CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Amanda Sterling surveyed her ballroom with satisfaction, watching as her staff glided between tables like synchronized dancers, clearing away the remnants of the seven-course dinner.
Crystal glasses caught the light from the chandeliers overhead, creating prismatic reflections that danced across the cream-colored walls.
The Evening of Elegance was proceeding perfectly, just as it had for the past fifteen years, yet she felt an absence—Margaret and Victoria should have been here, champagne flutes in hand, laughing at some shared joke from their country club days.
Instead, they lay cold in morgues, victims of a killer whose identity remained as mysterious as his motives.
She wished she knew something about the circumstances of their deaths, but of course, none of that was revealed to the public, at least not yet.
She straightened the silk lapel of her midnight-blue gown, a designer piece that had cost more than most people’s monthly salary.
The fabric whispered against her skin as she moved between clusters of Chicago’s elite, nodding and smiling with the automatic grace of someone born to wealth and trained in its obligations.
Seventy-three guests this year—two fewer than appeared on the invitation list. Margaret’s and Victoria’s place settings had been quietly removed before anyone arrived, as if erasing their physical presence might somehow diminish the horror of their absence.
“The salmon was divine, Amanda,” remarked a silver-haired woman whose diamond necklace flashed like captured stars with her every movement. “You’ve outdone yourself this year.”
“Thank you, Eleanor,” Amanda replied. “Chef Marchand deserves all the credit. I simply provided the venue.”
This self-deprecation was expected, part of the performance of wealth that Chicago’s old money families had perfected over generations.
Never appear too proud, never acknowledge the hundreds of hours of planning, the small army of staff required to create this illusion of effortless elegance.
The Sterling Foundation for the Arts depended on these performances, on the generosity they inspired in checkbooks that opened wider with each glass of champagne.
Three white-gloved waiters carefully dismantled a round table near the windows, folding it before whisking it away.
Others rearranged chairs to face the far end of the ballroom, where a temporary stage had been erected for the Virgo String Quartet.
Soon, the room would be filled with the delicate strains of Debussy and Ravel, selections Amanda had personally approved months ago.
“Are you all right, darling?” The voice beside her belonged to Phyllis Coburn, her oldest friend and confidante, a woman whose astute green eyes missed nothing. “You seem a thousand miles away.”
Amanda turned to her, grateful for the momentary reprieve from small talk. “I keep thinking about them, Phyllis. I can’t stop.”
Phyllis’s hand found hers, squeezing gently. Unlike the other guests in their formal finery, Phyllis wore her compassion openly, unadorned. “I know. It’s unthinkable.”
“I talked to the police, but they won’t tell me anything beyond the basics, what’s already in the media. Just that they were murdered, one day apart.” Amanda lowered her voice, though the nearest guests were well out of earshot. “I’ve heard rumors about poisoned wine. Is that true, do you think?”
Phyllis shook her head, her diamond earrings catching the light. “I don’t know, Amanda. The papers have been frustratingly vague. Just that the FBI is involved now.”
“The FBI,” Amanda repeated, a chill running through her despite the carefully controlled temperature of the ballroom. “That suggests something... systematic … violence carefully planned.”
“Try not to dwell on it tonight,” Phyllis advised, though her own expression betrayed similar fears. “You have seventy-three guests depending on you for an enchanted evening.”
Amanda forced her attention back to the present.
The staff had nearly completed the transformation, turning the dining space into a concert venue with the efficiency that came from years of experience.
The caterers were already circulating with trays of cordials.
Near the main entrance, a display of artworks donated for the silent auction drew small clusters of potential bidders.
“You’re right, of course.” Amanda smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from her gown. “I can’t let this evening be tainted by tragedy, no matter how personal.”
“Speaking of the evening’s traditions, have you selected this year’s door prize yet? The golden ticket has already been put in place.”
Amanda pressed her fingers to her temple. “I completely forgot. With everything that’s happened...”
“Well, there’s still time,” Phyllis said, her tone deliberately light. “But you’d better hurry. The quartet starts in thirty minutes.”
The tradition of the golden ticket had begun in the third year of The Evening of Elegance.
When first musical selection ended, the guests would be asked to allowed to open the envelopes they’d received upon arrival.
One lucky person would discover a golden card, entitling them to a bottle from Amanda’s prized wine collection.
It had become one of the most anticipated moments of these nights, with past winners showcasing their bottles like trophies in temperature-controlled display cases.
“You’re right. I should go down and select something special.” Amanda glanced around the room, assessing whether she could be spared for a few minutes. Her major-domo, Sebastian Mains, caught her eye from across the room and gave a subtle nod, indicating that everything was under control.
“Go,” Phyllis urged with a gentle push. “I’ll cover for you if anyone important comes looking.”
