“Yeah, but nice doesn’t pay the electric bill,” I remind my husband. “How long can the Parks Center survive trying to fix that crumbling building with the proceeds from selling cupcakes and Christmas cookies?”
Sean sighs. “I know. Jared doesn’t seem so bad. At least he’s a business person, not a socialite.”
“Exactly,” Natalie says. “I’ve volunteered there for twenty years, and we’ve been skating closer and closer to the brink of financial disaster. Now, some poor investment decisions and an unexpected plumbing catastrophe are going to push us over the edge.”
Natalie places just one piece of bruschetta on her cocktail napkin. “Jared figured out how to raise money to launch his tech company, so he must know what he’s doing. He told Levi Jefferson that our board needed some rich people with connections to help solve our financial problems. And he recruited Loretta.” Natalie stares at Sean over the rim of her wine glass. “Do you want to be on the Board, Sean?”
“Hell, no! I have no patience for their long-winded meetings and endless squabbling.”
“Speaking of long-winded meetings, what’s taking Dad so long?” I glance at the clock on the oven—nearly seven.
Natalie fiddles with the tortoise shell pins keeping her chignon in place. “I hope the meeting is going well.”
Just as I’m about to text my father, Ethel leaves her post beneath the hors d’oeuvres and begins baying at the door. A moment later, Dad walks in. He greets his grand-dog with focused affection and then enters the kitchen.
Dad rests his walking stick against the counter so the carved goat’s head grins impishly at us, but he remains standing. The only visible effects of his stroke are a slurring of certain words and a slight unsteadiness on his feet late in the day, so he’s acquired a collection of jaunty sticks.
Natalie places her hand on top of Dad’s. There’s no mistaking the look of concern in her eyes. “How did it go?” she asks.
Dad shakes his head. Suddenly he looks small. Frail. Old.
“No money. No space. And Jared refuses to compromise on sharing the Coding Club computers. The Math Explorers won’t be launching any time soon.”
Chapter 3
THE SIDELINING OF MY father’s dream for a Math Explorers club has adjusted Sean’s attitude toward the fundraiser. He’s still complaining about the venue and the company, but at least he accepts the necessity of our presence. The party needs a few people to talk up the work of the Rosa Parks Center to the rich guests, and Sean is both passionate and very social.
The 1780 Club is in a turn of the 20th Century mansion in what used to be known as Millionaire’s Row. The Club itself predates the mansion, having been formed in 1780, the year George Washington and his troops were encamped at nearby Jockey Hollow. At that time, I imagine the club was a ragtag group of Patriots and officers in the Continental Army, drinking ale and hard cider in some smoky tavern. But over the centuries, it became a club for the sons and daughters of the founding families of Palmyrton. As the town became bigger and more prosperous, the 1780 Club outgrew its first home, and the second—a clapboard Georgian townhouse—burned to the ground when a member fell asleep in the lounge with a cigar dangling from his hand. The Club moved into its present home in the 1930s. All this I learned from Wikipedia because the 1780 Club doesn’t have a website.
Anyone who has to ask questions about the club isn’t entitled to know. It’s not the kind of club you join; it’s the kind of club you inherit a membership to.
We pull into the driveway behind a vintage Mercedes. The valet parker, an ancient fellow rather unsteady on his feet, exchanges some friendly banter with the elderly couple who emerge from the car. Then he hands over their vehicle to a much younger Hispanic man to be parked.
We’ve arrived in Sean’s five-year-old Camry, a chariot that, despite its dings and scratches, is still better than my ten-year-old Civic. The valet attendant approaches Sean’s window. “Your invitation?”
Before Sean can complain that he didn’t ask for the other guy’s invite, I lean across to hand it to him.
The old man glances at the parchment square, warped from my sweaty clutch, then accepts Sean’s key without comment. Is it my imagination, or is there a look of barely concealed incredulity on his face?
