“Corinne,” Jonathan said now, touching her hand. “I can’t imagine what your family is going through. It’s such a tragedy.”
Corinne smiled tightly. “Thank you for your sympathy.”
She tried to move on, but he gripped her hand. “Healing takes time,” he added, his mouth close to her ear. “The business will always be there. I wish I had been able to tell Poppy that. I know she was struggling.”
He stared at her patiently, as if she was supposed to know what he was talking about. Struggling . . . with what? Her parents’ death? And was he suggesting that Corinne—or Saybrook’s in general—just let business drop? Gemologique would love that. Maybe she should just wrap up their market share with a neat little bow and hand it over.
Corinne moved down the aisle. Most of her family was at the front of the church. Edith, Mason, and Penelope sat in the first pew along with Natasha’s parents, Candace and Patrick, who were sobbing. James sat there too, watching blankly as Briony waddled down the aisle. One of the nannies, Megan, chased after her. Skylar sat politely next to James, a numb look on her face.
Corinne slid into the second pew, her heart physically aching. She pressed a hand to her sternum, understanding where the word heartbreak came from; that those little girls would grow up without their mother, and that she would grow old without her cousin, seemed impossible. Corinne remembered traipsing around the family’s farm, renaming all the potbellied pigs and Belted Galloways. Poppy was so diplomatic, allowing each cousin to take turns picking a name, all the way from Natasha up to Rowan, but hers were always the prettiest. Corinne could still remember a lot of them: Briar Rose. Hadley. Elodie. Poppy’s mother had given them poster paints and allowed them to decorate a wall of the barn with all the new names; as far as Corinne knew, the names were still there.
Dixon was waiting for her at the end of the bench, his hair slicked back from his face. He wore a black suit and shiny wingtips. As she moved next to him, he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her tight. “You okay?” he asked softly.
“No,” Corinne said miserably. She looked down at the program. There was a picture of a funereal bouquet of white roses on the cover. Inside was a recent shot of Poppy, a few wisps of her blond hair blowing across her face, and underneath, her birth and death dates. Corinne’s throat felt like it was on fire.
Someone on the other side of Dixon leaned over and peered at Corinne. Natasha’s eyes were wide, her dark hair was mussed, and her fingernails were bitten to the quick. Melodramatic tears streamed down her cheeks, and she looked as if she hadn’t slept. The same program was in her lap too. “Hey,” she whispered.
“Hey,” Corinne answered stonily, staring straight ahead. After years of absence, it felt almost intrusive that Natasha was here now.
Years ago they’d all been so tight, making up dance routines on the sand at the private beach, rehearsing pretend Saybrook’s commercials in the attic, giggling over the older boys that came to the family parties. Like many only children, Natasha had clung to Corinne, confiding that she saw her as a big sister. And Corinne saw Natasha as the little sister she’d wished Aster had been. But all that had changed when Natasha disinherited herself. She wanted nothing to do with the family—not even Corinne. She didn’t answer Corinne’s calls and started giving negative sound bites about the family to the press. Corinne had taken it personally. What had she done to Natasha?
At the same time, Corinne could practically hear Poppy in her ear, telling her to give Natasha a chance, coaxing her to include Natasha in her wedding party, as Poppy had done. “We’re family,” Poppy had insisted. “One day you’ll reconcile, and you’ll regret that she wasn’t standing by your side.”
“It’s unbelievable.” Natasha’s voice was choked.
“Umm-hmm,” Corinne murmured.
“I can’t believe the note . . . ,” Natasha went on.
Corinne nodded faintly. It hadn’t even sounded like Poppy.
“Did she reach out to you?” Natasha hounded.
Corinne stared at her cousin over Dixon’s lap. “No, Natasha,” she said, hearing her voice rise. “Because if she had, I would have helped her, and she would still be here.”
The organ music began to play, and the clergy at the front of the church indicated that everyone should rise. Corinne did so, watching as the rest of the congregation around her did the same. And then they began the process of saying good-bye to the most flawless Saybrook of all.
