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teeth. Pointed ears stretched flat against their heads and thin tails stood tall, flicking ever so slowly, back and forth, back and forth, full of warning and menace.
    Art forgotten, Elaine sucked in her breath. “Nice doggy? Nice doggy?” She stretched out one hand, palm upward. She loved dogs, always had. One of the greatest bones of contention in her divorce had been, of all things, the custody of the beloved border collie. Elaine sacrificed a lot to keep her. Only weeks after the papers were finalized, a car hit her pet while they were visiting friends in the suburbs. Two thousand dollars’ worth of vet’s bills had not been able to save the dog.
    These two growled in unison, a sound beginning deep in their throats and edging past the bared teeth and curled lips. Elaine drew her hand back. “Nice doggy?” Her eyes darted around, checking out possible escape routes.
    “Hamlet, Ophelia, down. Down!”
    She looked up from the dogs to see a man descending upon them. He was in his early forties, with plain but even features, a tousled mane of curly black hair liberally streaked with gray, cheeks ruddy from the cold, and eyes, an unusual shade of olive green, sharp with stern authority as he stared down the dogs. Dressed in a brown-checked flannel jacket, practical jeans, and heavy work boots, he looked as to be as much a part of the forest outside as the trees themselves. “Leave the lady alone. Now!”
    The dogs, Hamlet and Ophelia presumably, paid him not the slightest bit of attention. The larger, and if possible the meaner, moved a bit closer and growled a bit louder.
    Involuntarily, Elaine stepped back. Show no fear, let them know who’s boss, wasn’t that what you were supposed to do? Easier said than done. She pressed her back up against the wall. Nowhere else to go.
    The man grabbed the dogs’ collars and jerked them back. They snarled. Wait until next time, they seemed to say before allowing themselves to be tugged into a sitting position.
    “Sorry about that,” he said. “I’m Alan Manners, and I guess you’d be Elaine, who’s come to help Moira write her memoirs.” He didn’t wait for acknowledgment. “I’d shake hands but they’re kinda busy right now.” He nodded at the two dogs sitting by his feet, still held by their collars and bristling with resentment.
    “Nice to meet you,” Elaine mumbled.
    “Don’t mind these two,” Alan said. His voice was soft and pleasant, a nice contradiction to the rough country exterior.
    “They don’t seem too friendly.”
    “They’ll do you no harm. They like to look tough, that’s the extent of it. Over-bred like crazy and way too indulged, if you ask me. Never quite sure if they’re supposed to be frolicking family pets or ferocious guard dogs. Messes up their already dimwitted heads.” His tone wasn’t entirely joking. “I’ll take them back into the kitchen for their dinner. Cook shot a deer this morning. That should keep them happy for a few hours.”
    Elaine tried to smile.
    “Just kidding. They eat nothing stronger than Purina. See you at dinner. It’s the second door on the right, if you’re looking.” He grinned once more and dragged the dogs down the hall.
    Elaine blushed. She wasn’t sure why.
    But she pulled open the second door on the right, to find a formal dining room laid for dinner. No one else had arrived yet. She’d been careful of the time and was, even after studying the paintings and the encounter with the dogs, a good five minutes early. If punctuality was prized here, Elaine Benson would be punctual.
    There were five places set at the long table, each marked by sterling sliver flatware, dishes that at a glance appeared to be Royal Doulton (she would have had no compunction in lifting one up and examining the bottom but for the potential embarrassment of discovery), heavy crystal wineglasses, one for red, one for white, and a matching water glass. An ornate silver candelabrum, filled with tall, fresh white candles,