Cold Case

parents’ sight before you started undressing me,” he said.

Megan shot a horrified hand to her mouth. Then giggles began infiltrating their way from behind its cover. “I–I thought it was one of those one-piece things,” she gasped.

P.J. shook his head. “A gentleman is supposed to know how to fix his own tie.”

“Do you?” Megan asked. “I mean, did someone else—?”

“My mommy stopped helping me get into my clothes some years ago,” P.J. interrupted, straightening out the ends of the tie. Then, trying to use his window as a mirror, he began trying to reconstruct the knot.

When his third attempt failed, Megan timidly said, “You’re going to get that all crumpled. May I—?”

P.J. shook his head, leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, and began working all over again, by feel.

Megan stared in disbelief. “You got it! All you have to do—”

“No!” P.J. said, bringing up both palms to block Megan’s helping hands. Then, a bit more gallantly, “If you don’t mind, I’ll adjust it myself.”

Arriving at an old-line hotel in downtown Washington, they walked under the canopy on an actual red carpet and took the elevator to the ballroom floor. They checked their coats, P.J. gave in their tickets, and Megan stood in the doorway, staring at the crowd. It was amazing — horrifyingly dowdy dresses decked out with drop-dead jewelry, doubtless family heirlooms dragged out once in a great while from safe-deposit vaults. Some of the men had tuxes that made that rag Andy Moore had worn look like high fashion.

And then there were the young women in the kind of outfits that Megan had only seen in magazines and HoloNews fashion coverage. Her fingers picked at the hem of her jacket. All of a sudden, her gown didn’t seem as great as it had back home.

What am I doing here? a panicky voice demanded in the back of her brain. This is just like the Leets looking down their noses at me in school — only multiplied by about fifty years and a thousand percent snobbishness!

P.J. appeared beside her, taking Megan’s arm. “I heard that gasp. Pretty awful, isn’t it?” he commented in a low voice. “It could be worse. At least most of the money here is old and a bit reserved. Back home we have the good ol’ boys in the gold lame western-cut dinner jackets, and lots of women with big hair and rhinestones. Or was that even what you were gasping at? Maybe you were just reacting to what the band is doing to that song?”

Megan finally focused on the twelve-piece combo at the front of the room. They were playing away, the sound getting muddled with the noise of a thousand conversations. Even listening carefully, it took her a moment to decipher the music. It had been a hot tune a couple of months ago. Everybody had been downloading it. As for this version, however…well, she’d heard better in cheap elevators.

Shaking his head, P.J. began walking in. “And this is probably the best thing we’re going to hear tonight,” he warned.

Megan found herself laughing. What did she have to fear from people with such awful taste in music? Bring the snobs on!

Even so, she had to hand it to P.J. As he began introducing her to people in the crowd, he slowly worked his way up the social ladder. In between dances and breaks for what the Junior League thought of as refreshments, he brought Megan to congressional aides and some lobbyists. Next she met social and political friends of P.J.’s father. Then came members of Congress, and finally some of Senator Farris’s colleagues.

At last they joined one of the crowds swirling around the celebrity guests. Even the rich and socially prominent liked to suck up to famous people, Megan discovered — at least, the younger generation did. P.J. steered her expertly to the eye of the storm.

For all intents and purposes, it was a reception line. Nikki Callivant, doing her best to be gracious in a gown that only brilliant engineering design could have kept in place, was shaking hands and chatting with a pair of women in equally modish costumes. Beside her, a tallish, pleasant-faced man with gray hair pressed the flesh with the women’s husbands. Behind them was a burly, balding red-faced man who looked as if he couldn’t wait for this hoedown to be over.

P.J. aimed first for the tall man. “Senator,” he said, shaking hands.

“As in once and future,” the man replied with a laugh.

“I remember my father introducing me to you on the Senate floor,” P.J. went on. “I’m P.J. Farris.”

“Trav Farris’s son?” The man’s interest now matched his geniality. “Well, you’ve certainly grown.” He rolled his eyes. “To state the obvious. And who is this delightful young lady?”

“Megan O’Malley.”

“Walter G. Callivant. A pleasure to meet you.” The older man took Megan’s hand in a warm clasp. It took her a moment to match the smiling face before her with the rather harassed figure in HoloNews clips that had provided so much material for the comedians.

Well, he didn’t spill a drink on me, or spit when he talked, Megan thought.

“Some people get depressed when they discover that colleagues’ children have grown up behind their backs,” Callivant said. “I like to think of it as a glimpse into the future.” He shook his head. “I also hope that wasn’t something from an old campaign speech. Let me introduce you to someone more your own age. Nicola!”

Walter G. stepped over and neatly disentangled Nikki Callivant from the pair of fawning socialites. “May I present my granddaughter, Nicola. Nikki, meet Megan O’Malley and P.J. Farris. I worked with this young man’s father, Trav Farris.”

“The senator from Texas,” Nikki said quickly. “Nice to meet you.”

“Right — I’m sure it’s very nice.” P.J. laughed, looking at the zoo around them.

Nikki’s smile broke through her company manners. “At least my grandfather knew you.” Megan could barely hear her voice over the chatter around them.

“How can you stand it?” Megan asked.

Now Nikki’s smile became rueful. “This event will help several charities my family supports, and the money is desperately needed. If I have to risk pneumonia and smile until my face hurts, it’s a small price to pay. It’s the least we can do—”

And it’s an election year, Megan thought. She almost yelped as an elbow caught her in the ribs. There were other people who wanted to touch a Callivant, and Megan and P.J. were holding up the line.

“Perhaps I’ll see you later,” Nikki called after them. Then she turned to the next set of hand-grabbers.

“If I hold my breath till that happens, my face will match my gown,” Megan muttered as they made their escape. “Nikki and her grandfather are doing better business than some of the refreshment stands.”

“Which would you rather have?” P.J. asked mockingly. “The glow of personal contact with the Callivant clan, or mediocre domestic champagne and a scrap of mystery meat in puff pastry?”

“They’re on display like prize hogs.”

“It’s for charity,” P.J. said. “And I suppose it beats sticking your head through a hole in a sheet and having people throw pies at you.”

“I suppose it’s also for politics.” Megan glanced at him. “Walter G. wants his party’s nomination for senator.”

They both looked at the older man shaking hands with lots of young and not-so-young Junior League supporters. “I’d say he’s doing pretty well with the trust-fund constituency,” P.J. observed.

“But they’re cramping our style,” Megan complained. “How are we even supposed to talk to her again?”

“As opportunity allows.” P.J. sighed. “Look at me — here I am, wasting all those good-cop lines I’ve been studying. Shall I practice them on you? Would you like to dance?”

Megan’s opportunity to talk to Nikki came, of all places, in the ladies’ room. The winter prom had shown her some of the dangers of high formal fashion. Besides nearly falling out of some of the more extreme gowns, girls had tripped on their long, swirling skirts or sprained their ankles falling off the high, slender spike heels that were all the rage.

Destroyed hems, ripped hose, and torn seams were common. Sometimes they’d speared the fabric with their own high heels, other times a clumsy date had stepped on their skirts, sometimes a stranger got too close at the wrong moment. But the worst combination had proven to be haute couture and plumbing. One girl had even flushed a bit of her skirt down the toilet, which had left her stuck in the ladies’ room and had caused a flood. Almost everyone had to depend on friends for help in either temporarily escaping from or rearranging their fashionable formal wear in “the ladies’ lounge.”