Chapter Five
CHAPTER
Five
So it was safe to say that I’d been wrong. Something bad, something terrible, had happened. But that wasn’t the thought whirling around my head as I waited, with the rest of my guests, to talk to the police, Gabe’s arm wrapped around me like a blanket.
It was, This again?
Knowing one murder victim had been enough for one lifetime. Being involved in one murder investigation had been quite enough for one lifetime, thank you very much. I still had nightmares about it. They’d lessened with time, but I wasn’t sure they’d ever completely go away.
At least they’d mostly replaced the stress dreams I used to have about finally getting that invite to the Met Gala only to discover I’d shown up without my clothes and that the theme was not Naked Glory.
Gabe pressed a kiss to the top of my head.
“It’s going to be okay,” he said into my hair.
A chilly breeze followed it, making me burrow deeper into his warmth.
Everybody from the gala who hadn’t disobeyed the police and made a run for it or who wasn’t dead was currently gathered outside on the steps of the New York Public Library, drawing stares from tourists walking by.
“You don’t know that,” I said into his neck. It was easier to argue with him when I wasn’t looking him in the eye. “Who was it? I can’t find Vienna. I can’t find—”
“It was definitely a man,” he said. “I definitely saw that before everybody started screaming and running out and the police told us to leave. An older man. With gray hair.”
I pulled back from Gabe’s shoulder, scanning the crowd. “I don’t see my dad,” I said, panic swelling in my chest, threatening to push my heart out my throat. What if this was my last interaction with my dad? Me sitting him next to someone he hated? And he—
Oh. There he was. Off in the corner talking to my mom, Nicholas, and Jessica. A shiver of relief ran down my spine. Not enough to go talk to them, but it was there all the same.
“See?” Gabe’s voice was a rumble all through me; his arms were strong and warm around me against the chill of the air. “It’s not your dad. Take a deep breath through your nose.”
I took a deep breath through my nose. It didn’t help. It just made me want a hot dog, because there was a hot dog cart stationed on the sidewalk nearby and I’d barely managed to choke down any of my mediocre chicken. Maybe for my next gala I should have the hot dog cart guys cater.
If I had a next gala. “I can’t believe someone was murdered at my first gala.
” I clenched my fists, wanting so badly to scream but knowing that I couldn’t.
People were probably taking photos of me now, waiting for me to do something crazy.
“I just… I can’t even. My life is ruined.
My nonprofit is ruined. Nobody’s going to donate to my cause now.
” I glanced frantically around, seeking out Libby, Kitty, and John.
They were nowhere to be seen. Probably they’d left their names with the police and gone home, because you could do that when you had more money than God and a family tree that included multiple presidents, governors, and senators (the piddly House representatives didn’t even merit a mention).
“First of all, we don’t know that the victim was murdered,” Gabe said. “It’s unlikely he was murdered, statistically. He probably drank too much champagne, leaned too far over that too-low second-floor railing, and had the bad luck to land on that monstrosity.”
“I don’t know,” I said, because statistics hadn’t always been on my side before. How many people could say that they’d been yachtjacked not once but twice? “And that railing wasn’t high, but it also wasn’t that low.”
“And second of all,” he said, ignoring my extremely sound point. “Even if he was murdered, your life is not ruined. It wasn’t your fault. Nobody will blame you.”
My laugh was short and sharp and tired. “Of course they’ll blame me.
” The resignation was already setting in.
“I’ve spent this past year working so hard to change the way people think of me.
I haven’t been clubbing once. I haven’t gotten drunk.
I’ve spent evenings at the theater, going to art openings, attending gala after gala.
I’ve been keeping my head down, trying to repel the kinds of stories people always run about me. ”
“And this doesn’t change that,” Gabe said, but I barely heard him.
“They’ll spin it as me somehow engineering it for attention. Nobody will say I committed the murder, but they’ll talk about how my grandma’s murder made me even more famous than I already was, and—”
“Ms. Afton?”
