I spend the next fifteen minutes strolling with Letty, eating cake and listening to her talk at great length about whatever happens to cross her mind. I’m glad the reverend’s wife is a chatty woman, as it saves me the trouble of having to converse. Though the subjects she likes to pontificate on can at times be dreadfully dull.

I’m listening to her debate with herself on whether the seven churches in the book of Revelation are actual churches or specific periods in church history, and speculate on whether or not we are indeed in the last days when we are interrupted by Edith Appletree, my father’s pretty secretary.

“Excuse me, Miss Frances, but your father wonders if you could entertain a few of Louise’s guests on the piano. Lady Charlotte especially is strongly averse to jazz music.”

I don’t know who Lady Charlotte is, but I must assume she’s a rather important guest—or client, more likely—to warrant this special treatment. Not wishing to antagonize Father with my delay, I excuse myself from Letty and go to the drawing room piano. A very elderly woman awaits me with a lace handkerchief pressed to her temple, attended by several others, a perturbed expression on her deeply lined face.

“You’re the piano player?” she greets me in a posh accent, looking me up and down with a critical eye. “What do you call yourself?”

“Frances Porter, Lady Charlotte. I am Louise Porter’s sister.”

“Oh?” Her scrutinizing look deepens, together with her scowl. “You’re ugly enough to be a musician.”

“Sorry?”

“Never met a good one who wasn’t. Well?” she prompts me impatiently. “Carry on, Child.”

“Was there a particular song you wanted, Lady Charlotte?” I ask, adjusting my glasses as I seat myself at the piano.

“Mr. Porter told me you know Chopin. Of course if you can’t play Chopin, anything classical will do. Just get on with it—I can still hear that wretched saxophone through the glass and it’s getting on my last nerve. Modern music,” she scoffs. “Disgraceful.”

Pulling from my vast repertoire, I set my long fingers to the keys and begin to coax Chopin from the drawing room piano. At the first notes of the Minuet Waltz, Lady Charlotte seems to relax visibly. Then when I transition into Barcarolle in F sharp major, her eyes settle closed in a tranquil expression. I work my way through the songs, Fantaisie-Impromptu, Nocturne in C sharp minor, the Spring Waltz. I’m quite good at Chopin, but his songs are a bit too pretty for my tastes. For me, I prefer the drama of Beethoven, or the hair raising chords of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor played on a huge church organ. Or better yet, the violence and dark fury of my own compositions, played alone in my annex at midnight.

But Chopin’s done its work; after half an hour of playing, Lady Charlotte is sound asleep. Her attendants gesture to me I should be quiet, and I nod in understanding, leaving my audience to her rest.

Standing outside the door to the drawing room I consider my next move. No one could argue I’ve put in my time at Louise’s pre-engagement party party. And I doubt anyone would miss me if I were to disappear and hide in my room for the rest of the day.

Thinking I’ll do just that, I’m about to sneak off to my room when my father makes an appearance at the other end of the hall.

“Frances,” he strides quickly to my side on long legs. His features remind me a good deal of Ben’s, though his hair is darker and thinning, and his once handsome face has creased with frown and worry lines. “How is Lady Charlotte?”

“Sound asleep.”

“Is she? Good. Well done,” he pats my shoulder in a rare show of paternal affection, startling me a little.

“Who is she, Father? A guest from the St. James side?”

“No, nothing like that. A potential investor.”

“In Porter Chocolates?”

“What else?” he murmurs distractedly as he opens the door a crack to peer in at the sleeping old woman. “Well done,” he murmurs again. “That should soften her up nicely. I must tell Susan to have a cup of tea ready for her when she wakes.” Turning his attention back to me and evidently forgetting his gratitude from earlier, a look of annoyance crosses his features.

“What are you still doing here? Get back outside, it’s almost time for my toast.”

So much for hiding in my room…

Outside in the backyard, it’s cooling off rapidly. The sun is moving behind the house, casting a long shadow on the dancers. I accept a glass of champagne and wait for the toast as a chill wind hits the side of my face. Letty River takes up a place alongside me and sips at her glass.

