Grace Interrupted Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  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

  Praise for

  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)

  “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.”

  —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 Laughed ’Til He Died

  “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 Holly Blues

  “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

  Manor House Mysteries

  GRACE UNDER PRESSURE

  GRACE INTERRUPTED

  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.)

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  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 INTERRUPTED

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / June 2011

  Copyright © 2011 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.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-52888-4

  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.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For anyone who has ever opened heart

  and home to a stray

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks to my fabulous editor, Emily Rapoport, and to Michelle Vega, Kaitlyn Kennedy, and Erica Rose at Berkley Prim
e Crime as well as to my marvelous agent, Paige Wheeler. You are all a dream to work with and I thank you for your enthusiastic support.

  Thanks, too, to my blogmates at www.MysteryLoversKitchen.com, and at www.KillerCharacters.com. What fabulous groups of people! So much fun. I count myself lucky to be associated with these great authors.

  I have to thank one individual in particular for his help with this book. Our good friend Jerry Rodell (who also happens to be my pledge-father from ages ago), is an active and avid Civil War re-enactor. He provided a steady stream of facts, pictures, and websites, as well as an in-depth knowledge of re-enacting I could not possibly have found elsewhere. Any and all errors (and variations due to creative license) are mine entirely. Thank you, Jerry. And a special thank-you to his wife, Denise, for the girly info . . . especially about the Soiled Doves. Loved that!

  My family means everything to me, and I want to take a moment to thank my wonderful husband and kids. Love you, Curt, Robyn, Sara, and Biz. One of our new additions to the family makes her debut in this novel as “Bootsie.” Hope you enjoy meeting her.

  Thanks to Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and Thriller Writers of America. I especially want to thank readers who “friend” me on Facebook, post reviews online, and e-mail asking how soon the next book will be out. You make this job a joy. Thank you all, from the bottom of my heart.

  Chapter 1

  THE TWO WOMEN GLARED AT ME WITH SUCH sizzling fury I was afraid their eyeballs might catch fire. Flanked as they were by a pair of our manor’s elderly security guards, they appeared harmless enough, but both were so visibly agitated it was hard to be sure. They shifted their weight and met my gaze as the guards, Niles and William, explained the situation and handed me the women’s photo IDs. I took an involuntary step back in case either of the two in custody decided to take a swing at me.

  We faced each other in Marshfield Manor’s West Salon, a high-ceilinged room on the mansion’s first floor. In the midst of a major refurbishment, the room was off-limits to visitors. Painting scaffolds blocked butternut bookcases, café au lait walls, and even one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The two massive billiard tables that hadn’t been removed were covered with protective canvas duck. Since it was Friday and near quitting time, the painters and carpenters had taken off for the weekend, leaving the West Salon empty and quiet. I was pleased that our two security guards had opted to escort our unwelcome visitors here. This way our conversation would not disturb lingering tourists taking a final circuit of the mansion.

  Casting a wary glance at the women, Niles did most of the talking. “We tried to tell them—politely, y’understand—that the south grounds were off-limits but they drove straight down there anyway. When we caught up with them on foot, they started beating us up.”

  “That’s a lie,” the shorter one, Rani, said. Slim yet curvy, she watched for my reaction with the alertness of a cat ready to pounce. At first I guessed her to be Hispanic or Italian, but based on the surname from her ID—Ogitani—I thought perhaps there might be some Japanese in her blood. She wore her dark hair pulled back into a severe ponytail—sleek, like a panther. She ran an appraising gaze over the two men, as though sizing up dinner options.

  William fingered his jacket where the sleeve had been torn from the shoulder. “They ruined my uniform.”

  Niles pointed in the general direction of Marshfield Manor’s far southern grounds where a group of Civil War re-enactors were establishing a campsite. “The guy that they’re after is the one I feel sorry for.”

  I wondered how our two security guards had managed to corral these women and herd them back here. Rani was clearly a tough cookie. I, too, felt sorry for the guy they were after. “Who exactly is this Zachary Kincade?” I asked.

  Rani took a step forward. “Zachary Kincade is a world-class jerk. I can only hope one of his Civil War buddies plants a musket ball into his brain.” With a malicious grin, she turned to her companion. “Or better yet, aim lower. That would be fitting, don’t you think?”

