“Really,” Fran said distantly as they went into the marquee. She’d gone to town on decorating it, with gold and pink and silver star sequins and confetti strewn all over the groundsheet until it was completely covered. The insides of the marquee were draped with pale pink satin, covering all the ceiling and the walls. She’d gotten some very odd looks at the party store. It seemed the elite didn’t go in for sequins and glitter. ‘Taste’ had gone out the window, Fran knew, but this was Waverly’s day, and if she wanted glitter and pastel shades and unicorns, that was what she was going to get. “What was your argument about?”
“Woah,” Emily said, jolting back as she came into the marquee. “Talk about a glitter assault! Anyway, little madam Waverly wanted those darn dogs to sleep—get this—not only in her bedroom, in her darned bed. I told her no way, it happened once before and it didn’t go well. Seriously, anything could happen. Anna is the one who suggested it.” She rolled her eyes. “She just loves dogs so much she thinks they’re humans or like people’s kids or whatever.”
“Mmhmm,” Fran said, only half-listening. Emily had always been the kind of person to report back every single disagreement in minute detail and expect her friends to nod along and say, “What a witch,” or “How horrible.” She’d pout for a while and then it would all blow over, and she’d be best friends with the ‘evil mean nasty person’ before anyone could process what had happened. Fran knew to take it all with a pinch of salt, and she fixed up the pink lacy bows on each of the seats, pulling them thick and wide and round.
“So Anna puts this idea into Waverly’s head and she’s all jumping about with excitement,” Emily complained. “But I say no, those dogs are huge, and sometimes they spook in the night or whatever. So I’m like, no way. Then Waverly starts her whining. Usually her dad’s locked up in his office at her bedtime and won’t be disturbed, so there’s no drama.”
“Right,” Fran said, glancing at the slim gold watch her grandparents had given her for Christmas three years ago. It was actually the first time she’d worn it She didn’t usually go for fancy or elegant, and it was both of those things in abundance. It probably cost more than her entire wardrobe put together.
“But he happened to have been walking down the hall. In fact, it was like rush hour, with Sandrine leaving—she’d been talking to Byron, or arguing I should say, in the office, something about someone getting a copy of his will, someone pretending to be from his property office, or something like that—and Vanessa hurrying through the hall back to her books. Typical, isn’t it!” Emily exclaimed. “And then of course Waverly caught onto her father and tacked herself onto his leg, begging and crying for the dogs to be put in her bed. Of course he says yes. I usually don’t disagree with him, you know, he’s my boss, but I just wasn’t going to be responsible for anything going wrong. I mean, they’re good dogs, wouldn’t hurt a fly, but accidents can happen, the bed ends up stinking, it’s just more trouble than it’s worth.”
“Totally,” Fran said absentmindedly, standing back to survey the marquee. She bit her lip, hoping it was just what Waverly wanted. She’d been in her element putting it all together, hurrying around to the right stores, dreaming up this multicolored glittering land of rainbows. But all of a sudden, it looked too garish, too bright, too crazy. Her brow creased and she turned to Emily, worried. “Do you think—”
“Plus Waverly was a menace all day and I didn’t want to give her a darn thing,” Emily continued, like a runaway train that nobody could stop. “So then he’s like you have to do it, and I’m like no way. And we go back and forth, and I’m getting so annoyed by this point I’m not backing down, even though maybe I should. And in the end, he tells me if I don’t let the dogs stay he’s going to fire me, and that he might fire me anyway.” She nibbled on the breadstick, trying to sound casual, but her darting eyes betrayed her nervousness. “He’s all mouth, that guy. He’d never fire me. Waverly loves me, when she’s not in devil-mode, that is.”
“I’m sure he won’t fire you,” Fran said. “That reminds me, though, do you think Waverly’s hair is too nuts?” She bit her lip. “I thought it was a great idea at first, but now I’m kind of freaking out about it. Is it too crazy?”
Emily grinned. “Yep. But she’s going to be over the moon. As in over the moon, halfway to Saturn. You certainly got a good grip on her taste.”
