BLOOD ON PALE SILK

At ten o’clock in the morning, the heavy brass knocker on the front door sounded. Three loud, authoritarian raps that reverberated through the cleaned hallway.

Eleanor opened the door. Sheriff Cooper stood on the porch, adjusting his wide-brimmed hat against the persistent drizzle. He was a longtime friend of Julian’s father, a man who had looked the other way more times than Eleanor cared to count.

“Eleanor,” Cooper began, nodding respectfully. “Hate to bother you this morning, but Julian’s office said he never showed up for his morning meeting. His assistant mentioned he came out here late last night looking for Clara.”

Eleanor leaned casually against the doorframe, a sling supporting her sprained arm beneath a fresh cardigan. “He did, Sheriff. Around three in the morning. He was frantic, talking about Clara being distressed.”

“And is Clara here?” Cooper asked, his eyes scanning the quiet foyer behind her.

“She’s upstairs resting,” Eleanor said smoothly. “She arrived by cab around dawn, exhausted and frightened. Julian had been threatening her, Sheriff. I told Julian last night that if he came back, I’d file a restraining order. He stormed off down the valley road toward the interstate.”

Cooper frowned, his gaze lingering on the freshly scrubbed foyer floor that smelled strongly of pine cleaner. “Smells like you’ve been doing some heavy cleaning, Eleanor.”