I nod.
“When I heard she kicked you off the Halloween party because you slept with Rob Avery, I was like, whaaaaaat? If you ask me, you dodged a bullet.” She turns and flashes a huge smile at a little girl who is reaching for the plantains.
“Wait, I didn’t sleep with Rob Avery. Is that what you think?”
Janelle twists her head to me. “Huh? Hon, your business is your business. I’m not judging.”
“Abole!” Janelle beams at the little girl. “Would you like to try one?”
I back away with Cole, slightly sickened at just how much everyone is talking about me. When I get to the United Kingdom table, I slide my trays onto a table next to cupcake liners filled with miniature shepherd’s pies.
“I’m so glad you’re next to me,” I whisper to Leah, who is manning her table along with a father I don’t know. She gives me a funny look.
“Hello there! I’m Clare. I don’t think we’ve met officially.” I spin around to face a petite blonde in a plaid button-down. Even in teeteringly high boots, Clare comes up to my shoulders.
Her fingernails tap the triple strand of pearls on her neck. Staring at those perfect pink nails tap-tap-tapping the gleaming beads, I wonder how such tiny beads produce such a loud noise. Clare announces that she needs a “loo break” and tells me she will be back soon.
“We’ve got shepherd’s pie, your shortbread, and these lovely little watercress tea sandwiches.”
After about twenty minutes of handing out samples of British food to parents and children, I realize that I am slowing down. It’s taking me a moment to understand what people are saying when they talk to me, as if their words can’t find entry into my sodden brain. The loud laughter and voices reverberating through the big room ping around my skull. I need some air.
Clare reappears. Cole sees his chance and drags me into the throng.
He pulls me by the arm through the crowds around the room, stopping long enough to sample the offerings at each table. Maybe food will wake me up, I think, popping little morsels into my mouth. At the Italy table, we find Holly Zoni in a green, red, and white apron, offering mini-meatballs in tiny paper cups.
“Buon appetito!” she trills.
I realize this is the first time I have come face-to-face with Holly Zoni, although her triplets are legendary in the neighborhood. The trio of fifth-grade boys are notorious for tearing around corners on their dirt bikes, terrorizing the elderly out walking with their aides. I’ve read more than one thinly veiled complaint on the Facebook group.
Holly, all décolletage and flashing white smile, bends down to Cole’s eye level. “And what did you make, handsome?”
“We made shortbread,” Cole says.
“Actually, Susan baked it.” I give her an appreciative smile. “And we have you to thank for that.”
“Pardon?” Holly straightens up.
“Susan Doyle? She works for us now.” Her smile remains frozen on her face, but there is no recognition in her eyes. Maybe I am not making sense. My brain feels sluggish, the thoughts ill-formed. “She used to watch the boys, right?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Susan Doyle? She nannied for your triplets.” I know Susan said the Zoni triplets. I am sure of it.
“Nope, not us. Never had a nanny or a sitter. I could never leave my children with a stranger. Not that I’m judging. Whatever works for you, but I just could never do that.”
45
I step back, confused, as Holly turns from us to a father and daughter who have just arrived. “Benvenuto!”
Cole pulls at my arm. “There she is! There’s Ava!” He takes off across the room, leaving me to fend for myself. The noise in the room begins to cloud out my thoughts. Did I have it wrong all this time about Susan? I had never bothered to check her references. Maybe she was talking about an entirely different set of triplets and I assumed she meant the Zonis.
Oh god, oh god, I’ve screwed that up, too.
A buzzing vibration emanates from my hip. It’s Krystle.
“I’m in trouble,” she sobs. “I need to talk to you, Allie.”
“Hold on. I can’t hear you that well.” It’s not just the din of the room. My ears feel like they’re stuffed with cotton. I look for the closest exit to step outside and talk. Cole will be fine for a few minutes. It’s less than fifty feet away, but it feels like I’d have to push through thousands of people to get there. Shoulder down, I delve into the crowd. Someone’s elbow sends me staggering into the Korea table. I manage to right myself without knocking over the bowl of kimchi.
A woman in a shiny purple skirt glares at me. “What?” I bark at her.
“You don’t sound normal,” Krystle says. “What’s going on?”
“Hold on!” I shout into the phone. As I try to steady myself, a tray of naan on the India table catches on my sweater and goes flying. The platter skids a few feet across the floor. I stumble toward it, but a woman with a dark topknot beats me to it. I realize it’s Priya, the counselor from Georgetown who wanted me to come in the other day, and I scuttle away before she can greet me, like a feral animal caught in headlights.
“What the hell is going on, Allie?” Krystle’s voice echoes in my ears. My head weighs a lot, I realize. More than normal.
“Too many people here. I need space,” I say.
“Allie, this is important. I need you to focus. I spoke to the detective, and they tracked the money that was taken out in the reverse mortgage.”
“Go on.”
“It went to an account in Queens. They have a name.”
I lean against a bulletin board, careful not to rip down any of the artwork. “Queens. Is that good?”
“No, listen, it’s not good, Allie.”
“Why? Who took the money?”
“Well, the name on
