Murder on the Mansion Tour

• Chapter 1 The Velvet Rope
• Chapter 2 A Donor Drops Dead
• Chapter 3 The Grand Foyer
• Chapter 4 Whispers in the Conservatory
• Chapter 5 Docent on the Case
• Chapter 6 The Gilded Façade
• Chapter 7 Poison in the Parlor
• Chapter 8 Suspects in the Ballroom
• Chapter 9 The Secret Staircase
• Chapter 10 Pedigree and Deceit
• Chapter 11 The Servant's Passage
• Chapter 12 Shadows in the Portrait Gallery
• Chapter 13 The Missing Ledger
• Chapter 14 Tea and Treason
• Chapter 15 Key to the Past
• Chapter 16 The Heirloom Cipher
• Chapter 17 Echoes in the East Wing
• Chapter 18 Midnight in the Library
• Chapter 19 Cracked Stained Glass
• Chapter 20 A Family Legacy
• Chapter 21 Unraveling the Estate
• Chapter 22 The Last Will
• Chapter 23 Trapped in the Turret
• Chapter 24 Confessions in the Dark
• Chapter 25 The Final Exhibit
• Chapter 26 Restoring Order

Ellie Pratt possessed a deeply rooted respect for brass stanchions and braided crimson silk. In her four years as lead docent at Vanderhoof Manor, she had come to view the heavy velvet ropes stretched across doorway after doorway not merely as physical barriers, but as sacred boundaries separating the chaos of the present from the pristine, gilded tranquility of 1895.

She paused in the archway connecting the Grand Foyer to the East Parlor, hooking the heavy brass clasp of the velvet rope into its corresponding eyelet. The weight of the rope settled into a gentle, perfectly measured catenary curve. Ellie stepped back, smoothed the front of her dark green linen jacket, and nudged the brass post two inches to the left. Perfect. The line was straight, the angle precise, and the distance from the priceless Persian runner exactly eighteen inches.

Outside the three-story stained-glass window that dominated the central staircase, late October sunlight filtered through amber and amethyst panes, casting warm geometric patches of light onto the hand-carved mahogany floorboards. It was eight-thirty on a Saturday morning, thirty minutes before the heavy oak doors would swing open for the annual Gilded Age Autumn Tour—the highest-attended and most financially crucial event on the Vanderhoof Historical Preservation Trust’s calendar.

"Ellie, if that rope is off by half a millimeter, I promise you the tourists will still manage to lean over it and touch the silk wallpaper," a dry voice called out from the darkness of the shadow-draped library across the hall.

Ellie turned to see Mr. Donald Vance stepping into the light. Donald was eighty-two, possessed a knees-up gait developed over forty years of teaching high school European history, and was the only other docent who took the Manor's strict preservation guidelines as seriously as Ellie did. He was adjusting a wool bowtie that sat slightly askew on his collar.

"It’s not the tourists I’m worried about, Donald," Ellie said, offering him a brief smile as she adjusted his bowtie with two swift, practiced twitches of her fingers. "It’s the VIPs. The general public obeys velvet ropes because they’re intimidated by the brass. The wealthy donors ignore them because they assume their grandfathers bought the brass."

"Too true," Donald conceded, wincing slightly as he stretched his neck. "Speaking of wealthy donors, have you seen the revised guest list for Arthur Sterling’s private walkthrough this morning? Sylvia was hyperventilating over it in the office when I came in."

"I haven't," Ellie admitted, walking down the long gallery toward the conservatory doors to check the next barrier. "Is Sterling bringing a larger entourage than expected?"

"A larger entourage, and a significantly larger ego," Donald said, keeping pace beside her, his soft-soled shoes squeaking faintly on the polished parquet. "He’s brought his nephew, that insufferable young man who tried to sit on the Louis XV settee during the midsummer fundraiser, along with his personal attorney and some woman from the city who looked like she’d never seen dust in her life."

