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Acknowledgments

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 and 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.”

“Who lives here with you?” the FBI man asked.

“Why?” It was one thing to answer questions about myself. Quite another to share information about my roommates. Bruce and Scott, two men I loved like brothers, were currently hard at work at their wine shop, Amethyst Cellars. They had nothing to do with Bennett. Nothing to do with Liza. For what other reasons could the Feds be interested in me?

“Just answer the question.”

“I need to know what this is about, first.”

Alvin Clark stretched his chin forward, running stub-nailed fingers down the front of his neck. “I suggest you cooperate, Ms. Wheaton. This will go much easier for you if you do.”

Bootsie struggled in my arms. I let her bound to the floor and was pleased when she meandered away, having lost interest in the drama at the front door. The ever-so-slight interruption allowed me to summon my resolve.

“First of all,” I began, “you haven’t told me what this is about. I’d be more inclined to cooperate if I understood why you’re here.”

“Ms. Wheaton—” His voice was a growl.

I talked right over him. “As I already stated, I have an appointment this morning.” At that moment I spotted Tooney coming up the walk, his tattered wool coat flapping open in the wind. He was clearly taken aback by the sight of the man on my porch.

He locked eyes with me from behind the FBI guy, taking the steps two at a time to position himself close to the door. “What’s going on?”

Alvin Clark was momentarily rattled. He took a step backward and gave Tooney an appraising glance. “Do you live here?”

Tooney straightened his rumpled self as tall as he could and returned the scrutiny. Ignoring the Fed’s question, he asked, “What do you need me to do, Grace?”

“This gentleman is from the FBI,” I said. “He hasn’t told me why he’s here, but I made it clear that I’m running late for an appointment.” I forced a smile at the agent. “If you’ll excuse us?”

Clark’s gaze shifted from me to Tooney, then back again. “This won’t take long. Just a few important questions.”

I debated handling this agent the same way I had Aunt Belinda. Answering him now would get this over with. But Bennett was waiting, and today was an important day.

“Unless you have some sort of warrant or paperwork that requires me to answer your questions now,” I said, “you’ll have to come back another time.”

The fact that the FBI guy didn’t produce any such documentation provided a small sense of comfort.

His lips curled in hard disapproval as he shoved the notebook into his pocket. “When will you be back?”

“I can’t say exactly.”

“After five o’clock?”

“Probably.”

“And if you are not home then?” he asked, taking a deep, irritated sniff. “What about tomorrow?”

I didn’t appreciate being put on the spot, but I knew that the quicker I cooperated, the faster he’d be out of here. “I should be home all day tomorrow.”

“Fine.” He pivoted and strode away.

“What was that all about?” Tooney asked when he was gone.

“You got me.” I shook my shoulders to release the tension in them.

“You want me to be here when he comes back tonight?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Let’s talk about it on the way. The FBI guy’s visit put us behind schedule.”

Chapter 2

I could have driven myself to the lab this morning, but Bennett had insisted on an escort. Afraid that I might be light-headed from the blood draw, he asked me to indulge him by allowing Tooney to drive.

When I’d first agreed to the DNA test, I’d expected Bennett would invite his personal physician to come into the office, swab our cheeks, and then—weeks later—return with results. Bennett had other ideas. We would get our cheeks swabbed today for sure, but we’d also submit blood samples. I’d tried to reason with him, reminding him that swabs were enough, but Bennett could be obstinate. “I want more information,” he’d said. “Not less. I don’t plan to repeat this procedure, so let’s get it done right.”

Once I’d agreed, we’d settled on the first Saturday we both had free. Today.

Tooney usually drove a rattletrap sedan that boasted more dents than an aluminum shed after a hailstorm, but today he’d arrived in a shiny Buick Enclave. There wasn’t a hint of snow on its shadow-gray exterior and it sported temporary license plates.

Tooney gallantly handed me into the passenger seat before closing my door and making his way around to settle behind the wheel.

“New car?” I asked.

