15. An Event To Die For
Chapter fifteen
An Event To Die For
I ’d never given into the temptation of asking Anne-Marie to use her powers of gossip for my own benefit.
Mostly because I’d never had that temptation since it was pretty hard to be tempted by something you never had to ask for.
Because no matter what, no matter if I knew a person or not, no matter if she was told it in confidence or witnessed it first-hand, no matter if it was actually of interest to literally anyone in the world but her, Anne-Marie would tell whoever would listen everything she knew.
Unfortunately, that didn’t seem to be the case at Arthur Kroft’s funeral. Because the information I wanted wasn’t important information at all, but Anne-Marie seemed infuriatingly incapable of talking about anything aside from the situation at hand.
No matter how hard I tried to direct her towards the topic.
“They are saying it was a heart attack,” she whispered as we slowly entered the sanctuary of the Notre Dame Basilica before the service. “But I have it on very good authority that it was a—” She cut herself off and glanced around. Whether it was to make sure no one was listening or to make sure someone would definitely overheard, I didn’t know, but once she was satisfied, she leaned towards me again, accidentally making Remy veer in the same direction. “—a cocaine overdose.”
“Really?” I murmured. “I thought he was in his sixties.”
“That does not mean he doesn’t use cocaine. Or, well, did not use cocaine. I imagine that is part of why his daughter is so destroyed since she was in rehab just last year. But some people are saying she’s destroyed because he had a huge stake in the Martelle group and it’s all been left to her sister, which is simply ridiculous.” She scoffed. “I swear, people will say anything these days.”
“That’s the ridiculous part?” I asked.
“Of course, chérie .”
“You told me he left a Manhattan penthouse to an albino fennec fox that you then said died five years ago after his groomer mixed up pet shampoo with neon yellow hair dye.”
“Yes, but he did not have two daughters,” she said. “There is no way Paige Martelle has a sister I have never heard of.”
“Right,” I said, glancing around as I spotted my dad and Kimberlee talking to Anne-Marie’s parents, along with Marc-Andre, in a pew about halfway through the sanctuary. “Although, speaking of siblings…”
“Oh, yes!” she said, her volume pitching up a bit more than intended and cutting through the indistinct chatter underscoring the mournful music in the church. “That is right. I’d also heard his brother is attempting to claim Arthur’s stake in the Martelle group. But Pia—the actual founder of the brand—is adamant that it stay in the family, and since she and Arthur were not married, that does not include him, and he’s refusing to attend the funeral because of it.”
“Wow,” I said. “I can’t believe someone’s brother wouldn’t attend a funeral.”
“I know.” She shook her head. “It’s so sad.”
“Like, imagine if one of your brothers didn’t attend your other brother’s funeral. What would cause something like that?”
“Oh, I cannot begin to imagine,” she said, shaking her head again. “I am sure they would have a good reason for it, though. My brothers are much more reasonable than Arthur Kroft or his brother seems to be. Although—oh!” She pressed her hands together in a soft, single clap. “You will never guess what Remy’s brother did last week!”
I glanced at Remy, trying not to grit my teeth in frustration. “What’d your brother do?”
A proud half-smile spread on Remy’s lips. “He proposed to his girlfriend. Fiancée, now, I guess.”
Which I begrudgingly had to admit was exciting for him, even if it did make Anne-Marie launch into a spiel about who she thought Remy’s brother’s fiancée would ask to be in her wedding party and why she thought she might be on the list. That tangent went on until we’d joined our respective parents in the pew, so I didn’t have time to fish for information again despite sitting beside Anne-Marie. Partly because the funeral mass started before she’d finished, but mostly because my dad was sitting on the other side of me and would’ve probably decided it was time for me to make peace with the Lord for embarrassing him if we talked through the service when I was supposed to make him look good.
Because that was why I was there.
Prior to his funeral, I had no idea who Arthur Kroft was. I’d never heard of him, let alone met him. But unfortunately, I hadn’t watched my language when my dad called earlier in the week. So now, since the client my dad missed out on talking to because of how I’d offended the Thibaults at Harmonies for Hope might be here, I had to go to the funeral for a guy I’d never been in the same room with.
And that was really saying something, considering how many rooms I’d been with the people who had filled the sanctuary of the Notre Dame Basilica to pay their respects to a man who didn’t seem to deserve much respect.
It was the perfect backdrop for the funeral, though the funeral itself seemed to be a veil thinner than the one on the mourning hats some of the women were wearing for what was just another ostentatious social event. The soaring arched ceiling and rich colours complemented by gilded decorations and patterns housed air that had a melancholy stuffiness to it, that somehow smelled of rumination and stillness despite the hushed bustle of activity in the aisle and pews.