Two hours later, after a reception at the University Club, Corinne and the other cousins, including Winston, Sullivan, and even Natasha, tumbled out of town cars at Seventy-Third and Park Avenue and walked up the stairs of Edith’s Queen Anne revival mansion.
The twenty-foot-wide town house was faced in brick and marble, with a regal-looking, peacock-blue front door. Today, though, Corinne barely noticed it, nor did she pause to smell her favorite peony bushes in the front garden, admire the sweeping staircase in the foyer, or ogle the enormous antique crystal chandelier that, secretly, she hoped one day to inherit. The room offered a floor-through view to the back of the property, which opened into a stunning garden and a glorious two-story waterfall, but Corinne saw none of that, either, as she walked through the hall and into the grand parlor, where everyone had gathered.
Megan was trying to corral Skylar and Briony near the first of the grand parlor’s two marble fireplaces. James sat next to them on a long couch, looking dazed. Corinne’s mother and Rowan’s parents, who’d flown in from Paris, were squashed in next to him, cupping mugs of coffee. Natasha’s parents sat across from them on a settee. A blond woman in a suit stood near the window, almost buried in Edith’s massive silk curtains.
“Who is that?” Corinne whispered to Rowan, realizing she’d also seen her at the church. Edith had asked the family to gather here, stressing that it was family only.
“No idea,” Rowan said, her face still shockingly pale.
Corinne, Rowan, and Aster sat on the couch opposite James and Rowan’s parents. Winston and Sullivan slumped against the wall, fiddling with their popped collars and their shaggy blond surfer-boy manes. Natasha settled on a silken slipper chair near the room’s second fireplace. She pulled out her cell phone and studied the screen while everyone got settled.
Finally Edith rose from her wing chair at the head of the room, wrapped her fur tightly around her, and dismissed one of her servants, who’d been pushing a silver drinks cart. “I know I’m not the only one who’s had questions about Poppy’s death,” she said gravely. “I’ve brought you all here to tell you that Poppy didn’t commit suicide. She was murdered.”
James quickly jumped up and signaled to Megan, who whisked the children into the back parlor. Aunt Grace glanced at Winston and Sullivan and swished them out of the room too. For a moment, everyone was silent.
“Mother,” Mason said feebly from the couch. “We’ve been through this.”
Edith set her jaw. “I’m not the only one who believes this.” She turned to the blonde by the window. “She’s going to prove it.”
The stranger stepped forward. She was a little older than Corinne, with wide blue eyes and an athletic figure. “Katherine Foley, FBI,” she said in a confident voice. Then she reached into her pocket and revealed a shield-shaped badge.
Mason winced. “Mother, you didn’t.”
Edith’s eyes flashed. “I most certainly did. And anyway, I trust Miss Foley. I know her.”
Everyone squinted. “You do?” Aster asked.
“How?” Mason piped up.
“I’m sure I do, but . . .” Edith looked scattered.
Agent Foley cleared her throat. “I’m afraid Mrs. Saybrook might have me confused with someone else,” she said delicately. “But you’re in the best hands.”
She pulled a Chippendale chair from the corner next to Edith and opened a laptop. “Edith came t
o me the day Poppy died, and I had my team look into things, including the note itself.”
She typed something on the laptop, then turned the screen to face the circle. It was Poppy’s note; next to it was a dialogue window. “The electronic signature on the file shows that Poppy wrote this note at 7:07 a.m. However, several witnesses say that Poppy’s body was on the ground at 7:05. A security camera on the building across the street that caught the lower part of her fall registered that time as well.”
James lowered his coffee cup. “What does that mean?”
Edith raised her palms. “A woman can’t write a suicide note after she’s dead.”
Mason looked skeptical. “Could the clocks have been off?”
Foley turned the laptop back to face her. “We checked that, but the clock on Poppy’s computer matches the security camera across the street exactly. We have to entertain the possibility that someone else wrote that note to make Poppy’s death look like a suicide.”