He started the vehicle and put it into gear, his cheeks flushing pink as he shot me a quick glance. “Mr. Marshfield has been very generous with me, ever since . . . I mean . . .” Pulling away, his face now glowed scarlet. “First the house, and now a car . . .”

In an effort to better Tooney’s standard of living, Bennett had snatched up the painted lady next to mine the moment it went on the market. On paper Bennett retained ownership of the property, but he had essentially handed the house to Tooney after hearing about the hovel our scruffy private investigator called home. Bennett had also arranged to have the place updated and renovated, despite the fact that it was in good shape to begin with. Hillary was in charge of that project.

“Mr. Marshfield doesn’t need to do all this,” Tooney went on. “He doesn’t have to give me anything. I wasn’t looking for a reward when . . .”

I reached across to lay a hand on his arm. “You saved my life,” I said. “Bennett wants to show his appreciation.”

“But you saved his life,” he said.

“That was quite a busy evening, wasn’t it?” I pulled my hand back as I recalled that memorable night from the previous summer.

“I don’t deserve anything. He should be grateful to you.”

“He thinks of you as my guardian angel. He believes I get into too much trouble.”

Tooney’s soft face twisted into a smile. “Can’t argue with him there.”

“I think he rests better at night knowing you’re right next door.”

“I sleep easier, too.”

I patted his arm again. “That makes three of us.”

When Bennett had arranged to have my home renovated, he’d insisted on having a burglar alarm installed. It was a reasonable suggestion and I didn’t argue. At least not until Bennett’s scope expanded. In light of the discovery of an underground tunnel that connected my home with what was now Tooney’s, and after the catastrophic events that sent my former neighbor packing, Bennett had demanded that a second, backup, alarm be established.

The backup—on a separate circuit—would sound at Tooney’s house. If he was home and the alarm went off, Tooney knew to text me immediately. If I didn’t answer with the code word—Bootsie—he would know I was in trouble and he’d use the underground passage to get to me as quickly as possible.

I’d cajoled Bennett, bickered with him, and had argued at length that we shouldn’t drag Tooney into a potentially dangerous situation without backup. It wasn’t fair to ask him to come running blindly to my rescue.

Bennett had listened to my pleas and had ultimately agreed that I was right—it was unfair to require such a commitment from one of Marshfield’s employees. My relief at Bennett’s acquiescence had been short-lived, however, when he’d added, “We ought not to force Mr. Tooney to cooperate. But we can ask him if he’s willing.” Bennett’s smile had been smug. “What do you suppose he’ll say?”

Thus, both alarms were installed. I had to admit that after having lived through a number of harrowing experiences these past few years, knowing that help was right next door reassured me a great deal.

*   *   *

We were about five minutes late getting to Lucatorto Labs. The moment we parked I alighted from the car and hurried through the biting wind to the establishment’s glass door, grabbing its handle a fraction of a second before Tooney gallantly pulled it open for me. Two steps in, I stopped. I’d expected a generic medical testing center: mass-produced artwork on pastel walls, piles of health-centric reading material, and air thick with stinging disinfectant.

With its cushy chairs, soft lighting, and slow-tempo Bach, however, Lucatorto Labs more closely resembled an upscale spa. Walls were a warm brown accented by icy aqua and white trim. At the room’s center was a trickling stone waterfall, providing both soothing sounds and the faintest whiff of chlorine.

To my left, cushy window seats overlooked a snowy courtyard. To my right and ahead, a group of business-clad individuals stood in small clusters, talking softly, sipping from ceramic mugs. All were attorneys from Hertel and Niebuhr, the firm that had handled Marshfield affairs for as long as the family had lived in Emberstowne.

A statuesque woman in natty professional attire stepped forward. I recognized her as one of the senior partners at the law firm. I’d spoken with her once, but only briefly. “Nice to see you again, Ms. Wheaton,” she said, extending her hand. “As you can see, my colleagues and I are all very excited to be here for you and Mr. Marshfield today. Come on in.”

“Good to see you too, Ms. Inglethorpe” I said to her, “but please, call me Grace.”

