Chapter 11 Friday, 12 June 2026
Hannah was still sitting in the dining room, mulling over her chat with Gemma, when a silver-rimmed china plate appeared before her.
‘Little gem and watercress dressed in a Meyer lemon chardonnay vinaigrette,’ the server murmured. He wore a single-breasted jacket with a small bronze daylily pinned to the lapel. ‘They were already plated, and, well, Mr Beaumont asked us to bring them out.’
Hannah looked at him blankly. Mr Beaumont had been dead for two years now, since a freak helicopter crash over Lake Como.
In the time since his death, Edward had stepped down as CFO of Beaumont Capital to trade stocks at a behemoth downtown firm, and Bash, who had been previously kept at arm’s length from the family business, had assumed a place at the helm.
‘But not dressed!’ the server added, misinterpreting her stare.
‘The kitchen has only just dressed the salads now, prior to starting service.’ Pink filled his cheeks.
Then, noticing the spent votive, he swiftly plucked it from the glass bowl in the centre of the table, produced a new one from his pocket and lit it.
Hannah’s eyes dropped to her plate. ‘Oh, of course. Looks delicious.’
The server had meant Edward, she realised, or possibly Bash.
Mr Beaumont. She’d only met the boys’ father once, during the Après-Thanksgiving Supper she’d attended here a decade ago.
He had struck her as cold and uncharitable, not unlike his older son, who he’d so clearly favoured.
She wondered idly what had caused Edward to leave the family business so swiftly after his father’s death, and what had motivated Bash to take it over, when Richard had previously shut him out.
It must have been a pain point; surely, he could have chosen to sell instead, reaping a vast fortune and fucking off to Bellagio or Cap d’Antibes, which frankly seemed more Bash’s style.
Running a multi-million-dollar corporation was hard work.
As the server continued his rounds, more guests drifted into the dining room. Some searched for place cards, but the meticulously arranged seating chart went largely ignored.
‘This seat taken?’
Hannah looked up from her untouched salad.
Theo Fitzgerald stood before her, flashing his almost too-white smile.
A thin sheen of sweat broke out across the back of her neck.
Behind him, through the archway, Hannah spotted Oliver descending the stairs from the second floor and sliding into an open seat at the bar, beside Gemma.
Hannah did her best to ignore the slight churn in her stomach. When she spoke, her voice was level. ‘All yours. Although I can’t imagine Elle and Bash would approve of you taking your meals with a killer.’
Theo pulled out a chair and sat. ‘I know you didn’t do it.’
She pierced a leaf of baby gem lettuce with the antique silver fork at her place. With a deliberate screech, she dragged it through the goat cheese mousse piped around the rim of the plate. ‘What makes you so sure?’
Theo flinched, then lifted his own fork.
‘She was murdered at a Prescott gala with over seventy alumni and school officials in attendance. Whoever killed Madison had a bone to pick going all the way back to high school, and they wanted everyone here to know it. You and Madison had your moments, especially that thing after prom…’ He trailed off, and for a moment, both he and Hannah were lost to the not especially rosy glow of memory.
Theo cleared his throat. ‘But that was a decade ago, and unless I’m an extraordinarily bad judge of character, you never especially cared about ascending the Prescott ladder.’
‘I did not,’ she agreed. ‘But the killer did. Or at least, they cared about knocking Madison from the top rung.’
Theo flinched again.
‘I’m sorry. That was crass. Madison was your friend, and—’
‘It’s okay,’ he cut in. ‘Well, it’s obviously not okay. What I mean is, we hadn’t been particularly close in years.’
Hannah nodded. Theo seemed genuinely remorseful.
She wanted to cross him off her suspect list, but there was a lot about Theo she hadn’t known in high school, and while he’d always seemed to be forthcoming, in fact he’d been a very good liar when it came to the whole thing with Elle.
That she still found him incredibly handsome and at least outwardly kind was inconvenient, but she couldn’t let that get in the way of her investigation.
Just then, a sommelier appeared at their table. It was a bit surreal, how everyone was carrying on as if this were a normal dinner party. But it was after eleven, and murder or no murder, people were hungry – and thirsty.
‘May I offer you a drink? With the salad course, we are suggesting—’
‘A Lenox Martini,’ Theo said.