If this were some glitzy club where people rolled up in Maseratis, I think I’d be able to laugh off my Cinderella status. But the 1780 Club exudes a discreet air of “we know rules you are totally unaware of, so don’t even try to learn.” I find that a bit intimidating, but Sean certainly doesn’t. He places his hand on the small of my back and guides me up the stairs as if he’s been coming here all his life. I guess that’s the benefit of being a cop. When you’ve broken up domestic disturbances in fancy executive homes and revived prep school seniors from heroin overdoses, you know that no one is too exalted to have drawers full of dirty laundry.
If I were expecting glittery splendor, I’d be sorely disappointed. This is the patrician atmosphere that can’t be bought with mere money; it must be acquired with time. The dim foyer is lined with large portraits of pompous looking old men through the ages. The Oriental rug is worn to the backing in spots and the heavy crystal chandelier barely casts any light. A wide, curving staircase leads to a second floor open hallway lined with an ornate balustrade. I hear the low murmur of voices from a room down the hall, but no music or laughter.
We hesitate, uncertain of where to go. Sean heaves a sigh.
As if she heard it, Loretta Bostwick materializes from the shadows, a wraith in a black sheath dress with a sheer chiffon flounce. Her Ferragamo pumps tap toward us. She’s so impossibly thin, she must have her clothing custom made because I’ve never seen anything that tiny in a store for adults.
“Ah, welcome. So glad you were able to come.” Her breathy voice is only audible because the foyer is so silent. She reaches out to give my arm a squeeze, causing me to fumble because I thought she wanted to shake. Her skeletal hand, ice cold on my skin, seems like it might snap under the weight of the heavy pearl bracelet sliding past her wrist. Her pale champagne hair is tightly drawn back from her spookily smooth face. “The others are in the parlor.” The lids over her pale green eyes flutter and the tendons in her neck look stretched to the limit. “Robert will show you the way.”
A stooped African American man in a white jacket appears at her side and leads us down a long hallway. He opens a heavy double door, and we are dazzled by light and movement. It’s as if Robert has kicked open a very high-end ant colony. Waiters bearing trays of canapés move among clusters of heavy-drinking one-percenters, ice cubes clanking in their cut glass tumblers. A musician in the corner runs her long fingers over the strings of a tall, gilt harp. Scores of coifed heads pivot in our direction.
I sense an infinitesimal break in the chatter before everyone recognizes that we’re nobody and returns to their conversations. A woman in a dark red dress and droopy embroidered shawl comes fluttering toward us.
“Wow, there’s actually someone I know here. She’s an artist who—”
But Sean is already beating a retreat. “I’ll get us some booze,” Sean mutters, heading for the bar before the woman can trap him.
“Audrey, darling! What a lovely surprise!”
I forget the woman’s name but I remember her profession: she paints oil portraits of pets. She’s come to two of my sales to buy back her own work. Because, face it, no one wants to buy a painting of someone else’s Rover or Fluffy. But she can use the old portraits as sales tools to display in her gallery.
“Fabulous party! Loretta has outdone herself.” She grabs my elbow and whispers in my ear. “I’m thrilled Loretta invited me. Such an opportunity for me to show my work.” She whips her phone from her evening clutch. “Look at the portrait I did of Loretta’s dogs, Rex and Cleo.”
I’m a sucker for dogs, so I let myself be distracted from my networking mission. Rex and Cleo are brown and white English Pointers. In the painting, one sits and the other stands with o
ne paw lifted and his nose pointing. “Beautiful. Looks like Rex is about to jump off the canvas and chase a bird.”
She beams. “One of my best works. Well, if you meet anyone who wants a pet portrait, send them my way.”
I slither through the crowd toward my husband’s patch of red hair I can intermittently spot bobbing above shorter heads. As I slip through knots of party-goers, a strong hand grabs my elbow. “There she is! Just the girl who could solve all your problems, George.”
I stop and smile through gritted teeth at the “girl” comment. Two sixtyish men in charcoal gray suits and regimental stripe ties greet me with raised glasses of scotch. One looks vaguely familiar although he’s barely discernable from any of the other late middle-aged banker/lawyer types in the room. “Audrey helped a client of mine liquidate the assets in his mother-in-law’s home,” he explains to his companion, a mournful basset-houndy fellow.
