Free Secret of the White Rose by Stefanie Pintoff Page A

fresh-baked blueberry scones, Detective, just served in the music room with afternoon ‘tea.’” Mrs. Mellown made an exaggerated sniff of disapproval as she let me in the door.
    Alistair was no doubt having scones with a stiff drink instead of tea—much to the chagrin of the matronly, gray-haired woman who served as housekeeper of Alistair’s eighth-floor apartment at the Dakota building. For over twenty years, she had organized Alistair’s home and attempted to bring general order to his life—albeit with mixed success and much exasperation.
    I greeted her warmly, handing over my hat and wool plaid scarf, then my coat. She hung them on the coat rack as I removed my shoes at her request. Though I knew the way, she always insisted on showing me in properly. I followed her down a hallway that would have been the envy of any art collector—for it displayed artifacts, paintings, and tapestries from Alistair’s extensive travels. The plush red and blue Turkish carpets, finely detailed oil portraits, and Chinese silk paintings always made me feel as though I had entered a museum, not someone’s private home.
    As we drew closer, I was surprised to hear Alistair’s voice, angry and loud.
    “There’s no room for error. Too much is at stake!”
    Another voice, rough and deep, thundered in reply. “Do you think I’m unaware of that?”
    I hesitated—but Mrs. Mellown did not break her step, though her right hand reached down and jangled the key ring tied to her apron to signal her presence.
    She stopped next to the open French doors with polished brass handles that led to the music room, turned her head, and gave me a knowing smile. “An old friend of the professor’s stopped by for a visit. It’s good that you’ll be joining them.”
    So I was to play peacemaker—but more interesting to me was why Alistair would be exchanging heated words with his guest.
    Mrs. Mellown preceded me into the music room and formally announced me, adding, “Will you be needing anything else now, Professor?”
    I entered in time to observe Alistair recompose himself, but the placid expression he arranged on his face could not disguise the telltale red flush that burned on his cheeks. He had been arguing with his guest for some time—not just in the moments I overheard.
    “Yes, would you bring us another plate of scones, please,” he said, giving Mrs. Mellown a boyish smile. Then he turned his attention to me. “Come in, old boy. Glad you’re here. I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Angus Porter. Detective Ziele, Judge Porter.”
    I reached to shake the hand of the man who stood to greet me. Judge Porter was a short, portly man with a gut that almost burst out of his buttoned white shirt. His wide chin was covered with gray stubble, and though his general appearance was unkempt, his bloodshot hazel eyes were alert with intelligence.
    “Angus was at Harvard Law with me,” Alistair said. “He remained friendly with Hugo Jackson through the years.”
    “Hugo was an honorable man and a good friend,” Judge Porter said, sinking once again into a plush green sofa.
    “His death is a great loss,” I said.
    Alistair indicated that I should come sit beside them, pointing to the small paisley chaise longue across from the judge. I sat, realizing that I had never spent much time in Alistair’s music room before. More so than the other rooms in his expansive eleven-room apartment, this one seemed designed for comfort: we sat at the back of the room, near the floor-to-ceiling window looking into the Dakota’s interior courtyard, in a cozy arrangement of overstuffed sofas and wood-framed chairs. A black Steinway piano dominated the front half of the room, next to a wall of bookshelves filled with musical scores, histories, and biographies of famous musicians. The remaining walls of the room displayed paintings of other musical instruments, from flutes and violins to mandolins and harps.
    There was even a new elegant mahogany