Over the home’s surround-sound system, a slow piano melody melted into a chorus of accordion, flute, and bagpipes. As the song picked up, Morgan recognized it as “Fairytale of New York,” by the Pogues, and smiled.

Where was everyone, she wondered. Cora had gone and disappeared with Charlie down a corridor, and aside from someone who was clearly a caterer coming to check the oven, there wasn’t a soul in sight. Had she gotten the time wrong? No, the email had stated two o’clock. She’d read it again this morning to be sure.

In a mansion this massive, there were a million places people could be hiding.

Morgan looked to her right and surveyed what appeared to be the living room. Overstuffed grey couches that could have swallowed her parents’ dinky little sofa formed an L-shape around a glass coffee table. In the corner, between the stone fireplace and a large picture window, stood a tree that had to be fourteen feet tall. Its branches dripped with faux crystalline icicles; expensive-looking ornaments nestled in its boughs, and a glass Swarovski star twinkled at the top. Jesus, had they jacked this tree from Tiffany’s?

Her gaze traveling upward and across the ceiling, Morgan noticed a lofted upstairs where all the bedrooms must be. Beneath it, in the wide hall down which Cora had previously vanished, floated a radiant, white-haired woman. She wore an emerald top cinched with a leather corset and flowy sleeves; her smile and socks matched Cora’s.

“Uh, hello,” said Morgan. “I’m … um … the photographer?” Her voice trembled. The sight of Eleanor Reynolds, here, in the flesh, had left her dumb.

“Morgan, what a delight.” Eleanor beamed, revealing eyeteeth that were sharp, stark white, and perhaps a centimeter too long. Spreading her arms, she welcomed Morgan into a straitjacket hug.

“You must be Eleanor,” Morgan said.

“The devil herself.” Eleanor raised her hands as though holding up praise.

Eleanor’s acknowledgment of her less than savory reputation put Morgan at ease. “Your home is stunning, by the way.” Her eyes roamed the four-seasons room and the English-inspired kitchen with marble backsplash. A Prussian-blue china cabinet fit snug in a shallow alcove, holding stemware that undoubtedly cost more than Morgan’s entire education. And yet, on the counter beside it was a red rotary telephone. It looked out of place here where everything was modern and cool-toned. Not to mention, who even had a landline anymore?

“Oh, thank you, darling.”

“Mom was an interior designer for many years,” chimed Cora, who had reappeared, sans Charlie. “A home stager. She even designed sets for Hallmark.”

Eleanor rolled her eyes at Cora’s praise; nevertheless, she grabbed her daughter’s arm and gave an affectionate squeeze. “Puff pieces, dear, honestly. I should have done something important with my career. Cora is a child psychologist.”

Morgan lifted her chin as though she cared. She couldn’t tell if Eleanor and Cora were displaying genuine admiration for each other, or putting on a show.