Grace Among Thieves
Praise for
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 White House Chef Mysteries
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
“The story is entertaining, the character is charming, the setting is interesting . . . Fun to read and sometimes that is exactly what hits the spot. I’ve found all of Hyzy’s books to be worth reading and this one is no different.”
—Crime Fiction Dossier, Book of the Week
“[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
“Hyzy’s sure grasp of Washington geography offers firm footing for the plot.”
—Booklist
“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
Cat’s Claw
“From terrorists to truffles, mystery writer Julie Hyzy concocts a sumptuous, breathtaking thriller.”
—Nancy Fairbanks, bestselling author of
Turkey Flambé
“Exciting and delicious! Full of heart-racing thrills and mouthwatering food, this is a total sensual delight.”
—Linda Palmer, author of
Kiss of Death
“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
Praise for the novels of Julie Hyzy
“Deliciously exciting.”
—Nancy Fairbanks
“A well-constructed plot, interesting characters, and plenty of Chicago lore . . . A truly pleasurable cozy.”
—Annette Meyers
“[A] solid, entertaining mystery that proves her to be a promising talent with a gift for winning characters and involving plots . . . Likely to appeal to readers of traditional mysteries as well as those who enjoy stories with a slightly harder edge.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“The fast-paced plot builds to a spine-chilling ending.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A nicely balanced combination of detective work and high-wire adventure.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Riveting . . . A twisty, absorbing, headline-current case. First rate.”
—Carolyn Hart
“A well-crafted narrative, gentle tension, and a feisty, earthbound heroine mark this refreshingly different mystery debut.”
—Library Journal
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
Manor House Mysteries
GRACE UNDER PRESSURE
GRACE INTERRUPTED
GRACE AMONG THIEVES
G
RACE
A
MONG
T
HIEVES
JULIE HYZY
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
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.
GRACE AMONG THIEVES
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Copyright © 2012 by Julie Hyzy.
Cover illustration by Kimberly Schamber.
Cover design by Rita Frangie.
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.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-101-58085-1
BERKLEY
®
PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
To the descendants of Joe Dutz, Chicago circa 1930, wherever you are
Acknowledgments
I so enjoy writing Grace’s adventures and am grateful to readers who e-mail me about her adventures with Frances, Bennett, and Jack. I cherish every message, Tweet, and Facebook comment I receive. Thank you for welcoming the Manor House gang so enthusiastically into the world of cozy mysteries. I hope to continue Grace’s stories for a long time.
Bringing Marshfield Manor to life is made possible through the efforts of my terrific editor, Emily Rapoport, and all the wonderful people at Berkley Prime Crime who provide amazing and cheerful support. Sincere thanks to my agent, Paige Wheeler, who’s always on top of things and who remembers to keeps in touch with me far better than I do with her.
Speaking of keeping on top of things, a big shout-out to my publicist, Dana Kaye. Talk about enthusiasm and energy! Thanks, Dana, for all you do for Grace and Ollie. You’re the best!
I have the most wonderful family in the world, and if it weren’t for Curt, Robyn, Sara, and Biz, I would be nowhere at all. I love you guys, so much. Thank you for putting up with Mom’s weird quirks. A very special thanks to Biz for allowing me to borrow a first name for a villain. I’ll be the first to admit that my character is nowhere near as cool as hers.
Contents
Chapter 1
BENNETT CALLED TO ME FROM ACROSS THE second floor’s central hall, “Gracie, we need to talk.”
When I’d first started working here, Bennett saying, “We need to talk,” would throw me into a panic, but back then his pronouncements were usually accompanied by disapproving scowls.
He was wearing a stern expression now, and I had a feeling I knew what had put it there. I waited next to a long line of green velvet cordons and gripped one of its brass uprights as he strode across the room. I hoped I was wrong.
Bennett Marshfield, the septuagenarian owner of palatial Marshfield Manor, was one of very few I allowed to call me Gracie. I’d become extraordinarily fond of him and he of me in the months I’d worked here. Although Bennett and I had suffered a rocky start, he now treated me less like hired help and more like a favorite niece. Fit and healthy as a man twenty years younger, he narrowed his eyes as he joined me. “Where are you off to?”
