by Julie Hyzy
Praise for the national bestselling Manor House Mysteries
GRACE AGAINST THE CLOCK
“Engaging . . . [Grace is] an intelligent and perceptive sleuth . . . Cozy fans will be well satisfied.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Hyzy—also the author of the White House Chef Mysteries—excels at plot and personality, and Grace Against the Clock lives up to her readers’ expectations. With a dandy story line and further exploration of Grace’s personal life, Hyzy’s latest succeeds on all levels.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“Grace Against the Clock is a good, credible tale . . . There is so much to like . . . the characters, dialogue, pacing, humor, and a superb narrative. Please, read and enjoy!”
—Fresh Fiction
“Hyzy weaves history into the story line without a seam showing and leaves us wanting to know what’s going to happen next.”
—Kings River Life Magazine
GRACE TAKES OFF
“A snappy story that showcases Grace’s skills as an amateur investigator and Hyzy’s as a first-rate creator of whodunits. Like her series featuring White House chef Olivia ‘Ollie’ Paras, this progression in Grace’s life is sure to please fans of romantic suspense.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“The plotlines are tight, the characters are terrific . . . Hyzy is a master storyteller.”
—Escape with Dollycas into a Good Book
“Hyzy’s . . . masterful storytelling is enthralling. Be on the lookout for more from this talented author.”
—RT Book Reviews
GRACE AMONG THIEVES
“Very believable and well researched . . . [A] reliable series with an interesting setting, a capable heroine, and [an] interesting puzzle to work out.”
—The Mystery Reader
“Hyzy has done it again . . . Well crafted with the many twists and turns that readers demand in a mystery, paired with an eccentric cast of characters.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Hyzy has yet again tapped into her creative mind. There are multiple goings-on from the first page to the last, which will engage the reader’s interest and involvement in the story and its mysterious aspects.”
—Once Upon a Romance
GRACE INTERRUPTED
“Hyzy has another hit on her hands.”
—Lesa’s Book Critiques
“Hyzy will keep you guessing until the end and never disappoints.”
—AnnArbor.com
GRACE UNDER PRESSURE
“Well researched and believable . . . Well-drawn characters . . . are supported by lively subplots.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“A strong, intelligent, and sensitive sleuth . . . 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 . . . Hyzy is skilled at creating unique series characters.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
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
HOME OF THE BRAISED
ALL THE PRESIDENT’S MENUS
Manor House Mysteries
GRACE UNDER PRESSURE
GRACE INTERRUPTED
GRACE AMONG THIEVES
GRACE TAKES OFF
GRACE AGAINST THE CLOCK
GRACE CRIES UNCLE
Anthologies
INAUGURAL PARADE
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
GRACE CRIES UNCLE
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2015 by Julie Hyzy.
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
For more information, visit penguin.com.
eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-18711-5
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / July 2015
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.
Version_1
For my daughters, Robyn, Sara, and Biz, who are the sort of sisters Grace wishes she had.
Acknowledgments
Facebook is a great place to connect with readers and make friends. And Facebook friends are a wonderful resource when it comes to titling a new book. Big thanks to everyone who offered ideas for this one, but a very special shout-out to Valerie Cannata. The moment her suggestion appeared on my page, I knew this was it. Thanks, Valerie. Grace Cries Uncle owes its title to you!
Sincere thanks to one of the nicest people in the business, my editor, Michelle Vega, for her unwavering support, cheerful e-mails, and all-around fabulousness. Thanks, too, to production editor Stacy Edwards and copyeditor Erica Rose, who help me bring Grace and the gang to life. You are the best.
Writing these books has become more of a family affair of late. With a heart full of love I want to say thanks to Curt, who always double-checks me for inconsistencies; Sara, who catches typos and awkward wording in the manuscript before I turn it in; Biz, who brainstorms with me in the kitchen to help puzzle out solutions when I hit a story snag; and Robyn, who drags me away from the computer to do something fun. I’m the luckiest writer in the world. Love you guys!
Contents
Praise for the national bestselling Manor House Mysteries
Berkley Prime Crime titles 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
C
hapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 1
I snatched my hand from the jangling telephone when I caught Aunt Belinda’s name on the caller ID.
“Of all days,” I said to Bootsie, who had perched herself on one of our kitchen chairs. “It’s almost as though she knows what’s up.” My little tuxedo cat cocked her head and let out an expressive howl.
