CHAPTER FOUR #2
“Yesterday would have been Mr. Ashworth’s ninety-fifth birthday,” Lane told her. “Mrs. Ashworth always observed it the same way. She would dismiss the staff—all of us, even security—and prepare a dinner herself. She would set two places and...” He hesitated.
“She would dine with his memory,” Riley finished for him.
Lane nodded. “It was a private ritual. Sacred to her. When I returned this morning and found the table like this, the soufflé untouched, I knew something was wrong. Mrs. Ashworth was meticulous about clearing away the dinner setting before we returned. I called out for her, but there was no answer.”
For the first time, the butler’s composure cracked. He sank into one of the dining chairs, passing a hand over his face.
“I thought perhaps she had fallen ill during the night. When I checked her bedroom and found it empty, I remembered how she always selected a special bottle from the cellar for Mr. Ashworth’s birthday.” His voice faltered. “That’s when I went down to look for her.”
“Mr. Lane,” Riley said, sitting in a chair close to his, “I know this is difficult, but it would help us to understand Mrs. Ashworth better. The public perception of her marriage—”
“Was wrong,” Lane interrupted with sudden vehemence.
“Completely wrong. I served in this house for forty years, Agent Paige. I was here when they met, when they married, when Mr. Ashworth fell ill. What they had was real.” He looked up at the portrait, his gaze softening.
“He adored her. Not as a possession or a trophy, but as an equal. And she loved him with a devotion I’ve rarely witnessed in all my years. ”
Riley processed this information against the tabloid narrative she remembered from years ago. “Thank you for sharing that, Mr. Lane. It helps us see her more clearly.”
Callahan cleared his throat. “Mr. Lane has already given his full statement. I’ll take you to the wine cellar. I don’t think we need to put him through showing it to us again, considering the circumstances.”
“No, I’ll—” Lane began, but Riley shook her head.
“Lieutenant Callahan is right. You’ve been extremely helpful, Mr. Lane. If we have further questions, we’ll find you.”
The relief in the butler’s eyes was clear. “Thank you, Agent Paige.” Pointing at the table, he added cautiously, “May I clear away these items now?”
“You may,” Riley said.
Callahan then led them through a door at the far end of the dining room, into a professional-grade kitchen, and then to a heavy oak door set into the far wall.
“The cellar was part of a bootlegging operation during Prohibition,” he explained as he flipped on lights that illuminated stone steps descending into cool darkness. “Ashworth bought the property in the 1980s, and according to Lane, was delighted by its history.”
The temperature dropped noticeably as they descended. The wine cellar spread before them—a cathedral to viticulture, with bottle-lined walls and stone arches that spoke of Old World craftsmanship. Callahan guided them through the main area toward a small alcove set apart from the rest.
“This is where Bradley Ashworth kept his most prized bottles,” Callahan said. “And where Victoria was found.”
The alcove contained a custom rack of dark wood, each space holding what Riley guessed were extremely valuable vintages. In the center stood a small round table with a single chair—the stage for Victoria Ashworth’s final moments.
“The body was here,” Callahan said, indicating the chair. “The wine bottle and glass were on the table.”
He pulled out his phone, bringing up the crime scene photos that Meredith had shown to her and Ann Marie earlier.
Riley studied them again carefully—Victoria Ashworth seated at the table, her head slumped forward, fingers still curled around the stem of a wine glass.
Callahan pointed out where the wine had spilled slightly, staining her lips and chin and the front of her midnight blue dress.
“There were signs of struggle—bruising on her arms consistent with being restrained. She seems to have been forced to drink the wine—or maybe it was poured into her mouth.”
Riley frowned, studying the surroundings. “How did the killer get in? The mansion has security, and Lane mentioned that even they were dismissed for the evening. Would Victoria Ashworth have answered the door?”
Callahan gestured toward the far end of the cellar. “That’s where it gets interesting.”
He led them to what appeared to be a solid stone wall. He pressed against a specific stone, and a section of the wall swung inward, revealing a narrow tunnel.
“Prohibition-era escape route,” Callahan explained. “The entrance was padlocked from the inside, but someone broke the door itself. Looks like they used a crowbar.”
“Were there no alarms here?” Riley asked. “No cameras?”
“I guess nobody thought that would be important on this old entrance. It isn’t easily accessible from the outside, and the fake stone wall hadn’t been opened in a very long time.”
“And I guess the noise would be muffled,” Ann Marie observed.
The detective stepped back, indicating that Riley should go on into the tunnel.
She turned on her cellphone flashlight and stepped inside, feeling the damp coolness of the earth around her.
The tunnel was barely wider than her shoulders, its ceiling low enough that a tall man would need to stoop.
The walk was brief. The wooden door at the far end was splintered, the lock broken loose and lying on the floor.
Riley closed her eyes, letting the scene reconstruct itself in her mind.
She reached out for a sense of whoever had been here, who had been so intent on killing Victoria Ashworth.