CHAPTER FOUR
The FBI jet touched down at O’Hare with a gentle bump that stirred Riley from her cell phone.
Both she and Ann Marie had spent the flight immersed in reports about Margaret Thornfield and Victoria Ashworth, and their similar deaths.
Outside the small oval window, Chicago’s distant steel and glass monuments reflected the midday sun.
“We’re here,” Ann Marie said unnecessarily, already unbuckling her seatbelt.
“Let’s not waste any time,” Riley replied, rising from her seat as the jet taxied toward its designated area. “Chicago PD has already waited almost twenty-four hours since the second body was discovered.”
They disembarked into sharp September air. Riley adjusted her blazer against the chill as they walked across the tarmac toward the private aviation terminal. Chicago felt different from D.C.—more vertical, its architecture reaching skyward.
“I found out some interesting stuff about Victoria Ashworth during the flight,” Ann Marie said as they entered the terminal.
“The tabloids were vicious, but after her husband died, she became a significant philanthropist. Established a scholarship fund for young artists, served on multiple charity boards.”
Riley thought back to her own research during the flight.
“I knew about the tabloid gossip,” Riley said, remembering how youthfully judgmental she’d been at the time. “I didn’t know that she’d become a philanthropist. I guess that was never as big of a story.”
They navigated through the sparse crowd of the private terminal and into the main concourse of O’Hare, where bodies moved with purpose, announcements echoed overhead. Riley kept a brisk pace, Ann Marie matching her stride for stride despite her impractical heels.
“The wine is what intrigues me,” Riley said, keeping her voice low as they passed a cluster of travelers. “It’s specific, ritualistic. As if killer wants their victims to taste their own deaths.”
Ann Marie’s brow furrowed. “Almost like communion. A sacrament.”
Riley glanced at her young colleague with renewed interest. “That’s an interesting observation. Keep thinking along those lines.”
They made their way to a shuttle bus that took them to the car rental facility. While Ann Marie took care of the paperwork, Riley’s phone buzzed with a text. She glanced down to see Bill’s name, followed by a simple message: “All quiet here. Focus on your case. We’re fine.”
She tapped back a quick reply—”Thanks. Will call tonight.”
They reached the car rental area, where a professionally smiling attendant greeted them.
Ann Marie presented their Bureau credentials and the reservation details while Riley pulled out her phone.
The airport’s constant noise made privacy impossible, but she needed to alert Detective Lieutenant James Callahan to their arrival.
She moved a few steps away as she dialed the number Meredith had provided.
“Callahan,” a voice answered.
“Detective, this is Special Agent Riley Paige. My colleague and I just landed at O’Hare.”
“Agent Paige.” His tone warmed slightly. “Thank you for making the trip so quickly. Where are you now?”
“At the airport, picking up our rental car. We should be mobile in a few minutes.”
“Good. I’ll head right over to Victoria Ashworth’s residence. I’d like you to meet me there rather than checking into your hotel first, if that works for you.”
“Of course. That was our plan.”
“The address is 1872 Lakeshore Drive. It’s in the Gold Coast district—you can’t miss it. One of the last original mansions on the stretch. I’ll let the staff know to expect you.”
“The staff is still there?”
“Actually, just the butler, Reginald Lane. He’s been with the household for decades, found the body yesterday morning. He’s pretty shaken up, but he’s been cooperative. I thought it would be valuable for you to speak with him directly.”
“Absolutely,” Riley agreed. “Has the body been removed?”
“Yes, it’s at the morgue now. Preliminary tox screens confirm arsenic poisoning, just like Thornfield. The scene itself is mostly untouched—the wine bottle, the glass, the table setting. Everything’s as Lane found it, minus the body.”
Ann Marie approached, dangling a set of car keys. Riley held up one finger, signaling her to wait.
“We’ll be there as soon as we can, Detective. Anything else we should know before we arrive?”
Callahan’s voice lowered slightly. “Just... prepare yourself. The house is like a time capsule. She kept everything exactly as it was when her husband was alive. The butler says she dined with his ghost every year on his birthday. Yesterday would have been his ninety-fifth.”
“Understood. We’ll see you shortly.”
When they finally acquired a black sedan, Riley said, “I’ll drive,” and accepted the keys. They got into the sedan and had the integrated GPS guide them to the address.