“My thoughts exactly,” I said. Scratching under Bootsie’s soft chin, I stared at the ringing phone. My mother’s sister didn’t call often and whenever she did it was to talk about Liza. Aunt Belinda’s fascination with my estranged sister never ceased to baffle me.
I tapped my fingers against my lips. With Ronny Tooney due to pick me up in about ten minutes, I could answer now, satisfy family duty, yet legitimately keep the conversation brief. If I opted to let it go to voicemail I’d feel compelled to return the call later. And then who knows how long Aunt Belinda would natter on about Liza, urging me to reach out to her, make amends, support my sister’s feckless lifestyle.
Grabbing the handset before I could change my mind, I answered, endeavoring to sound breathless. “Aunt Belinda. How are you?”
I braced myself for the litany of health issues she’d unleash. My aunt always insisted on bringing me up to speed on her myriad visits to the doctor and regular trips to the emergency room.
“I was pretty sick for a while last month,” she said. “Doctors thought it was pneumonia, but I’m finally breathing better now.”
“Sorry to hear that you were ill—” I began.
She cut me off. “You haven’t heard from Liza, have you?”
“No.”
“Is she still in San Francisco?”
“I have no idea.” Last I’d heard, Liza and Eric had tied the knot and settled in Nevada. San Francisco was news to me.
“It’s been too long. I’m worried about her. She’s out there in the world all by herself.”
I barked a laugh. “Not quite by herself.”
“Don’t be spiteful, Grace, it isn’t nice,” she said. “What’s that husband of hers like anyway? I never met him.”
I rubbed my forehead. Aunt Belinda was fully aware of the fact that Eric and I had at one time been engaged. That is, until my sister had blown back into my life. The prodigal daughter had returned home in time to say good-bye to our dying mother, collect half the inheritance, and take off again, this time with Eric in tow.
“I’m hardly the best person to comment on his character.”
“You’re not still smarting from that romantic business, are you? Liza must have been a better match for him. Aren’t you happy you found out before you got married?”
More than happy; I was thrilled. Extraordinarily so. But that was now, after I’d had time to heal and distance myself from the situation. Although I’d dodged a bullet, my relief—no matter how profound—could never dull the pain of my sister’s betrayal. I doubted it ever would.
“Mom was sick for so long that all I remember from that time is that Eric was here and Liza showed up. Next thing I knew, they were both gone.”
“I hear from her now and then,” Aunt Belinda went on, as always glossing over details that painted Liza in a poor light. “That girl can never afford the nicer things in life, even though she works so hard.”
I pressed my lips together to hold back a snippy response.
“Last time we talked, though, I got the feeling she might be having problems. Now I can’t reach her.”
“I wouldn’t worry,” I said, pooh-poohing my aunt’s concerns, “Like a cat, she always lands on her feet.” I mouthed the words, “Sorry, Bootsie,” to my feline companion. Returning to Aunt Belinda, I said, “Liza is shrewd, tough, and has a sharp edge that keeps her safe even while those around her get sliced to ribbons.”
“What’s happened to you, Grace?” Aunt Belinda asked. “How did you get so calloused? You’re not still working at Marshfield, are you?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.” Allowing a little pride to creep into my voice, I added, “I couldn’t ask for a better job.”
“I don’t know how you abide it there. The place always gave me the creeps.”
How could I explain that, despite recent goings-on, I’d never felt more appreciated or more loved than I did working for Bennett. Ever since I’d taken the position as curator and manager of Marshfield Manor, the mansion-tourist attraction-museum that was the jewel of Emberstowne, I’d felt as though I’d come home.
I drew in a breath to explain, but thought better of sharing personal sentiments. What I said was, “This is where I was meant to be.”
“Oh, I see now. It’s obvious they have you snowed. You’re just like your mother.”
Unwilling to go down this route again, I said, “Listen, I’m a little pressed for time.”
“How old is billionaire Bennett Marshfield anyway? Shouldn’t he be dead by now?”
“Bennett is in excellent health, and I’m lucky to be part of his life,” I said, clipping my words. How dare she say such a thing? If I had my wish, Bennett would never die. “But I really am going to have to cut this short. I have an appointment this morning.”
“What kind of appointment?”