“Of course. And I’m Maggie.” She directed one young man to take my coat and another to escort Tooney to the window seats. “Joe will see to your comfort, Mr. Tooney.” Indicating a table across the room, she added, “Lucatorto Labs has been wonderful about allowing us to commandeer the premises for the day. We have coffee, tea, and pastries set out. Help yourself. If you need anything else—some reading material, perhaps?—please don’t hesitate to ask.”

Cheeks pink from either the cold or the attention, Tooney handed his coat to Joe and mumbled that he was fine.

Returning her attention to me, Maggie offered a warm smile and led me toward the gathered group. “We’re very eager to get this process started.”

“Where’s Bennett?” I asked. There were far more people here than I’d expected. The lab was open only to us today, and even though I’d known Bennett’s lawyers would be present, I hadn’t anticipated such a crowd.

“He’s definitely here,” she said.

I caught sight of him the same moment he spotted me. Bennett, with his electric blue eyes, athletic build, and full head of brilliant white hair, put other septuagenarians to shame.

“You made it, Gracie,” he said, pulling me into a hug. “Knowing how punctual you are, when you weren’t here precisely at eleven I feared you’d changed your mind.”

Despite the fact that I shared Bennett’s confidence that he and I were, indeed, related by blood, I’d always harbored misgivings about obtaining proof. I didn’t believe it necessary. Not to me, at least. I would have been perfectly content to maintain the status quo. Test or no test, Bennett would always be more to me than an employer; he was a beloved uncle. Half-uncle, if you wanted to get technical.

Bennett, however, wanted ironclad evidence and had insisted on today’s gathering in order to cover every legal, moral, and ethical base he could come up with. Such formalities were important to him. From the first moment we learned of our possible connection he’d made no secret of how happy the prospect made him. I hoped he understood how much joy this relationship brought to me as well. For the first time since my mother passed away I had family. Bennett loved me and cared for me as much as I did him.

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” I said.

The group of lawyers, witnesses, and what have you opened their circle to allow me in. One of the senior partners, Ted Hertel, grasped my hand in both of his. “Wonderful to see you again, Grace. Today is a big day. We’re thrilled to be part of it.”

“Thank you,” I said, feeling a little overwhelmed. The fact that conversation had ceased the moment I’d joined them set me on edge. “Sorry I’m late. I had an unexpected visitor at my front door right as I was leaving.”

“Visitor?” Bennett asked, picking up on the disquiet in my tone. “Who was it?”

With the exception of the assistants who kept to the sidelines, the people gathered here today were all middle-aged or older. Every one of them dignified, polished. There were men and women in different shapes, sizes, and colors, but they all bore intelligent, curious expressions as they waited for me to answer. Even though I wore a perfectly presentable sweater and skirt ensemble I felt young, underdressed, and out of place.

I tucked my hair behind one ear. “A gentleman from the FBI, believe it or not,” I said with a little cough-laugh.

If I’d suddenly pulled out flaming sticks and begun juggling them, the lawyers couldn’t have expressed more surprise. The group—almost as one—reacted with arched-brow, openmouthed expressions of concern.

“What did he want?” Ted asked.

“I don’t know, exactly. I told him I had an appointment and didn’t have time to answer his questions.”

Bennett’s brow had tightened, so I hastened to add, “I’m sure it’s nothing important. He let me go.” Another little laugh. “It’s not like he had a warrant for my arrest or anything.”

Whoops. Mustn’t joke with lawyers, I thought, as the attorneys exchanged uneasy glances and began discussing this among themselves. One of them turned sideways and spoke softly to Ted, though loudly enough for me to hear. “Could this be related at all to today’s tests? Should we delay until we have answers?”

“We aren’t delaying another moment,” Bennett said over the din. Turning to me, he asked, “Gracie, what did he say?”

My discomfort level was high, but I didn’t hesitate. “He knew my name, but wanted to know who lived in the house with me. I didn’t tell him anything.”

“Did he show you identification?” Maggie asked.

“Yes, right away.”