Am I supposed to know who his client is when I don’t even remember who he is? I smile to encourage more clues, and he bails me out. “Bob Cranley. I stopped by the sale with my wife because she heard there was some kind of pottery there that she collects.”
“Oh, the Milhauser sale! Yes, Mrs. M had quite a collection of art pottery.” Now it’s coming back to me. Bob’s wife was a real bitch on wheels, dickering over the price of a small Arequipa vase with Ty until Bob finally pulled a wad of bills from his pocket, tossed two C-notes at Ty, and steered his wife out of the house. Bob, however, seems to have a fonder memory of our previous encounter.
“Audrey, George here has power-of-attorney for his sister, Birdie. She...well, she had to go into assisted living this week, and she has a big house full of stuff. He’s feeling overwhelmed by all the requirements of his position.”
George nods. His pouchy eyes grow watery. “She’s my only sibling. Early-onset Alzheimer’s. I can’t bear thinking about going through her things.”
“I’m so sorry—that’s a rough situation.” Before I can utter another word of sympathy, Bob is chattering again. “You can help him with the house, right? It’s in Melton.”
He actually winks at me! Melton is a wealthy enclave south of Palmyrton, so he knows I’ll be interested. This is exactly the kind of business I came here to rustle up. “Of course.” I smile reassuringly at George. “You keep a few mementoes and I’ll handle everything else. I could come by the house and provide an estimate this week. What day works for you?”
Looking like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders, George pulls out his phone and in a matter of minutes we’ve exchanged numbers and made an appointment for Tuesday. Elated, I say good-bye and pivot right into Sean’s cocktail-carrying hands. I grab my drink and beckon him into a quiet corner to deliver my news.
“Great,” Sean downs his scotch in one gulp. “Let’s go.”
“No! If my first encounter was that fruitful, I’ve gotta trawl for more. And you haven’t talked to a soul about the kids you coach and how the Parks Center helps them.”
“These people couldn’t care less about a bunch of black and brown and white poor kids. They’ve got enough worries trying to get their offspring into Ivy League schools—” Sean neatly sidesteps a tipsy woman before she douses him with vodka. “—and their wives into the Betty Ford Clinic.”
I’ve never seen Sean so prickly at a party. I was sure once I got him here he’d enter into the spirit of the event, but clearly I’m wrong. I glance around for someone who might lighten Sean up, and my gaze connects with Jared Bellack. He heads straight for us, his shaven head shiny under the light of the crystal chandeliers.
“Sean!” he slaps my husband on the back and pumps my hand when Sean introduces me. Then he wedges himself between us. “Hey man, there’s someone here I want you to meet.” He glances down at me through his trendy rimless glasses. “You don’t mind if I steal your date for a minute, Angie?”
Angie, Annie, Audrey—whatever. Jared hauls Sean off without waiting for either my correction or permission. They head toward a cluster of men talking to Levi Jefferson. I scan the group from the ground up: same black shoes, same gray suits, same white shirts, same sedate ties. Only above the shoulders are they different: five white faces and one black face. I wonder if it bothers Levi to be the only black man in the room apart from Robert, the butler. But Levi appears relaxed and chatty. Maybe he’s used to it.
Sean and Jared join the group. Now I’m free to resume mingling.
I plunge back into the crowd. But this time, success doesn’t drop into my lap. I don’t recognize a soul and everyone seems totally caught up in their own conversations. I try to remember the advice from my Bible, The Introvert’s Guide to Networking—make eye contact with someone else who’s alone or stand next to your target and wait to be included in the conversation—but I don’t spot any likely prospects for either maneuver. How does Maura do this so effortlessly?
After I’ve been wandering alone and friendless for what feels like half an hour (although it’s probably only been three minutes), I spot the flash of a familiar face in the crowd.
A black face. And not Levi.
Eager for a friend, I push in that direction without fully registering who the person is or how I know him.
I dodge around a cluster of partygoers and our eyes meet from a distance of twenty feet.
