Chapter 3
Three
I knew that voice and it was the stuff of nightmares.
Okay, so maybe that was a slight exaggeration. It wasn’t a banshee.
It was Hyacinth Maxwell, who sounded like a banshee but acted like another “b” word.
We’d gone to school together and she was also a legacy member of the Society. Her family had been in New Orleans since the 1840s, which was after my family, who were French and had allegedly been there since New Orleans was nothing but a swamp. In other words, my ancestors were clearly nuts.
I had grown up in Lakeview because my parents wanted to be part of the post-Katrina rebuild, but in the grand family tradition I had attended the Academy of the Sacred Heart all-girls school on St. Charles in the Garden District.
Hyacinth’s parents had been locked in a crucial battle with each other—Catholic or non-denominational prep school.
Hyacinth’s mother had won the battle and we had entered Sacred Heart together right from jump—kindergarten.
Thirteen years of forced proximity with Hyacinth Maxwell was twelve and a half years too many for my taste.
Turning, I pasted a smile on my face and prepared to endure a heavy round of what-are-you-doing-now questions. I hated these questions and they were precisely the reason I had every intention of skipping my ten year high school reunion this upcoming summer.
“Hyacinth, hi. You look great,” I said. My voice sounded weak even to my own ears.
She did look great, in a fitted buff colored dress, her hair artfully arranged to look effortless. Whatever. She was still a mean girl.
“Thanks.” She touched her bracelets. “David Yurman.”
“What?” I asked, blankly. “Is that your boyfriend?” I looked around for David Yurman.
Hyacinth laughed. “Harper, you were always so hilarious!”
It took me right back to being sixteen. Harper is so funny, omg!
In other words, mean girl code for you’re not cool. I didn’t really care then and I definitely don’t care now.
She leaned forward and air-kissed me. “Let’s catch up later, gotta mingle!”
“Sure. Great.” I tried not to gag or roll my eyes. I would be polite to Hyacinth but only because the Society was important to my great-aunt Odette and I didn’t want to “cause a scene.” If I ran into Hyacinth at the coffee shop though, all bets were off.
As Hyacinth strutted up the front walk like it was her personal runway, Vivienne looped arms with me. “David Yurman is a jewelry designer,” she murmured under her breath. “If you care.”
“Not really,” I said. “But thank you. That makes more sense. Though does it? Because why was she just cataloguing her jewelry to me?”
“It’s a trend,” Vivienne told me. “Don’t ever look up sorority rush outfits on social media.”
That made me blurt out, “Dear God, why would I ever do that?”
“It’s a thing. Fascinating, really. A peep into emerging pop culture and social pressures.”
“Hmm.” Not fascinating to me, but I spent my Tuesdays talking murder, so too each their own.
Belle Rêve Manor rose up in front of us, all white columns and smooth stucco.
The magnolia trees flanked the drive in full extravagant bloom.
Candlelight flickered in every window, and if they were battery-lit, I couldn’t tell the difference.
I could hear Reginald muttering facts about the architecture behind me.
I wasn’t sure who he thought was listening.
Or maybe he was just reiterating them to himself.
“Antebellum Greek Revival. Note the stucco over the brick to mimic marble and protect against the damp in New Orleans. The symmetry is impeccable. What I wouldn’t give to measure each of these windows. These are cornices to behold!”
A glance back showed he was actually talking into his phone, so he was recording notes. It made it decidedly less weird, though I kept eyeing the house wondering what cornices to behold looked like.
“I was told by the curator that the walls contain bousillage, the early building material consisting of a mixture of swamp mud, Spanish moss, and deer hair.”
“That’s in the walls?” Vivienne murmured to me. “That’s more than a little disgusting.”
She’d let go of my arm but was still walking side by side with me.
“I one hundred percent agree. That feels very earthy.”
“It was packed between studs to provide solid insulation for interior and exterior walls,” Reginald said loudly, obviously offended by our response.
“I’d like to be packed between studs,” Vivienne murmured.
We both giggled.
Reginald made a sound of disgust and promptly parted ways with us, heading to the front porch.
Hey, if you can’t take a stud joke, are you even in architecture?
That was my stance.
There was a bar already doing brisk business in mint juleps and clusters of guests were gathered around hightop tables as servers moved around the terrace and lawn with trays of nibbles.