Ellie sighed, stopping outside the double doors of the Conservatory. Through the glass, the lush fronds of exotic ferns and palms—descendants of the original plants imported by Railroad Tycoon Cornelius Vanderhoof—loomed green and damp in the humid enclosure. "Arthur Sterling holds the checkbook for the roof repairs, Donald. If he wants to bring a circus, we give him ringside seats. Just make sure the circus stays behind the ropes."

Vanderhoof Manor was a fifty-four-room masterpiece of Gilded Age excess, built in 1894 by Cornelius Vanderhoof as a testament to his staggering fortune, which had been derived from steel, shipping, and transcontinental rails. Perched high on a bluff overlooking the Hudson River, the stone mansion was an eclectic mashup of French Chateau architecture, Italian Renaissance interiors, and American industrial bravado.

For decades after the last direct Vanderhoof descendant passed away in the early 1970s, the estate had teetered on the brink of structural ruin. Dampness had crept through the limestone, plaster had crumbled in the upper bedrooms, and the magnificent gardens had dissolved into a briar patch. Only the formation of the Vanderhoof Preservation Trust had saved the estate from the wrecking ball. Today, after millions of dollars in painstaking restoration, it stood as a museum—a frozen moment in time where visitors could peer past silk ropes into a world of silver tea services, hand-loomed tapestry, and staggering inequality.

Ellie Pratt loved every square inch of it.

She had moved back to the river town of Blackwood four years ago following a quiet divorce and a desire to leave high school classroom management behind. Her degree in American Social History had found an immediate home at the Manor. What had started as a weekend volunteer position quickly evolved into a full-time passion. She knew which floorboards creaked, which hidden servants' panels led to the basement wine cellars, and precisely how many carats of gold leaf decorated the ballroom ceiling—three hundred and twelve, to be exact.

The sharp, rhythmic clack of high heels against marble signaled the arrival of Sylvia Vance—no relation to Donald, though the shared surname was a constant source of administrative confusion. Sylvia was the Executive Director of the Trust, a woman whose stress levels were directly proportional to the state of the organization's endowment fund. Today, her silver-framed spectacles hung from a beaded chain around her neck, and she held a clipboard to her chest like a shield against impending catastrophe.

"Ellie, thank goodness," Sylvia gasped, pausing to catch her breath beneath the shadow of a life-sized marble bust of Augustus Caesar. "The charter buses from the city are already parking at the lower gate, and Arthur Sterling’s party has just pulled up the main driveway in two black town cars. Is the Grand Foyer ready?"

"Foyer is ready, East Parlor is secured, and the ropes are positioned," Ellie replied calmly. "Donald and I were just about to check the Grand Ballroom and the Portrait Gallery."

"Good, good," Sylvia muttered, her eyes scanning her clipboard with frantic speed. "Listen to me, Ellie. Arthur Sterling is expected to announce his three-million-dollar endowment grant this afternoon at the donor luncheon. Three million. Do you know what that means?"

"It means we can finally replace the slate shingles on the west wing," Donald offered dryly.

"It means we survive another decade!" Sylvia snapped, though her expression softened immediately into a look of sheer desperation. "So please, Ellie, I know you have strict rules about guest protocol, but if Arthur Sterling wants to walk through the roped-off music room to inspect the Steinway, you let him. If he wants to pick up the silver punch bowl, you smile and hand him a polishing cloth. Today, Arthur Sterling is king of Vanderhoof Manor."

Ellie felt her jaw tighten slightly, but she kept her tone professional. "Sylvia, those velvet ropes aren’t just to keep people from stealing souvenirs. The floorboards in the music room have structural weakness due to dry rot under the joists. We haven’t shored them up yet. The rope is there to keep Mr. Sterling from plunging into the cellar through three-hundred-year-old pine."

Sylvia blinked, opened her mouth to argue, and then let out a defeated breath. "Fine. But explain it to him nicely. Very nicely. He is not a man who enjoys being told no."