The Ashworth mansion rose before them like a testament to another era, its limestone facade gleaming pale gold in the afternoon sun.
Riley guided the sedan to a stop at the foot of the circular driveway, taking in the sprawling estate with a profiler’s practiced eye.
Three stories of old Chicago money stretched skyward, its windows dark and watchful, its grounds immaculately maintained.
This was not merely a home but a monument—to wealth, to status, and perhaps, Riley thought as she stepped from the car, to a love that had outlived one of its participants by a decade.
“My God,” Ann Marie whispered beside her, craning her neck to take in the full scale of the mansion. “It’s like something out of The Great Gatsby.”
Riley’s gaze sweeping across the manicured hedges and stone pathways that framed the approach to the main entrance.
Two figures stood waiting at the top of the wide steps—one in a simple gray suit, the other a tall, slender man in an impeccable dark suit that spoke of decades of service in a home where appearances mattered.
As they approached, the police officer stepped forward, extending his hand.
“Agent Paige? Detective Lieutenant James Callahan. Thank you for coming so quickly.” He was in his early fifties, with touches of gray in his brown hair and the weathered face of a man who had seen a lot but hadn’t surrendered to cynicism. His handshake was firm, professional.
“This is Special Agent Ann Marie Esmer,” Riley said, gesturing to her colleague.
“Detective,” Ann Marie acknowledged.
Callahan turned toward the older man beside him. “This is Reginald Lane, Mrs. Ashworth’s butler. He’s been with the household for forty years and was the one who discovered her body yesterday morning.”
Lane was perhaps in his seventies, with a posture so rigid it seemed part of his professional uniform. His face was composed, but Riley noted the slight redness around his eyes, the barely perceptible tremor in his hands.
“Mr. Lane,” Riley said, her voice gentle. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
A flicker of gratitude passed across the butler’s face. “Thank you, Agent Paige. Mrs. Ashworth was...” He paused, mastering some emotion. “She was an extraordinary woman. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you through the house to where—to where it happened.”
They entered a foyer that soared two stories high, a crystal chandelier suspended like a frozen waterfall above a marble floor inlaid with an intricate compass rose. The air inside held the stillness of preserved history, weighted with the scent of beeswax polish and old money.
“Mrs. Ashworth kept the house exactly as Mr. Ashworth preferred it,” Lane explained as he led them down a wide hallway lined with artwork. “Nothing changed after his passing, not even the staff rotation.”
Riley’s attention was caught by the paintings that adorned the walls—landscapes, portraits, all executed with skill and emotional depth. She paused before one that depicted a harbor at sunrise, the interplay of light and shadow creating an almost tangible sense of hope.
“These are remarkable,” she said.
“All painted by Mrs. Ashworth,” Lane replied, a note of pride entering his voice. “She was an artist when Mr. Ashworth met her. After they married, she painted solely for him. Never sold another piece, though many galleries approached her.”
Riley studied the canvas with renewed interest, reassessing her mental image of Victoria Ashworth. The brushwork was confident, the composition sophisticated. This was not the work of a dilettante playing at art, but of a serious talent.
“She gave it up?” Ann Marie asked, sounding genuinely dismayed. “Why would she stop selling her work?”
Lane’s expression softened with memory. “She said that Mr. Ashworth’s appreciation was all she needed.
That painting for the market had always felt like compromise, but painting for him was freedom.
” He gestured for them to continue down the hallway.
“She maintained a studio on the third floor. Worked there almost daily until Mr. Ashworth died. She didn’t touch a canvas after that. ”
They passed through a series of rooms, each more elegant than the last, until they reached what was clearly the formal dining room. Here, burned-down candles were still set in silver holders along a table that had been prepared for an intimate dinner.
Two place settings of fine china faced each other across damask linen. A silver dome covered what Riley guessed was the main course, and beside it, a soufflé sat deflated in its dish—a silent testament to an interrupted evening.
“This is how I found it this morning,” Lane said, his voice dropping almost to a whisper. “Everything exactly as Mrs. Ashworth had left it.”
Riley noticed the portrait hanging on the far wall—a distinguished man in his sixties, silver-haired and keen-eyed, standing before the Chicago skyline. Bradley Ashworth, captured in oil at the height of his power and presence.