“Corbin Shaw is waiting for me in the banquet hall,” I said. “Would you like to come along?” I gestured toward the first floor, although Bennett clearly didn’t need to be reminded where his banquet hall was. Born and raised in this grand home, he knew its secrets better than anyone.
Tucked into the North Carolina mountains, Marshfield Manor served as a major tourist attraction. It was, in fact, the crowning jewel of tiny Emberstowne. As curator and manager of the estate, I was living my dream. Despite a few bumps along the way, I woke up every morning delighted and awed to be part of Marshfield’s magnificent history.
“I most certainly do,” he said. “There were camera crews in the back staircase last week. Do I need to remind Corbin that my rooms are off-limits? Didn’t you make that clear?”
“I did, absolutely,” I said. “Your suite will not be filmed. Nor will any of our administrative offices or security stations. I allowed them access to a couple of staircases to make it easier to keep their equipment out of sight.”
Bennett grimaced, clearly unconvinced, so I continued to assure him. “Corbin may be the director but we’re paying the bills. I’ve explained the rules. Of course, if you want to make certain he understands—”
“I trust you. I would, however, like to impress upon him personally how much leeway we’ve granted.”
I had a feeling Corbin knew exactly how much of a coup this gig was, but Bennett’s presence never hurt. With his shining white hair, ramrod straight stature, and piercing blue eyes, the owner of the estate cut an imposing figure.
“Then let’s go talk to him,” I said, ever hopeful to avoid the touchy subject I guessed was on Bennett’s mind.
He made a sharp left. “Let’s go this way.” Pointing to an alcove behind another set of velvet ropes, he added, “Shortcut.”
Unlocking the rope’s brass claw, he allowed me to pass and then secured it behind us. This late in the day meant fewer tourists on the premises and we managed to sneak through without being seen. Cutting through restricted areas in front of guests risked encouraging bold souls to follow suit simply to see what might happen. Too often, nothing did. Despite our chief’s best efforts, security was lacking at Marshfield Manor.
Bennett led me through a dark interior passage that opened to the banquet hall’s dazzling upper gallery. This stone walkway—about six feet wide—lined the room’s perimeter one level up from the expansive dining room floor. The walkway itself was off-limits to guests, but those below who chanced a glance upward were rewarded with a colorful collection of oversized portraits and antique tapestries. Soaring gothic windows framed the masterpieces, their bright illumination casting an ethereal glow into the mosaic ceiling above.
Walking past one of my favorite tapestries—a vivid French-crafted piece depicting neither religious figures nor classic hunting scenes, but rather a family frolicking in a colorful garden—Bennett turned to me. “This is one of the best spots in the house,” he said. A moment later he sighed. “I wish . . .”
He didn’t finish and I didn’t have to ask. As much as Bennett took pleasure in sharing his home with the hundreds of thousands of guests who visited each year, I knew he longed for more. Above all else, Bennett wanted family. He yearned for evenings of conversation and laughter, for discussions of ideas, but what he settled for was providing a lovely destination for strangers who tramped through daily, marveling at his considerable wealth.
Years ago, after two marriages and no children of his own, Bennett had taken stock of his life and, ultimately, decided to bequeath his entire estate to the City of Emberstowne as a permanent tourist attraction. Although the actual transfer wouldn’t take place until Bennett’s death, he refused to leave future strategies to the town’s well-meaning bureaucrats. He set out to make his vision a reality during his lifetime by establishing Marshfield’s pattern for success while he still retained control.
By all accounts he’d succeeded fabulously, and for years the mansion’s popularity grew. Recently, however, due to changes in the world at large and also to a level of stagnation here at the estate, tourism had fallen off slightly. Bennett came to realize he needed help to update his vision to twenty-first-century standards.