"I am an expert in telling wealthy men 'no' in three different ancient languages," Donald chimed in with a wink. "Leave the diplomacy to us, Sylvia."

Before Sylvia could respond, the heavy brass knocker on the massive front entry doors echoed through the high-ceilinged foyer. Three loud, impatient thuds.

"They're here," Sylvia whispered, straightening her navy blue blazer as if preparing to face a firing squad. "Positions, everyone. Ellie, you take Arthur’s private preview group. Donald, head down to the visitor center and get the first public tour group lined up."

Donald gave Ellie a quick, supportive nod and ducked through the discreet servants' corridor door beside the grand staircase, disappearing into the back passages of the house. Sylvia smoothed her hair, plastered on a wide, dazzlingly insincere smile, and strode toward the entry.

Ellie stepped back into the shaded alcove near the library, placing her hands behind her back in the classic stance of an attentive, unobtrusive guide. She watched as Sylvia unlocked the double doors and swung them inward.

Framed against the bright morning light stood Arthur Sterling.

At sixty-eight, Sterling looked every bit the ruthless venture capitalist he was. Broad-shouldered, with thick silver hair brushed immaculate back from a bronze, weathered forehead, he wore a bespoke charcoal suit that screamed quiet, astronomical wealth. His eyes were small, pale blue, and possessed the sharp, cold intelligence of a raptor scanning a field.

Directly behind him stood his nephew, Julian Sterling—a man in his late twenties with a slack, sullen jaw, dressed in an over-tailored designer coat that looked absurdly out of place in an 19th-century estate. Beside Julian was a woman in her late thirties with razor-sharp dark hair, wearing an elegant cream trench coat and holding a leather portfolio. Ellie recognized her from newspaper photographs as Victoria Hayes, Sterling’s head legal counsel.

Finally, hovering a step behind the group, was a thin, nervous-looking man in a rumpled suit who held an antique leather-bound journal wrapped in protective plastic. This was Dr. Gregory Vance—again, no relation to Donald or Sylvia—a local historian whose controversial theories about the Vanderhoof family fortune had been making rounds in regional academic circles.

"Sylvia," Arthur Sterling boomed, his voice echoing off the marble floor and bouncing into the vaulted ceiling. He didn't wait for an invitation; he stepped directly over the threshold, his heavy leather shoes making a sharp, decisive sound on the stone. "You’re looking well. Is the house ready for us? I have a tight schedule today. I want to inspect the East Wing before the rabble arrives."

"Welcome to Vanderhoof Manor, Mr. Sterling," Sylvia beamed, stepping back to allow the party to enter. "We are absolutely honored to have you. Everything is prepared for your private walkthrough. May I introduce Ellie Pratt, our lead docent? She knows more about the history of this estate than Cornelius Vanderhoof himself did."

Sterling shifted his cold gaze to Ellie. He didn't smile, nor did he offer a greeting. His eyes swept over her standard-issue dark green blazer and docent badge with brief, dismissive disinterest before returning to the foyer’s ornate architectural details.

"Miss Pratt," Sterling said abruptly. "We’re skipping the canned tour. I don't care about where Cornelius bought his marble or which French duke owned the dining table before it was shipped here. I want to see the private collection in the East Wing library, and I want to see the original ledger room."

Ellie stepped forward, keeping her posture relaxed and welcoming, though her mind immediately registered a red flag. "Good morning, Mr. Sterling. Welcome to the Manor. I’d be delighted to show you the East Wing. However, the original ledger room in the basement archives is currently restricted while our conservators complete atmospheric stabilization."

Julian Sterling scoffed, pulling a gold lighter from his pocket and flicking it open and shut with a sharp clack-clack. "Restricted? Uncle Arthur just wrote a check for three million dollars to this drafty museum, and you’re telling him he can’t look at an old ledger?"

