CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The cold air of the wine cellar clung to Riley as she climbed stone steps back to the main floor of the Sterling mansion.
Behind her, technicians continued their methodical documentation of Amanda Sterling’s final moments, capturing in clinical detail what Riley had already absorbed with a profiler’s eye—the careful staging, the poisoned wine, the deliberate parallel to two murders that had come before.
“Phyllis Coburn is still here,” Officer Dickinson said as they reached the top of the stairs. “She’s in the small sitting room off the main hall. Pretty shaken up, but insistent on helping however she can.”
“She discovered the body?” Ann Marie asked, her notebook already in hand.
“Yes. When it was getting close to the time that Ms. Sterling had planned to make an announcement, Ms. Coburn went looking for her. Apparently, she and Ms. Sterling were close friends. “
Riley exchanged a glance with Callahan, both recognizing that initial witnesses often provided valuable insights, their memories still raw and unfiltered by time or repeated tellings.
“Let’s talk to her now,” Riley said, following Dickinson through the mansion’s opulent corridors.
The sitting room was an intimate space that seemed designed for quiet conversations away from the grandeur of the main entertaining areas.
Plush sofas in muted tones surrounded a marble fireplace where flames danced behind a glass screen.
In one corner, a woman sat rigidly upright, her elegant posture at odds with the devastation on her features.
Phyllis Coburn looked to be in her early fifties, her silver-streaked dark hair arranged in a sophisticated updo that now showed signs of disarray.
Her emerald evening gown caught the firelight as she turned toward them, her eyes reddened but dry, as if she had moved beyond tears to a deeper, more controlled grief.
“Ms. Coburn,” Dickinson began, “these are the agents and detective I mentioned. Special Agent Riley Paige and Special Agent Ann Marie Esmer from the FBI. And this is Detective Lieutenant Callahan from Chicago PD.”
Phyllis clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “Please, anything I can do to help. Amanda was—” Her voice caught, and she paused, visibly gathering herself. “Amanda was like a sister to me.”
Riley took a seat across from her, leaning forward slightly. “I understand how difficult this is, Ms. Coburn. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” Phyllis replied, her voice steadier now. “Officer Dickinson has already asked me about finding her, about what I saw. Do you need me to go through it again?”
“No need to revisit that part,” Riley assured her. “But we’d like to ask about some connections. Did Amanda know Victoria Ashworth and Margaret Thornfield?”
After a long moment, Phyllis continued. “We all knew each other. Chicago’s social circles are smaller than they appear from the outside.
In fact—” She broke off, a fresh wave of pain crossing her features.
“Amanda had invited both Victoria and Margaret to tonight’s event.
Their names were on the guest list. When Margaret was found dead, Amanda was deeply concerned. Then Victoria—it was shocking.”
“Did Amanda ever mention feeling threatened?” Riley asked.
“Not that she told me. She was more shocked than anything else.” Her hands twisted in her lap. “Please,” she said. “I don’t know what more I can tell you. I wish I did.”
Riley started to reply, but Ann Marie leaned in gently. “Ms. Coburn, you’re being a tremendous help.”
Phyllis looked up, relief breaking through her anguish. “Thank you,” she said. Then she took a deep breath and asked, “What else do you need to know?”
“Were the three of them particularly close?” Riley asked. “Did they have special connections beyond their social circle?”
“They served on several charity boards together,” Phyllis replied. “The Arts Council, the Children’s Hospital Foundation. And of course, they were all members at Fairfax.”
“The Fairfax Country Club?”
“Yes. Amanda has been a member for nearly twenty years. Margaret and Victoria as well. Actually, many of the guests here tonight are members.”
Riley thought for a moment, considering the fact that all three murdered women had belonged to the same country club where Marcus Dalton had been caught stealing wine.
It isn’t much of a coincidence, she thought. It might not mean anything.
After all, Marcus Dalton had been in custody at the time of Amanda’s murder. And Riley had already written him off as a suspect. But might the shared membership at Fairfax have some other significance?
Riley turned to Dickinson, “What about security footage?”
“No internal cameras,” Dickinson replied. “Ms. Sterling was very protective of her privacy. But the exterior is covered thoroughly—entrances, grounds, perimeter.”
“We need to see those feeds,” Riley said, rising from her seat. “Particularly for tonight’s event.”