The lawyers were apparently aware of Bruce’s and Scott’s presence in my life, because this new piece of information got them chatting again, this time musing about my roommates and their business interests.

Wishing I’d never opened my mouth, I said, “I’m sure it’s nothing. Otherwise, why would he be willing to come back later?”

Bennett still wore an anxious expression. “When will that be?”

“He asked if I’d be home after five.”

Maggie spoke up. “If you like, Bennett, I’ll be there with Grace when the agent returns.” She sent a pointed look around the rest of the assembled group. “Let’s not get worked up about this. For all we know one of Grace’s neighbors may be under suspicion for illegal activity.” To me, she asked, “Would you mind my involvement?”

“Not at all,” I said. “That’s very generous of you.”

“My pleasure. Five o’clock then?” She pulled out her phone and began tapping notes into it.

“I’m not even certain he’ll return tonight. He asked about tomorrow, too.”

She nodded, as though this was of no consequence. I appreciated her direct, businesslike attitude. “Here,” she said, handing me her business card. She’d written her cell phone number on the back. “Call me when he shows. I’m not that far from you; I can be there in ten minutes. Don’t answer a single question until I get there.”

“Thank you,” I said.

She nodded. “Shall we get started, then?”

Chapter 3

Two technicians led us through mahogany-paneled doors into the functional area of the building, where glaring fluorescent fixtures illuminated shiny white and blue walls. Our shoes snapped against the navy tile floor and the smell of Pine-Sol was so intense I would have bet that the maintenance folks had finished swabbing only moments earlier.

Bennett and I followed directly behind the two techs, and I wasn’t surprised when the rest of the entourage crowded in after us. We trooped past tiny examination rooms on either side of the quiet hallway, taking several maze-like turns until we arrived in what appeared to be the heart of the place.

The white-and-blue theme carried into what had to be the main lab. Stainless steel fixtures lined the perimeter and two islands sat at the expansive room’s center. Chilly and clean yet cluttered, the space was chock-full of microscopes, refrigeration units, computers, what looked like incubators, and machines I couldn’t begin to identify. An emergency shower and drain took up one corner.

Two men and one woman in lab coats stepped forward to greet us.

The older of the two men took point position. He wore heavy-framed glasses and a magnifier/lamp contraption perched atop his bald head. “I’m Dr. Lucatorto,” he said before introducing his colleagues. Indicating the smiling, dark-skinned man behind him, he said, “My partner, Dr. Rabbat.” He shifted to point toward the woman. “And, per your request to have a second laboratory process your specimens, this is Dr. Lyon, from Sarear Labs.”

Bennett and I shook hands with all three of them. Dr. Lucatorto sent an appraising glance over the others. “These measures are a bit excessive,” he began, “but as I’ve assured your counsel, Mr. Marshfield, Lucatorto Labs is AABB accredited. As is Sarear Laboratory.” Waving a benediction over the passel of lawyers gathered behind us, he added, “While we appreciate your generous compensation for our time, I can promise that there is no need for this level of involvement.”

Bennett’s expression was mild. “Perhaps not,” he said. “But I make it a habit to over prepare rather than be caught short.”

Dr. Lucatorto used a knuckle to tap his glasses higher up his nose, as though to convey that it made no difference. “Well then,” he said, “shall we begin?”

The two techs who had led us in, Wanda and Valerie, turned out to be phlebotomists, one from each of the two labs. After Bennett and I were seated in identical swing-out armchairs across from each other, Valerie began to prep my arm as Wanda ministered to Bennett.

“Do you know your blood type?” Valerie asked me.

“B-positive,” I said.

Bennett smiled. “Same as mine.”

“We will, of course, confirm that information,” Dr. Lucatorto said.

They did. We matched.

Bennett said, “We’re off to a good start.”

Maggie pulled out a small camera and snapped several pictures. “Documentation.”

There was no music in this part of the building and the entire audience of attorneys remained breathlessly quiet. Except for the humming of equipment, and the occasional directive from our phlebotomists, the place was awkwardly silent. I wished for privacy. Getting my blood drawn didn’t bother me; the scrutiny of our wide-eyed onlookers did.