It’s Dennis Sykes, a guy in his late twenties who teaches martial arts at the Parks Center. He and my father sometimes talk politics and philosophy. Why would he be here? And why is he wearing that ugly tie?
Dennis’s eyes widen. He ducks his head and moves away without acknowledging me. When he turns, I notice his dreadlocks pulled back in a thick ponytail.
It clicks. Dennis is working the party, not attending as a guest. He’s a grad student in sociology at Rutgers. He must earn extra money as a waiter for the caterer Loretta hired for the party. Is he embarrassed to be seen passing trays of canapés to the rich and not-famous? Or is he under strict orders not to socialize with the guests?
As I contemplate my next move, a large man regaling a group in front of me steps backward right onto my peep-toe pump.
A gasp of pain escapes me, and the man turns. “Oh, pardon me. Are you all right?” He puts his hefty arm around me and draws me into his circle. “I’ve nearly crippled this lovely lady,” he says to his companions. Before long, I’m answering interested questions about my work and providing off-the-cuff art appraisals. See, these people aren’t so bad! Although I don’t score a direct hit as I did in the first encounter, I do feel that several of the women retained the name Another Man’s Treasure by the time the group dispersed. Good enough. As Maura repeatedly tells me, networking is a long game.
With all my nervous sipping, I’ve drained my wine glass, so I head to the bar for a refill. On the way, I pass Sean, who’s still in Jared’s armlock. The group has gotten smaller. Levi and some of the other men have moved on, and my husband is talking animatedly to a smaller group of people who seem genuinely engaged. So I press on to the bar. While I’m waiting for my wine, I eavesdrop on the two ladies next to me.
One is wearing a dress plastered with maroon, peach and green cabbage roses, a garment so ugly only a woman of astonishing wealth would have the confidence to wear it. The other is nondescript in a navy blue suit and a small gold brooch. Clearly lower on the status totem pole.
Flower Power glances over her shoulder then proceeds to speak in a voice I can easily hear. “I’m quite surprised Loretta chose to tackle such a large event.”
Blue Suit speaks more softly, but I think she says, “I didn’t think she had the strength, with the way she’s been feeling...”
I thought Loretta just lived by the “you can never be too rich or too thin” credo, but maybe her emaciation has medical causes.
“...and with everything going on with her son...” Blue Suit shakes her head.
I keep my gaze riveted on the bartender as if I’ve never before seen such adroit pouring of white wine. But my ears are sharply tuned. What’s
going on with Loretta’s son?
Flower Power emits a bosom-heaving sigh. “Crawford was such a sunny child. Now this. Stunning. You know, that’s why Frederic isn’t here tonight.”
Who’s Frederic? Oh right, the husband I encountered last night. The ladies take their wine glasses and drift away from the bar. I’m left wondering what Crawford has been up to, and why it’s caused his father to miss the party. Not that it’s any of my business. I take a gulp of wine to steel myself for one more foray around the room. Then I’ll snag Sean and we’ll head out to hear the band at Blue Monday. I could use a little R&B after all this tinkling harp music. And a bleu cheeseburger too. The mini-quiches and tiny skewers of salmon offered by the caterer aren’t very filling.
I become aware the decibel level in the room has gone down a degree. The harpist is taking a break. In the moment she steps away from her instrument, we hear a short, sharp cry.
Followed by a thump.
And then a male voice. “Lord Jesus, No!”
Chapter 4
SEAN RUNS TOWARDS THE sounds in the foyer.
I follow Sean.
A white-jacketed figure stands frozen at the end of the corridor leading to the foyer. Robert, the butler who showed us in. Sean moves the man aside, and I see a grimace cross my husband’s face. A second later I squeeze past Robert and see the source of the sounds.
Loretta Bostwick lies beside the staircase, her spindly legs splayed, her fragile arms outflung.
Her head twisted at an angle not compatible with life.
“I’m a doctor!” One of the guests runs down the hall and pushes past me. He stops short as he sees Loretta’s eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.
Sean turns to block him. “You can’t help her. Don’t move her body.”
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