Aster shot forward. “What a minute. What?”
“Someone pushed her?” Rowan asked, and for a moment Corinne wondered if she sounded almost relieved.
“We don’t want to make any rash conclusions,” Foley said. “Unfortunately, the security camera from the building across the street didn’t extend high enough to give us a view into Poppy’s office. There were no witnesses.”
Rowan’s brother, Michael, touched his forehead. “Not one person?”
“We’re still asking around. It’s early yet.”
“What about the autopsy?” James asked.
“The full report isn’t in yet, but so far there’s nothing conclusive either way,” Foley said. “Poppy fell from about fifty feet, and that’s all the findings show. But the discrepancy between her time of death and the time of the suicide note is concerning. One might argue that a bystander was in her office the whole time and typed the note at Poppy’s request after she jumped. But why wouldn’t that person come forward? It doesn’t add up. And because of that, we’re officially opening this as a murder investigation.”
“I knew this wasn’t a suicide,” Edith said tightly. “But who would hurt our Poppy?”
“We have to figure out what exactly happened to Poppy the morning of her death. Who was in her office? Why were they there? Do we know if anyone might have been mad at Poppy for any reason? Someone inside the company, for instance? Or perhaps a business rival?” Foley asked.
Corinne’s skin prickled. Jonathan York’s smarmy smile. I know she was struggling.
“I’m not assuming anything,” Foley went on quickly. “Unfortunately, Poppy’s office doesn’t have a camera in it, and the camera in the elevator bank didn’t show anyone getting off the elevators around the time of Poppy’s murder. But whoever it was could have taken the stairs, where there are no cameras.”
Rowan cleared her throat. “Didn’t the guards on the floors notice anyone coming out of Poppy’s office?”
“It’s a skeleton crew before actual business hours. Most people, including most of the guards and all of Poppy’s assistants, weren’t at work yet, so we don’t have a complete picture. We’re looking into electronic data from keycards used to get into the building and onto certain floors. We’ll interview anyone who was in the building at that time.”
Corinne frowned. “What about the surveillance video from the lobby?”
Foley pulled at her collar. “We haven’t finished going through it yet. But we’ll match the people seen there to the keycard data as well.”
“What about fingerprints from Poppy’s keyboard?” Natasha piped up, her throaty voice surprising everyone. “If someone else typed her note, they’d be there, right?”
Foley nodded as if she’d anticipated the question. “We dusted the keyboard. But the only match was Poppy’s fingerprints. No one else’s. The killer could have worn gloves, though. That would indicate the murder was premeditated—the killer might have anticipated killing Poppy before going into her office. It’s not exactly glove weather.” She gestured at the sunny sky outside, then cleared her throat. “Based on all of this, I’ll need to speak with each of you separately.”
Natasha looked annoyed. “But I don’t even work at Saybrook’s.”
Corinne could hardly process everything she was hearing. Poppy hadn’t killed herself; she’d been murdered. Whoever had done this had been inside the Saybrook’s office, and had known Poppy would be at work unusually early.
“You don’t think we’re suspects?” Corinne heard herself ask.
“Of course not,” Foley said, but she didn’t look any of them in the eye. “But I do need to know where you all were that morning, just for due diligence. I also want to know if you know anything about Poppy that might indicate why someone would want to hurt her. If she made mistakes at work—or if she dabbled in drugs, got mixed up with dangerous people who might have a motive to hurt her.”
“Poppy?” Rowan sputtered. “Poppy was . . . perfect,” she finished, sadly.
And she was, Corinne thought. She imagined Poppy here, her ghost flitting from seating area to seating area, thanking everyone for coming, remembering the smallest details of everyone’s lives—names of pets, summer plans, the old yacht Natasha’s father was rebuilding.
“You never know,” Foley said. “And I don’t mean to worry all of you, but there’s also the possibility that this could be personal to the Saybrooks.”
Mason frowned. “Meaning?”
