For a century, wealthy New York girls have been trained for the rigors of upper class life at the Theban, an exclusive private school on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Kate Fansler is lured back to her alma mater to teach a seminar on Antigone . But a hostile note addressed to Kate, the uniform mistrustfulness of her six, bright students, and the Dobermans that patrol the building at night suggest trouble on the spot. As Kate leads her class through the inexorable tragic unfolding of Antigone , a parallel nightmare envelops the school and everyone connected with it. . . . “If by some cruel oversight you haven’t discovered Amanda Cross, you have an uncommon pleasure in store for you.” – The New York Times Book Review “Amanda Cross writes wonderfully witty mysteries full of well-developed characters and insights on modern foibles.” –United Press International “The most appealing detective since Lord Peter Wimsey.” – Newsweek y, wealthy New York girls have been trained for the rigors of upper class life at the Theban, an exclusive private school on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Kate Fansler is lured back to her alma mater to teach a seminar on Antigone . But a hostile note addressed to Kate, the uniform mistrustfulness of her six, bright students, and the Dobermans that patrol the building at night suggest trouble on the spot. As Kate leads her class through the inexorable tragic unfolding of Antigone , a parallel nightmare envelops the school and everyone connected with it. . . . For a century, wealthy New York girls have been trained for the rigors of upper class life at the Theban, an exclusive private school on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Kate Fansler is lured back to her alma mater to teach a seminar on "Antigone. But a hostile note addressed to Kate, the uniform mistrustfulness of her six, bright students, and the Dobermans that patrol the building at night suggest trouble on the spot. As Kate leads her class through the inexorable tragic unfolding of "Antigone, a parallel nightmare envelops the school and everyone connected with it. . . . Amanda Cross is the pseudonymous author of the bestselling Kate Fansler mysteries. As Carolyn G. Heilbrun, she is the Avalon Foundation Professor in the Humanities Emerita at Columbia University. She has served as president of the Modern Language Association as well as vice president of the Authors Guild. Dr. Heilbrun is also the author of Writing a Woman’s Life , Hamlet’s Mother and Other Women , The Education of a Woman: The Life of Gloria Steinem , and The Last Gift of Time: Life Beyond Sixty . The telephone and the front doorbell rang simultaneously in the Amhearst apartment with a call to action which, Reed happily observed, reminded him of plays like You Can't Take It With You . "Those were good days in the theater," he said, rising from the couch where he and Kate were enjoying a cocktail. "Perhaps," Kate answered, putting down her glass, "but I can't help feeling that the Greeks wrote great plays because they got the characters on and off the stage without the aid of bells." "You get the door," Reed said. "I'll get the telephone." He walked down the passage to his study and lifted the receiver. "Hello," he said, wishing he had thought to bring his martini with him. "This is Miss Tyringham of the Theban," a woman's cultured voice greeted him on the phone. " May I please speak to Mrs. Reed Amhearst?" "This is Mr. Amhearst of Kaufman and Hart," Reed wanted ridiculously to answer. He could hear Kate at the door. "Oh, my God!" he heard her say in astonished tones which boded no good. "Well, come in for a time anyway, and let’s talk about it." "Can you hold on for a moment?" Reed asked. "I’ll see if she’s available." "Thank you. I do apologize for disturbing you at this hour, but it is a matter of some importance. Mrs. Amhearst was Kate Fansler, was she not, when she was at the Theban?" Was, is, and ever more will be, Reed happily thought. "Yes," he answered. "Hold on a moment." He made his way back into the living room cautiously, as a cat might return to a place invaded by unknown, perhaps dangerous, beings. He found Kate mixing herself another martini—in itself an ominous sign, since she always claimed that when Reed mixed them they were nectar, and when she mixed them they were intoxicating hair oil—while collapsed on the couch, its head in its hands, was a long-haired youth, revealing himself by his beard as male and by the fact that he rose, after a moment's hesitation, to his feet as having, in some dimly remembered era, been taught the manners of a lost world. On the run, Reed thought. Let us hope it is Kaufman and Hart, not Sophocles. "Reed," Kate said, "may I introduce John Megareus Fansler, known as Jack to his friends.” "Of whom he has many, I'm sure," Reed said, holding out a hand. "That," Kate said, "is Philip Barry." "A nephew?" Reed asked. "Related to that other nephew, Leo? I don’t believe we've met." "Yo