Fran flashed her a cheeky smile, hoping Emily was right and that it would be the start of good things for her. “So you don’t think he’s going to ask for a refund?” With the hefty check he’d promised, covering her fees and expenses, she could pay back her mom, give a handsome tip to Mrs. McCabe, and have plenty left over.
“Nah,” Emily said, waving her hand dismissively. “You’ll smash it. In a good way.”
Fran grinned, crossing her fingers on both hands. “So you’ll give me a good reference to all the other society mommas?”
“Yep. Just wait, next year you’ll be planning the three hundred-person soiree for Tarquin’s kindergarten graduation, mark my words. Or some massive pregnancy gender reveal picnic with champagne and caviar. Will it be Crispin, or Clementine? Let’s spend a thousand bucks on each guest and throw a huge party, when no one even really cares! Woohoo!”
Fran laughed. “Parties are awesome. When I have a kid—I mean, if—I’m going to have like, a party for their first word, their first step, their first day at school, everything. And if it’s a little girl, she can have these pretty party dresses, with layers and layers and layers.”
“Give me strength,” Emily said, giving her a friendly nudge. “You know you’ll have no friends left, right?”
Fran stuck her tongue out at her and wrinkled her nose, a silly habit they’d kept up through high school. “Come on, meanie,” she said, hooking her slim arm through Emily’s soft, doughy one. “Let’s go check on this food.” Her heart was still racing, and a knot had tied itself in her stomach. “I’ve decided to convert all my nervous energy into excitement,” she told Emily determinedly as they made their way up the stairs. “It’s no good me not enjoying my first huge party. I’ve planned everything. Nothing can go wrong.” Butterflies fluttered through her as she said that, but she kept repeating it, trying to feel a sense of grounding, of anchoring. “I’ve planned everything. Nothing can go wrong.”
“The guests are arriving!” Anna rushed into the kitchen, her eyes bright with excitement. She’d piled all her hair onto the top of her head, and wore an azure blue dress that hugged her figure beautifully at the top, then billowed out dramatically at the bottom, 1950s style. A deep black flick of liquid eyeliner gave her cat eyes, and she’d applied layers and layers of mascara until she had a thick black curtain of eyelashes. Since she never normally made an effort, everyone had fussed over how gorgeous she looked, Emily and Fran included.
Fran was pacing the back kitchen, the second of a total of three kitchens in the mansion, rechecking the food for what must have been the hundredth time. Though she’d picked out all the recipes herself, she’d outsourced most of the baking to a catering team she’d found online. They’d had to drive in a good forty miles to get there, but Fran would have blown the budget in an instant if she’d hired anyone closer. “That will be nine thousand dollars,” a snooty sounding woman had said over the phone in a nonchalant way when Fran had tried a local number. Then when Fran had asked if there was any movement on the price, the phone had been slammed down.
“Okay,” Fran said, unable to resist checking one last time, even though the catering team, two men and a woman, were leaning back against the counter with their arms folded, annoyed at her poking and prodding and incessant checking. But everything had to be perfect. Her whole career was hanging in the balance. “Okay, chocolate bite-size brownie squares, check. Sweet pecan caramel pie, check. Peanut butter and chocolate cupcakes and—”
“It’s all fine,” Anna said soothingly, putting her arm around Fran. “You know it is. Look, everything’s all up and running now. Why don’t you just chill
out and enjoy yourself? Get in the swing of the party!” Anna held both Fran’s hands and swung them up, making her do a little dance.
Fran smiled for what felt like the first time in a while, and gave a little laugh of relief. “You’re right. You’re right. Let me just make sure everything’s ready for the sundaes, and then I’ll be right out.”
“I’m standing right here,” Anna said firmly, “and dragging you out once you’ve checked. Emily’s due to bring Waverly down for her grand entrance at any moment. You don’t want to miss that, do you?”
“All right,” Fran said, though that was another thing to worry about. Would it be the glorious, outrageous, over the top, magical moment she’d planned, with everyone bursting into good-willed laughter and clapping and joy? She swallowed with nervousness as she opened the enormous ice cream freezer, hoping that everything would go right.
