Chapters (38)
- Cover
- Title Page
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- PROLOGUE
- 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
- EPILOGUE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- BETTY’S TRULY SCRUMPTIOUS BABKA CAKE
- READ ON FOR A Q&A WITH ALEX …
- Keep Reading …
- PROLOGUE
- 1
- About the Author
- Also by Alex Brown
- About the Publisher
‘If you come with me?’ Grace stared him in the eye, hoping he’d agree as she very much liked the idea of investigating Connie’s whereabouts. Not to mention seeing where she had actually lived here in London. But the thought of travelling there on her own filled her with fear.
‘Sure. I can do that.’ He nodded like it was no big deal.
‘Really?’ Her eyes widened.
‘Yes, really.’ He smiled. ‘And the next time you venture out somewhere new by yourself, I’ll come with you halfway, and then the time after that I’ll come a quarter of the way and then, before you know it, you will be going all the way by yourself and you’ll be absolutely golden!’ And he clapped his hands together, seemingly having it all worked out. ‘Ooh, it’s so exciting, like a proper TV detective drama. Larry might even let you go there during work hours … it is a work matter, after all. So you won’t have to worry about her ladyship upstairs,’ he paused to point a finger at the ceiling, ‘and I will figure something out with my shifts. We’ll be like Cagney and Lacey!’
And, seemingly content with this plan, Grace nodded off before Jamie had even reached the stairs leading up to Cora’s bedroom.
Chapter 6
Constance di Donato’s address in London was the garden flat of a handsome, double-fronted Georgian townhouse overlooking the grassy heath in the centre of Blackheath village. Vibrant purple begonias tumbled from the tall pots on either side of the majestically arched front door, and a brass plaque listed the apartment numbers above their respective bells.
Grace pressed her index finger on to the Garden Flat bell for the second time and then waited. Still no answer. But if by some chance Mrs Donato was still alive, then she would be very elderly – in her nineties, if she had a baby born in 1940 – so it might take her a while to come to the door. Should she press the bell again? Grace wasn’t sure it would be polite to, so she pulled her phone from her pocket and, after shielding the screen from the dazzling afternoon sunshine, she looked in her notes app to double-check that she had the right address. Garden Flat, 1 Montpelier Row, Blackheath, London SE3.