"Julian, quiet," Arthur Sterling commanded without looking at his nephew. The younger man instantly closed the lighter and shoved his hands into his pockets, though he glared at Ellie with open contempt.

"Miss Pratt," Arthur continued, stepping closer to her, his tone dropping into a low, controlled register that breathed authority. "I am not a typical tourist. The Sterling family’s historical connections to Cornelius Vanderhoof are... extensive. My agreement to fund your roof restoration hinges entirely on certain historical verifications I intend to make today. Do you understand?"

Ellie matched his gaze without flinching. She had dealt with demanding school board members, entitled parents, and arrogant local politicians for years. Arthur Sterling was simply a wealthier version of the same type.

"I understand completely, Mr. Sterling," Ellie replied smoothly. "And I assure you that everything available within the designated exhibit areas will be fully accessible to you. If there are specific primary documents you wish to consult, we can arrange for our head archivist to retrieve them safely following the morning tours."

Sterling eyed her for a long, silent moment. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched the corner of his thin lips. "You guard your museum well, Miss Pratt. Let’s hope your locks are as strong as your velvet ropes."

He turned on his heel and gestured toward the grand staircase. "Lead the way to the East Wing. Let's see what Cornelius was trying so hard to hide."

Ellie felt a subtle shift in the air—a tension that had nothing to do with dusty furniture or historical architecture. She looked past Sterling to Victoria Hayes, the attorney, who was carefully monitoring her client with a impassive, unreadable expression. Behind her, Dr. Gregory Vance clutched his plastic-wrapped antique journal even tighter against his chest, his knuckles white with strain.

Something was going on among this group—something that extended far beyond a routine philanthropic walk-through.

As Ellie stepped ahead to lead the party toward the East Wing corridor, her eyes caught the heavy velvet rope stretched across the wide entryway to the Portrait Gallery. The crimson rope swayed slightly in the draft created by the opening front doors. Outside, the first roar of a tour bus engine echoed across the gravel courtyard.

The annual mansion tour was officially underway, but as Ellie unhooked the brass clasp to let Arthur Sterling’s party pass into the restricted wing, she couldn't shake the creeping sensation that the real danger today wasn't the public touching the wallpaper. It was what was already walking inside the house.

The East Wing of Vanderhoof Manor was notoriously colder than the rest of the house. Designed in 1895 as Cornelius Vanderhoof’s private domain, its thick stone walls were lined with dark American walnut panelling that absorbed light and trapped the lingering chill of the Hudson Valley autumn.

Ellie led the small group down the wide corridor, her low-heeled oxfords making a rhythmic, reassuring click against the runner. Behind her, Arthur Sterling’s party followed in a tense, silent procession. Julian Sterling dragged his feet, his thick-soled designer shoes scuffing the edges of the rug, while Victoria Hayes walked with precise, economical steps, the silk lining of her trench coat rustling softly. Dr. Gregory Vance brought up the rear, breathing heavily through his mouth like a man carrying an explosive device rather than a historic manuscript.

"This wing was completed just eighteen months before Cornelius’s sudden death," Ellie said, slipping into her practiced docent cadence while keeping her tone conversational. "While the main floor was intended for public entertaining and grand displays of wealth, these rooms served as his personal executive suite. It was here that he conducted private negotiations for the transcontinental rail mergers."

"He was a ruthless pirate," Julian muttered from behind her, flicking his gold lighter open with a sharp, metallic snap before remembering his uncle's command and snapping it shut again. "Let's call a spade a spade."

"He was an architect of modern American commerce," Arthur Sterling corrected sharply, without turning around. He walked with his head slightly inclined, his pale blue eyes scanning the gilded picture frames and carved crown moldings with the keen, evaluating stare of an appraiser. "He understood that sentimentality is the enemy of enterprise. A lesson you would do well to learn, Julian."

Julian scowled at the back of his uncle’s bespoke coat, his jaw tightening, but he remained silent.