  The other woman, Tamara, didn’t answer. Although she also wore her hair pulled back, hers was washed-out blonde streaked with gray. Sporting heavy eye makeup, crimson nails, and three silver chains hanging from her thick neck, she kept her hands shoved into her pockets, edging away as she eyed the door.

  Neither woman looked like the type to trespass on private property simply to pick a fight. They were both in their mid-thirties and—if their clothes were any indication—financially well-off. They wore almost identical outfits of easy, comfortable pants and tops in solid black. Most pieces bore recognizable logos. Everything, including their black leather ballet flats, appeared brand-new. Like they’d prepared ahead for a stealth maneuver. Attempting to parse what I knew with what stood before me, I was reminded of a puzzle game from the Sunday papers, “What’s Wrong with This Picture?” which I’d played as a kid.

  “We have an agreement with the re-enactors,” I began. “They are not to be disturbed at all today. Not until their camp is set up and their—what’s it called?” I turned to Niles but remembered before he could chime in. “Living History, that’s it. Once their Living History is established on Monday, manor guests are welcome to visit during designated hours of the day.”

  “No, no, no,” Rani said, “we don’t care if they’re ready. We’re marching down there and we’re confronting him now.” She offered a sly smile. “But I imagine he’s expecting us.”

  Niles cleared his throat. “We contacted Mr. Pierpont when these ladies first arrived on the grounds. Mr. Pierpont assured us that Mr. Kincade does not wish to be disturbed.”

  Rob Pierpont was our principal contact and top brass of the re-enacting crowd. He’d proven to be easy to work with but had made the pointed request for privacy for the first few days, explaining that while the group was setting up they didn’t want outsiders watching. Claiming it would ruin the effect of walking into a real 1860s Civil War campground, he’d said, “This is almost like an amusement park exhibit. No kid wants to see the fuzzy cartoon character with his head off, and no Civil War aficionado wants to see the Confederate battle flag atop a plastic cooler. It’s the same thing.”

  I’d promised him we would comply. To the women, I said, “You can come back Monday . . .”

  “No,” Rani said. She barked a laugh. “We are not giving him time to weasel away. Listen, the only reason we agreed to come up here with these bozos”—she swept an arm toward Niles and William—“is because they told us we could talk with you. We figured a woman would understand. Be reasonable here. We’re paying guests. We have every right . . .” Her voice had begun to rise as she spoke. Taking a deep breath, she calmed herself. “I just think it’s pretty convenient for Zachary to disappear whenever he needs to. This time he’s safe behind castle walls.”

  Not exactly accurate. Our Civil War re-enactor guests were camping outdoors, as far across our expansive grounds from these “castle walls” as one could get, though the description of the manor was apt. The 150-room mansion was both a major tourist attraction and world-class museum. Its gorgeous furnishings and historically significant artifacts were what kept our docents busy every day of the year except Christmas and Thanksgiving. More than 500,000 visitors came through the manor’s front doors annually to follow the self-guided tours. Manor docents and paid security manned key positions throughout the home, ready and eager to answer questions.

  Outside was another story. Although we had a four-star hotel and several recreational facilities on premises including a horse-riding stable, most of the land had been left in its natural state. We rarely rented out the forest and grounds that lay to the far south of the property but my predecessor, Abe, had made an exception for this group. Months before I started working at Marshfield, Abe had agreed to this weeklong re-enactor encampment. A Civil War buff himself, he’d been eager to talk and learn from the participants. So eager, in fact, that he’d rented the week out to them at a price that just covered our maintenance co
sts. I felt a pang of sadness at the thought of Abe missing out on the event he’d been looking so forward to. His murder, just a few floors above where we stood, was still a raw wound around here. One from which we might never recover.

  Instinctively I glanced upward. Although I’d originally been hired to take Abe’s place when he retired, his sudden death had thrown me into the role unprepared. Other staffers and the manor’s reclusive owner—Bennett Marshfield—had been equally unprepared for me to take over. It had been a rocky road thus far. For all of us.

  Right now, however, I needed to flex my authoritarian muscle. The two women in front of me were itching for a fight. I cleared my throat. “Since this isn’t an emergency, you have no real business here. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “Come on,” Rani said, wheedling now, “you’re a woman. I’m sure you’ve met your share of idiot men.”

  One particular idiot man came to mind, but I couldn’t see how that made a difference. Before I could cut her off however, she went on, “Zachary Kincade is a class-A scumbag. The top—or bottom, if you will—of the pile. The worst.”

  “I take it he’s your ex?” I said.