Grace Sees Red

Praise for the
New York Times
bestselling

Manor House Mysteries

“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

“Hyzy displays her usual talents for fashioning an intriguing plot, advancing her characters' stories, and displaying her knowledge of stately homes and priceless possessions. It's a blend of history, mystery, and romance that will appeal to crime-fiction fans of many varieties.”

—
Richmond Times-Dispatch

“Well researched and believable . . . Well-drawn characters . . . are supported by lively subplots.”

—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

“Fast-paced and full of behind-the-scenes information about how a former home turns into a public attraction with all the potential problems and quirks of visitors, Hyzy's books never fail to delight as the mystery holds your attention from the first word to the last.”

—Kings River Life Magazine

“Julie Hyzy is quickly becoming my go-to author when I want a quick and delightful mystery to read . . . There is so much to like . . . the characters, dialogue, pacing, humor, and a superb narrative. Please, read and enjoy!”

—Fresh Fiction

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

FOREIGN ÉCLAIRS

Manor House Mysteries

GRACE UNDER PRESSURE

GRACE INTERRUPTED

GRACE AMONG THIEVES

GRACE TAKES OFF

GRACE AGAINST THE CLOCK

GRACE CRIES UNCLE

GRACE SEES RED

Anthologies

INAUGURAL PARADE

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

GRACE SEES RED

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

Copyright © 2016 by Julie Hyzy.

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eBook ISBN: 9780698197190

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / July 2016

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.

For Paul and Mitch with special thanks for all the Dymphna Dust. Love you
guys!

For this book, Grace and I owe a debt of gratitude to both old friends and new. Sending giant “Room 32” hugs to one of my oldest and dearest friends, Maureen Komperda, for her guidance and advice on all things medical. Any errors, misstatements, or exaggerations are wholly mine. Love you, Corky! Thanks, too, to my good friend and go-to legal expert, David Eppenstein, who put me in touch with awesome North Carolina attorney Rick Schulz (via another North Carolina attorney, David Erdman) when I had questions about procedure in that state. Thanks for the assists, David and David. And special thanks, Rick, for your quick and enthusiastic support.

I'm extremely grateful to my luminous editor, Michelle Vega; her fabulous assistant, Bethany Blair; and the wonderful people at Berkley Prime Crime, including Robin Barletta, Stacy Edwards, and Erica Horisk, for bringing these books to life. All are awesome supporters of this series, some from the very beginning.

Heartfelt thanks, as always, to my fabulous family. Hugs and love to my ever-patient husband, Curt, and my strong, independent, and compassionate kids, Robyn, Sara, and
Biz.

A smile broke over Bennett's face as he sipped coffee from his china cup. “Take a look,” he said, gesturing over my shoulder.

Seated on the persimmon sofa in his study, I balanced my own cup and saucer as I twisted to see. “What?” I asked, noticing nothing out of place.

“Outside,” he said.

Sunlight sliced across the oak floor, sending a warm glow up the nearby bookcase. I leaned sideways to get a better view of Marshfield's extensive grounds stretching out below. Landscapers dotted the yellow-gray vista, coaxing green out of hibernation with every optimistic sweep of their rakes.

“Spring is coming,” Bennett said.

“It's about time.” Turning back to face him, I took a sip from my cup, quite proud that I hadn't spilled a drop in the process.

Bennett breathed deeply, almost as though the windows were open and he was taking in the delicious fresh air. “I can't imagine a better time of year for our new beginning.” Returning his cup to its matching saucer on the low table between us, he leaned forward and regarded me with his bright blue
stare. “Everything that has come before this happened for a reason. I sincerely believe that.”

I nodded acknowledgment of the sentiment though I didn't entirely agree. “We could have done without a couple of incidents.” Using my cup to point, I said, “You getting shot, for instance.”

He waved away my concern. “Patched up and good as new.” My septuagenarian boss, Bennett Marshfield, a man I'd come to love as family even before recent DNA results had confirmed our uncle-niece relationship, had, indeed, recovered from the gunshot wound he'd sustained less than two months earlier. He patted his chest where the bullet had gone through. “It was a painful lesson but an important one: Savor each day. Tomorrow is not guaranteed. Take nothing for granted. Speaking of which, are you ready for your next lesson?”

“You know I am.”

“Good. Let's get started. The house will be crawling with tourists before we know it.”

Bennett's butler, Theo, bustled in to clear away our breakfast dishes as we got to our feet. “It's Sunday,” he reminded us unnecessarily. “You have an extra hour before the mansion opens for the day.”

