The thud stirred Mrs. Axton out of her blissful sunny afternoon state. A glass of champagne had been cradled in her silver-ringed hand, and the antique 1903 gramophone was lightly playing Vivaldi. The deepening sun shone through the moss-embedded window onto the warmed, plush carpeting.
But the rattling of the dark mahogany door frames had put Mrs. Axton on edge. She was 64 years of age, with an eternally young face surrounded by dark hair in a cut mirroring her cheekbones and personality: razor sharp. Her physique was tall, paired with long, bony limbs. Her husband, Congressman Dominic Axton, was in Cincinnati, to give a presentation on the state of the mango, grape, and banana trade from India to the United States. Mrs. Axton knew her husband wouldn’t be home until the following Monday, and it was only Thursday.
She set down her glass, moved the gramophone needle off the record, and headed to check out the noise. Of course, Mrs. Axton was never alone in the house — maids scurried around, constantly afraid of the tall woman, and the cook was always available in case of an emergency where a banquet would be required. Mrs. Axton walked the stone steps up to the second floor. The staircase was lined with dark blue carpeting. Even though she wore beige stilettos, her brisk pace yielded no noise.
She reached the top of the stairs and turned right. The cook’s room was that way.
Mrs. Axton’s bony hand gave a sturdy knock on the heavy wood door. Hearing no response, she heaved it open.
A gust of dizziness hit Mrs. Axton.
Her sister lay dead.
But the rattling of the dark mahogany door frames had put Mrs. Axton on edge. She was 64 years of age, with an eternally young face surrounded by dark hair in a cut mirroring her cheekbones and personality: razor sharp. Her physique was tall, paired with long, bony limbs. Her husband, Congressman Dominic Axton, was in Cincinnati, to give a presentation on the state of the mango, grape, and banana trade from India to the United States. Mrs. Axton knew her husband wouldn’t be home until the following Monday, and it was only Thursday.
She set down her glass, moved the gramophone needle off the record, and headed to check out the noise. Of course, Mrs. Axton was never alone in the house — maids scurried around, constantly afraid of the tall woman, and the cook was always available in case of an emergency where a banquet would be required. Mrs. Axton walked the stone steps up to the second floor. The staircase was lined with dark blue carpeting. Even though she wore beige stilettos, her brisk pace yielded no noise.
She reached the top of the stairs and turned right. The cook’s room was that way.
Mrs. Axton’s bony hand gave a sturdy knock on the heavy wood 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.