The Throwbacks
Book 1:
The Scotland Yard Exchange Series
By Stephanie Queen
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by Stephanie Giancola
Smashwords Edition
Praise for Stephanie Queen Books
Between a Rock and a Mad Woman
“Absolutely delightful”
—RomanticLoveBooks.com
“I was riveted! The twists, turns, surprises & the love story that resulted were outstanding and I can’t wait to read more…”
—HesperiaLovesBooks.com
The Throwbacks
“Resplendent in rich detail, laugh-out-loud moments, a fast-paced plot and spellbinding characters, The Throwbacks is a stellar not-to-be-missed standout!”
—Romantic Times Book Review
“A lovely blend of romance and mystery with a good dose of humor!”
—LovesReading.com
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Praise for Stephanie Queen Books
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
About the Author
Stephanie Queen Books
Chapter 1
GRACE tiptoed along the brick path, trying not to get her party heels stuck in the cracks. She heard the cab pull away from the curb and looked back. Sophia bounced behind her, wearing sensible party boots.
“Do you realize you gave that taxi driver twenty dollars for a two-dollar fare?” her friend said.
“Oh—just like in the song.” Grace smiled and climbed the steps leading to Mabel’s back door. Then she stopped. She felt Sophia stop right behind her.
“What?” Sophia prompted.
“You know. The Harry Chapin song where…”
“Quit stalling, Grace. This is not a surprise birthday party. Open the door.”
“Are we sure about that? Today is my birthday.” Or at least she’d always celebrated her birthday on October fifteenth as a close approximation. No one had ever come up with a more likely date.
“No kidding? Not your thirtieth birthday is it?” Sophia stood on the step below her, making her even shorter than she already was. She looked like an updated version of Lucille Ball with an attitude and a bob. That thought made Grace smile.
“Wait until you turn thirty and see. You’ll have palpitations too.” Grace turned and pushed through the door into the back hall of Mabel’s Beacon Hill townhouse, willing away that intruder sensation she always got. Mabel was as good as family, she almost said out loud. Like the eccentric old aunt she used to dream up for herself back when she used to dream about it.
As they stepped into the old woman’s kitchen, the powerful aroma of food and familiarity warmed her. Even the clatter of the no-doubt expensive caterers didn’t spoil the homey effect.
“Mabel went all out for this bash. Any idea why she would be hosting this Scotland Yard party?” Sophia asked as she followed her through the kitchen.
“I don’t know. It’s a very big deal to her, though. My attendance was a command performance. I only wish I had a date.” She looked down at her friend. “No offense.”
Grace began to give herself the usual pep talk for going into a party dateless, the one about her soul mate being around the next corner, when her purse rang. Somewhere deep inside her bag her ringing phone hid. Weaving around the catering staff, she crossed the black-and-white tiled kitchen to the swinging doors as she dug inside the bag to find the phone.
“Buck up,” Sophia said. “After all, thirty is the new twenty, right? It’s not like you’re a spinster.”
The ringing grew louder as she pulled the phone from its depths. Mabel’s Scotland Yard party waited on the other side of the door in front of them. Pushing through the door into the room that Mabel called the “grand salon,” she stabbed the call button and spoke into the phone. Using what she hoped was a discreet voice, she said, “Hello.”
“Grace! I’m so glad I got you.” Her friend Theresa Torini’s voice boomed from the other end of the line so that anyone might hear everything.
“There’s been a murder!”
“What? You didn’t say murder, did you?” Grace said. Then she clapped a hand over her mouth and darted her eyes around to see if anyone was paying attention. A few curious glances were thrown her way. Still holding the phone to her ear, not one more word volunteered its way to her mouth.
“Yes! A murder! And you have to help.” Theresa shrieked loud enough for Sophia to hear.
Sophia’s mouth opened to speak, but Grace shook her head furiously. Sophia clamped her mouth shut and clamped a hand on Grace’s arm, her eyes perplexed.
Grace frowned. Murder? Her help? What the heck was she talking about? But even if Theresa was crazy or confused, her hysteria sounded real.
“Take a deep breath, honey. Aren’t you at your wedding rehearsal dinner?” Grace asked.
“Yes!”
Grace moved the phone a distance from her head to lessen the effect of her friend’s shocking volume. She moved away from people as best she could with the crowd already in full swing, pulling Sophia—who was still clamped to her arm—with her.
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you—Rick’s brother—oh poor Rick—his brother who was supposed to be our best man—has been shot. Murdered! Right here.”
“Oh no! I can’t believe it.” Grace stopped, truly taken aback. She watched Sophia’s face turn from confused to incredulous. Grace looked around. A few people stared, and some raised eyebrows. She put on a reassuring smile.
Sophia stuck to her arm, listening in. “Is she serious?”
Grace wasn’t sure. She shook her head.
“When did this all happen?” Grace asked.