I watched as the deep red liquid from my veins streamed into the first vacuum tube.

“You aren’t squeamish?” Bennett asked.

My nerves were so taut that the absurdity of his question hit me hard. I began to giggle. “After all we’ve been through these past few years?”

His mouth twitched. “Good point, Gracie.” He raced his gaze along his extended left arm and the needle protruding from it. “This really is nothing, isn’t it?”

Nervousness, being in the spotlight, and the awkwardness of it all, built a bundle of hilarity in my chest that jounced around my insides, desperate to escape. I giggled again.

The vials filled quickly. Bennett and I were required to sign identification labels for the samples before the two techs switched positions to repeat the process. The attorneys murmured among themselves and Maggie continued to take pictures.

Wanda and Valerie had us sign the second set of samples before Valerie said, “That’s it. We’re done taking blood.”

Dr. Lucatorto explained the next procedure for obtaining DNA, which involved collecting samples from the insides of our cheeks. He also reminded us that this step was redundant. His detailed description took longer than the swabbing itself. Like the techs had, Drs. Rabbat and Lyon administered the test to us one at a time, then switched positions to test the other.

“All done,” Dr. Lyon said when she and Rabbat completed their sampling. “Sarear Labs should have results to you within about a week or so.”

“That long?” Bennett asked.

Dr. Lucatorto gave him an indulgent smile and knuckled his glasses again. “If you recall, Mr. Marshfield, you opted for the more comprehensive analysis, involving a greater number of genetic markers. Such excessive measures require more time.”

Bennett knew this. I knew this. Bennett’s impatience was getting the better of him.

Dr. Lucatorto addressed the entire group. “I admonish you all to remember that the tests we have administered today may either prove the likelihood of kinship between Mr. Marshfield and Ms. Wheaton with a high degree of statistical probability, or they will ascertain that they share no family ties whatsoever.”

It wasn’t until after I’d finally agreed to Bennett’s request to be tested that I’d realized how much I was anticipating a positive result. How much I wanted it to be true. I’d considered going through my mother’s belongings—most of which remained packed away in the attic and garage—to find something of hers that could have been used to lift her DNA. We had plenty of paperwork, photos, and circumstantial evidence to presume the truth. I had no doubt that my mother and Bennett were half-siblings. Yet I’d chosen to forgo searching for my mom’s DNA. Once I’d made the decision to move forward, I knew I wanted the test results in my name, wanted confirmation that Bennett and I were, truly, uncle and niece.

We’d been in the utilitarian section of the lab for less than twenty minutes—and if we hadn’t had to sign so many documents, it could have been fewer than five—but the room’s chill began to make me shiver. I got to my feet and inspected the bandages on the insides of both my elbows before pulling my sleeves back down to my wrists.

Their responsibilities complete, the doctors released us. The lawyers crowded close, conferring among themselves and taking turns to shake our hands and express hope for positive results.

In the midst of this, Bennett turned to me, taking my hands. His were warm and steady. His eyes were, too.

“Whatever the outcome, Grace,” he began, effectively silencing the cheerful chatter, “whatever these tests confirm or dispute, you are my family and you always will be.”

It was as though we were the only two people in the room. He continued to stare down at me and I got the impression he was trying to convey more than he had words for.

“I know,” I said softly. Heat gathered behind my eyes and in the back of my throat.

“No matter what,” Bennett said very quietly.

I nodded. “No matter what.”

Lifting his gaze to encompass those surrounding us, he let go of my hands and said, “Did you all hear that?”

Maggie answered. “We did.”

“Bennett,” I said, keeping my voice low, “you know I didn’t agree to the test for any reason other than to keep you happy.”

He continued to speak loud enough for everyone to hear. “And what will make me happiest of all is to make you my heir.”

“No, Bennett, no,” I said, tugging at his arm. “You know that’s not what this is about.”

“I know that, Gracie. This is about family.”