In hindsight, I should have expected it. I’d only attended a few other funerals in my life, and the ones I could actually remember were all like this. And I had a feeling the one I couldn’t remember was probably similar, since it was for my dad’s father, but I’d only been two when he died. My dad was in thirties when I was born, but his dad had been in his forties when he was born, so I had no memory of my grandpa.
I didn’t have many memories of any of my grandparents, actually. My dad’s mom had died when he was a kid and while his dad had remarried, my dad despised his stepmom and refused to talk about her or visit her. And my mom’s relationship with her parents had been tense ever since she got knocked up at twenty and married a guy significantly older than her. We’d visited their house in Newfoundland a couple of times when I was a kid, but those visits had stopped after my parents’ divorce. I didn’t understand it, but my mom didn’t like to talk about it.
Regardless, the point was that the only funerals I’d ever attended were for people my dad said I had to pay my respects to. They were always big affairs, most of them at the Notre Dame Basilica just like this one was, and I was never there because I needed the closure, whether that was of the casket or something else.
No, I was supposed to make my dad look like he had a heart. I was a prop to show off the caring, supportive, family-oriented man he claimed to be and earn him some brownie points with whoever he was supposed to be impressing.
So I couldn’t spend the service trying to pry more information from Anne-Marie. Which was fine. There was an exclusive, invite-only wake after the service that I’d been invited to for some reason and I’d be able to get answers from her then.
And then Arthur Kroft went and screwed me over.
“What does he mean, both their daughters?!” Anne-Marie hissed during the homily, when the priest mentioned Arthur finding peace with the Lord would surely be of comfort to his life partner, Pia, and both their daughters. “ Both ?!”
She wasn’t the only one stunned by the revelation that Arthur did, in fact, have two daughters. A wave of hushed astonishment rolled through the church, the kind that made it clear that this was big news.
Which meant that Anne-Marie couldn’t be swayed into talking about literally anything else.
“Wow, there are a lot of people here,” I said as she, Remy, and I sauntered into the parish hall for the wake. “Pretty much everyone who’s anyone.”
“And you think at least one of them would know something,” Anne-Marie replied, her forehead wrinkled with a mix of grumpiness and calculations as she tried to figure out the puzzle of Arthur Kroft’s other daughter.
“Yeah, that’s crazy that no one knows,” I said. “But you’d have to have a pretty good reason not to be here, eh?”
“Yes, exactly.” She sighed, twisting her mouth to the side as she observed the room. “Perhaps she is also dead.”
“His other daughter?” Remy asked.
Anne-Marie nodded. “It would explain why only Pia and Paige were part of the funeral procession.”
“They would have mentioned that in the homily,” Remy said. “Or in the program. It said he was predeceased by his parents and sister, so if he had a daughter who died, they would have included her.”
Anne-Marie’s mouth scrunched into a tight pucker. “Yes, I guess so.”
“What a mystery.” I sighed and glanced around performatively. “I wonder if there’s anyone missing from here we should tell about this.”
“Oh, I am certain everyone will know by the end of the day,” she said, then caught sight of someone she knew. “Oh! Bonjour, Michele!”
“Anne-Marie!” A curvy girl with fiery red hair and skin so smooth it looked like she had a live filter on it side-stepped a few people to make her way over to us. “You must tell me, what did you make of hearing about—”
“The other daughter?” Anne-Marie finished. “I know. Is it not astounding that—”
I groaned internally, tuning out Anne-Marie’s voice and glancing around the room.
The parish hall was a large space with marble floors and an old stone wall along one side of the room. Along with a catering spread, there were wine spritzers and a cocktail people kept calling a Cheeky Sham-Sham, which was a signature drink Arthur Kroft said he invented. I wasn’t entirely sure Arthur Kroft was the first person to put Chambord in champagne, but I’d call it whatever they wanted to call it as long as they kept serving them. The room itself was filled with a sea of black-clad mourners, some faking an appropriately solemn tone so they looked like they were better people than they were and others not even bothering to pretend it was anything but an excuse to be seen at a who’s who event.
My dad was one of the former, currently wearing a serious, intent look as he spoke to a group of men. Next to him, Kimberlee had her hand on an older woman’s forearm, a sympathetic look on her face as the woman spoke. After the service, I’d hung behind while Anne-Marie stopped to talk to someone or another, promising my dad I’d catch up with them at the wake so I would be around to prove that Max Belanger was more than an ice-cold businessman.
But he was busy and probably wouldn’t want me to interrupt him. And since Anne-Marie was preoccupied and also useless in answering the thing I wanted to know, it was up to me to figure it out myself.