“Just now. That’s why I’m calling you.”
“What do you want me to do? I’ll do whatever you need. Are the police there?” Grace asked. It occurred to her that this was a bad time for a murder across town. All the police were at this party.
“No. We have to keep it a secret.”
“Honey, I hate to tell you this, but you’re making no sense whatsoever, and normally I’m right on the same page with you but…”
“We can’t call the police! We don’t want the reporters to know. The mayor—Dad—insists we keep it hush-hush. No media. So I’m calling you…”
“I’m flattered but…” Grace had no idea what to say. Her friend was hysterical. Worse, the mayor was insane.
“So you can tell the police—but discreetly,” Theresa said and it finally made sense.
“Oh…I get it. Because I’m here at the police party.”
“Yes! But you have to find Dan O’Keefe, the chief, and tell him it’s top secret.”
“I don’t know who he is, honey. Why don’t you call him directly?”
“Don’t you think they’ve been trying that? They can’t get through on his personal cell phone and they don’t want to call his official line because then everyone will know.”
“
Okay, I’ll try to find him. What does he look like?” Grace leaned down toward Sophia so she could be in on the conversation. She despaired at the generic description Theresa gave them to work with, but she didn’t complain. “Sweetheart, don’t worry—Sophia and I will ask around. We’ll find the chief. And we promise to keep the murder under our hats. I’ll have him call you as soon as we find him.” She shoved the phone back in her bag.
“Gees, and I thought Mabel’s ‘Welcome Scotland Yard Party’ with the Boston police brass and stuffy British big-shots was going to be as exciting as a Latin mass,” Sophia said.
“This is serious. Keep a look out for a tall, middle-aged man,” she said to her friend. But the prospect was daunting. The sounds of crystal and silver clinking like children pounding on xylophones sharpened as Grace drew them further into the crowd, looking around. The high-ceilinged room was bright with chandelier light and warm with the haze of cigars and way too many people.
“You look decorative.” Sophia eyed her. “We have a better chance of the police chief finding you first with those colors you’re wearing. Why don’t you stand on one of these pedestals and give a shout out?”
Grace squinted at her diminutive friend. She had no room to talk. Sophia wore her typical offbeat outfit. Tonight she looked as if she’d stepped out of a fifties sitcom with a cinch-waisted dress and pearls. Grace surveyed the room, skimming over the guests to linger on the high style of the art deco furnishings that made this her favorite townhouse in all of Boston’s tony Beacon Hill. She sighed.
“I don’t know where to start. All these men look the same to me.”
Then her gaze caught on a tall man in a dark suit out in the entry hall. He’d just walked in on a breeze with dried maple leaves floating to the floor around him. He strode into the room and straight into the clutches of several blue-haired ladies and shiny-headed men. They immediately embraced him with cheek-kissing and backslapping affection. Grace watched as the mystery man withstood the onslaught with aplomb.
“At least you can see them—I should have asked Theresa for a description of his shoes,” Sophia said.
“No whining. I wonder if that man could be the chief?”
“What man?” Sophia asked, standing on tiptoes.
“The distinguished-looking man. Over there.” Grace pointed as subtly as possible with her brilliant orange fingernails.
“Nice nails,” Sophia said. “Could be the Chief. Or he could be the big-shot from Scotland Yard.”
“What?” Grace said. She only half listened to Sophia. The mystery man had moved, but it was easy to keep track of him by the sound of laughter. He was like a fun island in the middle of an ocean of blue bloods. “We need to start somewhere. Let’s start by asking him.” She took her friend’s arm and steered her in his direction.
Grace got them within two feet of the man and then stopped. She watched the man more carefully as she considered him. “I never met anyone in the crime-fighting field before,” she whispered, trying not to show her simmering excitement.
Sophia rolled her eyes. “Grace, he’s not Batman.”
“But he could be heroic.” She thought the words out loud. She shoved aside the possibility that she might be disappointed, and with a tingle of anticipation, she walked right up to Mr. Distinguished. She figured a man like him, a possible crime-fighting hero, would appreciate a bold approach.
“Hello. I’m Grace Rogers. And I’m hoping you’re Boston’s Chief of Police.” She gave the man her best bold smile.
David turned, and his eyes met a classic Marilyn look-alike with bouncing blond curls, twinkling brown eyes and a single deep dimple. He automatically looked over her colorfully clad va-voom body—out of professional habit. He was proud that he kept his mouth closed and his eyes from popping.
In the year since he’d moved back to the States, he hadn’t felt more adrift and out of sorts than he did at this very moment. What could he possibly say to this ridiculously young and beautiful bombshell? Where’s your father?
“Hello, young lady. Why do you hope that I am the police chief of this city?” He couldn’t wait for this answer as he eyed her dimple and looked into her earnest eyes.
“I need to report a murder.”
Hmmm.
“You look very much alive to me.” Real smooth. Not unlike the one-too-many Scotches he’d been drinking.
