Chapter 4
I’m not sure of the dimensions, but the mansion is enormous by huge, and it’s surrounded by a thick forest. We had driven for at least a half an hour, and we’re outside of Boston. I’m pretty sure we’re in Newton, but without paying attention, I can’t say. The mansion is Victorian and dark, but that might just be because it’s night. Hard to tell with the minimal lights aimed for walkways and driveways instead of the building itself, so it’s underlit and ominous.
“If it weren’t for all the people standing around in formalwear, I’d swear this is where Scooby Doo and the gang would find the masked villain.”
Callie giggles, and we get out of the limo to stand in the entry line. Thankfully, it’s swift, and we’re inside the warm, opulent mansion in no time flat. The foyer features a golden and pearl chandelier that makes the entire room glow. Ivory walls with mahogany wainscotting rise to a domed ceiling. The floors are mahogany, too, or at least, they look like it. I was never one for architecture or interior design. But the dark wood floors gleam in the warm light. Black velvet ropes line a path from the entrance to guide us to the left.
It’s crowded inside and we’re ushered off to the left, slowly shuffling with the crowd to the west wing, according to the hosts who stand by the velvet ropes. To get there, we travel down a wide hall that mimics the look of the foyer. Enormous paintings hang in the hallway. Real art. No reproductions. I have a sneaking suspicion I’m about to be kicked out at any moment, and if I touched one of the paintings, I’d be sent to a deep, dark prison for life.
“This place is like a museum.”
Callie laughs, then sees I’m serious. “You read the sign outside, right?”
“No.”
“Oh. This is the Chamberlain Museum. It’s a historical landmark. The auction is to benefit it.”
Glancing around, I note, “Pretty sure they don’t need more money.”
“All of what you see is carefully maintained. If it weren’t, this place would fall apart. Buildings this old need a lot of care.”
I neglect to point out the money could go to a worthier cause, because Callie is into this. “The museum would be a nice venue for a wedding or something. The pictures would be stunning.”
Her head bobs in agreement. “To be honest, I’d sort of hoped to steer the conversation that way with Daniel. Maybe get him to start thinking of weddings. And me.”
“Callie! It’s that serious?”
She takes a long, nervous pause. “I think so.”
“Be sure before you start that talk. You can’t unstart it.”
“I know, I know.”
The west wing has several rooms, and a sign marks the location of the auction itself. We walk into a ballroom, and inside, the auction is already active. It’s a silent auction, thankfully. Not as brash as a stressful verbal auction with gavel banging and rapid fire bidders. Instead, the walls are lined with tables, featuring their items up for bids. Some have people standing nearby—local celebrities and a politician or two.
“Ballsy to offer yourself up for an auction.”
She titters, “Quiet. They’ll hear you.”
“I’m just saying, Callie. I mean, I know it’s for a good cause, but who wants to bid for a lunch with a local news anchor?”
“Look at his bid sheet.”
I casually glanced over, trying not to be obvious about it. There was a stack of filled bid sheets in front of him. “I’ll be damned.”
“You never know what rich people want.”
“Speaking of what rich people want, are you bidding on anything?”
“No. I’m saving up for a summer share in the Hamptons for next year.”
“Tired of Nantucket?”
She shrugs. “More like, I’m tired of summering with my family every year. I love them to pieces, but if I have to spend another summer listening to my sister whine about everything, I’ll tear her to pieces.”
“A murder in Nantucket?” I feign a gasp. “What would the neighbors say?”
“As if it’d be the first murder there?”
“Of course not, but I imagined you people brush that sort of thing under the Persian rug. Murder being so impolite, and all that.”
She snickers. “I promise not to get her blood on the Persian rugs.”
“Pretty sure we passed by a bar on our way in here.”
“Shall we?”
“We shall.”
So we make our way to the bar two rooms down from the auction ballroom. It is darker than the other rooms—the wainscotting travels up forest green walls instead of ivory and the chandeliers are turned down low. Small high-top tables litter the space, and each of the spindly things is better quality than anything in my home. The bar itself is a long, dark wood thing with a thickly glossed top. After we order, it’s time for people watching.
A woman in her mid-thirties comes next to us, ignoring the men ogling her. She orders some kind of whiskey I’ve never heard of, then turns to face the crowd like we have. Her dress is a floor length nude-toned number that is impossible to ignore.
Callie gives her a quick glance. “Your dress is Matiradonna?”
“You have an eye for fashion. I just returned from Paris last week.”
Her lips pinch in curiosity. “She’s out of New York.”
“Not for her private clients.”
It takes a lot to impress Callie, and this woman has done it. “It is all but impossible to get on her list.”
“The Maestra has become a good friend over the years. Admittedly, it took some persistence. But I’m no quitter.”
“I’m Callie Brown.” She thrusts her hand out to the beautiful stranger. “This is June Devlin.”
“Camille Cardo. A pleasure to meet you,” she says, as she looks us over. Her gaze lingers on me. “Both of you.”
“Likewise,” I tell her, unsure of what to say to her. Callie is a high-class woman who comes from a good family. A beautiful, preppy girl next door, if that door belonged to a home on Nantucket.
Camille is something else. White, very thin, with glimmering long brown hair that wreaks of money. Her bright green eyes smile even when she doesn’t. There’s something exotic about her, and I can’t put my finger on it.
She knocks back her drink. “That should get me ready for the next auction.”
“There’s a second auction?” Callie asks.
“Yes, and I’ll be taking part, so I’m glad they carry my brand of whiskey. Helps to set the mood.”
Now, I’m the nosy one. “Set the mood?”
Her red lips form a perfect O and she stops herself from speaking for a breath. But then she smiles. It’s feline and seductive, and if I were a man, I’d be on my knees for this woman. She is wild—it’s written all over her. But she tells us, “Never mind. Forget I mentioned it.”
Callie laughs. “As if we could now. Come on, you can tell us. We don’t know anyone here, anyway.”
“The auction is …” She leans forward to speak quietly. “Rather illicit. It’s not for you.”
I’m halfway to rolling my eyes, but curiosity is a beast. “Camille, we’re lawyers. Pretend you gave us a dollar so you have attorney-client privilege.”
She laughs musically, then sighs as she smiles. “Very well, then. I suppose I can tell my attorneys anything. This evening, I will be auctioning myself off to some gentleman who will pay an exorbitant fee for my … time.”
“You’re a sex worker?” I whisper, fascinated. I’d always wanted to meet one, but had been too scared to call one up. Not that I wanted to use their services. The idea of sex as an occupation had always intrigued me, though.
“That is one way of seeing it. But I work one night a year, so it’s hard to call it that.”
“One night a year? That’s too good to be true.”
She smiles. “You know, they would eat the two of you up at the auction. You have a … freshness about you.”
Callie frowns, and I’m not sure if I’m flattered by that depiction or not, but my curiosity has grown into a full thirst-for-knowledge.
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