Yep, all the flavors present and correct—raspberry ripple, strawberry shortcake, which was one of her all-time favorites, coconut and sweet guava, white chocolate, Tahitian vanilla choc chip, and Waverly’s favorite, rocky road. The thermostat was turned way down so the edges were melting in that ever so delicious way that made them perfect to scoop. Then, hurrying while Anna tapped her foot, she checked the syrups—strawberry, caramel, chocolate, PB&J—then the sprinkles and the edible decorations. She was just about to go look at the sponge cakes when Anna grabbed her by her wrist.
“Come on, girl!” she said playfully. “Let’s party!”
Everyone was gathered in the grand marble-floored hallway, the adults sipping on champagne while the kids had virgin cocktails in plastic cocktail glasses, so pleased to be included with the grown-ups for once. Fran looked around at the turnout, and couldn’t stop a grin spreading from ear to ear. The dress code was pastels, and everyone seemed to have followed it, with the millionaire moms in floating chiffon dresses in peach and cornflower blue and duck egg green, some with large-brimmed hats, others with perfect up-dos or neatly arranged thick waves. The dads were in pale linen, some of them talking on cell phones in corners and looking impatient, while others scooped up their kids and made a big fuss. The little boys looked like carbon clones of their dads, but, just as Fran had hoped, it was the little girls who were dazzling for all to see. Everywhere Fran looked it was gauze petticoats and big satin bows and shining mary janes with frilly socks, all good old fashioned party gear.
“Awesome,” she whispered to herself, pausing a moment at the doorway to take the whole scene in.
“Absolutely not, Sandrine,” a man’s booming voice carried over the excited chatter and clink of cocktail glasses. Everyone tried their best to ignore it, but he was very loud. Fran maneuvered around a gaggle of little boys to get a better look at who was ruining the atmosphere, only to see Byron Stratford, dressed in a dark gray linen suit that didn’t match the dress code, his face red with anger. Fran’s heart sank. So something had gone wrong already. He’d started muttering furiously at a glamorous woman in front of him, his face deepening into colors Fran didn’t even know a face could go.
“Mr. Stafford!” she said delightedly, surging forward and trying to catch him by surprise. “So it’s finally party time!”
“Yes,” he said, with a forced smile and a long breath out. “Yes. Yes, it is.” Some of the mottled purple-red was fading out of his face, and Fran took that to be a good sign.
“Great,” Fran said, then gestured toward the glamorous woman. “And this…?”
Byron was about to speak, but the woman thrust herself forward with a practiced smile and a graceful handshake. “I am Sandrine Vazchenko,” she said with dazzling confidence, holding her head high as if Fran should have recognized the name. “The mother of the birthday girl. And you are?”
“I’m Fran Finch,” Fran said, trying to hold eye contact with the piercingly blue gaze that met her. “The party planner.”
Sandrine’s blonde hair was swept up into an effortlessly graceful chignon. She used a single pinky finger to sweep a curling tendril out of her eyes and laughed in a way that Fran found intimidating. She was sure most men would find Sandrine absolutely mesmerizing. While Sandrine wasn’t the most beautiful woman Fran had ever seen, there was certainly something magnetic about her. “Well, you’ve sussed out Waverly’s childish tastes, for sure,” she said, and Fran wasn’t sure whether she was meant to take it as a compliment or an insult. “Though that’s just typical of you, isn’t it, Byron?” She had a teasing smile, and reached out to tickle him under his chin. He flinched back, and she laughed that intimidating laugh again. Then she stage-whispered to Fran with fake camaraderie, “He’s always giving in to Waverly and doing whatever she wants. I keep telling him she needs to be molded properly if we’re to see her climbing the social ladder of New York, but I expect he thinks she’ll be ‘his little princess’—” she said with some malice, “—forever.”
Fran smiled politely, having no idea what to say.
Thankfully, Emily appeared at the top of the grand staircase. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said in a voice full of showmanship. Fran remembered how well she’d done in their high school plays. “Say hello to your hostess, Waverly Stratford!”
Everyone turned to see Waverly appear from the upstairs hallway, and Fran felt her pulse racing. Had she made a huge mistake?
