AT FIVE O’CLOCK the Camelot Suite had the look of pre-party anticipation. Fresh flowers had been placed at strategic points around the room, a cheese board and crudites were set out on the cocktail table and the bartender was at his post cutting up lemons and limes. Out on the terrace the waiter was at a mini-oven organizing the trays of hot hors d’oeuvres. The late-afternoon sun was gleaming off the water as the Queen Guinevere moved majestically on its course to New York.

“We have enough food here for an army,” Regan commented as she helped herself to a carrot stick.

“Ah, well, it’s always better to have too much than not enough,” Veronica said airily.

So what was the problem at your party at Llewellyn Hall last week? Regan thought as there was a knock at the door. I bet it’s Robin Leach.

“Coming,” Veronica sang as she checked herself in the mirror one last time, strolled to the door and with a sweeping gesture opened it as if she were parting the Pearly Gates. Standing there was not their first guest but the gawky young steward, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“I have an envelope for Miss Reilly.”

“Thank you, my dear. Would you like to come in for a drink?”

“Sorry, ma’am, I would love to, but I’m on duty.”

“Well, if you get a break, do pop in. Who knows how long our party will last?”

“Splendid.”

Regan hurried down the steps and took the envelope from Veronica’s hands. “It must be the rest of the faxes from Greece. I’ll just take a quick look.” Standing in the foyer, with Veronica looking over her shoulder, Regan ripped it open and pulled out its contents. On the first page was a picture of Athena with her aunt, Helen’s three children, and their governess. The caption read, “Minutes before her death, Helen Carvelous posed on the beach at Skoulis for what was to be the last picture ever taken with her children.”

“Why, that’s Val.”

“What are you talking about, Veronica?”

“Next to the dark-haired girl.”

“Next to Athena?”

“Oh, that’s right. That is Athena. Poor girl. Well, that’s Val standing right next to her. I was going through one of Philip’s Saint Polycarp’s yearbooks from about ten years ago and came across her picture. It was the first year she taught there. She looked exactly like that.”

Regan felt adrenaline shoot through her body. Stay calm, she thought. Val had never admitted to knowing Athena.

“But Veronica, this is such a grainy picture. It’s been reproduced on fax paper. And back then, everyone wore their hair this way. Look, it identifies her as Mary V. Cook.” Is she thinking this way because she’s already had three glasses of champagne? Regan thought.