The sommelier frowned, then turned to Hannah. She looked down at the delicate salad. She’d had two drinks already and should absolutely stick with water if she wanted to keep a clear head, but fuck it, she wanted another drink.
‘The same.’
The sommelier turned to go, and Theo gestured through the archway with his fork, where the uniformed officer stationed at the stairs was speaking to Edward Beaumont and pointing up. Edward’s back was ramrod straight and a deep scowl cut his face.
Theo let out an almost imperceptible laugh. ‘Guess Edward thought he was above an interview with New York’s finest.’
‘Of course he did.’ Hannah’s eyes trailed to the dining room wall opposite the windows, to an oil landscape of the Hudson Valley in springtime, recalling the first time she’d met the elder Beaumont brother, right in this room.
One thing she could say about Edward – he’d shown his true colours right from the start.
She watched as he shook the officer off and began his ascent of the stairs.
Edward Beaumont sank heavily into the chair opposite Detective Raina Wellesley and Detective Randall Crews.
‘Is this really necessary? Madison was an old, dear friend.’
‘Mr Beaumont.’ Detective Crews steepled his fingers. ‘As you know, it’s our responsibility to take a statement from everyone close to the victim.’
‘Fine.’ Edward gestured to the recorder on the table between them. ‘Go on, then.’
Detective Wellesley leaned in. ‘Do you find it odd that Hannah Miller is in attendance at tonight’s gala?’
Edward’s lips spread into a thin smile. ‘She’s alum, she received an invite.’
‘And does Ms Miller make it a habit to attend Prescott alumni functions?’
‘I’ve never seen her at one. Come to think of it, the ticket probably cost her a month’s pay.
Or more? Frankly, I have no idea what second-rate journalists make these days.
And it’s hardly as if she has friends at Prescott, especially after that hit piece she published.
So yes, I suppose it is odd that she came. Unless…’
‘Yes?’ Detective Crews prompted him to go on.
‘Well, it’s not Hannah’s first time at the club.
She’s been here before, as Bash’s guest. She would have known that we don’t have cameras.
That we don’t permit devices on the premises.
Whoever killed Madison took advantage of the club’s privacy policies, and it’s well known that Hannah despised Madison. One plus one equals two.’
‘Thank you, Mr Beaumont.’ Detective Crews’ voice was clipped. ‘Now, what can you tell us about your own relationship to Madison DuPont?’
Edward pressed his lips together. ‘Like I said, she was an old family friend. The Beaumonts and DuPonts have run in similar circles going back several generations. We grew up attending the same functions, we both went to Prescott of course. But Madison was a year behind me in school, in Bash’s class. We never became close.’
Detective Wellesley frowned. ‘So which was it? Were you “old, dear friends”, or not that close?’
Edward let out an exasperated sigh. ‘The two are not mutually exclusive. Madison DuPont and I grew up together, but on a personal level, I barely knew her. We were acquaintances.’
‘I see. So you would describe your relationship as strictly platonic?’
‘Entirely,’ he said quickly. ‘Madison was too young for me. At that age, a year makes a difference.’
‘And as adults?’ Detective Crews cut in. ‘Did you maintain an… acquaintanceship?’
Edward shrugged. ‘I suppose you could say that. We’re neighbours on the Upper East. Were neighbours.
I saw Madison around town from time to time, at charity functions and the like, but that’s the extent of it.
She’d been very involved in Henry’s political career since they married last summer.
Before that, even. And while the Beaumonts are fiscally conservative, our leanings are not, well, let’s simply say we don’t like the direction the party has taken in recent years. ’
‘The Republican party?’ Detective Wellesley clarified. ‘Henry Alcott Winslow’s party?’
‘Yes. I suppose you could say I’ve put some distance between myself and Madison of late. For political reasons. It’s nothing personal, but when you run a company like Beaumont Capital, image matters.’
Detective Crews frowned, consulting his notepad. ‘But you are no longer employed by Beaumont Capital. I see here you stepped down shortly after your father’s death?’
Edward let out a frustrated puff of air. His eyes trailed longingly to the bottle of scotch on the bar cart. ‘Yes, that’s right. I’m in stocks now. But Sebastian has taken over the company. Maintaining the family name is still paramount.’
Six months ago
Edward Beaumont stepped out of the unmarked black car and onto the sidewalk on Smith Street in Carroll Gardens.
