Chapter 13
Thirteen
“Thanks for coming with me,” I told Maggie as we climbed the front steps to Dorthy Perrault’s house.
“Miss a hastily thrown together Celebration of Life for a woman more people were afraid of then not? Wouldn’t miss it.”
When we walked in, we realized hasty or not, Dorothy, or more likely the Society, would never anything to be referred to as “thrown together.”
The house had transformed into a flower paradise, with a full spread of food in the dining room, a bar with a dedicated bartender, and a wall-mounted TV displaying a rotation of photos of Evelyn.
There was a tasteful donation box “in memoriam” for a local children’s hospital and cancer research, with a thick tented card indicating it was Evelyn’s favorite charity.
“Because of the daughter,” a woman murmured as she and her friend took in the display. There was a QR code on the card and she scanned it with her phone. “I just did a hundred. Such a shame.”
“Daughter? I had no idea.”
“Oh, Lord, I always forget you’re new,” the first woman said to the second, in a tone that suggested neither of them ever forget she was new on the Society scene.
“Evelyn and her husband had a little girl who died of leukemia in the late eighties. She was never the same. Threw herself into committees and volunteering. Refused to try for another baby. The husband died ten years ago.”
I drifted away toward the buffet, uncomfortable with the conversation.
It wasn’t exactly gossip given the circumstances yet it still felt a little that way.
It was a tragedy and now it was a footnote in this woman’s story and something that made her decidedly more layered and human than just the formidable society dame.
It made me feel yuckier about her murder.
"Small and tasteful," Dorothy had promised me on the phone that afternoon. "Just committee and other friends and family."
“There must be two hundred people crammed into this house,” Maggie marveled. She was wearing a relaxed black dress with striped tights and Doc Martens. She looked like what she was—a cool girl in a crowd of classic Ann Taylor women.
On the other hand, I was having a crisis of identity.
Thrust into the role of innkeeper, historical society member and krewe member, I’d taken on the mantle of Aunt Odette’s life.
Which had been nothing like my life before.
I’d just been a typical woman in my twenties, with a college degree I didn’t use, creating content, serving on the weekends, and swing dancing.
I shopped in thrift stores and constantly wrestled with the urge to cut myself bangs.
Being here at these things, dressed in a conservative navy dress that my mother bought me for job interviews after college—I neither wore the dress or went on many interviews—it felt quite literally like I was wearing someone else’s clothes. Someone else’s life.
“I don’t even know two hundred people,” I told her.
"Harper, darling." Dorothy said as she approached us, resplendent in black linen, already pressing an air kiss to my cheek. “Who is your friend?”
“This is Maggie. She is the host and creator of the podcast I’m on. Maggie, this is Dorothy Perrault.”
“How fascinating.” Dorothy eyed Maggie. “Did you know Evelyn?”
“No, but I’ve heard such great things about her.”
“This isn’t a spectacle,” Dorothy warned. “In spite of the unfortunate circumstances surrounding Evelyn’s death this is meant to be a celebration of all of Evelyn’s accomplishments. Not some attempt at gaining clicks on the internet.”
“That never crossed my mind,” Maggie assured her. “I’m just trying to be a supportive friend to Harper. What she and the rest of you witnessed at the gala was traumatizing, I’m sure.”
Dorothy just stared at Maggie, briefly, before waving her hand. “No one really knows what happened. I don’t believe any of the speculation. I’m sure she just had a stroke. But no more of that. This is supposed to be pleasant.”
It felt like an order.
“Yes, ma’am,” Maggie said.
I nodded my own agreement.
“Try the shrimp. It’s divine.” Then Dorothy was off to greet more attendees.
It was a big house, but even with that much square footage, the rooms felt a little stifling. We pressed our way forward to taste the divine shrimp.
I spotted Reginald near the fireplace watching the TV rotation of Evelyn in various photos with the same forensic attention I suspect he gave a renovation permit.
Three of my Midnight House guests had chosen to attend the evening.
I could see Taylor had installed himself near the bar, which felt about as surprising as the sun rising in the east. Vivienne was clutching a cup of coffee with two hands.
It appeared she’d left her camera at home, which was probably wise.
Allison had elected to stay at the house. When Reginald had floated the idea of her accompanying him she’d balked and refused. She had curled up in the parlor with her laptop and a cup of chamomile tea before I'd even finished getting dressed.
