Chapter 4: Missing Silver
The gravel drive crunched under the heavy tires of the deputies' cruiser as they escorted Marcus away from the estate. I stood by the conservatory window, rubbing my bruised wrist while Arthur watched the tail lights disappear down the winding coastal road.
"Are you alright?" Arthur asked, turning back to me with a softening in his eyes that he rarely showed anyone else.
"I'm fine," I murmured, adjusting my collar. "Thank you, Mr. Vance."
"Arthur," he corrected gently. "When we're in private, at least. You've earned that much."
I nodded, though the intimacy of the request sent a strange, nervous flutter through my stomach. There was no time to dwell on it. The annual spring charity gala was less than forty-eight hours away, and the mansion was already filling up with caterers, florists, and event coordinators who treated the corridors like a movie set. Hundreds of Newport's elite would be arriving on Saturday night, bringing television cameras, society columnists, and endless scrutiny.
That evening, after Arthur had retired to his study, I retreated to the small administrative office near the pantry to finalize the silver inventory logs for the weekend banquet. The annual gala required the deployment of the Vance family heirloom silver service—hundreds of pieces of antique hollowware, candelabras, and ornate serving trays kept in a secure walk-in vault behind the main kitchen.
I unlocked the heavy iron door of the vault and flicked on the overhead light. The shelves gleamed with polished metal, row after row of stamped sterling silver arranged by size and function. I pulled the master inventory clipboard from the hook and began counting down the rows.
Salvers, large: twelve. Candlesticks, paired: six. Sauce boats: four.
I stopped at the bottom shelf. The space where the heavy sixteenth-century French soup tureen usually sat was completely empty. A neat, hollow dust outline marked where the massive silver piece had rested for decades. My heart skipped a beat. I checked the clipboard sign-out logs for the past week. No one had authorized its removal. No repair tickets, no polishing requests, nothing.
Panic prickled at the base of my neck. I flipped through the log pages, my fingers flying over the entries until I spotted a signature at the bottom of the previous day's shift report.
Mrs. Higgins.
May you like
Before I could process the implication, a sharp knock sounded at the office door behind me. I turned to see the head housekeeper standing in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest, a thin, triumphant smile playing across her lips.
"Looking for something, Evelyn?" Mrs. Higgins asked softly, her eyes gleaming with malice in the dim vault light. "Or are you finally realizing that some things in this house are simply too heavy for a maid to carry?"
