Back A Postcard from Italy
Chapters (38)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. PROLOGUE
  6. Chapter 1
  7. Chapter 2
  8. Chapter 3
  9. Chapter 4
  10. Chapter 5
  11. Chapter 6
  12. Chapter 7
  13. Chapter 8
  14. Chapter 9
  15. Chapter 10
  16. Chapter 11
  17. Chapter 12
  18. Chapter 13
  19. Chapter 14
  20. Chapter 15
  21. Chapter 16
  22. Chapter 17
  23. Chapter 18
  24. Chapter 19
  25. Chapter 20
  26. Chapter 21
  27. Chapter 22
  28. Chapter 23
  29. EPILOGUE
  30. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  31. BETTY’S TRULY SCRUMPTIOUS BABKA CAKE
  32. READ ON FOR A Q&A WITH ALEX …
  33. Keep Reading …
  34. PROLOGUE
  35. 1
  36. About the Author
  37. Also by Alex Brown
  38. 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

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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.