Bennett and I intended to undergo DNA testing today. His goal was to set to rest, once and for all, the question of our blood relationship. With Aunt Belinda’s hateful attitude toward Marshfield and its illustrious family, I refused to bare that part of my life to her. Truth was, I harbored a secret belief that Aunt Belinda knew—or at least suspected—that her mother had carried on an affair with Bennett’s father, an involvement that had resulted in my mother’s birth. Tempting though it was to broach the subject, I didn’t want to open that particular Pandora’s box.
“I need to get some blood drawn.”
“Oh.” For all of Aunt Belinda’s yammering about doctor visits and health scares, she was unfailingly disinterested in the well-being of others—or, at least, mine. “You’ll let me know if you hear from Liza?”
“I really don’t expect to. She has no use for me anymore, does she?”
“That’s a real shame, you know. Liza looks up to you. You ought to reach out and offer her a hand. You have so much and she has so little.”
The doorbell rang, sparing Aunt Belinda from my irate outburst. “I have to go. My ride’s here.”
“Oh?” Her interest piqued at last, she asked, “A new beau?”
“Not quite. Take care, Aunt Belinda. Bye.”
Bootsie scampered after me as I hurried to the front door. Thank goodness I’d gotten ready early; my aunt’s call could have set me behind schedule. I smoothed the sides of my navy sweater and tugged at the hem of my blue tweed skirt as I went to greet my escort for the day.
Ronny Tooney and I had taken an unlikely path toward friendship. Middle-aged, with a bit of paunch and a generally unkempt appearance, Tooney had recently attained his long-desired goal when he’d been named official private investigator to Marshfield Manor. I’d done the hiring, but only after Bennett had given his blessing. Tooney had proven to be one of Marshfield’s most steadfast allies.
Cold January air spilled in when I drew open the door. In the split second it took my brain to process that the man in the gray suit wasn’t Tooney, I chastised myself for not taking the time to check first. That sharp discomfort, coupled with the visitor’s unwelcome step closer to the storm door, triggered my testiness.
I raised my voice to be heard through the glass. “What do you want?”
The man’s high forehead scooped into his crown like an inverted U, giving his face a long, narrow look. He had dark, blank eyes. The barest trace of stubble along his chin. Neatly trimmed sideburns. He acknowledged my question with a slight lift of his lips. Though it had snowed overnight a
nd temperatures were in the twenties, he wasn’t wearing an overcoat.
Consulting a small notebook, he asked, “Are you Grace Wheaton?”
Bootsie joined me at the door, clambering onto a nearby table to get a better look at the fellow, her little pink-and-black nose tilting up. Even though the outer door remained secure, I lifted her into my arms.
“Who are you?” I asked.
One of his dark eyebrows twitched upward. “My name is Alvin Clark.” In a smooth move, he used his free hand to draw a wallet from his breast pocket. Flipping it open, he said, “I’m with the FBI.” He’d raised the endings of both statements to make them sound like questions and he accentuated the L consonants in his name an odd way. Not a local.
I scanned the proffered document through the glass, noting his photo, name, and the sizeable gold badge embedded in the leather, but saw nothing to indicate where he was from.
He snapped the leather portfolio shut again and returned it to his pocket. “Now, can we try this again? Are you Grace Wheaton?”
“I am,” I said. “Why are you here? What do you need from me?”
With an exaggerated shiver, as though to make me aware of winter’s chill, he pointed over my shoulder. “May I come in?”
My imagination didn’t need more than a second to conjure up possible scenarios. Had someone outside our circle of trusted confidantes found out about today’s blood test? Bennett’s will stipulated that, upon his death, his stepdaughter, Hillary, would be awarded a substantial sum of money. The bulk of his estate, however—Marshfield Manor and all of its treasures—was bequeathed to the city of Emberstowne. Could the elected officials have ordered a background check on me? I had no designs on Bennett’s immense fortune, but that wouldn’t stop the municipality’s lawyers from taking steps to protect their client’s best interests.
Another thought—this one coming on the heels of Aunt Belinda’s phone call: She’d intimated that Liza was in trouble. Heaven knew that Aunt Belinda had a far better finger on the pulse of Liza’s life than I did. Could this Fed’s sudden appearance at my house involve my sister?
“Sorry.” I wanted to collect my thoughts before I answered. “I’m leaving in a couple of minutes. I have an appointment.”
