“Oryoucould have. Did anyone see you go into the practice room?”
“No. But you can’t possibly entertain the idea that I would kill him. You know I hate getting my hands dirty.” He examined his perfectly manicured nails to emphasize his point, but his hands shook slightly. Was he hiding something or just nervous?
“Assuming it wasn’t either of us, that leaves Cecelia and James,” I said.
“And Fred.”
I sighed. “Fine. In theory, it could have been Fred.”
A waiter bearing a tray offered us canapés. Walter took a cracker smothered in salmon spread and topped with an unidentifiable spiral vegetable. Food at my mother’s parties was the worst.
“Not hungry?” Walter asked when I waved the tray away.
“Not for any of this food.”
“Ah, so you’re about to make your getaway. I’ve noticed you never stay around these parties for long. My father says it’s because you’re sickly.”
I rolled my eyes.
Walter smiled grimly. “Then make your getaway while you can. I’m off to schmooze some more CEOs.”
“Oh, one more thing,” I said. “Are you missing a coat from the night of the murder? I mistakenly took someone else’s.”
He looked from my thin frame, to his muscular one, and back again, eyebrows raised. “Obviously not. Try Cecelia.”
“I will, thanks.”
Chapter 9
Islidmyphoneout and shot a text to Neto.
I’m about to make my escape. You hungry?
Starved.
Same.
Do you like Indian food? We could check Cecelia’s alibi.
Great idea. And I love Indian food.
There were two Indian places in town and I couldn’t be sure which one Cecelia had ordered from, but since The Curry Cauldron was closest to De Bourgh Hall, that was the most likely option. Unsure what Neto’s food preferences were, I ordered abit of everything from the app on my phone to be delivered to the arena.
I walked into my mother’s line of sight and struck up a polite conversation with our neighbor about his favorite subject—his prized Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. Once I was certain my mother had seen me mingling, I made an excuse and walked slowly through the crowd, smiling and acknowledging people as I went. I did my best to ignore Cambria Jeffrey’s shrill laugh and Jed Jameson’s coffee breath as the clatter mixed together into a cacophony of sensation. My skin chaffed as I brushed past guests with their polyester and cheap wool and nylon.
I waded through the humid press of dozens of bodies until I reached the handle of the first-floor guest room. I hurried inside. The first thing I did was shed my serviceable business casual clothes and change into my soft, comfortable ones, then I slid the window open, sighing with relief as the cool, fresh air curled up my face and around my neck.
I didn’t need to worry about my mother checking on me and finding I was gone; this party was just like all the others. Now that she’d checked me off her list, it would be hours before she thought of me again. So I crept out the double doors that led to the back porch and walked around the house to my car, where my skates and the cocoa waited for me in the front seat.
Moments later I was blasting Bing Crosby Christmas classics while I made my getaway.
Neto waited for me at the back door of the rink, hair still wet from showering. He’d changed from his hockey uniform into joggers and a soft, short-sleeved T-shirt. The blooming bruise on his jaw and cut on his eyebrow, combined with a grin, made him look like a kid who didn’t regret the fight he’d started. Warmth spread through me at the sight of him, and I had to clench my fists to keep my hands from sliding into his damp curls.
“This is amazing,” I said, taking in the peaceful quiet of the smooth ice surrounded by a few hundred empty black seats. The arena wasn’t huge, but it was large enough to accommodate the hockey fans from Austen Heights and the surrounding towns. The popcorn and soda spills had all been cleaned up, and the lingering odor of the fans was rapidly fading beneath the cleansing fragrance of mopping solution.
A Zamboni had smoothed every divot and gouge in the ice and the main lights were shut off, leaving only a few to bathe the rink in a soft glow.
I sighed contentedly. “This is just what I needed. It’s like a sensory palette cleanser.” His brow furrowed and I answered his question before he could ask it. “My fae gift is greatly enhanced senses. I can try to limit it, but I get fatigued if I do it for too long, and my control slips if the input is too much. It’s really hard for me to shut out all the commotion of my mother’s parties.”