Maggie and I drifted near them, but none of us had much to say.
“Some celebration,” Taylor muttered. “Feels more like a funeral.”
Vivienne gave him side-eye. “Because it is!”
According to Dorothy this was supposed to be pleasant. I felt very strongly that none of us were enjoying ourselves.
“You know what I mean.”
Maggie and I got glasses of wine from the bartender and drifted away with unhurried aimlessness that was absolutely not aimless. We were putting distance between ourselves and the Midnight House crew.
We found a spot in the corner of the living room where we could hide just a little and observe the room as a whole. That’s when I spotted Hyacinth.
She sat alone on a settee with her hands folded in her lap like she was waiting to be called on, wearing a black pencil skirt and a black blazer, an ivory blouse underneath it.
“That’s Hyacinth,” I murmured to Maggie. “In the black suit, hands in her lap.”
“Is she wearing pantyhose?” Maggie asked, sounding astonished. “I’ve never seen anyone under fifty wearing them in real life. Pantyhose is like a fashion myth.”
“She’s good at the game,” I said in a low voice. “Maybe she’s looking for her next benefactress.”
An older man sat next to Hyacinth and put his hand on her knee. She leaned into him and looked up with a helpless trembling expression.
“Or benefactor,” Maggie remarked.
“She is single. Or maybe that’s her dad.”
The hand shifted up higher until it was resting on Hyacinth’s thigh.
“If that’s her dad they’re a very close family.” Maggie sipped her wine.
The two stood up and went down the hallway.
A man who was unfamiliar to me tapped a shrimp cocktail fork against his tumbler of amber liquid and said, “Attention, attention. I’d like to invite anyone with a happy memory of Evelyn to step forward and share it.”
For a brief second, no one moved. I had the horrible thought that no one shared a happy memory of Evelyn Carrington, but that proved to be my own misgivings.
A woman stepped forward and started talking about Evelyn’s devotion to children’s cancer research and the success of one event after another spearheaded by Evelyn.
It launched a parade of similar speeches.
“Did anyone actually know her as a person?” Maggie wondered. “It’s all about her charity work.”
“Some people are difficult to know, I guess.” I gestured with my hand. “There’s a wall there.”
The man who had been with Hyacinth returned to the living room solo and moved to the front to give his own few words.
“I’ve known Evelyn since the late seventies.
” He launched into an anecdote about the beach in Biloxi and sand in the shoes that was probably the most personal of all the speeches.
He was charming and entertaining and had people chuckling.
Hyacinth either didn’t want to hear everyone lauding Evelyn, or she was noshing on the divine shrimp. Either was valid, in my opinion.
He was reaching his crescendo, a group of friends ordering flapjacks at four in the morning when a woman’s scream ripped right through the room, drowning him out.
We all looked around for the source of the interruption.
To my shock, it was Vivienne, rushing into the living room. “Call 911!” she yelled, frantic.
I’d only known her for three days but even with everything going on this weekend Vivienne had maintained her cool the majority of the time. She was observant and mostly unflappable. Seeing her upset and breathing hard told me something serious had happened.
“What’s going on?” someone asked.
“There’s blood everywhere! She hit her head. Call 911!”
Another scream rang out from down the hall. “Oh my word! Hyacinth!”
Maggie and I rushed down the hall. Given the corner we’d been in we were at the front of the pack. I could practically feel the press of a dozen bodies following us to see what was going on.
A woman who I recognized from the Society, but whose name I couldn’t remember, was standing outside of the powder room, weeping and pointing. “She must have hit her head. She’s completely unconscious.”
I glanced into and the most shocking thing I saw was not the pink and black flamingo wallpaper.
It was Hyacinth, splayed out on the marble floor, covered in blood.
My stomach lurched.
“Jeez,” Maggie breathed. She turned and yelled, “Did someone call for an ambulance yet? She’s hit her head on the pedestal sink or toilet.”
Or someone had hit her over the head. I noted a pair of brass candlesticks on the shelf above the toilet and an angel figurine.
The figurine would have broken but the candlesticks would make a formidable weapon.
As far as powder rooms went it was large in scope so I stepped in to inspect the candlesticks while Maggie dropped down beside Hyacinth.
She took her hand and murmured reassuring words to the unconscious woman.