Fatal Lies

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THE BAROQUE BALLROOM was filled with flowers. Beneath three radiant chandeliers more than a hundred couples were rotating in near-perfect synchrony. The men were dressed in black tails, piqué shirts, and white gloves, the women in gowns of tulle and crêpe de chine. On a raised platform a small orchestra was playing Strauss's Rosen aus iem Süien, and when the waltz king's famous heartwarming melody was reprised, a number of onlookers began a sympathetic humming chorus—smiling with recognition and benign sentimentality.

Liebermann felt Amelia Lyd gate s right hand tighten with anxiety in his left. A vertical line appeared on her forehead as she struggled to follow his lead.

“I do apologize, Dr. Liebermann. I am such a poor dancer.”

She was wearing a skirted décolleté gown of green velvet, and her flaming red hair was tied up in silver ribbons. The pale unblemished planes of her shoulders reminded the young doctor of polished Italian marble.

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