Foley cleared her throat. “You’re a prominent family. A lot of people are envious of you. Someone might want to hurt you because of your power, your wealth, your influence—or perhaps just to knock you down a few pegs.”
Mason waved his hand. “Please.”
“I would take this seriously,” Foley warned. She typed something else into her laptop, then spun the screen around again. A familiar website appeared. The website.
Foley scrolled down the page. Below the banner with the site’s name was a large headline that took up the whole screen. “One Heiress Down,” it read. “Four to Go.”
The room fell silent. Corinne’s stomach sank to the floor, and her mind went blank. The only sounds were thumps from the back parlor, where Poppy’s children were playing.
“W-who wrote that?” Rowan stammered.
“We don’t know,” Foley said. “We’re trying to figure that out. We’ve tracked the website’s latest update to the IP address for a computer at the New York Public Library. They don’t keep thorough records of who uses the machines, but we’re trying to get video feeds of the rooms to see if that yields anything. This could just be public speculation, someone’s idea of a sick joke. But it could also be much more sinister. ”
“Are you saying that we might be next?” Corinne whispered.
“I’m saying to take this seriously, and if it is, we’ll keep you safe,” Foley said, and then closed the laptop with a solid click. She turned to Edith. “Thank you very much for welcoming me into your home, Mrs. Saybrook. I’ll be in touch.”
Mason, Penelope, Edith, and Rowan’s mother, Leona, jumped up to follow the agent out. James slipped out of the room to check on his children. Soon the only people left were the cousins. Corinne’s head whirled.
One heiress down. Four to go.
Finally Rowan breathed in. “Who would want to kill Poppy?”
“Who would want to kill us?” Aster whispered.
Natasha was staring, unblinking, her face set with determination. All at once, something she’d said to People when she disinherited herself crossed her mind. The Saybrooks aren’t what they seem. I need to surround myself with better people.
Natasha finally lowered her eyes, but Corinne was still shaken to the bone. She couldn’t wrap her mind around any of this, but one thing was clear. Someone had murdered Poppy. And one of them might be next.
UNCORRECTED E-PRO
OF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollinsPublishers
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8
A few days later, Rowan stood at James’s door in the hall of the Dakota. When she’d been here for Skylar’s birthday, the air had been festive and happy. Now, someone had left a bouquet of flowers for Poppy on the doorstep. Rowan scooped them up and rang the bell.
James opened the door, his hair standing up and dark bags under his eyes. He wore a fitted T-shirt anddark denim jeans, and was barefoot.
“Thanks so much for coming,” he said. He’d called her fifteen minutes ago in a panic, saying the nanny had a family emergency, Briony was sick, and Skylar needed cupcakes for preschool the next day. A thrill had run through her—of everyone in his life, James had called her. Instantly, though, she’d felt horrified that such a petty thing had crossed her mind, and she’d lapsed back into the guilt and grief that had consumed her all week. Her cousin was dead, and Rowan had betrayed her in her final hours.
She didn’t make eye contact with James as she swept into the apartment toward the kids in the living room. A Disney cartoon was on the flat-screen; glitter and paste littered the heavy wooden coffee table. Briony was sitting on the floor, staring listlessly at an electronic toy that was singing the ABCs. Skylar was on the couch, dressed in a pink satin princess gown and a silver tiara, and holding a silver magic wand. Tears ran down her cheeks.
When she saw Rowan, Skylar ran to her and carefully hugged Rowan’s legs. Even at three years old, she was a little heiress in training. “Aunt Rowan, I’ve missed you.”
Rowan picked her up. The little girl wrapped her arms around Rowan’s shoulders tightly. Another wave of sadness overtook her as she realized that Skylar would never get a hug from her mom again.
“Did Daddy tell you I need cupcakes?” Skylar said when Rowan put her down. “It’s my turn!”
“How about we go to Magnolia Bakery?” Rowan suggested. “Or Crumbs?”
The Heiresses Page 8
