Joe couldn’t believe this place.
Lauren stepped forward and took his arm immediately, eyes shimmering in the candlelight.
Candles. There was a light switch on the wall, and yet the chandelier had been outfitted with both bulbs and tapers. “Which side of the Industrial Revolution are we on here, anyway?” He spun a slow circle, taking in the two-story entryway. “Is that what I think it is?” A replica of the Arc de Triomphe spanned the vestibule.
“That was made with the same marble found in the same place,” Lauren whispered. “You’ll find a lot of reproductions here.”
“You mean fakes?”
She swatted his arm. “We don’t call them fakes if everyone knows they aren’t originals. Now, be polite. We’ve arrived late, and I’m still trying to smooth things over with the Morettis on behalf of the Met.”
“Right this way.” A butler returned and guided them beneath the arch, down a corridor, and through a pair of oversized double doors. The great hall fizzed with champagne and buzzed with red-lipped flappers and their dates, cigarettes dangling from their fingers. But instead of jazz, a full orchestra played Mozart.
Ivory columns wrapped in a floral gold-leaf pattern supported a painted ceiling. Partially nude Greek gods and goddesses looked down at Joe from on high.
“Polite,” he reminded himself under his breath. Unlike the Vandermeer mansion, whose dark oak and walnut panels had absorbed light and reflected it back in stately restraint, this hall dazzled with gilded cream walls and upholstery in shades of pink and gold. Even the floor was pink marble.
“That’s Christina Moretti.” Lauren nodded toward an oil painting hanging above a fireplace of veined blue marble. Draping the mantel were evergreen boughs sparkling with gold and crystal ornaments. On either side of the fireplace were arched niches in the wall, twelve feet high and four wide, Joe guessed. Each held pedestaled statues.
“And is that fellow supposed to be Mr. Moretti?” He gestured subtly to the fig leaf–covered marble male. He knew, of course, that the figure bore no resemblance, but he enjoyed making Lauren smile.
“You know what he looks like,” she said. “There he is. Let’s say hello.” Lauren glided toward their host, and Joe stayed with her, declining an offer of champagne from one of the costumed waitstaff along the way.
“Dr. Westlake.” Moretti smiled, hands spread wide. “You came. We are honored to have you.”
Lauren returned the greeting and introduced Joe to him as her friend.
Joe shook his hand and found it firm but not bone crushing. “Quite the place you’ve got here,” he said.
“Yeah? Thanks. My wife gave a tour earlier, but I can show you around if you like.”
“That’d be fine.”
“It looks like you have a great turnout, Mr. Moretti,” Lauren added. “Everyone seems to be having a marvelous time.”
“But not the neighbors.”
“How’s that?” Joe asked.
“The neighbors, the neighbors.” Moretti swirled his hands in the air on either side of him. “I invited every one of them, but only a few of the other new-money folks have come so far. The old money must be allergic or something. I try to be friendly, and they go the other way. I thought they might come tonight to satisfy curiosity, at least.”
Joe regarded the orchestra, which was playing “Serenade No. 13 for Strings.” Definitely not a piece to dance to, more was the pity.
Moretti twisted to follow Joe’s line of sight. “Mozart. Classy, right? Did you know Mozart played for Marie-Antoinette when he was a kid, and then afterward went right up to her and kissed her on the cheek?”
Lauren laughed. “I’d heard that, yes.”
Moretti smiled. “I don’t know if these goons are happy with a little culture, but they get enough jazz every other day of the week. A little classical never hurt anyone.”
The accent threw Joe. It was a little bit Brooklyn, but if Moretti had grown up in the city, he must have at least gone to boarding school outside of it.
“What’s your pleasure?” Moretti waved over a man with a serving tray of drinks. “Champagne? Gin? Bourbon? Whiskey? Don’t worry, this is the good stuff.”
“No, thank you.”
“Dr. Westlake? How about the fruit cocktail you liked so well at the brownstone?”
Lauren’s cheeks flamed cherry red. “Club soda, please, if you have it.”
