When Richard Shaw arrived, Delphine was basking in the sun in the little backyard garden. Inside the square pavilion, wisteria vines had climbed across the railings. She had arranged a thick sofa chair on one side, covered with a snow-white sheepskin throw, her face shielded by a silk scarf as she rested with her eyes closed.
The two little ragdoll kittens had grown slightly larger, their round bodies nestled into the woolen blanket, their snow-white stubby legs stretched lazily as they lounged beside their owner, soaking in the sun.
The old butler came around now and then. Seeing that the fruit tea on the table had cooled, he would patiently warm it again over low heat.
The chaos and bloodshed of the previous night seemed as if it had never happened. Bessie Leclair had packed her belongings in the dead of night and fled to Switzerland to avoid trouble, terrified that the incident might implicate her.