“Aren’t you suppose to save that for the toast?” I ask.

“What toast?” she shrugs. “The bride-to-be is nowhere to be seen.”

Glancing around, I realize she’s right. Louise is gone, and William Junior stands on his own amidst the sea of mingling guests, looking around nervously.

“Where could she have gotten to?”

“I’d say ask Will Senior, but he’s also disappeared. Coincidence?” she gives me a smirking side-eye.

“Ben’s missing, too,” I observe, searching the crowd in vain for his figure with his trademark camera.

“And your friend, Mr. Harrison Squire,” Letty observes. “I wonder if they’re having a party without us…”

We wait several more minutes. My father appears, looking annoyed. The guests begin shuffling their feet and conversing behind their hands. Father goes to speak with William, who shakes his head. He looks to Mother, wrapped warmly in her fur stole. She pulls a whiskey flask from her pocket and takes a long shot.

The band does their best to make the wait less awkward by striking up a popular swing hit. Nobody dances.

Five minutes later, with Father looking about to tear his hair out, Louise arrives, flushed, breathless and a little worse for wear. The entire crowd breathes a collective sigh of relief as Father raises his glass and begins the toast, flowery words for his darling youngest child. I don’t hear a word of it, don’t feel much of anything as I look at the couple at the center of everyone’s attention with their awkward poses and forced smiles. When it’s time to drink, the champagne tastes flat and goes down hard. A waiter appears to take our glasses. At my side, Letty tugs my arm.

“I’m bored with this farce. Let’s play croquet.”

It’s warmer on this side of the house. We’re in the sunshine again. Letty passes me a croquet mallet.

“I’m quite good at croquet. Billiards, too,” she stops a minute to pack her pipe and lights it with a match. “What about you, Frances?”

“I’ve never tried.”

“Truly? You’re missing out, Honey. Go ahead, take a swing at it.”

I hold the mallet doubtfully. I’d be embarrassed to miss. I don’t want to make a fool of myself.

Taking careful aim, I haul back spectacularly and whack the ball, sending it flying across the yard and into the trees. Letty laughs.

“It’s croquet, not golf. Though that was an impressive swing. Quite the arm you’ve got on you.”

My face is flaming as I drop the mallet. “I’ll go get the ball…”

I run from her before she can say anything else, feeling awkward and embarrassed by my Frankenstein monster strength.

Heedless of my new dress, I lumber straight into the brush and the trees, searching for my missing ball. I look around a minute without success. It’s got to be around here somewhere…

I push in deeper, determined to get it back, when I spy an unnatural shade of gray in the brush just ahead.

That’s odd.

I press forward a little more and stumble upon a clearing.

It’s the body I notice first. Lying face down, his arm outstretched and clutching a long rifle. Then I see the blood, dark red, soaking his collar and oozing down the side of his neck. The back of his head is caved in.

Familiar, my brain sends the signal after the initial shock wave. I know this man, dressed all in gray. I know those alligator shoes…

It’s Harrison Squire. Even in this state, I can’t mistake him. My friend Harrison Squire, a man I’ve known all my life and thought of as my own uncle.

Dead.

I stumble backwards into a tree. Its support keeps me from going down.

I should scream. I want to scream, but the sound doesn’t come out.

Help. I need to get help. Maybe he’s not dead. Maybe…

But no. I can see bits of his brain. He’s dead alright.

Murdered.

Someone, help!

Somehow I find the strength to turn, to stumble away. My legs are numb and heavy. Each step is difficult. I crash awkwardly through the brush, scratching my calves, tearing my skirts till at last I burst upon the lawn.

“Frances!” Letty waves at me. “Find the ball?”

I stumble over to her. Somehow, I still can’t speak. I wave my arms, bend double. I feel I’ll be sick.

“Frances? Are you alright?”