Ellie stopped before a set of massive, double-leaf oak doors reinforced with ornate cast-iron strapwork. "We are now entering the East Wing Library. Unlike the main library across the foyer, which was primarily used for hosting evening drinks and showing off rare leather bindings Cornelius bought by the yard from European estates, this room held his actual working reference collection and personal correspondence."

She produced a brass skeleton key from her jacket pocket, inserted it into the heavy iron lock, and turned it. The mechanism clicked back with a heavy, satisfying thunk. Ellie pushed the door open, stepping inside to hit the soft-start lighting switch hidden behind a velvet wall hanging.

Low-voltage sconces flickered to life, casting a warm amber glow across the two-story room. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined three sides of the space, accessed by a delicate wrought-iron spiral staircase that led to a narrow upper gallery. At the far end of the room stood a massive, brass-mounted mahogany pedestal desk, positioned directly beneath a leaded-glass window that looked out over the autumn-tinted woods sweeping down to the Hudson River. On top of the desk sat a tall glass tumbler filled with amber liquid and a single glass carafe.

Ellie frowned faintly. The carafe and glass shouldn't have been there. The catering staff was restricted to the service pantries on the basement level until eleven o'clock, and absolute strictness was maintained regarding liquids near the historic wood furniture. She made a mental note to speak to Sylvia about it later, assuming one of the board members had slipped in earlier that morning to check the room.

"Remarkable," Arthur Sterling murmured, stepping past Ellie without waiting for an invitation. He walked straight toward the desk, his heavy boots echoing under the high ceiling. "The original furnishings are remarkably intact."

"Cornelius’s widow locked this room three days after his funeral," Ellie explained, following him at a respectful distance. "It remained virtually sealed until the Preservation Trust acquired the property in the mid-seventies. Most of what you see is precisely as he left it on the night of October twenty-fourth, 1897."

"October twenty-fourth," Dr. Gregory Vance chimed in, stepping forward from the archway. His voice was shrill, laced with an anxious energy that drew everyone’s attention. He adjusted his glasses with a trembling finger, clutching his plastic-wrapped journal against his ribs. "The very night the lost shipping ledgers vanished from the estate. The night Cornelius signed the amended trust agreement that effectively stripped the local investors of their shares in the northern rail line."

Victoria Hayes shifted her leather portfolio under her arm and cast a cool, warning glance toward the historian. "Dr. Vance, I suggest you refrain from presenting unverified academic speculation as factual narrative, especially in front of prospective donors."

"It isn't speculation!" Vance insisted, his face flushing red. "The receipts in the municipal archives clearly show—"

"Enough, Gregory," Arthur Sterling said. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried an absolute authority that instantly cut the historian off. Sterling was standing by the mahogany desk now, staring down at the brass-bound leather blotter. "We are not here to debate nineteenth-century municipal politics."

He reached out a hand, his long, age-spotted fingers hovering just an inch above the polished wood surface. Ellie felt her docent instincts flare up.

"Mr. Sterling," Ellie said gently but firmly, stepping beside the desk. "I must ask you not to touch the desktop items. The oil from human skin can deteriorate the original lacquer finishes."

Sterling glanced up at her, a strange, unreadable expression playing across his sharp features. For a moment, Ellie thought he was going to argue or dismiss her again. Instead, he let out a low, dry chuckle that sounded like dry leaves rustling in a gutter.

"You take your duties very seriously, Miss Pratt," he said, drawing his hand back slightly. "A rare trait these days. Most people are far too easily distracted by the shiny things to notice the structure beneath."

He paused, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the crystal carafe resting on the silver tray near the edge of the blotter. The liquid inside was a rich, dark amber, identical to the drink poured into the heavy glass tumbler next to it.

"Is this part of the exhibit?" Sterling asked, gesturing toward the carafe. "A touch of staging for the tour? Rye whiskey, if I'm not mistaken."