Because yeah, someone might have insisted he’d rather drink hot dog water than go to an event, but I would’ve thought funerals were an exception to that. If he’d found a way to get out of going to funerals, I wanted to know what it was so that if it ever came up again, I’d be able to get out of it, too.
That was obviously the only reason I pulled my phone out of the small clutch purse I was carrying.
No other reason at all.
Me
So how’d you get out of this
JP was usually pretty quick to respond, so I watched my screen after it sent. Still, I was a bit surprised when the checkmarks showing he’d read my message appeared almost instantly.
Bastard
Hello to you too. Get out of what?
Me
The fashion show/funeral. How’d you convince your parents you didn’t have to come to the most morbid fashion event of the season?
The checkmarks appeared right away again, but unlike the first message, his response didn’t come through right away. It was long enough that I saw the bubble appear to show he was typing, but it disappeared a moment later. Biting my lip, I tapped my fingers on the side of my phone.
Me
Come on. Help a girl out so she doesn’t get dragged to the next one
Again, the checkmarks appeared, followed by the typing bubbles. I didn’t know what could possibly make JP hesitate like this before responding, but the whole thing was leaving a squeeze of anxiety in my chest that I wasn’t a fan of.
Though, that disappeared completely when the most boring reply in existence came through.
Bastard
Unfortunately, I just couldn’t make it. Give my condolences to everyone in the room who has to suffer through the absence of my presence.
Me
Asshole
Bastard
I thought that had to wait until after the Diamond Gala, but if you’re offering…
I scrunched my nose, trying not to laugh, even though there was no way for JP to know if I’d laughed or not.
“What’s so funny?” a voice asked.
I barely looked up before an arm slid around my shoulder and barely processed the arm belonged to Clinton Thibault before turning my screen off as quickly as I could.
Unfortunately, Clinton was tall—not quite as tall as JP, but taller than both Anne-Marie and Remy—and not only had been looking at my phone, but given the disgusting leer on his face, had definitely seen what the messages said. I panicked for all of a second before my brain caught up and reminded me that JP had been in my phone as “Bastard” from the moment he’d texted me at the start of the summer.
Even still, I tried not to show the way my heartbeat tripped over itself and squirmed away from Clinton. “Nothing. Why are you touching me?”
He chuckled but thankfully lowered his arm instead of reaching for me again. “I just wanted to say hi. And something seemed to be pretty funny. What was that about the Di—”
“It’s literally none of your business,” I snapped.
He stuck his lower lip out, faking a pout. “Oh, but unfortunately, it is actually my business.”
“How is it your business, Clinton, dear?” Anne-Marie asked, her voice cold as she abandoned the conversation she’d been having so she could turn to me. “Since Nellie is not your date for that event, I do not see why it would be relevant to you in any way.”
Clinton’s tongue poked out, wetting his lips so a small smile grew on his face like mold. “Well, that’s exactly why it’s relevant, Anne-Marie. I don’t think it’s any secret that I’d love to get to know Nellie better, so I’m playing along with her little game of ‘hard to get.’”
“I’m not playing hard to get,” I said. “You’re just hard to want .”
I blurted the words without thinking first and nearly winced as I remembered the consequences of insulting Clinton. But instead of another fake-pout or a sneer that said he was about to go tell his daddy on us for being mean to him, his mouth twitched into a wider smile that was the visual equivalent of cockroaches scuttling across a floor.
“Tell me who you’re going with and I’ll tell you why I’m the better option,” he said.
“I don’t know who I’m going with yet,” I lied, since Anne-Marie was right there and the last thing I needed was for this to be how she found out JP and I were going to the gala together. “But it won’t be you. I don’t know how to make it any clearer that I don’t like you, Clinton.”
“Give me a chance and I’ll change your mind.”
“I guarantee you won’t,” I said, then almost shivered because my voice was so cold it reminded me of my dad. “It’s pretty bold of you to think you even could.”
“Bold of you to think I couldn’t,” he replied. “Seeing as even your dad keeps suggesting we get together.”
“Her dad makes her go with you as a punishment,” Remy said, his deep voice soft but firm. “You know that, right, man?”
“Maybe he makes her go with me because he knows what’s best for her,” Clinton replied, his eyes still boring into mine before he flicked them down, then back up, the slime of his gaze making my stomach roll with nausea. “Kind of like I do. Because I know I’d be good for you, Nellie. Better than whoever that bastard you’re texting is.”
Luckily for Clinton, he punctuated his statement by walking away, as if leaving me hanging would make me want him or something. Between that, Remy stepping forward, and Anne-Marie grabbing my arm, I couldn’t reach Clinton in time to make him the second dead body in the church that day.