It was a busy corner in a busy Brooklyn neighbourhood, but less so at a quarter after two in the morning.
He would have preferred an even more out of the way meeting spot – Flatbush or Sunnyside – but this would have to do.
It was nowhere he was likely to be seen by anyone who mattered.
And no one could know about the meeting that was about to take place.
He quickly looked over each shoulder before taking the three steps up to the faded brick storefront. Peeling black paint flaked from the concrete below. He knocked twice on the heavy door sheltered beneath a green metal awning. From inside came a gruff voice.
‘Your name?’
‘Edward Beaumont. I’m to meet Madison DuPont on the premises.’
For a moment, there was silence. Then the harsh sound of a buzzer and the sharp click of the door latch.
Inside, the sweet musk of cigar smoke filled his nose.
Beneath it, the rich aroma of very good coffee.
The main room of the social club was dim, and it took Edward’s eyes a minute to adjust. At card tables set up around the large rectangular room, greying men in slacks and short-sleeved button-downs were hunkered over briscola and poker.
Cracked vinyl chairs squeaked softly beneath them.
A few looked up, taking in Edward’s briefcase and pressed suit.
On the Formica-topped bar at the front rested an ageing espresso machine, a steaming pot of tar-black coffee and a tray of chipped brown mugs.
Above the bar, an ancient wall-mounted TV showed a classic soccer match, AC Milan versus SSC Napoli, on mute.
Beside it was a large crucifix and a faded Italian flag, one corner flapping loose from the wall.
Edward passed through the main room, the soles of his dress shoes clicking softly against the worn linoleum floor, towards a cigar-smoke-darkened door at the back. A small bronze plaque read Private. Without knocking, he turned the knob and stepped inside.
The back room was harshly lit by a too-bright overhead fixture, and he blinked.
As in the main room, sheer café curtains had been drawn against the street-facing windows.
Along one wall, a row of sausages hung to dry.
Against the adjacent wall sat a row of scuffed grey lockers, a collection of laminated funeral cards taped to their fronts.
In the corner was a small shrine to St Paul of the Cross.
Madison DuPont sat in a worn leather chair beside the shrine, casually dressed in black cigarette pants and a fitted, short-sleeved sweater.
Her long red hair hung loose around her shoulders.
Edward strode briskly over to her. There was nowhere else to sit in the small room, and she didn’t get up. Typical.
‘Circolo St Paul?’ he asked. ‘How did you even get access to this place?’
Madison tilted her head to the shrine. A framed picture of St Paul of the Cross rested in the centre, and a saint candle flickered beside it. ‘Did you know he was a mystic? He could levitate, and once, he even raised a child from the dead.’
Edward rolled his eyes. ‘Since when did you find religion?’
Madison crossed, then recrossed her legs. ‘Henry is Italian on his mother’s side. He was raised in the church.’
Edward straightened at the mention of Madison’s husband. Rumours had recently begun to swirl of Winslow’s political aspirations, a possible run for mayor on the horizon.
‘So, Henry’s a member?’ It was difficult to imagine suave Upper East Sider Henry Alcott Winslow rubbing elbows with the heavily cologned Italian gentlemen in their worn-in sports jackets and soft-soled walking shoes over shot glasses of espresso.
But Edward had come to expect the unexpected when it came to the King and Queen of New York.
Madison shrugged noncommittally. ‘His grandfather was, and his great-grandfather. He makes an appearance from time to time. Tradition is important to Henry.’ She raised her hand to her chest and touched two red-lacquered fingertips to a tiny gold cross on a fine gold chain.
‘And before you ask, no, women are not permitted inside the club, and yes, Henry’s friends have been known to make the occasional exception. ’
On the opposite side of Madison’s chair from the shrine, a skinny table stretched along the wall.
Edward placed his briefcase down and paused, fingers on the buckle.
He, too, had been raised to enjoy a life of frequent exception and privilege, something his father had taught him to value at all costs.
From his briefcase, he removed a thin manila folder. He slid it across the table to Madison.
‘A new opportunity,’ he said simply. ‘We should speak again soon.’
Without waiting for Madison to open the envelope and view its contents, Edward spun on his heel and crossed the room to the door. In moments, he was outside the social club and walking briskly down the sidewalk, to the stretch of kerb where his sedan sat waiting.