The thud stirred Mrs. Axton out of her contemplative afternoon state. A glass of champagne was cradled in her silver-ringed hand, and the phonograph was lightly playing Vivaldi. The deepening sun shone through the moss-embedded window onto the warmed, plush carpeting. Mrs. Axton was sixty-four years old, her face surrounded by dark hair in a cut mirroring her cheekbones and personality: razor sharp.
          But the sound put her on edge. Her husband, Congressman Axton, wouldn't be home from Cincinnati until Monday. It was only Thursday.
          She set down her glass, lifted the needle from the record, and headed off to investigate.
          “Josephine!” she called out. But the housekeeper was never around when Mrs. Axton needed her.
          Mrs. Axton peered out the window at the gardener, Ralph, who was doing the watering. No, the noise had definitely come from inside.
          She walked up the carpeted steps to the second floor. Even though she wore high heels, her brisk pace yielded no noise.
          At the top of the stairs, she turned right. The cook’s room was that way.
          “Vera?” Mrs. Axton tried. She knocked on the heavy wooden door. Hearing no response, she heaved it open.
          A gust of dizziness hit Mrs. Axton.
          Her sister lay dead.

To read Part Two, please click here.