Chapter Three #3
“Don’t worry. I understand.” I didn’t, not really—I’d never been involved in anything I couldn’t change at my whim.
But his life was different, and even if I didn’t quite get it, I tried my best. “Everything’s going well, I think.
The caterers and bartenders were all here on time, and everyone seems happy.
Conrad hasn’t mortally offended anyone yet.
” I inhaled deeply through my nose, out through my mouth.
“Though the night is still young.” I pulled back and linked my arm through his. “We should mingle.”
He gestured gallantly with his free arm. “After you.”
We spent some time circulating, making small talk about the news and complimenting people’s outfits (the begging for donations would come later, once everybody had consumed a The Pomona Afton or two or five). After a bit, I spotted that familiar sleek black chignon. “Oh, there’s Vienna.”
I wanted to ask her what she’d been doing with Conrad Phlume, but, as I approached, I realized she was holding court with a group of people who looked around our age, maybe a little younger, all dressed in ways that impressed me but that were drawing stares from many of the older people in attendance: one who presented as female but wore a tartan tux; another presenting as male with a long, fuzzy beard who had on a flowing bright orange gown.
Vienna lifted a hand in a pageant princess wave.
“Speak of the devil herself,” she said. “Everyone, I’m so glad for you to meet Pomona Afton, our hostess tonight. ”
It always tickled me when people introduced me.
Like everybody doesn’t already know who I am.
I inclined my head, preening like one of the themed peacocks that were devastatingly not in attendance.
“Thank you so much for attending tonight and supporting such an important cause,” I said.
Though, from their age and the fact that I didn’t recognize them, I suspected that they wouldn’t be donating.
They had to be Vienna’s gaggle of artists. “If any of you have—”
Orange Gown waved a hand impatiently to shut me up. I shut up, mostly out of shock that someone would dare do that to me. “Yes, the scholarships are great and all. But I must hear about how you solved a murder. That’s the most exciting thing I’ve ever heard.”
I was immediately a little queasy. Shifting from foot to foot to recenter myself didn’t help, because my heels were so high it was a little like I was on the deck of a yacht in stormy seas.
Maybe I should flash the heel at them like a threat.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” I told them. “I mean, yes, it’s true, I did solve a murder. And…”
Yes, it was exciting—that’d been what I was about to say, because technically it was true.
But… I don’t know, saying it like that to this crowd of people looking at me like I was onstage performing for them?
It felt a little icky. I went on, “It was my grandmother who died, and my close friend who killed her. So yes, I solved it, but it wasn’t like I was happy about it in the end. ”
None of them seemed abashed. “Oh, we didn’t meant it like that,” said one of the others, a squat Black man in a violently purple tux.
“It’s like my birds. The goal isn’t for you to feel peace and serenity looking at them, but to feel the adrenaline pumping through your system, for you to reflect on the mortality of your human body and the earth we live on. That’s excitement, is it not?”
The one part that stood out to me in that jumble of buzzwords was “birds.” That, combined with the purplest purple tux I’d ever seen…
“You must be Isaiah Franklin,” I said, appreciating that I’d been gifted this glorious change of subject.
“It’s such a delight to meet you. I love your work and I so appreciate the peacock you made for the event.
” I realized that, while Vienna had told me he’d agreed to make one and transport it to the gala, I hadn’t seen it yet.
“Where did they put it? I’m dying to see it. ”
“I hope you don’t mean literally,” said Tartan Tux, and the group burst into laughter, Gabe included. Not his real laughter, his fake social laughter, which sounded a bit like he’d gagged on a gazpacho shooter.
Isaiah pointed somewhere behind me. “They were able to hang it from the railing there.”
I turned, then gasped, then choked on all the air I’d gasped.
Isaiah had made us a peacock as requested, yes.
I couldn’t fault him for that. I could fault myself for not specifying that the peacock should be, I don’t know, not horrible.
It was spun of white and purple feathers, as I’d asked, but the feathers had been spattered with something dark red—hopefully not real blood—and where its eyes should have been gaped empty sockets.
And the tail, where I’d envisioned a splendid fanlike display to match the centerpieces, was made up of knives.
Rusty ones, jagged ones, small ones, large ones, sleek ones, bulky ones.
No wonder they’d had to hang it up; it was probably a liability issue sitting on the floor in case somebody tripped nearby.
“It’s quite something, isn’t it?” Vienna said, her voice strained.
Back to my fake smile, which by now was threatening to split my face in two. “It’s very… meaningful.”
“It’s a commentary on murder,” Isaiah said, raising his eyebrows, as if it should be obvious.
“I wanted to nod to what you’ve been through, while delving even further into human and bird psychology.
Peacocks will eat almost anything, gulping down a mouse or lizard even as it screams.” Vivid.
“It made me connect murder to the peacock to the human experience. Perhaps the ultimate form of art is murder.”
Gabe laughed, his real laugh this time, which was as bright as a new floral spring collection and warm as a new line of faux-fur muffs.
But the artists, who were all nodding approvingly, looked at him as if he’d dared to mix mustard and cyan.
He sobered immediately with a quick glance at me that felt like an apology. “Oh. Sorry. I thought you were joking.”
“Joking?” Isaiah echoed, eyes wide. “Joking? Murder opens up the innermost chambers of the body that are meant to remain closed and chaste and unbroken, and spills all of its secrets to the world, who says it doesn’t want to look but in reality cannot turn away. How is that anything but art?”
I don’t know, maybe a monstrous crime that destroyed entire families and shattered hearts?
I mean, my grandmother’s murder had nearly destroyed my entire life.
Not emotionally, of course, just logistically.
I managed not to say that—for Vienna’s sake, considering she was looking even more pained now—but couldn’t resist asking, “Does that make the murderer an artist?”
Isaiah wrinkled his nose, offended that I’d even asked. “The ultimate artist, some might say.”
Only somebody who’d never been around murder for real would say that. “Well, it was great to meet you all, and Isaiah, I appreciate you lending us your work for the night.”
All the artists cooed in response, with Isaiah’s coming last. “Pomona, it’s not on loan, it’s a gift.
For your good work.” He smiled toothily at me, and, for once, I couldn’t force my fake smile in response.
A shiver ran down my spine as I nodded quickly and beat it.
Did he mean my good work with the nonprofit, or my good work with murder?
Either way, it felt like a bad omen.