
Marco noticed me lagging. “There will be time,” he said with a knowing grin. “As our guests, you are to stay in this home as your own.”
Marco stepped asi
de as we entered a wide, airy room obviously added on centuries after the fortress years. Decorated in buttery yellows and white, this room had a far more contemporary feel than had any of the others thus far. A wall of windows faced northwest, and I spotted our elderly host, his hunched back to us, reclining under a terra-cotta awning’s shade. Two men hovered nearby. One stood, almost at attention, on the white-and-gray-patterned flagstone floor. The other looked as though he was having an argument with Pezzati. He paced and gesticulated, his raised voice coming through loud and clear. For all the good it did: Everything he shouted was in Italian.
“Prego,” Marco said. He slid open one of the glass doors to allow us outside, silencing the pacing man’s diatribe. Though he worked hard to arrange his face into a welcoming smile, the man fell short in quelling the blaze of his glare. I glanced to Bennett, who kept his expression neutral.
Bennett and Nico had been boys together at school and had maintained their friendship over many decades. The difference in the two men struck me as Nico struggled to his feet to greet us. The other man, who appeared to be a servant of some sort, reached forward to help the elderly gent.
I’d dreaded the idea of returning outdoors to the hotbox for this reunion, but I was pleasantly surprised. There was an awning above, and an outdoor air-conditioning system, the likes of which I’d never seen before, that wafted cool breezes across the luxurious patio. The view was spectacular. We were surrounded on all sides by wide-trunked trees, the captivating scent of sun-warmed soil, and the ever-present aroma of olive oil filtering through. “This is heaven,” I said.
“Indeed,” Bennett agreed. He crossed the terrazzo in three strides, preventing Pezzati from stepping away from his massive cushioned wicker chair, the back of which he clung to with bony fingers. “Nico,” Bennett said warmly, reaching to grasp his friend’s free hand. “It’s been too long.”
Bennett had provided a little background on our trip out here. Nico Pezzati had inherited his considerable wealth as a young man and had managed his many interests from a New York City penthouse up until about fifteen years ago. Widowed young, and tired of the frenetic American pace, he’d relocated to Italy, near where his parents had been born. He had two grown children, a son he had disowned shortly after he’d moved here, and a daughter, whom Bennett barely remembered.
