“Excuse me.” Beverley bolts after her. “Miss, excuse me. Wait!” She draws level and seizes her shoulder.
The girl—a Jean Shrimpton type, sleeveless turtleneck, late twenties, just like Beverley—turns and raises a plucked eyebrow.
“I’m sorry for the hollering, but you forgot to lock your car.” Beverley smiles.
“Oh.” The woman’s hands flicker to her collarbone, brushing a crucifix so delicate that it’s almost translucent. “Thank God,” she exhales. “I thought you were going to sell me insurance or something.”
Beverley forces a laugh. “Just wanted to help.”
The woman smiles as if Beverley has said something odd. “I’m sure it’s fine,” she eventually replies, then half turns back to the gala, waves a pretty little hand. “There must be three hundred cops in that building right there. This is the safest parking lot in the city right now.”
She may be pretty, but pretty doesn’t keep you alive.
Beverley fixes her own smile in place. “If you don’t lock your car, someone could climb in and conceal himself behind the driver’s seat.”
The woman blinks at her, visibly appalled.
“It’s always safer to lock your car.”
The woman’s eyes have narrowed to disgusted slits. Without a word, she stalks back to her car, locks it pointedly and then shoulders past Beverley into the hotel, her purse clutched to her chest.
—
The ballroom iscrammed with a hothouse fug. Ushers have distributed paper fans, and the wives flap them, lifting ponytails from their necks, revealing clasps of expensive auction-house jewelry. The space is cotton-wooled with chatter, the low baritone of men telling unprompted stories about themselves—broad shoulders, brilliantined hair, a heady waft of Aramis. Some of the officers are in uniform. Others smooth the lapels of tuxedo jackets, fix bow ties.
It’s dark, a welcome contrast with the migraine blare of the sun outside. The walls are veiled with black drapes. Chandeliers jitter above in a wash of kaleidoscopic glass. Beverley glances down, fingers the lipstick stain on the front of her dress.Well, that’s it.She is absolutely making it worse.
Perhaps she should have asked Margot to accompany her, or even Elsie. That would have given people a spectacle.You want a murderer’s wife, ladies and gentlemen? Here. Have three.
She moves through the room, her eyes trained on the floor, and hopes nobody recognizes her from the papers.
Beverley has always envied the officers and their wives. For them, murder is merely six letters scrawled in a hastily written report. It’s discussed over meat loaf at the dinner table. It’s crime-scene evidence shut away in a locker at the end of the day.
A waiter with Lee Marvin eyebrows glides past and she plucks a glass of champagne from his tray, then stretches behind her to grab another. Clutching one tightly in each fist, she turns to face the wall and downs the first in several gulps, discarding the glass on a nearbytable. She tips the other to her lips, then thinks better of it; she’ll keep hold of it so her hands have something to do.
“Mrs. Lightfoot.”
She almost jumps out of her skin. The young guy in front of her looks like something from a TV commercial. He is about the same age as Beverley, much younger than most of the officers in the room. She can’t help but imagine him playing tennis, all tanned legs and snug white shorts.
“It’s Miss Edwards now, actually,” she says, holding his gaze longer than feels comfortable. She refuses to useMrs.Mrs. Edwards is her mother.
“Miss Edwards.” He shows his teeth, and she feels the tips of her ears growing hot. “Our speakers are invited to relax backstage.” He has two beads of sweat above his lip. “There’s a room, a bit quieter, where you can wait, if you’d like, before your”—he blinks a few times—“appearance.”
She nods as he leaves. After a moment, she sets off in the direction of the stage. Down its right edge, flanked by high, black partition walls, she finds a corridor and steps into it gratefully. The thrum of the ballroom is immediately muffled, barks of laughter and machismo dulled to a quiet, ignorable buzz. She pauses in the darkness and takes a breath, moving a hand to the tight muscles at the back of her neck, tipping her chin upward, draining the nerves.
Her skin suddenly prickles.
Someone is watching her.
She can feel it like the soft scrape of fingernails.
“Good to see you again, Mrs. Lightfoot.”
The prickling stops. She knows that gruff voice. She turns.
“Chief Cornwell.” Her shoulders tense. “You surprised me.”
“Probably shouldn’t do that, right?” He raises an eyebrow but doesnot smile. Tom Cornwell was never the sort of guy to smile—not when he caught Henry, not when he accused Beverley of knowing more than she let on. “How have you been?”