"No," Ellie said, her brow furrowing as she leaned in slightly to examine the glass, careful not to touch it. "It shouldn't be here at all. Historical props are strictly controlled. Someone from administration must have left it behind during the setup this morning."

"Well, whoever left it had good taste," Julian said, strolling over to the desk with his hands tucked into his coat pockets. He sniffed the air casually. "Smells like Old Crow. Or maybe something older. Uncle Arthur, didn't you say you needed a drink to clear your throat after that drafty car ride?"

"Don't be crass, Julian," Victoria Hayes snapped, stepping up to the other side of the desk. She looked down at the carafe with a cool, sharp scrutiny. "Mr. Sterling doesn't consume unverified beverages left around on museum displays."

"Of course not," Arthur Sterling said softly. But he didn't move away from the desk. His gaze remained fixed on the tumbler. He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a silk handkerchief, and dabbed at his lips. He looked unexpectedly tired. The harsh morning light coming through the leaded-glass window caught the deep lines etched around his eyes and mouth, emphasizing a sudden, gray pallor that hadn't been there when he first walked through the front doors.

"Are you feeling all right, Mr. Sterling?" Ellie asked, her tone shifting from tour guide to genuine concern.

"I am fine," Sterling said, though his voice had lost its resonant booming quality. He took a slow, heavy breath, his chest rising awkwardly beneath his tailored coat. "Just... a sudden tightness. The air in this old house is exceptionally stale."

"We can return to the Grand Foyer," Ellie offered immediately, reaching out a supportive hand without touching him. "There is fresh air, and I can have Sylvia bring you a glass of water from the kitchen."

"No," Sterling said stubbornly. He squared his shoulders, though his hand visibly trembled as he tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket. "We have not seen the ledger vault yet. That was the primary purpose of my visit today. Dr. Vance claims to have discovered discrepancies in the 1897 land acquisition records, and I intend to clear the Sterling family name before I sign any endowment papers."

Dr. Vance swallowed hard, looking suddenly terrified by the prospect of facing Arthur Sterling's full scrutiny. "Mr. Sterling, the documents I referenced were merely preliminary—"

"Silence!" Sterling barked. He took a sudden, aggressive step toward Vance, but stopped dead in his tracks.

A terrible, strangled sound tore from his throat.

Ellie gasped as Arthur Sterling’s face twisted into a mask of sudden, searing agony. His eyes widened, bulging slightly as he grabbed at his chest with both hands, his fingers clawing at his silk tie and crisp linen shirt collar.

"Uncle Arthur?" Julian stepped back, his cocky posture vanishing in an instant, replaced by a look of sheer panic. "What's wrong with you?"

"Arthur!" Victoria Hayes shouted, dropping her leather portfolio onto the mahogany desk. She reached out to grab his arm, but Sterling staggered backward, his heels catching on the heavy edge of the Persian carpet.

He gasped for air, a wet, rattling wheeze echoing through the high-ceilinged library. His lips began to take on a terrifying, bluish tint. He reached out blindly, his flailing hand knocking into the crystal tumbler on the desk. The glass tipped over, sending a splash of dark amber liquid cascading across the leather blotter and pooling near the edge of the wood before crashing onto the floorboards, shattering into a dozen glittering shards.

"Get help!" Ellie yelled, moving forward to break his fall as Sterling’s knees buckled out from under him.

The weight of the large man dragged them both down to the polished floorboards. Ellie managed to ease his head down against the wooden floor, but Sterling was already convulsing, his body arching violently as his teeth ground together in a horrific, silent scream. His fingers clawed wildly at the air, catching the hem of Ellie’s dark green linen jacket, ripping a button clean off before his hands fell limp against the floorboards.

"Call nine-one-one!" Victoria shouted at Julian, her usual icy composure completely shattered. She grabbed her phone from her purse, her fingers trembling so badly she nearly dropped it. "Julian, do it now!"