Amanda slipped away from the ballroom, the sounds of conversation and clinking glasses fading as she moved through her mansion’s wide corridors.
The click of her heels against marble echoed in the empty hallway, a lonely counterpoint to the orchestrated gaiety behind her.
She passed the gallery where portraits of four generations of Sterlings stared down with patrician approval, their legacy preserved in oils and gilt frames.
At the end of the east wing corridor, a door of dark oak with hand-forged hinges led down to what had once been the mansion’s cellar but was now a climate-controlled sanctuary for over three thousand bottles of wine.
Amanda pushed the heavy door open, reaching for the light switch that would illuminate the steps.
Cool air enveloped her as she descended, carrying the earthy scent of cork and aged wood. The temperature drop caused goosebumps to rise on her bare arms, and she briefly wished she’d brought a wrap. At the bottom of the stairs, she paused to survey her domain.
The cellar stretched before her, larger than many people’s homes, with row upon row of custom shelving containing bottles from every major wine-producing region in the world.
Soft lighting illuminated each section, designed to showcase the bottles without the harmful effects of direct light.
The floor was Italian marble, the ceiling arched in a manner reminiscent of old-world wine caves.
Amanda moved through the aisles, tracing labels as she considered and rejected candidates for this year’s prize. It needed to be something special, particularly this year. Something that would honor the memory of her friends while celebrating the artistry that the foundation supported.
Near the section devoted to Bordeaux, she paused.
A 1994 Chateau Margaux caught her eye—an exceptional vintage from an exceptional year.
She lifted it carefully, examining the label in the gentle light.
Worth approximately three thousand dollars, it would be a generous gift, even by the standards of her wealthy guests.
The recipient would be suitably impressed, the foundation’s reputation for largesse maintained for another year.
“Perfect,” she murmured to herself, cradling the bottle as she turned back toward the stairs.
A soft noise stopped her—a sound that didn’t belong in the quiet sanctuary of her wine cellar.
Something like the gentle scrape of glass against wood.
Amanda froze, suddenly aware of how isolated she was from the festivities above.
The thickness of the walls meant that no one would hear her if she called out.
“Hello?” she ventured, her voice sounding thin in the cool air. “Is someone there?”
No answer came. Amanda felt her heartbeat quicken, pumping fear through her veins with each pulse. She took a step toward the source of the sound, toward the tasting table that stood partially obscured by a tall rack of Burgundies.
This is ridiculous, she told herself firmly. It’s probably just a bottle settling.
Yet her feet moved cautiously, her body tensed as if preparing for flight. As she rounded the corner of the rack, the tasting table came into full view. Upon its polished surface sat an unlabeled bottle of red wine, uncorked, and beside it a crystal glass half-filled with dark liquid.
Amanda stared at the unexpected tableau, confusion overriding fear for a moment. Had one of her staff come down for a surreptitious drink? But none of them would dare. Even if they did, none would leave evidence so brazenly displayed.
“Who’s there?” she called again, stronger this time, anger beginning to replace uncertainty. “Show yourself immediately.”
The silence that answered seemed to mock her demand.
Suddenly, she remembered the rumor that Victoria and Margaret were murdered with poisoned wine.
Amanda backed away from the table, turning toward the stairs, the Bordeaux still clutched in her hands like a shield.
She needed to return to the party, to find security, to—
The attack came so swiftly she had no time to scream.
Something thin and pliant—a plastic bag, her mind registered with detached horror—was pulled over her head from behind.
The Bordeaux slipped from her grasp, hitting the marble floor with a sickening crash.
Wine spread across the white stone like blood, the three-thousand-dollar vintage seeping into grout lines as Amanda’s hands flew to her face, clawing at the plastic that clung to her skin with each desperate inhalation.
Strong arms wrapped around her, pinning her elbows to her sides. She struggled wildly, her designer heels slipping in spilled wine as she fought for leverage, for breath, for life. The plastic clung tighter with each attempt to inhale, the edges of her vision already beginning to darken.
Amanda bucked against her captor, but the arms holding her were like steel bands, unyielding.
Her lungs burned, demanding oxygen that couldn’t penetrate the thin barrier.
She tried to scream, but the sound was trapped inside the bag, a muffled whimper that would never reach the oblivious guests enjoying her hospitality.
Her thoughts fragmented, shards of memory and fear colliding in her oxygen-starved brain. Margaret and Victoria, both dead. Wine. Poison. The FBI. The pieces connected even as consciousness began to slip away.
Her legs gave way, and she felt herself being lowered into a chair, gently, almost tenderly. A voice whispered close to her ear, the words penetrating her panic with terrifying clarity: “I hope you recognize this vintage. It’s quite... special.”