My hand fluttered to my chest. Two detectives were standing behind me, faces grave. “Yes?”
“Could we speak with you inside for a moment?”
I could feel every single eye crawling on me as I passed them.
Inside, the detectives ushered me to what seemed to be someone’s office, a cluttered space of papers and books. They stopped before the desk, not sitting. I didn’t sit either. “Who was it?” I asked, the dread heavy in my stomach.
The first detective fiddled with his glasses. “It seems that the victim was a Mr. Conrad Phlume.”
I gasped, hand flying to my mouth. Tears sprang to my eyes. “Oh God. Oh no.”
The detective frowned sympathetically. “I’m so sorry. Did you know him well?”
It seemed rude to say, No, I loathed him, but he was supposed to give me a house, so I just nodded and hoped the detective wouldn’t ask any more questions. Which was probably not a wish that was going to come true, considering he was a detective.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. “What was your relationship with the deceased?”
I cleared my throat, which was suddenly very dry.
“He was a major donor to my nonprofit, the Pomona Afton Foundation.” And then, because, well, it wasn’t like the detective was in mourning and he probably knew something about laws: “If he’d promised us a major contribution but hadn’t actually signed it over to us yet, does it still belong to us? ”
“I believe that’s a question for his next of kin,” the detective said.
As far as I knew, Conrad didn’t have any kids, which made his next of kin his wife, Bibi… who’d stormed out during his toast. There was a sinking feeling in my stomach that maybe she wouldn’t exactly want to see his wishes through. “I see.” A pause. “Was he… do you know if he was…”
“Murdered?” the second detective finished.
“We can’t say anything for sure, obviously.
We’ll need to wait for the full autopsy results.
But…” She frowned. “The victim has marks on his face and hands that indicate he may have been in a physical altercation before falling over the railing. And the force with which he hit the peacock sculpture… well. Again, we can’t be 100 percent sure at this point… ”
I wasn’t stupid. I could read between the lines. Someone had beaten him up and pushed him over the railing. I let out a long, low exhale. Fantastic. Somehow I didn’t think the murder of the guest of honor at my first gala would make people excited about being the guest of honor at the next one.
“We’ll likely want to call you in for a longer chat once we’ve learned more,” said the first detective.
“But, in the meantime, I understand that the victim wasn’t all that popular.
” That was a delicate understatement. “Can you think of anyone tonight at the gala who might have had a reason to confront Mr. Phlume?”
A reason to beat him up and shove him over a railing to his death, they meant. I sighed. “Like you said, he wasn’t very popular. I don’t think anybody there really liked him. But I don’t know who would kill him.”
“I understand. Thank you,” said the first detective. “We’ll talk to you again soon, but please be in touch if you think of anything. And I assume that you or the venue can provide a full guest list?”
I nodded. “Of course.”
“Thank you,” said the first detective. “I have one more question for you before you go. This was found in the victim’s hand. I’m assuming it wasn’t his—do you know who it might have belonged to?”
He held up a small clear evidence bag. Inside, something winked at me. A large diamond. Attached to a thin gold chain. Which was attached to, I realized as cold spread through my chest, an earring back.
I reached automatically for my earlobes, but both of my earrings were firmly in place. I fiddled with a chain, which was slightly shorter than the chain of the earring in the evidence bag.
Which meant it had to be Vienna’s.
I opened my mouth, then closed it. Opened it, closed it.
“Do you recognize it?” the detective pressed.
I had a split second to decide what to do.
They’d figure out it was Vienna’s eventually, right?
She was wearing it in all the pictures from tonight.
And then they’d be suspicious of me for lying about it.
I loved Vienna, but I also loved myself.
And it didn’t matter anyway—it wasn’t like Vienna had killed Conrad Phlume. There was no way.
So I told him. And, as I scurried back to Gabe and burrowed into his chest to avoid the dark stares from the rest of my guests, I hoped I’d done the right thing.