Part 8
The buzzing upstairs stopped.
The house settled into silence.
Celia returned to the reading table and lifted the champagne glass. She did not drink. She turned it slowly by the stem.
“Where did you get that one?” Sloane asked.
“A server near the east doors.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know every server at your events.”
“I know the regular staff. Some were temporary.”
“Man or woman?”
Celia’s forehead tightened.
“A man.”
“Age?”
“Forties, perhaps.”
“Hair?”
“Dark.”
“Did he speak?”
“He asked whether I wanted the Mercer Blue.”
Gideon looked at the drink.
“Did you see him serve anyone else?”
“No.”
Celia understood the question too late. Her fingers loosened around the stem.
Sloane pointed toward the table. “Put it down.”
Her mother obeyed.
Gideon came closer but did not touch the glass.
“Did you drink from it?”
“One sip.”
“How long ago?”
“Ten minutes before the call.”
“How do you feel?”
“Frightened.”
“Dizzy?”
“No.”
“Tired?”
“I am sixty-two years old and ran across a garden in evening shoes.”
“Sick?”
“No.”
He examined the pale blue liquid from several angles.
Sloane looked toward the matching smear among the broken shards.
“What if the other glass wasn’t his?” she said.
Celia’s expression changed.
Gideon looked at his daughter. “Explain.”
“What if someone brought two glasses into the house?”
“One for Celia?”
“One for me.”
Her mother stared at the intact drink.
“You were not at the reception.”
“But someone knew I was coming.”
“Who?”
“The person who sent the card.”
Celia shook her head. “I sent it.”
“You sent the card, but you said someone told you where to put it.”
“I did not say that.”
“You said the person contacted you anonymously.”
“About the invitation.”
“Only the invitation?”
Celia’s silence answered.
Gideon moved close enough that the front of his tuxedo nearly touched her gown.
“Tell us everything.”
Her face held.
Then it didn’t.
Not dramatically. Nothing collapsed. Her shoulders lowered by less than an inch, and her eyes lost the distant focus she used when deciding what other people were allowed to know.
“The first message came three weeks ago,” she said. “It said Adrian had left evidence in the house. I thought it was a cruelty.”
“What kind of message?” Gideon asked.
“An envelope delivered with the event correspondence.”
“Handwritten?”
“Typed.”
“Postmark?”
“City.”
“Contents?”
“A photograph of the north dock and a note saying the truth remained where the family learned to lie.”
Sloane felt another chill.
“The library,” she said.
Celia nodded. “You and Adrian used to hide beneath the desk.”
“That is where we learned to lie?”
“You told each other secrets there.”
“That isn’t the same.”
“The sender thought it was.”
Gideon asked, “What happened next?”
“I received the recording. Then instructions to place the combination behind Adrian’s photograph and reactivate Sloane’s old foundation account.”
“You followed instructions from someone threatening the family.”
“They did not threaten us.”
“They led our daughter into this room.”
“They said the records would be destroyed if I involved you.”
“And you believed them.”
“I believed you would destroy the records.”
Gideon stared at her.
Celia continued before he could answer.
“The final message told me to invite Keene under Sloane’s account and watch whether he approached the house.”
“Did he?” Sloane asked.
“I lost sight of him after the auction speech.”
“Why didn’t you follow?”
“Because your father was introducing the donors, and I was expected beside him.”
Sloane looked at the pearls, the burgundy gown, the untouched blue drink.
“You chose the stage.”
Celia’s eyes filled again.
“Yes.”
The answer disarmed Sloane more than an excuse would have.
Gideon turned away.
“What did the sender promise?” he asked.
“That if Keene entered the mansion, I would know Adrian had been right.”
“About what?”
“That Keene was still searching for the second copy.”
“And if he didn’t?”
“The records in the cabinet would be enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“To force you to tell the truth.”
Gideon looked at her with something close to pity.
“You thought documents force truth.”
“I thought they might force you.”
“They never have.”
Celia’s hand moved toward the champagne glass, then stopped before touching it.
Sloane studied the broken pieces in the foyer.
“One of the glasses fell near the front doors,” she said. “But I was attacked in the library.”
Gideon followed her reasoning.
“If the attacker carried it from the conservatory, why bring it this far?”
“To look like a guest,” Celia said.
“Inside an empty house?”
“Perhaps someone saw him cross the garden.”
“He would discard it before entering.”
“Unless he needed both hands.”
Sloane remembered the first sound behind her: glass striking marble, then a shoe dragging through the fragments.
“He dropped it when the front door opened.”
“From outside?” Gideon asked.
“No. From inside.”
The older man’s gaze moved toward the door hinges, then the lock.
“Someone admitted him.”
“Or he was already here,” Celia said.
Gideon looked toward the upper floor.
The phone began vibrating again.
This time, a pale rectangle of light appeared between the balusters.
Sloane’s phone lay on the upstairs carpet, screen facing down, several feet from the sitting-room entrance.
No person stood near it.
The device vibrated twice more, then stopped.
A message tone followed.
Gideon took one step up.
Sloane caught the fabric of his trouser leg again.
“You cannot leave me here,” she said.
“I’m not.”
“You were.”
He looked down at her hand.
The accusation had not been about the next thirty seconds. They both knew it.
Gideon descended.
He carried the fire extinguisher into the library and set it beside the cabinet. Then he removed his tuxedo jacket.
Sloane tensed when he approached.
“I’m putting this behind you.”
“I don’t need it.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m frightened.”
May you like
“You can be frightened and cold.”
He folded the jacket and slid it carefully between her shoulder and the carved wood without moving her more than necessary. The satin lapel brushed her cheek. It smelled faintly of cedar and the smoke from the conservatory fireplaces.
