He paused, his eyes scanning the handwritten script at the bottom of the authorization line.

“The signature belongs to a Celeste Vance,” the sergeant said. “Dated four weeks before Mrs. Hawthorne’s death.”

Celeste’s hand tightened around her designer clutch.

“That is a forgery,” Celeste said, her voice dropping an octave. “Anyone could have written that name.”

“The shipping address on the crate wasn’t the estate,” I said.

I took another step forward, feeling the cold wind sting my cheeks.

“It was sent to a post office box in the village,” I said. “A box registered to your personal assistant.”

Celeste’s eyes darted to the side, where the flames were beginning to die down under the firefighters’ spray.

A thick white steam was rising from the roof, mixing with the dark smoke.

“This maid is a thief,” Celeste said, pointing a manicured finger at me. “She stole those papers from my private files. She is trying to frame me.”

“How could she steal them from your files if they were hidden in Eleanor’s private safe?” Alexander asked.

His voice was dangerously calm now.