One of the men in back wagged a finger. “It will be so much more straightforward, so much easier for us to rewrite your will if DNA tests prove kinship. Who knows what sort of challenges we may encounter if you bequeath your estate to a young woman who is not related by blood.”

Bennett offered the man a cool smile. “I certainly hope for proof,” he said. “But I don’t pay you for easy.”

Chapter 4

Bennett’s driver had dropped him off at the lab, leaving Tooney responsible to return us both to our respective homes. “You see how little blood they took?” I asked, when we were all bundled up and tucked into the Enclave. “I would have been perfectly fine driving myself.”

Tooney had started the car, but was waiting for the frosty windshield to clear. “I didn’t mind,” he said.

Bennett leaned forward from the backseat. “Then how could I have possibly convinced you both to join me for lunch afterward?”

Tooney half turned to face him. “Both? You mean me, too?”

“Yes, Mr. Tooney, I feel like celebrating. What do you say, Gracie?” He winked at me. “I promise to have you back before your FBI friend returns at five. You promise to call Maggie when he shows up, won’t you?”

“I will,” I said.

Bennett tapped the back of Tooney’s seat. “Let’s have lunch at Octave. You know how to get there?”

Tooney’s face went slack. “I’m wearing blue jeans,” he said. “They’re not even new ones.”

Settling against the backseat, Bennett waved him off. “You’ll be fine.”

*   *   *

Bennett was right. Octave’s maître d’ welcomed us warmly, making no comment about Tooney’s faded jeans, nor his high-top black gym shoes. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the host’s ever-so-brief glance at our private eye friend, I might have believed he hadn’t noticed Tooney’s casual attire at all.

About half the restaurant’s tables were occupied and the maître d’ chose a winding path through the sea of white linen, crystal, and subdued conversation. An older man glanced up as we passed, did a double take, then shot to his feet. He tossed his napkin aside and made his way toward us. “Bennett Marshfield.” He spoke with a Southern drawl. Texas, I thought. “How you been keeping yourself, old man?”

Bennett blinked, then glanced to me before smiling and greeting the interloper. Though he projected warmth, I sensed wariness on Bennett’s part. “I’m doing very well, thank you, Neal. How are you?”

Neal’s “Couldn’t be better” reply came across as perfunctory, almost absentminded. With a quick glance, he appraised Tooney and me. His curiosity was unmistakable as he waited for Bennett to make introductions.

“Are you in town for the convention?” Bennett asked.

“Of course. What else?” Neal studied Bennett. “Heard some rumors. Thought I’d get here early to see what’s what.”

“I hope you enjoy your stay in Emberstowne.” Bennett started to move away. “Good to see you again.”

The dismissal clearly stung. Neal’s bushy brows came together. “Thought I’d stop by your estate one of these days. You wouldn’t have a problem with an old friend coming to call?”

Bennett seemed uncomfortable for a moment but regained his composure as politeness won the day. “I would be delighted to have you visit Marshfield. I’ll instruct the staff to roll out the red carpet.”

Neal tipped an imaginary hat brim. “I’m hoping to steal a little bit of your time, Bennett.” He winked. “Satisfy my curiosity about a few things.”

Bennett worked his mouth as though searching for the right words. “You are always welcome at Marshfield.”

When we moved off again, trailing the maître d’, who had waited patiently to seat us, I whispered to Bennett, “Who was that?”

He waved away my question as though it was of no importance. “Neal Coddington. If you wouldn’t mind, please let the front desk know not to charge him an entrance fee. I’d never hear the end of it.”

“Do you want them to alert you when Mr. Coddington arrives so you can greet him personally?”

Bennett slid a glance sideways as he leaned down to whisper, “Absolutely not.”

Within moments we were seated at a quiet table overlooking snow-covered Emberstowne. “This is beautiful, Bennett,” I said.

Octave took up the eighth floor of one of the city’s office buildings and was known for its outstanding French cuisine as well as its impeccable service. Paneled walls, cozy antiques, fresh baguettes, and Edith Piaf’s softly warbling voice surrounded us with tranquil bliss.