Chapter 5
A stunned silence greeted Waverly’s appearance, and Fran felt her heart jump into her mouth. Why had she gone so nuts, on her very first party? Couldn’t she just have done a regular little girl party, with Disney princess themes, hide-and-go-seek, and musical chairs?
She dared not to glance over at Sandrine and Byron, and instead began to edge away through the crowd, hoping that no one would notice, but knowing of course they would.
But then everyone began clapping, and a little girl, waving like mad, said, “Happy birthday, Waverly!”
Waverly took a grand curtsey, enjoying the attention and smiling from ear to ear, and Fran allowed herself a long breath of relief. It was true, her whole ensemble did look a little out there, especially her hair. As soon as Waverly had shown Fran her party inspiration picture down on the veranda, a particular Instagram star had popped right into Fran’s head. She was a plus-sized African American woman, but what made her stand out was her penchant for all things pastel, pink and unicorn. She wore her hair in super long braids, but the kicker was what color they were. Instead of regular extension hair braided in, she picked out yarns in gorgeous pastel shades like delicate powder blues and baby pinks and soft lilacs. She braided these into her hair until they hit her waist, and she was a veritable walking pastel shade princess. Fran knew Waverly would adore it, so she’d hired a group of four braiders nearby to come over and fix up her hair in the same style.
That, paired with a pearlescent shimmering fairy-style dress with seemingly thousands of chiffon layers, a pale pink rose wreath in her hair, white sandals with frills, and mini-rose trails rising up from them and wrapping around her legs, she looked like a fairy meadow dream.
As Waverly came down the stairs, her dark eyes were electric with joy, and she showed more gaps in her teeth as she beamed widely. “Thank you for coming!” she shouted gleefully at the gathered crowd. “Let’s go into the garden! I’ve seen it from my window, it looks awesome!”
All the kids shot out toward the double doors in back before their parents could catch them, while the adults stood around, laughing indulgently at the little fairy princess and heading to the bar to top off their champagne flutes.
“I heard you’re the party planner,” a slim woman said, slinking through a gap in two conversing groups to get to Fran. “Is that right?” She had a very quiet, almost whispering voice, and shoulders that were slightly stooped over.
“Yes,” Fran said apprehensively, hoping this mild-mannered woman wasn’t about to unleash a load of venomous abuse toward her. This party planning business was much more nerve-wracking than she thought, especially given that she wasn’t used to being around the elit
e of Little Hampton.
“It’s lovely,” the woman said, touching her on the arm gently, her large green eyes brimming with tears.
“Oh,” Fran said, taken aback. She felt surprisingly near to the verge of tears herself. “Thank you.”
“I’m Delilah Forthstrup. I expect you’re awfully busy today,” she said, “but I couldn’t bear not to ask you, for my Oliver’s sake.”
“Sure,” Fran said, taking nervous glances at the double doors. She couldn’t help biting her lip, nervous that all the glitter would put off these upper class families.
“Please, concentrate,” Delilah said, her gentle voice straining with emotion.
“Sorry.” Fran focused on her, wondering what it was all about. “Are you all right?”
Delilah swallowed, and her voice wavered as she said, “Yes, fine. Fine.” She put her hand to her chest, trying to control herself. “Our little Oliver is doing just fine now. He’s just had the all clear after his leukemia treatment.”
“Oh, goodness,” Fran said. “I’m so sorry he was unwell.”
“He’s much stronger now,” Delilah said bravely. “Now, he’s been absolutely obsessed with all things superhero during his recovery. You know, we’ve encouraged it to empower him. And, though some of the parents here might not approve of such a thing, I don’t care.” She thrust her head high, her lip trembling, like she’d been buying Prada and Versace all her life, just to please her neighbors, and was ready to break out of the frame. “We’re going to have a superhero party. I just love what you’ve done here for Waverly. Do you think you could do the same for us?”
Fran, stunned, felt a rush of excitement move through her. Another client! So she wasn’t a failure at life after all! She wasn’t a huge imposter pretending to be a party planner, who would never achieve anything except a broken heart, broken dreams, and a huge pile of debt. And not only that, the party was for a little boy and his family who so desperately needed one.
Murder in the Park (Fran Finch Cozy Mystery Book 1) Page 3