Julian was frozen, staring down at his uncle with a pale, horrified face. "He's... he's having a heart attack! He's dying!"

Dr. Gregory Vance backed away slowly toward the open oak doors, his face drained of all color, clutching his plastic-wrapped journal to his chest like a shield against the horror unfolding before him. "I... I didn't touch anything," he babbled hysterically. "I just got here! You all saw me, I didn't give him anything!"

Ellie knelt beside the fallen billionaire, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She checked his carotid artery. A rapid, thready pulse fluttered wildly under her fingers for two agonizing seconds, and then—abruptly—stopped entirely.

"Arthur! Arthur, look at me!" Victoria dropped to her knees on the other side of the body, heedless of her elegant cream trench coat pressing into the spilled liquid on the floor.

Sterling’s eyes stared glassy and unseeing at the grand ceiling, reflecting the amber light of the chandelier forty feet above. His jaw hung slightly slack. A faint, bitter smell—like crushed almonds mixed with the sharp scent of stale alcohol—rose from the puddle pooled beside his hand.

Ellie’s historical training and sharp eye for detail instantly synthesized the scene. The sudden collapse. The severe convulsions. The bluish cyanosis around his mouth. And that distinct, unmistakable scent hovering in the air.

This wasn't a natural heart attack.

"Don't touch the glass!" Ellie barked, her voice snapping across the room with such sudden authority that both Victoria and Julian jumped.

Victoria lifted her hands away from Sterling’s chest, staring at Ellie in shock. "What?"

"Don't touch anything on that desk, and don't touch the liquid," Ellie said, her voice steadying despite the adrenaline surging through her veins. She slowly rose from her knees, stepping carefully backward to avoid the pool of dark rye and shattered glass near the body. "Step back from the desk. All of you."

"Who do you think you are?" Julian demanded, his voice cracking with hysteria. "My uncle just had a stroke or a heart attack! He needs CPR!"

"He doesn't have a pulse, Julian," Ellie said softly, her eyes fixing on the young man. "And if you touch that liquid on the floor, you might end up lying right beside him."

Victoria’s sharp eyes darted from the spilled amber fluid to the shattered crystal glass, and then up to Ellie's grim expression. The attorney’s breath hitched. "Poison," she whispered, the word hanging heavy and lethal in the quiet room.

"Nobody leaves this room," Ellie declared, backing toward the entry doors and extending her arm to bar the doorway just as footsteps came rushing down the outer corridor.

"Ellie! What's going on in here? I heard screaming!"

Sylvia Vance burst through the oak doors, her eyes wide with administrative panic, flanked by Donald Vance, who was holding a brass tour sign. Both of them stopped dead in their tracks as they took in the scene: the body of Arthur Sterling sprawled out on the parquet floor, the shattered crystal glass, the spilled amber liquid, and the three shell-shocked witnesses standing like statues in the dim library light.

"Oh, sweet Lord in heaven," Donald breathed, his hands dropping to his sides.

Sylvia let out a faint, squeaking sound, her hand flying to her mouth. "Is he... is Mr. Sterling...?"

"Arthur Sterling is dead," Ellie said clearly, her eyes sweeping over the faces in the room—Julian’s terrified pale face, Victoria’s calculated horror, Dr. Vance’s twitching hands, and the panicked expressions of her fellow staff members. "Sylvia, pull the fire alarm. Evacuate the Manor immediately. Lock down the main gates, and tell the front desk to call the police."

"The... the police?" Sylvia stammered, swaying slightly as if she might faint. "Ellie, the tour groups—the endowment—"

"The endowment doesn't matter anymore, Sylvia," Ellie said, her voice ringing clear against the walnut paneling. She reached out and pulled the heavy oak door half-shut, her hand resting firmly on the polished iron handle, effectively sealing off the crime scene. "There's been a murder at Vanderhoof Manor."