antique mahogany library ladder.
There were small white French lilacs in the arrangement and their fragrance suggested spring sunshine, not the slate sky outside. Looking up, searching the
heavens anxiously for signs of more snow, Faith pushed one of the drapes farther aside. The pale gold silk fabric was so fine, it slipped through her fingers like molten metal, not woven threads. She let it drop back into place.
The room was perfect. There wasn’t a single jarring note. Usually, she thought of rooms as backdrops for the food, settings in which a meal, the main event, was served. This room refused to be relegated. Soon it would be filled with people. You wouldn’t be able to see the intricate pattern of the huge Oriental rug almost covering the parquet. The bowls of Christmas roses and other more elaborate bouquets would be shoved to one side, displaced by plates with scraps of food, empty glasses. Yet, the room would still dominate.
Josie came in with a pyramid of fruit and stopped in the doorway.
“Yes, I could live here. Oh yes. Wouldn’t ever have to leave. Could sleep on the sofa. I’m definitely going to have to get me a place like this.” They both burst out laughing.
“Where do you want this?” She held the fruit on top of her head and did a passable Carmen Miranda.
“On the buffet, next to the fruit knives. It’s meant to be consumed. The comice pears are perfectly ripe—
delectable. I had one for lunch.” Besides the foie gras, caviar, and champagne, Faith had added a buffet with roast sirloin of beef with two sauces—creamy horseradish and portabello mushroom—garlic mashed potatoes, roasted winter vegetables, a pesto pasta frittata, and the obligatory salad of mixed baby greens. The desserts, an assortment of cheeses, the fruit, champagne, and dessert wines were at one end of the table; the main course occupied the rest. Howard, bless his
heart, would tend the bar, set up in Michael’s study.
Jessica, a graduate student at Columbia who was on Faith’s list of part-time help, would take care of serving the buffet. Josie and Faith would alternate keeping an eye on things in the kitchen and circulating with a few platters of hot and cold hors d’oeuvres. Josie had offered to do all the serving, knowing that Faith preferred to stay in the background, but Faith had refused. This was one party where she planned to circulate.
Emma was thrilled. She dashed into the kitchen before the first guest arrived, looking spectacularly pretty in a lacy Geoffrey Beene slip dress. The lingerie look was big for evening wear this year, and some of the events Faith had catered recently looked more like slumber than dinner parties. But Emma didn’t look ready for bed—or rather, not ready for sleep.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you! I told Michael about the catastrophe but that I was able to get a great replacement, and he says he remembers a party you did and you’ll be even better than Henri, whose food was getting too predictable. I wonder why he was shut down? I never thought to ask, but it doesn’t matter.
Michael thinks I’ve done a terrific job, and now I have to fly. There’s the door!”
Emma’s speech was delivered at the speed of light and she was in and out of the kitchen before Faith had time to ask if they should start serving the hot hors d’oeuvres right away. She made the decision herself and popped a tray of coconut shrimp in the oven.
Emma’s kitchen contained state-of-the-art equipment—Viking range, Sub-Zero refrigerator, Calphalon pots and pans—but showed absolutely no signs of use.
Faith was accustomed to this, but she noted that the
Stansteads did stock some food—DoveBars, of course, milk, English marmalade, and orange juice. Somewhere, there were probably English muffins, too.
Faith walked from the kitchen down the hall, past the front door and foyer, and into the living room, which was already buzzing with conversation. The holiday season was adding glitter to what would be a sparkling group at any time of the year. Well dressed, well coiffed, they did indeed look like beautiful people. A subtle smell of expensive perfume filled the air.
The women were wearing more jewelry than usual.
Just as their sisters under the skin pinned a rhinestone Christmas tree to a coat collar or hung tiny Christmas ball earrings from their earlobes, these ladies had un-earthed their Judith Leiber minaudieres and Tiffany di-amonds by the yard. They formed a seamless whole with their surroundings, and Faith felt as if she were watching an exceptionally well-staged and -costumed play.
She started passing the tray and dispensing napkins.
Michael’s study was off the main room. Setting up the bar there seemed to be working, freeing up space in the larger room for mixing and mingling.
Looking about, she was reminded that her role as employee made her virtually invisible. All her senses were heightened—particularly sight and sound. She was acutely aware of everything going on in the room.
Her first thought was that there were no surprises—
yet.
It was no surprise to see Poppy holding court, back to the fireplace, bathed in what was the kindest light of the room. It was no surprise to see Jason Morris, either, who was sitting in a large wing chair off to her side, watching his wife with an expression of tolerant
amusement. Faith remembered him now. A large, florid man in bespoke suits, with patrician good looks that had once been much, much better. He looked all of his years tonight, especially compared with his wife.
Faith remembered Emma’s recent description of her mother’s current attitude toward Jason, “But now she
She was a wheat-colored blond, thanks to Daddy, tall and large-boned, but with the athletic body of a would-be partner who regularly hits the squash court, letting the boss win, but not by much.
And there were no surprises in her greeting to Faith.
“You must all be so proud of Hope. I hear she’s taking the city by storm. And what are you doing with yourself these days? Waitressing?”
Resisting the temptation to tell the bitch to take a flying leap, Faith smiled and moved the shrimp just out of Lucy’s reach. “I own the company that’s catering the party tonight.” She took a step away.
“How, well, how very unusual,” Lucy said, smiling nastily. “And here I thought you were merely one of the help, but then again . . .” She let her words hang in the air like industrial waste. She didn’t need to finish.
She didn’t need to say, “But then again, you are.” Letting it hang there was so much more fun.
Faith moved sister Lucy to the top of the list of peo-114
ple who might be blackmailing Emma, as well as to the top of the list of those who might have murdered Nathan Fox. She’d happily move Lucy to the top of more, but two was all she had at the moment.
She went back for another tray, and when she returned, studiously ignored Lucy on her rounds. It was impossible to escape the voice, though. “I’m sorry,” Faith heard her say without a note of regret, “I really can’t get worked up about where to put the homeless. Long Island, wherever—so long as they’re not in my face.” No surprises. But yes, surprises.
First, Hope walked in and sister bumped into sister.
She was looking particularly gorgeous in an ivory satin blouse and short black velvet skirt, her dark hair loose.
The hose on her shapely long legs had little rhinestones at each ankle. Hope must be in a whimsical mood tonight, Faith noted.
“What are you doing here?” Hope asked.
“I was about to ask you the same thing. You haven’t started moonlighting, working for Stanstead Associates,