Dickinson said, “The mansion’s major-domo and two of our officers are already reviewing the footage in Ms. Sterling’s study. I can take you there now.”
“Thank you for your help, Ms. Coburn,” Riley said, pausing before she followed the others out. “If you think of anything else—any connection or detail that might seem relevant—please contact us immediately.”
Her expression hardening, Phyllis urged, “Find whoever did this, Agent Paige. Amanda deserves justice.”
The study was located on the mansion’s second floor, a wood-paneled sanctuary that reflected Amanda Sterling’s refined taste.
Three large monitors had been set up on an antique desk, displaying different camera angles of the mansion’s exterior.
A tall, distinguished man with silver hair and impeccable posture stood behind the desk, his tuxedo a stark contrast to the uniformed officers beside him.
“Sebastian Mains,” Dickinson introduced him. “Ms. Sterling’s major-domo. He’s been with the household for over a decade and coordinated security for tonight’s event.”
Mains inclined his head, the gesture both respectful and tight, as if suppressing a deeper turmoil. “Agents, Detective. A terrible tragedy.” A flicker of anguish crossed his features, quickly suppressed. “I’ve been assisting your officers in reviewing the security footage.”
“Did anyone unusual attend tonight’s event?” Riley asked, moving directly to the monitors. “Anyone who might have raised suspicions?”
“Absolutely not,” Mains replied with professional certainty. “The Evening of Elegance is by invitation only. Each guest is personally known to Ms. Sterling or her associates.”
“Were the invitations delivered electronically?”
“Oh no!” Mains actually looked shocked. “Nothing so … crude. They went by first-class postal service.” He held out a folder that he was carrying. “This is an example.”
Riley opened the folder and glanced inside.
She saw a formal invitation and a matching envelope, along with several other pieces of paper.
Those included an envelope and card like those that had been placed inside for the drawing.
Another sheet was headed “guest list.” All bore the words “The Evening of Elegance” and a unique design bordering that title—an elaborate interplay of delicate gold filigree and silver swirls, evoking a sense of opulence and exclusivity.
“I’d like to keep these,” Riley said.
Mains looked dubious for a moment, then nodded reluctantly.
One of the officers interrupted. “We’ve been looking at footage from the main entrance during guest arrivals. So far, it appears that everyone who came had an invitation.”
“May we see?” Riley asked, tucking the folder into her bag.
Mains hesitated briefly, then moved aside to allow her access to the monitors. “Of course.”
The footage was high-quality, showing guests arriving in evening wear, greeting the staff at the entrance, presenting invitations. Riley scanned each face, looking for inconsistencies, for the telltale signs of someone who didn’t belong.
“Wait,” she said suddenly. “Can you go back to timestamp 8:42?”
The officer rewound the footage, and Riley leaned closer as it played again. A man approached the entrance—average height, unremarkable build, wearing a tuxedo that fit him perfectly. But what caught Riley’s attention was his face—a mustache, large-lensed glasses.
“There,” Riley pointed. “Him.”
The officer froze the frame, and Ann Marie moved to Riley’s side. “That looks like—”
“The same one we saw in the Grand Regency footage,” Riley finished. “The mustache, the glasses, the way he angles his face away from direct view. Except this image is clearer.”
Again, Riley considered the likelihood that the mustache and glasses were part of a disguise, and it looked like the man might be wearing a hairpiece.
“He’s carrying something,” Ann Marie noted, indicating a small gift bag tied with ribbon that the man held in one hand. “That could be how he brought in the bottle of wine. He pretended it was a gift—for the hostess, probably.”
Riley turned to Mains. “Do you recognize this man?”
The major-domo studied the screen. “No. Which is unusual. I know most of Ms. Sterling’s guests, at least by sight.”
“Did anyone leave the event early?” Callahan asked.
Mains tapped a few keys, advancing to footage from later in the evening.
“There,” he said after a moment, pointing to a figure moving briskly toward the exit. “9:53 PM. Just minutes before Ms. Coburn discovered Ms. Sterling’s body.”
It was definitely the same man as before. The gift bag was noticeably absent.
“According to our guest list and arrival order,” Mains continued, confusion in his voice, “this would be Mr. Emil Doppler.”
“Emil Doppler?” Riley repeated. “Was he a regular guest at these events?”
Mains shook his head slowly. “No. In fact, I don’t recall ever hearing that name before tonight.”
“So how did he get an invitation?” Ann Marie asked.