“You’ve dined here before?” he asked.

“First time.”

Tooney opened the large leather-bound menu and made eye contact with us both over its edge. “Same here,” he said. Leaning my way, he asked, “How do I know what I’m ordering?”

“Gracie can help you there,” Bennett said. “She was masterful at translating when we were in Europe last year.”

“Hardly masterful,” I gently corrected him. “But I think I can decode the menu. What do you like?”

Bennett ordered Champagne and when the waiter asked if we were celebrating anything special, said, “Yes, we are, indeed. Life is good and it’s made even better when surrounded by family and friends.”

“The best reason of all to celebrate,” the waiter said.

He returned with a vintage that probably cost more than my salary for a week, offering the label to Bennett for approval before popping the bottle open and pouring.

Tooney placed a meaty hand over the top of his flute. “None for me, thanks. I’m driving.”

“Commendable, Mr. Tooney. But won’t you take enough in your glass for a toast?”

He agreed, and the moment the waiter was gone, Bennett lifted his glass. “I owe you both for my well-being and my happiness. Until the two of you entered my life, I was a lonely old man who had nothing better to do than manage my wealth and plan for my demise. Thanks to the two of you, I am invigorated, I am stronger, and I am happy.” He touched his glass to mine. “You are my family.” He touched his glass to Tooney’s. “You are my friend. May good fortune keep company with us all.”

*   *   *

After dining, as we enjoyed café au lait and macarons, our conversation eventually turned to the upcoming Fine Art and Antiquity Collectors’ convention.

“That starts a week from today, doesn’t it?” Tooney asked. Before I could confirm that it did, he went on. “I’m surprised the organizers didn’t want to host it at Marshfield.”

The Fine Art and Antiquity Collectors’ convention, or FAAC, drew an upscale crowd of collectors and antique dealers from around the globe. The convention’s location changed from year to year, keeping its wealthy clientele traveling from Amsterdam to Zephyrhills in their pursuit of rare treasures.

The FAAC produced documentaries that were broadcast on travel channels and advertised on public broadcasting stations. The format was similar to that of the popular Antiques Roadshow, except that most attendees were experts themselves, and items reviewed on camera were generally valued in the millions rather than the thousands.

“They approached us,” I said, “but they have very specific space requirements because of the lighting equipment, cameras, and security. While Marshfield Manor has plenty of room, we would have had to close the house to tourists for the duration of their stay.”

“That’s why they’re taking over the two biggest hotels in town?” Tooney asked.

“Three, from last I heard.”

Bennett had been silent through all of this, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth.

Tooney gave a half smile. “January isn’t exactly the most tourist-friendly time of year for Emberstowne. Guess we got lucky that the FAAC decided to host it here this time.”

“We did,” I said. “The Marshfield Hotel is booked up, too, and that rarely happens in the winter.” Turning to Bennett, I said, “You’re very quiet. I would have expected you to have plenty to say. What days do you plan to be there?”

His eyes held an alertness I didn’t understand. As though he wanted to join in our conversation but was holding himself back. I couldn’t imagine why.

“I . . .” He drew the word out. “I will not be attending this year.”

Tooney seemed as surprised as I was. “You always make time for the FAAC convention,” I reminded Bennett, “and the last two were out of the country. This one is, literally, in your backyard. Why wouldn’t you go?”

Shaking his head, Bennett pulled his napkin up to pat his lips. “No desire this time. Too many people, and you know how much I dislike crowds.”

In the world of fine art events, the word crowd was less like the press of humanity attempting to exit after a Disney extravaganza, and more like a fancy cocktail party where everyone smelled good, wore thousand-dollar ensembles, and chitchatted about one-of-a-kind finds.

“You love that sort of thing.” I took a sip of coffee. “I can’t believe you’d want to miss it.”

His napkin on the table before him now, he worried it with the fingers of both hands. “I’ll not be missing it entirely.” He cleared his throat. “I’m hosting a small reception on the last night of the FAAC.”