“Help,” I gasp. “Murder.”

“Murder?!”

My strength returns at her exclamation. I raise myself up and tear across the yard at a dead run.

“Help! Murder! Murder!”

My cry raises significant alarm. The guests begin to panic, to shriek.

“Frances!” my father rushes through the crowd. “What on earth?!”

“Murder, Father. It’s Harrison, he’s dead.”

“Who?”

“Harrison Squire. He arrived this morning while you were out.”

Father blanches. “Squire, here? Now?”

“Dead,” I nod. “Back there, in the trees. I found him.”

“Porter, what the devil?” Will St. James arrives, red-faced. “What’s going on?”

“Frances says she’s found a dead body in the trees.”

“Good God!”

“Father?” Ben comes dashing forward, still in the middle of fastening the buttons on his dark blue coat. Mother is right behind him.

“Get some men together, Ben. St. James, try and keep everyone calm, will you? Marcella, call the police.”

These three are quick to act as Father ordered. Meanwhile Louise and William have arrived.

Louise is furious. “Frances, so help me if this is your idea of a prank—”

“It’s no prank. Harrison is dead!” I say, and only now do I realize tears are streaming from my eyes.

“Get your sister inside, Louise. Hurry!” Father snaps when my sister hesitates.

Her fiancé is the first to act. It’s William who helps me off the ground and offers me his shoulder as he guides me inside. Meanwhile, all around us, panicked guests are firing questions at his father, demanding to know what’s going on.

I am distraught, my breast heaving when William finally gets me into a chair.

“She looks pale,” he observes. “I’ll get her a drink.”

“God, Cowbird,” Louise turns on me the moment her fiancé has left the room. “You’ve ruined everything! Did you have to make a scene like that in the middle of my party? Couldn’t you have been a bit more discreet?”

“S-sorry, I… wasn’t thinking about that.”

“Of course you weren’t. You never think about anyone but yourself.” Louise gives a frustrated, furious sort of scream and messes her hair in exasperation. I shy away from her display, fearing a whack. Just then, to my relief, William arrives with a stiff drink.

“Here, Frances. This will calm your nerves.”

I drink it down in a single gulp; it burns terribly, shocking me so that, at least for a moment, I can think of nothing else but the fire in my throat and the slow spreading warmth through my body.

“I know your father asked me to bring you inside and I know it’s terribly beastly of me to ask,” says William, “but is it really alright for you to be in here? How will they find the body without you to point the way?”

“Letty River,” I say, throat hoarse. “She’ll be able to point them in the right direction. They won’t have to look far…”

“Are you cold? You’re shaking.”

“I guess a little…”

“I’ll find you a blanket.”

While William goes off on another quest, Louise paces the floor, glaring out the window at her fast disintegrating party. Meanwhile my mind is tormented by the image of Harrison lying face down on the forest floor, head smashed open, covered in blood. That awful picture—I don’t want to dwell on it, but I can’t get it out of my head. I’m sure I’ll never forget it for as long as I live…

Several hours pass. Louise leaves but William stays by my side, looking as awkward as I usually feel. I’d like to put him at ease, but I haven’t got the words. For now, I’m just grateful not to be alone. The clock on the wall chimes six when everyone starts to file in. Ben with Louise and Mother, Will St. James, a few party guests and several more men in uniform, all of them gray faced, headed by my father. His expression is grim.

“Frances.”

“Father,” I’m shaking again, but I make the effort to rise and greet them. “It was Harrison, right? Did you see? His poor head…”

“Frances, I think you have some explaining to do.”

“What do you mean?” A sudden wave of cold hits my gut. “Don’t tell me—you don’t actually suspect me of murder? I swear to you I only found the body—Harrison was my friend, there’s no way I could have—”

“Harrison wasn’t there.”

My eyes widen at his declaration. My mouth falls open in disbelief.

“We combed the woods,” says the sheriff. “Checked everywhere. He wasn’t there, Frances.”

“There was no body.”