be Sarah. Although I had seen her only after her brutal death, the person in the picture seemed familiar. Even in black-and-white miniature, it was apparent she had been a handsome woman. Straight hair that I knew to be blond was pulled back, revealing a perfectly oval face with strong, high cheekbones. I also noted wide-set eyes that stared forward with forthrightness, while her smile, though pleasant, was restrained. I could clearly sense her reserve around the photographer.
The picture opposite Sarah’s was that of a man. He stared into the camera, his broad features half hidden by the large handlebar mustache that had been the fashion in recent years. The soft hues of the small black-and-white photograph suggested a light hair color—perhaps gray, or even white, given his age. He appeared to be much older than Sarah, easily in his fifties I would guess, at the time this picture was taken.
“I expect that’s her father,” Joe said.
“Seems likely. We’ll ask the Wingates to confirm it.” I continued to stare at the locket. “Where did you find it, again?” If Joe had mentioned it, I didn’t remember.
“On the lawn another ten feet beyond the back porch, heading toward the woods. Do you suppose the killer dropped it?”
“It’s possible,” I said. It was certainly the most plausible explanation. I placed the necklace in my pocket, nestled within the handkerchief. I would check it for fingerprints, but given its small size and the amount of dirt on it, I was not optimistic any clear prints would be found.
Yet I could not shake the troubling sensation that something was not right. If the man pictured were Sarah’s father, then where was her mother? It seemed odd to carry a photo of one in a locket, yet not the other. And it was odder still to carry a picture of oneself.
As I made my way back through the house, intent on retrieving my equipment, I heard a discreet cough as I passed by the library. I had almost forgotten about Abigail Wingate, Mrs. Wingate’s other niece. She was sitting on an uncomfortable-looking, overstuffed gold sofa in a room of dark walnut bookcases, heavy red velvet drapes, and a plush oriental carpet. The two terriers I had previously noticed outside were with her; completely exhausted, they lay at her feet and took little notice of me.
A petite woman with brown hair and blue eyes that were accentuated by a navy blue dress, she looked much younger than I had expected. I did not think she could be more than twenty-five, twenty-six years of age.
“Simon Ziele . . . or, Detective Ziele, isn’t it?” When she spoke, it was in a smooth, modulated voice, and I immediately recognized the precise diction I associated with New York’s upper classes.
“Yes,” I said, as I noted the lines of dried tears on her face. Although it was part of my job, I was keenly aware as I stepped into the room that I was intruding upon someone’s private grief. Often, I was able to brace myself beforehand, but she had taken me by surprise.
“My name is Abigail Wingate. Dr. Fields said you would have questions for me. And I have some questions for you—” She broke off mid-sentence and gestured toward the small reading chair directly across from her.
“I’m sorry to meet you under such unfortunate circumstances.” I took the seat that she offered, and was struck by how formal my voice sounded. “We are finished upstairs for tonight,” I said to reassure her as I collected my thoughts. As the first person to have discovered her cousin’s body, she would be an important witness—and given that she seemed coherent enough to talk, it would be best to interview her now, before her memory became muddled by time. Or by the relief offered by one of Dr. Fields’s sedatives—for there was a small container of bromide salts on the end table.
“Have you found Stella?” Her voice was hushed but her tone was urgent.
“Stella?” The question caught me by surprise.
“Stella, our house maid. Didn’t Chief Healy tell you she’s gone missing? No one has seen her since Dr. Fields first arrived. And her suitcase as well as all her clothing are still here.”
“Had she been told of your cousin’s murder?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “But it’s possible she overheard something.”
Or she could have seen something, had she ventured upstairs during the confusion.
“Perhaps she has friends in the area to whom she has gone for the night?” I suggested. “It would