“Do you like it here as much as Nick does?” I asked.

“The Smythes have been very good to me,” she replied evasively. I wondered about the two of them, brother and sister, living in the Smythes’ house, the servant class in residence. Angelina was an attractive girl, but something in her seemed unsettled, as if her life here was as ill-fitting as her uniform. I thought perhaps I should speak with her later when her big brother wasn’t there watching over her shoulder. For now, I would wrap up this conversation before either of them realized that I was more than just a nosy houseguest.

“I think I’ll wander around a bit,” I said when I was finished eating, carrying my dishes to the sink. “Everything is so lovely here.”

“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” Angelina said. “You must see Mr. Smythe’s rose garden, he was always very proud of it. The white roses are probably finished blooming for the season, but the pinks and especially the yellows are still coming out…”

Her voice faltered, and her eyes grew red and brimmed with tears. Without speaking, Nick turned and placed a calming hand on her shoulder. She leaned her head against his arm and closed her eyes, seeming to draw strength from his very presence.

“The pool is nice, too,” Nick said to me even as he continued to comfort Angelina. “It is heated, so it will be warm enough for you to take a dip if you’re so inclined.”

I nodded, offering again my condolences for the death of a man who obviously meant a great deal to both of them.

“We will miss him,” Nick answered sadly. “He was a great man. A great friend.”

Angelina dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, nodding.

“A kinder soul I never knew,” she said, blowing her nose. “Like a second father to me.”

Finally, Nick removed his hand from her shoulder, leaving a faint white handprint against the dark cotton fabric.

Seven

Leaving Nick and Angelina in the kitchen, I wandered through the first floor of the house, peeking into rooms that were open. Passing by the door of the den, I heard a man’s voice inside. I realized it must be Derek, the Smythes’ son, talking on the phone. The house was large, but not so big that I wasn’t able to get a handle on the layout of the rooms. Another day, perhaps when everyone was off at the funeral, I would attempt to explore the upstairs as well as the small wing off of the kitchen where I assumed Nick and Angelina lived.

For now, I headed silently across the dining room to the study I had glimpsed earlier, pushing the door open to find a dark paneled room lined with books and filled with exquisite leather furniture. I stepped inside, shut the door behind me, then turned on the light.

This was Wendell’s office, certainly. A beautiful desk filled one end of the room, the chair behind it a duplicate of the chair he had in his office at work. I looked around, observing the neat stacks of papers on the desktop and the dormant computer on the side arm. Unlike the office at work, there had been no police activity here, no dusting of fingerprints or confiscating of papers. I sat at the desk and quietly flipped through everything on it and in it, but nothing jumped out at me as being important. With a tiny jolt of adrenaline, I flicked on the computer, a little afraid that it might make too much noise starting up, particularly with Derek in the room next door. But it whirred to life quietly, and once it was up and running, I took the liberty of taking a stroll through the hard drive—looking for what, exactly, I wasn’t sure. I opened files, read letters, scanned data. But nothing jumped out at me as being of any particular interest.