But luckily for him she laughed, a full-bodied throaty sound. No halfway little tinkling for this Grace woman. Either she had a refreshing sense of humor or she was putting him on. He wasn’t sure. Not a good sign. Because if there was one thing he was always sure of, it was people.
“That was the last thing I expected you to say. I knew a bold approach would work,” she said. The wattage of her smile increased to a blinding level.
He had to work at regaining his aplomb. After all, he had his reputation to keep up—the professional one. And he’d promised himself and his friend, who was saving his life right now by not letting him sink into the pit of self-pity, that he would slow down with the revolving-door women. He looked her over again—one more time for old time’s sake. He had picked a very inconvenient time to slow down with women. She was exquisite, if flashy, and she beamed with what, he now realized, was a sinfully genuine smile from a shockingly expressive face.
“I very much doubt you could possibly come up with any approach that would be less than superlatively successful, Miss Rogers. You are utterly charming.” David smiled because he actually meant it.
“My, my. You’re not bad in the charm department yourself. I can’t help noticing you have a British accent…are you from England?” She flashed her white teeth. He could feel the waves of admiration emanating from her.
He stood there soaking her in when he realized she’d asked if he was from England. He looked more closely then to make sure she wasn’t putting him on. But no.
“Yes. I’m David Young, semi-retired…”
“You’re not the chief? Oh, no.” She frowned and began looking around, as did her friend. He assumed the small red-bobbed woman was her friend since she was clamped to Grace’s arm.
“You need to find the chief and fast,” the pixie-like woman said. “He needs to call the mayor right away. It’s been ten minutes since Theresa called and—”
“I know, I know.” Grace spun in a slow circle, looking about.
He held himself from laughing. Was it possible?
“Are you serious? Has there been a murder?”
“Of course, that’s what I just told you. I would never make a false police report, especially not to the chief of—”
“I’m not the chief, but I—”
“I know. I was hoping I’d guessed right. Sorry to have disturbed you. We really need to find Chief O’Keefe.” She looked at him again with those hypnotic brown eyes. The redheaded woman at her side looked at him skeptically.
“Do you know who the chief is, by any chance?” the pixie-like woman asked.
Grace gave him nothing short of a wistful look. He couldn’t possibly be planning to reform his run as a rake tonight. She was too perfect.
“Actually, yes, I do. I’m here on loan with—” he started to say before he lost his head.
“Perfect! Please, take us to him.” Grace beamed at him and slipped her arm into his. “What field are you in?”
He did a double take at that and looked around at the gigantic banner hanging over the second-story railing behind her, proclaiming “The Scotland Yard–Boston Police Department Exchange Program Inauguration.” He looked back down at her and squinted for a closer look. No, she was not putting him on. But…oh well, what the heck.
“Law enforcement.”
“How exciting—that must be how you know the chief.”
He directed his new entourage in the direction of where he’d last seen his childhood friend, known to all as “the chief,” but to him he’d always be Dick Tracy. They headed toward the buffet table through the thick crowd.
“Who are y
ou? How long have you been over this side of the pond?” she asked with her wide eyes aimed at him, hinting of interest.
He laughed. It was too difficult to hold it in and play it cool in her presence. And absolutely no point to it in any event. She was completely without guile. Possibly without a clue, but he didn’t think so.
“I’ve been here long enough to get to know these wonderful people from the Boston Police Department, but not long enough to furnish my home.” It was his stock answer to that question for the evening, but he couldn’t wait to hear what her response would be.
“Oh no. But you have to furnish your home or it’s not a home.” She stopped short and looked distressed. Not exactly the response he was anticipating. She dug through her bright purple purse, and he was newly intrigued. She pulled out a card with a flourish.
“You should call a decorator to help you. If ever there was someone in need of decorating help, I can sense it’s you.” She was confident and alarmingly correct in her assessment. She snapped her purse shut.
“I think you could be right about that, Miss Rogers.” He slipped the card in his breast pocket after a quick glance. It was a decorating firm business card. A small amount of disappointment slipped by him.
She smiled and the dimple showed, again only on one side. His heart and his resolve melted another ten degrees in that moment. He smiled at the pixie-woman next to her.
“And you must be Tinkerbell.” He deadpanned it.
Grace treated him to another one of her throaty laughs, making it impossible for him to mind the scowl of her apparent half-pint friend. Which reminded him, he had no idea what happened to his friend and savior, Dick Tracy. They’d reached the buffet and he was nowhere in sight.
Grace heard the phone in her bag ring again—loudly. She reached in quickly and fished it out, smiled at David, fumbled and tried to open it.
“Why don’t you just ignore it?” Sophia asked, “It’s probably Theresa again, all hysterical about what’s taking so long.”
“It could be the sitter,” she whispered, then clicked the phone on and pressed it to her ear.
The Throwbacks Page 1
