That afternoon, the Stroden mansion’s library was full to bursting with people—and hot. Building a fire on an August afternoon might not have been Joanna’s brightest idea. The flames danced low behind the screen, and people forced to stand near it were mopping their foreheads.
Not a bad turnout, Joanna thought. Most of the people in the room were local journalists with photographers. Three hoisted video cameras. It hadn’t been hard to attract a crowd. Less than an hour on the phone mentioning “double murder” and “old Stroden mansion” had ensured solid attendance. The neighbor’s eyes must have popped out of her head when she saw the camera crews arrive.
Joanna sat at the library’s edge, near the desk with its copy of Stroden’s memoir inside. If only she could pull out the drawer and read it, but she’d never have that chance again. The journalists didn’t know that today they’d be getting another newsworthy story, too. One having to do with jewels. One that would wipe Gene’s slate clean. Paul and his uncle were on tenterhooks at home.
All the library’s windows were open, and Joanna fanned herself with the vintage Japanese fan she kept in her purse. Mary Pat waited in the kitchen.
As planned, Mary Pat entered the library at three o’clock sharp. She and Joanna had chosen her dress with the goal of emphasizing her age and fragility. Mary Pat’s closet was full mostly of practical gardening clothing, but toward the back they’d found a rose-sprigged dress saved for weddings and other Sunday type of events. Joanna had helped her set her hair in her usual long ringlets and had suggested a touch of lipstick so Mary Pat’s face would show up better in photographs. Perhaps feeling a throwback to her Hollywood days, Mary Pat had glossed Vaseline on her front teeth. “Better for the camera,” she’d said.
The room quieted. Mary Pat entered to snapping cameras and bodies shifting in chairs. Several people fanned themselves with notebooks. She slipped on a pair of reading glasses and read from the statement she and Joanna had prepared earlier, with Crisp’s input.
“Hello, everyone, and welcome to my home.” She cleared her throat. “As you know, my brother, Bradley Stroden, was murdered earlier this week.” She coughed, and cameras flashed.
Joanna wished they’d thought to set up a pitcher of water. Mary Pat’s voice was delicate as it was. Facing a room of strangers like gossip-hungry vultures wouldn’t be easy at the best of times, and this was not the best of times.
“I invited you here because I have two important messages. When I’ve finished, I’ll open it up to questions. First—” Here, Mary Pat’s voice broke again. Thank goodness they’d kept the statement short. “Fifty years ago, my brother found himself in possession of some valuable jewelry. Today, I want to rectify that crime and return the jewelry to its rightful owner.”
As Mary Pat spoke, Joanna repeated the words silently with her, urging her on. Once the words were spoken, Gene would be off the hook.
“Excuse me, could you be more specific?” a bald man with a microphone asked.
“You mean he stole it?” a woman asked.
“We’ll get to questions later,” Mary Pat said. Joanna was impressed. Mary Pat continued. “These jewels, known as the Greffulhe emeralds, disappeared at a party Bradley attended at Senator Woodstock’s house. I don’t know how he came to have them, but Bradley never could resist beauty. As you can see, he kept the jewels all these years and didn’t want to profit from them.”
Joanna had thought that last bit was inspired. Gene had contributed it.
“And I’m certain he would not rest easy unless he knew they were returned.”
Mary Pat stood still a moment. Joanna scooted to the edge of her seat. This was where Mary Pat was supposed to reach to the mantel and bring down the box with the jewels. Joanna caught her gaze and nodded toward the mantel.
“Oh, yes,” Mary Pat said. “Here they are.”
As she reached for the box, a sudden thought crossed Joanna’s mind. What if the box were empty? That morning, Joanna had swaddled the jewels in a velvet clutch, then slipped it into her bag—a black alligator Lucile of Paris she brought out for important occasions. She’d seen Mary Pat transfer the jewels to the box, but hadn’t been with her every minute after that.
Mary Pat opened the cloisonné box. The sun had passed over this part of the house, and in the room’s dim light, they looked like a jumble of costume jewelry. But here they were, with no mention of Gene.
Joanna nearly melted with relief. It had worked. Her plan had worked. At least, so far.
One reporter, scrolling through her phone, asked, “Did Mr. Stroden know Senator Woodstock?”
Joanna tensed, but she needn’t have worried. Mary Pat ignored the reporter and returned to her statement. “That was the first thing. The second item I want to address is my brother’s memoir. My brother spent several years in Hollywood as a costume assistant. Along the way, he was privy to compromising stories about celebrities.” She crossed to the desk and opened a drawer. She placed a fat file folder of pages on the desktop. “For the past year, he’d been compiling those stories in a memoir.”
Something was different about the memoir, Joanna noted. The file folder. This one was manila. The one Joanna had seen had been blue. Mary Pat must have swapped them out.
“As the inheritor of my brother’s papers, I’m choosing to destroy the memoir.” She slowed down and enunciated her words. “I’m destroying it completely. No one shall see it. I don’t feel it’s right that people—even people no longer with us—should be humiliated and their relatives hurt by things they did decades ago.”
As the reporters shouted questions, Mary Pat pulled aside the fire screen and lifted the file folder. She turned toward the room and cameras flashed.
“Now, I’ll burn it.” With a dramatic flourish worthy of Margay, Mary Pat opened the folder and dumped its contents onto the flames.
The fire caught the pages and blackened their edges. Flames grew paler and leapt higher.
Joanna turned away. That was it. They’d done it. Bradley Stroden’s secrets were going up the flue. The murderer would know his transgressions would remain under wraps, and the jewels would soon be on their way home. Mary Pat could sleep well tonight. Gene could pack his bags. Yet she felt a twinge of regret that it all ended here.
“Wait!” a reporter in a white suit shouted.
A tall man at her shoulder swung his camera toward the fireplace. Joanna jumped to her feet.
“The memoir,” the reporter said, “It’s all blank pages.”