In every other respect a shrewd businessman, Bennett had been late to the technology party. As he became aware of how quickly things threatened to spiral downward if he didn’t make an effort to keep up, he sought help. Under his direction, I was brought in, as was our head of security, Terrence Carr. Daily tours of Marshfield Manor had become a staple of Emberstowne, and now, under our management, protections were being put into place. It was a slow process, but we were finally making headway.
Terrence and I answered to Bennett and he answered to no one but himself. We all benefited from the fact that businesses in Emberstowne bent over backward to keep its wealthiest citizen happy. After all, Bennett reserved the right to change his will at any time.
One of the most popular stops on the mansion’s tours was this banquet hall. Nearly two-thirds the size of a football field, this majestic room featured nearly identical walk-in fireplaces facing one another like linebackers in opposing end zones. As Bennett and I strolled along the high walkway, I glanced up at the mosaic ceiling. Hundreds of white flowers burst forth from a cerulean background, framed in shining twenty-two-carat gold tile. Soaring three stories above the main level—one floor above where we walked right now—this mosaic always took my breath away, especially this close. I reached upward, longing to touch, but even from here it was too far above me.
Bennett made a noise of disgust, bringing me back to earth. I followed his angry gaze. Below us, in the far corner of the banquet room, Corbin Shaw stood with his fingers laced across the top of his head, oblivious to our presence. Undoubtedly planning the next morning’s shoot, he rotated in place, surveying the glorious surroundings, his concentration evident by his intense squint and pursed lips. The director’s presence wasn’t causing Bennett’s reaction.
Hillary Singletary’s was.
Bennett’s stepdaughter had sauntered into the room to stand behind Corbin. Unaware of us watching from above, she finger-combed her blonde bob and smoothed her tight skirt before stepping forward to tap Corbin on the shoulder.
He turned. We couldn’t see his expression, but his hands came down from his head and he took a quick step backward—the kind of reaction you’d expect from an individual encountering a rabid dog. Hillary’s movements were more feline; I could almost hear her purr as her words carried upward, “Corbin, how delightful to see you again.”
“Right there is what I wanted to talk about,” Bennett said, keeping his voice low.
“The filming?” I feigned misunderstanding, still working hard to avoid any discussion of Hillary. “You know we’re right on schedule. Corbin believes he can have the first shipment of DVDs to us within three months.” I spoke quickly, eager to keep Bennett engaged. This DVD project was my baby. We’d contracted to have Marshfield Manor digitally immortalized; not just for posterity’s sake, but to produce the DVDs en masse to sell in our gift shop for happy visitors to take home and remember their trip.
The souvenirs we currently offered were pathetic. Our tiny gift shop had been an afterthought by my predecessor, carved into a small corner of the mansion only after guests began demanding keepsake items for purchase. Featuring a few high-quality pieces made by Emberstowne artisans and a small assortment of mugs and key chains, the store cried out to be relocated into a bigger space and stocked with more enticing goodies. That was another of my many plans for the future. One step at a time.
“Not the filming,” Bennett said, crashing my hopes to avoid the subject. “Hillary.”
I glanced down again. Bennett’s forty-six-year-old stepdaughter, whose sole ambition seemed to be to convince the world she hadn’t yet seen thirty-five, smiled as she eased closer to Corbin. With a lovely, if tightly preserved face, and a petite, well-maintained figure, Hillary was—on paper, at least—a catch. That is, until she opened her mouth and her personality spewed forth.
Even from our vantage point I could spot the glint in her eyes and the flirtatious pitch of her hip. “Is that why she’s back?” I asked quietly. “She intends to be part of the DVD, doesn’t she? I haven’t had a chance to talk with her since she arrived.” Truth was, I’d gone out of my way to avoid talking with the woman.
I’d heard, from my nosy assistant, Frances, that Bennett’s stepdaughter had returned because she’d been dumped yet again, and I wasn’t in the mood for another one of Hillary’s “woe is me” sagas. Although I’d had my own share of romantic disappointments in recent years, I wasn’t interested in a pity party. It wouldn’t do either of us any good.