“That we do,” Bennett said. Turning to me, he asked, “You're sure this early-morning excursion isn't interfering with your weekend plans?”

“Not at all.” Although I generally opted to spend Sunday mornings lounging in my kitchen, trading newspaper sections with Bruce and Scott, my roommates had gone in early to their wine shop today. Two days ago, their shop's landlord had delivered some distressing news about the building's structural integrity. Today, Bruce, Scott, and their landlord were holding an emergency meeting at Amethyst Cellars before it opened for customers. I knew my friends were eager to find a workable solution to their problems before tourist season began.

Bennett and I set out from the study, walking side by side to his apartment's main entrance. His rooms took up most of
this wing's fourth floor. Marshfield business offices took up all of the wing's third level and a portion of the second. The rest of the mansion served as a combination tourist attraction and museum. Thousands of visitors streamed through our front doors every day eager to stroll the home's opulence and marvel at Bennett's eclectic collection of antiques.

“There's no one special in your life right now?”

I nudged his arm. “You'd know if there were.”

He winked at me. “Can't blame an old man for asking. Just envisioning the future. It's been a long time since this house had children running around in it. I should know. I was one of them.”

“You are not old,” I reminded him. “I'll thank you to stop saying that.”

I had no idea where we were headed for today's lesson, but as Bennett held open a stairway door, he said, “I do feel younger these days. More vital than I have a right to, considering.”

“I'm glad to hear it.”

“You take your time, Gracie. Find the right fellow. And I'll wait patiently for youngsters to spoil.”

“Marriage and kids are not even on my radar at this point,” I said. “We have a lot more to worry about than my love life.”

“We do. But you and I are up to the challenge. Don't you agree?”

“We are, but . . .” I let my thought trail off.

Years ago, convinced that he was the sole surviving member of the Marshfield family, Bennett had bequeathed that, upon his death, ownership of the estate would transfer to the village of Emberstowne. Once we discovered that Marshfield blood ran through my veins, however, he'd completely revised his will. The details were numerous, but it boiled down to this: Upon Bennett's death, I would become the sole owner of Marshfield Manor and would maintain control of the estate for my entire lifetime. If I had children, I could—but would not be required to—grant them control of the estate upon my death. No matter who sat at the family helm, whether now or a hundred years hence, if the Marshfield
bloodline died out, the estate was to be turned over to the village and preserved as an historic site.

This change had resulted in a couple of immediate consequences: Not only had Bennett turned me into a very wealthy young woman, I'd become a mini-celebrity in our small town. I'd also drawn the ire of Emberstowne officials who watched as their expected windfall dissolved before their eyes. That they now needed to wait for
my
demise or, heaven help them, that of my descendants, was too much for some of the town elders to bear.

Emberstowne lawyers had argued against Bennett's decision, citing the city's expectation of inheritance, but the courts had swiftly dismissed such suits as without merit.

I'd balked at the change myself, but as I came to understand my uncle's motivations, I'd relented. Bennett wanted family to control his fortune until there was no family left. Being able to provide for me and my future children gave him enormous pleasure. I'd come to realize I couldn't deny him that.

Still, I had one major reservation and it involved my sister.

“What about Liza?” I finally said. “No matter how many assurances you offer, I'm terrified of the day she finds out.”

Bennett and I had discussed the “Liza situation”—as we'd taken to calling it—at length. Even though his lawyers had taken every possible precaution when drafting the updated will—going so far as to bequeath her a small annual stipend—there was no telling what schemes she'd dream up to increase her share once she discovered the truth.

Bennett led me out of the stairway at the second floor. Again, he held the door open. “Our attorneys and advisers will help us break the news to her when the time comes. Have you heard from your sister lately?”

“Not since the sentencing.”

Liza's role in a major antiquity theft should have landed her in prison for more than ten years, but because she'd cooperated with authorities and had no prior convictions, she'd been given a mere two-year sentence with the potential for early release if she behaved herself.

I shrugged as though I'd gotten past my sister's betrayals. “She blames me, of course.”

“We know better.”

This time of the morning the glorious mansion was quiet and still, as though the grand dame was breathlessly awaiting her first guests of the day. Barring the handful of security guards completing preopening inspections, Bennett and I were alone.

I inhaled deeply—history and wood polish. No matter how meticulously our staffers cleaned, they couldn't clear hundred-year-old dust from every crevice. Nor would I want them to.