String music floated out from the gazebo, where the musicians were setting the tone with elegant and unhurried classical music.
“Well,” Taylor said, taking in the scene, “can’t say the Society doesn’t know how to set a mood.”
“What mood is that?” Allison asked.
I couldn’t tell if she was being facetious or not. I did think she looked underdressed in what I would classify more as a sundress than evening wear. She didn’t look concerned or self-conscious though and I applauded her for not bowing to convention.
“It’s beautiful,” Vivienne murmured, already filming, sweeping her camera slowly across the front facade, the candlelit windows, the magnolia blossoms nodding in the evening breeze.
We made our way up the wide front steps, into a foyer that could have swallowed the entire ground floor of Midnight House. The three chandeliers were dripping crystals overhead, marble flooring beneath our feet, and a split staircase was center stage, the perfect backdrop to an elegant evening.
And there, at the center of the receiving line, in an ice-blue gown that probably cost more than my annual HVAC budget, was Evelyn Carrington.
Our gowns were very similar in color, which made me think I’d made a stellar choice, though the price tag of mine was probably missing a few zeros compared to hers. Hers was elegant without trying. Me? The jury was still out.
Harper, you always were hilarious!
Evelyn was, if anything, more commanding in person than memory had allowed.
Her silver hair was swept up in a style that looked effortless and she sported a sharp smile that reached exactly as far as it needed to and not one millimeter further.
She moved like the space belonged to her and always did.
“Good Lord,” I murmured under my breath. “She looks like she’s about to fire someone.”
“Give it time,” Allison said, leaning in like we were co-conspirators.
Evelyn’s eyes moved across the crowd with the brisk, assessing efficiency of someone taking inventory. When they landed on me, I felt the distinct sensation of being catalogued. She was one hundred percent remembering that I didn’t know how to hold a coup glass.
Our little group shuffled in and greeted the committee members.
“Harper Bergeron,” Evelyn said, extending a hand cool and dry as parchment. “Odette's girl. I do hope Midnight House is treating my guests well.”
“They’re very comfortable,” I said. “Thank you for the recommendation.”
Evelyn and the rest of the committee had allowed Midnight House to be on the Society’s website as a place to stay for out-of-town gala attendees. I was always looking for ways to fill my rooms.
“I don’t make recommendations lightly.” Her gaze slid, briefly, deliberately, over my shoulder—to Reginald, who had reappeared, mint julep in hand, then Taylor, then Allison, then Vivienne, each glance lasting exactly as long as it took to make its point before moving on.
“I find it useful, keeping certain people close. Under one roof, so to speak. Makes the weekend so much more efficient.”
There was something in the way she said it that didn’t sound like she meant logistics. I also didn’t understand the connection between these four guests. They were all random as far as I was concerned.
“I have no idea what you mean,” I said, before I could stop myself, because not only am I hilarious I kind of like to get to the point.
Evelyn's smile didn't waver, but something sharpened behind it. "Let's just say I've found that when the right people are gathered in the right place, the truth has a way of finding its own moment to come to light."
“Truth is stranger than fiction,” Allison commented.
I frowned. Vivienne gave an indelicate snort before covering her mouth with her hand and coughing.
Evelyn was unfazed, her gaze flicking once more toward my little cluster of guests, lingering half a second longer on Reginald than seemed accidental. "Don't you find that, Harper? That things have a way of rising up, given enough time and proximity?"
"I’ve heard that about sourdough," I said, aiming for lightness. "It really feels like bread is having a moment."
It didn't land the way I wanted it to. Evelyn's laugh was brief, polite, and entirely without warmth.
"Charming," she said, in a tone that suggested she found it anything but.
Then her gaze moved past me, already tracking the next arrival, already recalibrating for the next transaction.
"Enjoy the gala, Ms. Bergeron. Do try the juleps.
Family recipe. Silver straws, if you can believe it.
Great-grandmother's set. I insisted we use the real ones tonight.
Some things ought to be done properly, or not at all. "
How many silver straws did one family have?
I nodded because I didn’t know what to say to that.
“Hate to be the poor bastard who has to wash those,” Taylor commented.
“I would hate for you to be a lot of things,” Evelyn remarked, enigmatically. Then she was gone, sweeping toward a cluster of arriving guests aka donors with her hand already extended, her smile already recalibrated.