I lowered my china cup into its saucer so quickly it clattered. “Reception?” I repeated. “I don’t know anything about that. Where are you hosting it?”

Bennett’s cheeks grew a faint shade of pink. “Marshfield. A week from Tuesday.”

“At Marshfield?” I asked, continuing to repeat Bennett’s words as though doing so would help them sink in better. None of this was making sense. “Who organized this? Why don’t I know about it?”

Bennett patted my arm. “No need for you to worry. It’s a small affair, probably no more than a hundred people or so.”

“That’s not small.” Thinking quickly, I asked, “Did Frances help you put this together?” My assistant was usually the first to know everything that was going on. I’d be furious if she’d kept this from me, but relieved to know that Bennett’s plans were in good hands.

“We’re keeping it quiet,” Bennett said. “So, no. She does not.”

I jumped on the word. “We? Who’s we?”

That seemed to unnerve him. “Allow me to rephrase.” Sitting up straighter, he met my eyes. “I didn’t tell you about this because it has nothing to do with regular Marshfield business. This is simply a whim. I’m hosting a few of the . . . shall we say . . . higher-rollers at Marshfield for an intimate get-together at the conclusion of the FAAC event. When I use the term we, I mean that I’ve been in contact with the organizers.”

As curator and manager of the estate, I was in charge of all events, big or small, that took place in the house. “I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t have brought me in on this, Bennett. You had to have had a reason.”

He pulled his lips in, stopping himself from answering.

I was hurt to have been excluded. “You obviously don’t want me there,” I said. “I guess I’d like to know why.”

Leaning forward, he placed a hand on my forearm. “No, no, Gracie. I’ve made a mess of this. I simply didn’t want to bother you with organizing another big event.”

Now it was a big event. A moment ago it was an intimate get-together. “What aren’t you telling me, Bennett?”

Tooney piped in. “Is there a particular antique you were hoping to pick up from one of these people?” he asked. “Is that why you’re inviting some of them to your home? So you can negotiate with them privately?”

The sudden shift in Bennett’s expression told me that Tooney had hit a nerve.

Flustered, he waved his hands. “It’s nothing.” He again picked up his napkin and ran it between his fingers. “Like I told you. A whim.”

“Bennett,” I said, keeping my voice low, “you know that you can tell me anything. I’ll keep your confidence. We both will. Why all the secrecy?”

He regained his composure and said, “Today is our day for celebrating.” Taking a final sip of his Champagne, he signaled for the check. “Let’s drop the FAAC topic for now. All will be explained, though probably not for a while. You’ll have to trust me on this one, Gracie.”

Chapter 5

In what had of late become a Sunday morning ritual, my roommates and I sat around the kitchen table, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper.

Scott always reached for the business section first while Bruce snagged the front page and I grabbed travel. After devouring those, we moved to other sections as we shuffled through the entire edition, exchanging, sharing, and occasionally commenting on interesting tidbits as we came across them.

Bootsie settled onto the back windowsill, staring out, blinking with drowsy contentment.

Scott folded down the front of the paper. “You think Bennett will make a formal announcement once the DNA results are in? I mean, do you think he intends to make your relationship public?”

“I hope not.” I tamped down a tickle of unease. “He’s agreed to keep it to our circle of confidantes for now.”

“A circle that keeps growing,” Bruce reminded me. “Seriously, Grace, who doesn’t know about the DNA testing?”

I shifted in my seat. “You think I’m fooling myself believing that we can keep this quiet, don’t you?”

Scott and Bruce exchanged a glance before Scott went on. “Your assistant, Frances, has been in on this from the beginning and you know what a gossip she is.”

“She promised,” I said.

“What about Hillary?” Bruce asked.

“Hillary has to be kept in the loop,” I said. “And as Bennett’s stepdaughter it’s in her own best interests to keep this quiet. If it turns out that I am related to Bennett—”

“As we all know you are,” Bruce said.

“If I am,” I continued, “that knocks Hillary down a peg, at least in the public’s eye. No, she won’t say anything.”

They exchanged another glance.