A scream filled the estate.
Maids raced up the stairs to find a pale Mrs. Axton rocking back and forth beside her sister’s body. They had never seen Mrs. Axton let out so much as a drop of vulnerability, and now she was barely able to remain upright.
The maids immediately noticed that the oldest of them, Josephine, wasn’t there. Though not unusual (Josephine often kept to herself), under the circumstances it seemed suspicious. One of the maids recalled having witnessed an incident just a few days ago: Mrs. Axton’s sister had suggested to Josephine a more modern way of folding the napkins, and was met with a stream of outdated cuss words.
The maids had their suspect, and began their search.
Outside, Josephine was harvesting dill when she noticed a rustling in a nearby bush. She pulled out her glasses to take a closer look. There was definitely something — or someone — there.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Josephine approached the bush to find the shivering wreck of Vera, the cook.
“Vera? What happened?”
“I didn’t mean to do it, Jo.”
“Do what?”
“I was on the phone. In my room. She burst in.”
“Who?” Josephine prodded.
“Her sister.”
“Mrs. Axton’s sister? Why would she barge in?”
“She overheard me on the phone. Talking.”
“With who?”
“Please, Jo. I don’t want to make things any worse than they already are.”
In the distance, the maids could be heard shouting “We know what you did!”
“What’s going on?” Josephine asked Vera.
“We got into an argument. It got physical.”
“Oh, dear.”
The maids: “Murderess!”
Vera recoiled. Murderess? She had died?
The maids: “Josephine!”
“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!” cried Josephine.
Instinctively, the two women — one distrusted, the other guilty — fled.
* * * * *
An hour later (and several miles down the road), Josephine and Vera agreed on their story: There was an intruder. He came running into Vera’s room, where Vera was talking with Mrs. Axton’s sister about an upcoming menu. The two women fought off the intruder, but he managed to get in a few terrible blows. Josephine heard the ruckus and came quickly, catching a glimpse of the intruder as he fled: medium height, medium build, medium everything — nothing to go on, really.
* * * * *
The next day, Vera went, bags packed, to meet with Mrs. Axton. She explained that she had been profoundly shaken by the experience. That she was going to move back in with her mother in Wisconsin. That she’d be leaving immediately.
“I don’t pay people who don’t give notice,” said Mrs. Axton.
Vera accepted this, on the condition that Josephine be hired to replace her.
Congressman Axton appeared at the front door — back early from Cincinnati so he could help his grieving wife. He fixed his sights not on Mrs. Axton but on Vera, who walked slowly toward him.
Mrs. Axton sat herself down in a comfortable armchair, poured herself a very full glass of champagne, and put some Vivaldi on the gramophone. She watched her husband and Vera say goodbye: a few whisperings, and then a hug.
A hug that went on far too long.
Mrs. Axton’s gaze deepened. This was certainly not the goodbye of cook and congressman.
Mrs. Axton closed her eyes, letting herself succumb to the Vivaldi and the sun on her back.
Maids raced up the stairs to find a pale Mrs. Axton rocking back and forth beside her sister’s body. They had never seen Mrs. Axton let out so much as a drop of vulnerability, and now she was barely able to remain upright.
The maids immediately noticed that the oldest of them, Josephine, wasn’t there. Though not unusual (Josephine often kept to herself), under the circumstances it seemed suspicious. One of the maids recalled having witnessed an incident just a few days ago: Mrs. Axton’s sister had suggested to Josephine a more modern way of folding the napkins, and was met with a stream of outdated cuss words.
The maids had their suspect, and began their search.
Outside, Josephine was harvesting dill when she noticed a rustling in a nearby bush. She pulled out her glasses to take a closer look. There was definitely something — or someone — there.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Josephine approached the bush to find the shivering wreck of Vera, the cook.
“Vera? What happened?”
“I didn’t mean to do it, Jo.”
“Do what?”
“I was on the phone. In my room. She burst in.”
“Who?” Josephine prodded.
“Her sister.”
“Mrs. Axton’s sister? Why would she barge in?”
“She overheard me on the phone. Talking.”
“With who?”
“Please, Jo. I don’t want to make things any worse than they already are.”
In the distance, the maids could be heard shouting “We know what you did!”
“What’s going on?” Josephine asked Vera.
“We got into an argument. It got physical.”
“Oh, dear.”
The maids: “Murderess!”
Vera recoiled. Murderess? She had died?
The maids: “Josephine!”
“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!” cried Josephine.
Instinctively, the two women — one distrusted, the other guilty — fled.
* * * * *
An hour later (and several miles down the road), Josephine and Vera agreed on their story: There was an intruder. He came running into Vera’s room, where Vera was talking with Mrs. Axton’s sister about an upcoming menu. The two women fought off the intruder, but he managed to get in a few terrible blows. Josephine heard the ruckus and came quickly, catching a glimpse of the intruder as he fled: medium height, medium build, medium everything — nothing to go on, really.
* * * * *
The next day, Vera went, bags packed, to meet with Mrs. Axton. She explained that she had been profoundly shaken by the experience. That she was going to move back in with her mother in Wisconsin. That she’d be leaving immediately.
“I don’t pay people who don’t give notice,” said Mrs. Axton.
Vera accepted this, on the condition that Josephine be hired to replace her.
Congressman Axton appeared at the front door — back early from Cincinnati so he could help his grieving wife. He fixed his sights not on Mrs. Axton but on Vera, who walked slowly toward him.
Mrs. Axton sat herself down in a comfortable armchair, poured herself a very full glass of champagne, and put some Vivaldi on the gramophone. She watched her husband and Vera say goodbye: a few whisperings, and then a hug.
A hug that went on far too long.
Mrs. Axton’s gaze deepened. This was certainly not the goodbye of cook and congressman.
Mrs. Axton closed her eyes, letting herself succumb to the Vivaldi and the sun on her back.