to find out how she felt about him?
“Harry Connick Jr.’s at the Algonquin. Want to catch him after you finish here?” Richard had moved on to the foie gras.
“I’d love to, but I have another party to do,” Faith was already getting a bit panicky about the dessert buffet and planned to send Josie and Jessica on ahead as soon as possible, even though it wasn’t scheduled to start for another few hours.
“Another time, another place,” he said, kissing her swiftly. Again, he was on the verge of needing a shave.
Her cheek felt warm, ever so slightly scratched.
“Yes,” said Faith.
Josie and Jessica had gone. The party was winding down at long last and Howard came into the kitchen to say he was leaving the wine and champagne on the buffet table but was packing up the bar. There was another door to the study and he could do it without going through the living room.
Faith had done everything she could do until everyone left, so she sat down at the kitchen table to think about the evening. No one had been waving those Christmas cards around or making menacing gestures in Emma’s direction. In fact, it was hard to find Emma in a crowd, even when she was the hostess. Contrary to convention, she didn’t circulate. She’d greeted everyone at the start of the party, then gravitated toward a corner with some of the people she’d invited herself: neighbors in the building, a distant relative who was teaching at the Little Red School House, and her godmother, Madeline Green. Nobody knew how old Madeline was, and she wasn’t telling. She was Poppy’s mother’s best friend and the closest thing Emma had to a grandmother, since neither her mother’s nor Jason’s parents was still living. A grandmother of the Auntie Mame variety. Faith found herself wishing they could tell Madeline everything and let her handle things. She probably already knew about Poppy and Nathan Fox, maybe even about Emma’s birth. Madeline knew everything. Tonight, she was wearing a gorgeous sapphire blue Zandra Rhodes caftan, which set off her white hair—and sapphires—perfectly. In a room filled with people wearing a great deal of black, an occasional white or splash of red, Madeline stood out—as usual.
Faith thought about the party some more. What lit-121
tle she had seen of Emma, after the first glow of having solved her catering problem had worn off, convinced her that something new had happened. Emma was even quieter than usual. She looked worried until occasionally, remembering she was supposed to be a fun hostess, she replaced the guarded expression with a frenetic smile. What was she keeping from Faith?
Did she know who the blackmailer was? Did she know the murderer? One and the same? Eating Faith’s
The door to the kitchen opened and Hope came in.
“Does it look like people are really leaving?” Faith asked her sister. “I want to get over to Sixty-ninth and be sure everything’s all right. Emma’s cleaners are coming to put everything back in shape, but I still have to pack up my stuff.”
Hope pulled out a chair and sat down. “I think you could start clearing the buffet in a few minutes. A lot of people are putting on their coats and saying good-bye to Emma. She’s in the foyer giving out the party favors. Very classy. Those Angus McDougall glass apples from Steuben. You’ve seen the ads, right? ‘Give the Big Apple for Christmas,’ something like that. I put mine in my briefcase.” Of course Hope was one of those who had worked late today.
“
Hope nodded. She picked up a metal strainer that looked like a dunce’s cap and started fiddling with it, twirling its sharp-pointed wooden pestle against the sides. Faith had used it for the mushroom sauce. She took the equipment away from her sister and shoved it
on the counter behind the table. These things were expensive.
“Why aren’t you out there making merry with your honey?” Faith asked. “Or home reading a good book.
You look bored.”
“Phelps, Adrian, Michael, and some other people are in the study smoking cigars, talking politics. I would have stayed, but the combination of the smoke and the sight of Lucy draped on the arm of Adrian’s chair and the arm of Adrian’s bod was more than I could handle.”
“What’s with them? Have you heard anything? She was certainly crawling all over him tonight, which I haven’t seen her do with other men—and he wasn’t exactly pushing her away. Somehow, I’ve never thought of Lucy as that interested in sex—except as a bargain-ing chip. Plus, she’d always want to be on top.” After Hope stopped laughing, she said, “Phelps mentioned we might be going to dinner with them, and from the way he said ‘Lucy and Adrian,’ it sounded as if they were an item.”
Lucy and Adrian. The plot sprang fully formed into Faith’s head like Athena from Zeus’s. Emma had said Lucy was even worse to her after her marriage to Michael. What better, and more evil, way to express what was so obviously a lifelong resentment of your sister (half sister, in reality) than first to blackmail her, then expose her, wrecking her husband’s chances for success? Lucy would then emerge the winner and marry his aide-de-camp, who would then proceed to take his old boss’s place. Lucy and Adrian. More than a couple—say a partnership?
“Fay! Fay! Hello!”
“Sorry, I’m a little tired.”
“The bus pickup?” Hope asked.
“His name is Richard Morgan, and he’s here. I should introduce you. He’s writing a piece for
Hope brightened. The man had credentials. “Okay, let’s go.”
Entering the foyer and looking at the small crowd left, Hope whispered to her sister, “Your journalist friend could have a field day writing about most of the people here tonight. All the secrets, and I don’t just mean Moira over there, who, according to rumor, has no original body parts left.”
The svelte woman in what appeared to be a long red satin nightgown, the kind Jean Harlow wore with mules to match, was smiling at her companion’s remarks. The skin on her face was as tight as a drum.
Secrets. If Hope only knew . . . “There’s Richard, and he has his coat on, so we’d better hurry.” While Faith was making the introduction, Phelps Grant appeared from the study. His eyes and nose were slightly red, and Faith wondered whether he was allergic to cigar smoke or hitting the bathroom down the hall, which had proved popular with the “White lines” crowd.
He tapped Hope on the shoulder. “We’ve been invited to go out to dinner with Lucy, Adrian, and the Stansteads. Ten minutes. Okay?”
“As for myself, I couldn’t eat another bite tonight. I felt it my sworn duty to make sure the Stansteads didn’t get stuck with a lot of leftovers. My name’s Richard Morgan, by the way.” He put out his hand.
Phelps took it halfheartedly, said, “Phelps Grant; nice to meet you,” and turned to go back to the inner sanc- tum, where all the important people were. Faith couldn’t resist.
“Richard’s a writer. He’s doing a profile on Michael for
Phelps swung around instantly, and Faith left him in earnest conversation with Richard. The word
She headed toward the kitchen for the large trays and rolling cart she needed to clean up. She’d liked Phelps earlier, but less and less as the evening wore on. Why on earth couldn’t her sister see what a sycophant this guy
