I sleep soundly as I predicted, curled up beneath the luxurious black satin blankets of my feather bed. In the morning rather than snow I wake to a chilly rain. The gloom puts me immediately at ease, and I open my curtains and even the window wide to get the atmosphere’s full effect.

On a day like today, I’d like nothing more than to curl up with dusty books on Egyptology, or a favorite Gothic romance novel. ‘Wuthering Heights’ springs to mind, and ‘The Woman in White.’ But of course, I can’t do that. I have sleuthing to do.

After a shower and a quick breakfast of toast with marmalade and a cup of tea, I give Spencer orders to have the car brought around to drive me to the Porter Chocolates Factory. Donning my rain coat and boots, I wait by the window. After a few minutes, Sam drives up in the Benz. As he does, I can’t help but notice a mark on the front bumper.

“Good morning, Miss Porter,” he greets me with a wide umbrella. He helps me get situated in the car then comes around to the front seat. “Lovely weather,” he remarks as we start down the driveway.

I can’t tell whether or not he’s being sarcastic, but I agree with him enthusiastically. “Yes, it is. Perhaps we’ll have a lightning show later.”

“Fine, so long as we’re not caught out in it.”

“Yes,” I muse. “We might be struck by lightning and killed like poor Abagail’s grandfather.”

“That really happen?” he glances in the rear view mirror. 

“I’m afraid so. It was quite the shock.”

Sam lets out a faint but irrepressible snort, and I feel a little vindicated to see he got the joke. I titter faintly, and he glances at me in the mirror again, eyes sparkling playfully. I sober a little to see it, and turn my attention quickly out the window.

“Sam, earlier I noticed a scuff on the front bumper.”

“Not sure where that came from. Tried to buff it out, but this was the best I could manage. You’re not embarrassed, are you? Should we have taken the Ford after all?”

“No, I don’t mind. And don’t worry about it. I expect Father will want to buy a new car soon, anyway. He never keeps them long.”

We drive in silence after that, winding our way on muddy roads through the hilly Rettonian countryside till at last we reach my grandfather’s factory.

Stanley Porter got his start right here in a tiny little sweets shop, only to tear it down later and build his factory from the ground up. Today Porter chocolates is its own empire, with another factory in northern Rettonia, two in the states and the latest one opened in Switzerland just last year. I look on my grandfather’s legacy with pride,  grateful to reap the benefits of all he built over the course of his long, prosperous life.

It feels nostalgic, walking through the front doors. I haven’t been to the factory since before he passed away.

Things are different than I remember them, I think as I view the dreary looking workers. This place, it used to be so much more lively, noisy with people running here and there, laughing, eager. Now, I see only a handful of gray faced workers, with several of the machines sitting quiet.

Upstairs, I run into Miss Appletree standing behind her desk in a pristine white blouse and gray suit dress. She’s speaking hastily to a tall, scrawny man in an ill fitted suit. “Yes, I realize it’s the third time Mr. Baumgartner’s called. I took down the messages—tell him Mr. Porter will call him back shortly. I don’t care if he swears at you—grow a backbone, will you, Wilkerson? Yes, just leave the marketing director resumes on my desk.”

“Marketing director?” I step up to her as the other fellow scurries away. “I thought Father hired a new marketing director two months ago.”

Edith gives me a sharp look.

“And another one, six months before that.”

She lays the file she’s holding over the stack of resumes and shows me a tight smile.

“I’m not used to seeing you here, Miss Porter. May I ask the reason for your visit?”

“Actually, I was hoping to see a list of Father’s investors.”

“What on earth for?”

“My reasons are personal, Miss Appletree.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t allow it. Not without your father’s permission.”

But Father won’t give me permission. He expressly told me not to investigate Harrison’s murder, and that’s exactly what I’m attempting to do.

“Could you at least tell me whether or not Harrison Squire is on that list? Did he ever invest any money into Porter Chocolates?”

“Harrison Squire? The man you claimed was murdered the other day?”

“That’s right.”

Edith considers me very coldly, weighing her answer. Then at last, she speaks, “I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. Squire was not one of our investors.”

“Was he involved in Porter Chocolates in any way?”

“Not according to my knowledge, no.”

“But I think he often brought Father a good deal of money.”

“I don’t know anything about that. Is that all, Miss Porter? If you don’t mind, I have a considerable amount of work to do.”

“Yes, thank you. Oh, I uh, suppose it’s no use asking you not to tell Father I came by?”

Edith’s cold stare is all the answer I need. I expect I’ll be in for a scolding later, I think as I make my way back outside to the waiting car.

“Learn anything, Miss Porter?”

“Hm? Mh,” I answer, staring out the rain streaked window. I tell him a little of the conversation I overheard last night between Louise and my father, and of my conversation with Edith. “Either his secretary’s lying, or the money Harrison brought for Father was a private transaction.”

“Or Louise was mistaken, and he never brought any money to begin with,” Sam suggests.

“Then why did he come twice a year on the same date? No, I'm sure he must have been carrying money. A payoff of some kind, perhaps? Was Father blackmailing Harrison?”

“If he was, that might explain the sniper rifle.”

“It might…”

I return home and go immediately to my notes, writing down all I’ve learned. Father gets a phone call from Edith about my visit, and I endure a scolding. He tells me not to bring up Harrison Squire again, and I give him the answer he wants to hear in spite of having no intention of keeping my promise.

Later that evening the rain clears up, and I make my way back out to the annex. I don’t play as I did last night, with wild, melancholic abandon. Instead I play the works of some of the great masters, Beethoven, Chopin, Shubert, Lyadov. A good exercise of over an hour and a half, it takes the tension from my shoulders and some of the cloudiness from my thoughts.

Satisfied, I leave the annex and lock up behind me.

There’s no warning. One moment, I’m focused on my keys, the next, something locks around my neck. I scream with surprise—at least I try to—but the sound is choked.

I’m being strangled!

I struggle against my assailant, try to kick him, elbow him in the gut. But he’s too powerful for me. Panic floods me.

I’ll be killed!

Suddenly, the man holding me exclaims in a foreign language. His hold on my neck falls and I lunge away from him, fighting for air. There’s a brief struggle, two figures grappling in the darkness. Then, a sickening sound, and my attacker falls to the ground while the other man stands over him, hardly winded from his exertion.

Just then, the cloud passes over the thinnest crescent moon, illuminating the fallen figure, a man I do not recognize with blood gurgling from his mouth and a screwdriver stuck through the side of his neck.

I lurch at the sight, horrified, only to be caught by a pair of strong arms.

“Miss Porter!”

Dazed, reeling, I look into the face of my rescuer.

“Sam?”