—NANCY ASTOR I T WAS LATE afternoon when I got back to the inn. I had called Aunt Winnie and told her about Jackie, so she and Peter were waiting for me. Randy was there, too. Pushing past them, I headed for the drink cart with a determined stride. I had never been much of a drinker, but tonight I thought I could become one. “Elizabeth! What a hellish thing for you to go through,” said Aunt Winnie, trailing after me. “Do the police know what happened?” “Someone killed her,” I said numbly. “Beat her to death. I found her outside in the backyard.” I closed my eyes against the gruesome image of her poor battered face. I finished the first gin and tonic and made myself another. A large one. “Honey,” said Aunt Winnie, gently taking the glass from me, “alcohol is a crutch.” “Yeah, well, tonight I could use a wheelchair,” I snapped, grabbing the glass. She frowned at me but didn’t argue. I sat down heavily in one of the fireside chairs. Peter sat opposite me. “Someone must have overheard her this morning,”