Time and again, suitors fawned over her, eager to pamper, eager to please. Then, when they discovered that she wasn’t heir to the Marshfield billions it was
hasta la vista
, baby. Rather than count her blessings for being rid of leeches, Hillary harped at Bennett, urging him to change his will and leave Marshfield to her.
Why she would want a husband who only loved her for her money was beyond me.
Below us, she laughed delicately and found reason to touch Corbin on his hand, his arm, his shoulder. Best of all, she didn’t notice us watching her little performance.
She took a predatory step closer and Corbin again stepped back. He swung a pained, guilty look all around, as though expecting a surveillance camera to capture this little tableau.
Instead he found us. Was that relief on his face? Or panic?
Bennett waved. Corbin blushed, raising a hand in return greeting. Spotting us watching, Hillary’s animated expression fell flat.
“I suppose we should get down there,” I said.
Bennett gave a snort. “Let her squirm. She’s embarrassed now, and she should be. She’s getting too old for such silliness. I should have clamped down harder on her when she was younger . . .”
He let the thought hang, but I knew what he was thinking. He’d often lamented the fact that his second wife had shunted him aside when it came to parenting. I knew he regretted not being a stronger influence on Hillary’s life.
“All I am to her now is a bank account,” he said.
“She respects you. In fact, I think she’s a little afraid of you, too.”
He gave a sad smile. “That’s something, I suppose.” He rested his arms on the gallery railing—an elegantly carved waist-high wall of stone—and folded his hands. Extending his two index fingers in Hillary’s direction, he said, “I want to thank you for your discretion, but I also want you to know that I’m fully aware.”
I leaned on the railing next to him, the walkie-talkie in my skirt pocket making a muffled thump against the low wall. “You lost me. Aware of what?”
“Don’t play dumb.” His gaze swept the room, neatly avoiding eye contact. “You know I’m talking about the recent thefts.”
“Ah,” I said. Several items of great value had gone missing: a jewel-encrusted brush, mirror, and comb set from Bennett’s mother’s former dressing room; two signed first-edition books from the main library; and a small gold picture frame. What bothered me most was that the frame had held a photo of Bennett as a toddler. That was the real crime. A piece of Bennett’s history was gone. Probably forever.
He went on, “I’m painfully aware that our losses began shortly after Hillary came to visit. And yet you haven’t mentioned your suspicions.”
“I never—”
“You never said anything,” he finished. “But you thought it.” He glanced at me sideways, eyebrow raised. “Didn’t you?”
My turn to squirm.
“Stop trying to come up with a politically correct response, Gracie.”
I smiled. “You know me too well.”
“Hillary’s financial troubles are getting worse,” he went on, “and it would be just like her to ‘borrow’ an item or two and think nothing of it.”
I’d been afraid of that, but I couldn’t help trying to put a Pollyanna spin on this difficult situation. “Corbin and his crew have been here as long as Hillary has. They started filming the interior shots the same day she arrived.”
“There’s one major difference.” I knew what it was, but I let him continue. “Terrence has had security accompanying the film crew every step of the way.” His voice rose as he threw his hand outward. “As opposed to Hillary, who has the run of the place.”
She must have heard her name because her attention snapped back up to us, her eyes narrowing. I waved again, in a “We’ll be there in a moment” gesture.
After the most recent item went missing, Terrence and I had decided to limit filming to non-visitor hours. Corbin hadn’t been thrilled, but we hadn’t suffered any losses under the new schedule. I hesitated to mention this because Hillary had been a constant presence throughout the process. When the timing shifted to six in the morning, Hillary stopped hanging around the film crew. And the thefts had ceased.
I waited, but Bennett didn’t seem at all ready to leave his perch.
I studied his profile. “What else is bothering you?”
The lines in his face tightened. “It’s not only the stealing,” he said. “Yes, I’m upset about that, and yes, I want it stopped. But the truth is, I can afford these losses. What I can’t abide is the fact that she can do this to me. When she wants money, she calls me Daddy, and when my back is turned, she steals.”