Never in my life could I have anticipated the future that now stretched before me. Except for my wariness with regard to Liza, I was as content as I could ever hope to be. I loved wandering this house. Assuming Bennett stayed healthy and strong, we could conceivably enjoy decades running the estate together.

Lamps on the public floors wouldn't be switched on for another hour but there was enough ambient light streaming in from the tall windows to allow us to safely navigate the second-level living room's furniture. I brushed my fingers along the back of a golden wing chair, following Bennett as he traversed the room's forty-foot length.

“What is today's lesson?” I asked when he took a sharp right into a hall that formerly housed Marshfield guests. From the moment he'd returned home from the hospital after being shot, Bennett had undertaken the job of educating me in all things Marshfield. Over the past weeks he and I had pored over photo albums and scrapbooks and together we'd investigated areas of the house that had been closed off for years.

There was a playful glint in his eye as he pointed farther down the long corridor. “You tell me. What's at the end of his hallway?”

“An open stairway. Your grandfather originally designed it to allow guests and family easy access to all floors without having to traipse all the way back to the center of the house.” I paraphrased information provided via headsets on visitors' self-guided tours.

“And beyond that?”

“There's an odd-shaped area around the stairs. A dead end.”

“Sure about that, are you?”

Bennett's teasing tone stopped me in my tracks. The reason this corridor dead-ended was because the library below was two stories tall. Once one reached the stairway, there was nowhere to go but up or down.

I felt myself smile. Although I was familiar with Marshfield's floor plans, past experience taught me that there were secret passages and hidden rooms whose details had been omitted when original documents were filed with city authorities.

“Is there a way to get into the library from this level?” I asked.

“What I'm about to show you is much more than that.” He started moving again. I followed.

The far end of the hallway I'd described was cordoned off by velvet ropes to keep guests safely on the tour. Bennett tilted one of the brass uprights to the side and gestured me through. Three steps later, we stood at the foot of a gorgeous oak stairway that stretched upward to my right. Behind it, an identical structure led down to the first floor.

“I know how much you enjoy exploring Marshfield's secret rooms,” he said.

“And there's one here?”

“Think a little bigger, Gracie.”

I studied the fawn-colored walls around me. There was a skinny window in a narrow alcove to my left and a wide window far behind the stairway to my right. The eastern wall ahead of me curved dramatically, following the lines of the library below. I skimmed my hand along its length, walking slowly, scrutinizing the long blank expanse and eager to find a clue.

Coming up empty, I took a step back and perched my hands on my hips.

“Giving up so soon?” Bennett asked.

I was about to answer when my cell phone rang. “Who could be calling me on a Sunday morning?” I asked rhetorically as
I pulled it from my pocket. A second later, I had my answer. “It's Frances.”

“Frances?” Bennett frowned. “On a weekend?” As I tapped the screen to connect with my assistant, I heard him mutter, “Something must be wrong.”

I pulled the device to my ear. “Frances?”

“Who else would be calling from this number?” she asked. Before I could respond, she followed up with “What are you doing right now?”

My assistant's acerbic attitude clearly remained intact. “I'm surprised to hear from you today,” I said. “What's up? Are you all right?”

“What are you doing right now?” she asked again. “Are you busy? If you're busy, don't worry about it.”

“No, I'm not busy,” I said with an apologetic look to Bennett. Still frowning, he waved away my concern.

Frances started to speak but stopped herself.

“Are you sure you're okay?” I asked.

“Give me a minute, would you?”

I pulled my lips in to stop myself from asking more. On a good day, Frances could be ornery. Today, she was off the charts.

“Take your time,” I said.

“What's wrong?” Bennett mouthed.

I shrugged and shook my head. He stepped closer and leaned in to hear.

“Okay, here it is.” Frances huffed, but spoke haltingly. “I need a favor. Can you do me a favor?”

I had no idea what this favor entailed, but I knew my assistant wouldn't be asking for help if it wasn't serious. “Anything, Frances. What do you need?”

Though I couldn't see her, I could sense her relief. “I need you to come out here. I'm in Rosette.”

“Sure.” I was confused but willing to roll with it. “Where's that?”

“It's a small town. I'm not surprised you haven't heard of it. I'll give you the address. You have a pen and paper?”

“No, but I'll record it in my phone,” I said. “Let me put you on speaker.”

Her heavy breathing was hard to miss in the few seconds it took me to pull up my mapping app. “Go ahead,” I said. “I'm ready.”