After a disappointing meal, Joan retires to the living room with a glass of red wine. She strides across the room to the built-in bookshelf where she houses a collection of classical records. Second to fencing, Joan's greatest passion is music.
She trails her free hand across the spines of the records, studying each with a selective eye. Taking a sip of wine, she sets the glass on a nearby coaster and pulls out her record of choice. She places the vinyl record on the turntable with care and positions the needle. Within seconds, the first movement of "L'inverno" from Vivaldi's Le Quattro Stagioni fills her living room.
Joan closes her eyes as the music builds and surrenders to the sound of fervid strings. She begins to move her hands in time the music, as a conductor does. Overcome by the music, her movements become more pronounced. Her long arms dance through the air with vigor and she sways back and forth. She learned these movements by watching her mother, a violinist, composer and once distinguished conductor, on stage.
A perfectionist with a Type A personality, Joan's mother was brilliant. Having grown up in a prominent Vienna family, she developed an achievement-driven mentality at an early age. She was fiercely competitive and motivated by a desire to be regarded as the best of the best. These were qualities she worked to instill in Joan. But they were also the qualities that fed her mother's burgeoning superiority complex, and later, caused the woman to snap.
When the music ends, Joan opens her eyes. A faint smile crosses her lip; she is at ease. She lowers the volume of the music and pulls out a copy of Dostoyevsky's "Crime and Punishment" from the bookshelf. She reclaims her glass of wine and settles on the black three-seat leather sofa.
No more than a minute after Joan cracks open the book, the doorbell rings. She looks down at her watch—it's a quarter past nine. Setting the novel on the end table, she polishes off the remaining wine in her glass and starts for the door. The tension so only just rid herself of returns like a tidal wave crashing to shore as she opens the door.
"Ah, Ms. Bennett. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"
Vera's face is stern. "We need to talk."