Chapter 8
Rosings park was packed when I arrived, and the smells of over a hundred different people crashed down on me as soon as I opened the door. I closed the garage door quietly behind me and tried to sneak to the stairs that would lead to my bedroom, but as usual, my mother missed nothing.
“Anne, dear, is that you?” She rounded the corner and looked me up and down.
I paused at the foot of the stairs. The heat from the bright chandelier above me beat down on my dark hair like the sun at noon.
“I thought I remembered telling you I’d invited guests over tonight.” My mother’s voice was deceptively pleasant.
“You did, Mamá. But I didn’t want to cut my time short with Abuelo.”
She pursed her lips and raked her disapproving gaze over my wide-leg jeans and the sweater that revealed a few centimeters of stomach when I moved. “A de Bourgh should never be seen looking that casual. I’ll see you back downstairs in ten minutes.”
That was one of her favorite weapons in her verbal arsenal. She wouldn’t ask me for what she wanted or even tell me what I should do, she just stated her desired outcome as if it were already fact.
“Mamá, I have to practice.”
She shook her head disapprovingly. “If your grandfather is going to monopolize the time you need to spend practicing, then I’d better have a word with him.”
I dropped my shoulders, admitting defeat. “No, it’s fine. I’ve got time to mingle with the guests tonight.” I trudged upstairs to change into slacks and a blouse. When I gave myself a cursory glance in the mirror, I was pleasantly surprised that I didn’t look as weary as I felt.
My phone lit up with Neto’s name across the screen and all tiredness was forgotten.
I spent four minutes in the penalty box, during which I was supposed to be thinking about the game.
Oh? And what were you thinking about instead?
My heart picked up its pace as three dots trailed across the text bubble.
I was thinking I want to see you tonight.
You aren’t too tired after your game?
Those three dots appeared, disappeared, then appeared again before I got his response.
I was. Until I thought about seeing you
And now?
Now it’s all I can think about
Well now that you’ve put the idea in my head, it’s all I’m thinking about too
My mother’s hosting a party I can’t get out of just yet
Give me 30 min to be seen mingling and then I’m yours
I pushed send before I could think through how that sounded, and I stared at the word “yours” in horror for three seconds until he responded:
I like the sound of that. Meet me at the rink whenever you can get away.
Nothing could come of this. My mother would lose it if I were to date a human, or a rockstar, or a hockey player, and Neto was all of those things.
But we were singing together, or at least we would be, if we solved the murder in time for the concert.
And that was a legitimate reason for him to be in my life, at least a little bit, at least for now.
It was fine for me to meet him. It wasn’t like I was getting attached.
The butterflies in my stomach presented probable cause to believe I was lying to myself, but I did my best to ignore them.
So I threw a pair of soft leggings, a green knitted sweater, and a pair of slip-on boots into a bag. No way did I want Neto to see me in the bland business casual attire my mother approved of.
I tracked down Maris and asked her to load my duffle, ice skates, and the canteen of hot chocolate into my car. Her conspiratorial smile was tinged with a bit of sadness, but she took my things with a knowing wink. This wasn’t the first time she’d aided and abetted a getaway.
Time seemed to slow as I mingled with my mother’s guests.
I vaguely knew almost everyone there, and they all thought they knew me.
I was Anne—the quiet musician who was the picture of a dutiful daughter and never caused problems for her mother beyond having a tendency to excuse herself from large gatherings.
Some of them thought I was shy, others sickly, and a few thought it was because I was stuck up, but none of them cared enough to actually find out.
If anyone had asked, would I tell them the truth?
That my enhanced senses created a barrage of sights and sounds and smells and textures to brush up against and it was exhausting to keep a tight lid on my magic for long?
If any of them cared, I’d probably tell them.
I wasn’t ashamed of my ability, or of how sometimes the only way to control it was to limit my sensory input for a while. But no one ever asked.
I slumped on to the couch, trying to ignore the dull pounding behind my eyes.
Five more minutes and I could go see Neto.
I fought the urge to shut out all the colors and shadows and movement.
I looked overhead, letting my eyes rest for a moment on the coffered ceiling.
When I looked back toward the crowd, I saw Walter Bramwell.
Perfect. Talking to him here would be more natural than trying to arrange a meeting where I could get more information, so I hurried over to him.
Walter leaned casually against a tall window, an effortless portrait of bored elegance. He wore a tweed sport coat over a crisp white shirt, tieless and with the top two buttons undone, more academic than his usual look.
“Oh, hey, Walter. I didn’t know you’d be here.”
He adjusted a gold cufflink. “Neither did I. I never know what networking opportunities my parents are going to insist I attend. But I can’t ever say no because I have to constantly show my father that I’m CEO material.”
I smiled wryly. “Oh, the things we do to please our high achieving parents.”
“How are you holding up? You seemed pretty upset after… after Paolo.”
“I’m okay. It was quite a shock. How are you?”
“I’m fine. I’m just shocked that Fred would kill him.”
I shook my head. “There’s no way Fred did it.”
“Who could it have been then? It wasn’t me and it wasn’t you. At least I’m assuming it wasn’t you.” He raised an eyebrow.
“It wasn’t me. I was in a practice room warming up. When Paolo didn’t show up, I went to look for him and found him dead. Where were you?”
He took a sip from his drink. “I did my mic check with Fred, and then I went to a practice room to rehearse for a bit before the rest of the orchestra showed up and I didn’t leave it. Fred could have killed Paolo during that time.
“Or you could have. Did anyone see you go into the practice room?”
“No. But you can’t possibly entertain the idea that I would kill him. You know I hate getting my hands dirty.” He examined his perfectly manicured nails to emphasize his point, but his hands shook slightly. Was he hiding something or just nervous?
“Assuming it wasn’t either of us, that leaves Cecelia and James,” I said.
“And Fred.”
I sighed. “Fine. In theory, it could have been Fred.”
A waiter bearing a tray offered us canapés. Walter took a cracker smothered in salmon spread and topped with an unidentifiable spiral vegetable. Food at my mother’s parties was the worst.
“Not hungry?” Walter asked when I waved the tray away.
“Not for any of this food.”
“Ah, so you’re about to make your getaway. I’ve noticed you never stay around these parties for long. My father says it’s because you’re sickly.”
I rolled my eyes.
Walter smiled grimly. “Then make your getaway while you can. I’m off to schmooze some more CEOs.”
“Oh, one more thing,” I said. “Are you missing a coat from the night of the murder? I mistakenly took someone else’s.”
He looked from my thin frame, to his muscular one, and back again, eyebrows raised. “Obviously not. Try Cecelia.”
“I will, thanks.”