I raised an eyebrow, then lowered it as I realized I probably looked way too much like my mother. “Are you saying he didn’t remember stealing your wife?” I winced a little saying it—no human being could be stolen; Bibi had played an equal part in the dissolution of their marriage—but I knew that wasn’t how my dad saw it, and I really wanted him to be primed for an honest answer.
“It seemed that way,” Dad said darkly. “Or else he wanted me to think so, because he’s a smug asshole. Either way, I punched him.”
“You punched him?” I cried. Not in surprise: that much had been obvious by the state of his hand. It was just hard to imagine my mild-mannered father, who could barely carry on an uncomfortable conversation, physically assaulting someone.
“Hard. In the face,” said Dad. “In the eye, to be precise. He shouted and reeled back toward the railing.”
“And that’s when he fell off,” I breathed. “You didn’t mean it, but that’s how it happened.”
“Are you joking, Pomona?” said my mom. She turned to my dad. “She’s joking, isn’t she, Richard?”
He was staring at me. “It’s a pretty awful joke, if so,” he said. “No, Pom. I didn’t kill him, I only punched him. It hurt my hand. I had to go ice it. Also, he tried to punch me back, and I wasn’t there to get into a fight. I wouldn’t do anything to ruin my daughter’s very first gala.”
That was rich, coming from the person who’d started the fight. I didn’t bring that up. Not out loud, at least.
“I can tell what you’re thinking,” Dad said. “And thank you. Yes, I am a good father.” I bit my tongue. “And I have an alibi. I went to one of the bars along the side to get a napkin and ice formy hand. I was there chatting with the bartender at the time Conrad fell. I told him I’d gotten so angry at the injustice being done to those kids you’re helping that I couldn’t help but punch a pillar.”
“Wow. Okay,” I said. That explained why he hadn’t appeared in any of the photos taken around the time of the murder. “Thanks for letting me know. I appreciate it.”
He straightened his shoulders, lifting his chin as if preparing for me to place a medal around his neck. “You’re welcome.”
My mom muttered something, shaking her head, then glanced at me as if waiting for me to ask her to repeat herself. I didn’t, because anything she muttered under her breath wasn’t something I particularly wanted to hear.
But she repeated herself anyway. “I cannot believe that our daughter once again thought we were murderers. The shame of it. And in front of the help.” She cast a withering gaze at Andrea, who looked more amused than anything.
“Andrea is not the help,” I said wearily.
“You know what I mean,” said my mother.
“I do,” I said. “And it was incredibly rude.” I stopped short of saying she should apologize, because she would twist it into some awful passive-aggressive dig at Andrea that would hurt worse than what she’d already said. Andrea still just looked amused, honestly. She knew my mother.
Mom shook her head. “Honestly. I have such ungrateful children.” She muttered something else, but this time I actually wanted to hear it.
“Children? Are you talking about both me and Nicholas?”
“Traitors, both of you,” she said. “He tries to overthrow his own father on the board, and you keep thinking we’ve murdered someone. Such terrible children.”
“Nicholaswhat?” I said, shocked. Though not that shocked, honestly. Staging a coup wasn’t all that out of character for my brother.
“It’s that Jessica’s influence,” she said. “I know it. My darling boy would never do something like that on his own.”
My dad was wrapping his arm back up in his brace, but looked up to say, “Let’s not talk about this here, dear. Pom’s not involved in the business. Andrea, your oldest son is a detective with the NYPD, isn’t he? Very impressive.”
I had to give it to my dad when he’d earned it: It was a masterful change of subject that made this dinner party slightly less horrible. After Andrea bragged about her sons for a while, my dad actually bragged about me, how my bakery was profitable and not losing money like the businesses of his friends’ daughters (respectively: a publishing company focused on poetry about poetry; a boutique that sold only clothes knitted from faux goat wool; a pet yoga business, as in yogaforpets, no snakes allowed) and how proud he was of me for sticking it out in the real world, and not only sticking it out but thriving and solving a murder while doing it. It would’ve been nice if he could’ve looked at me while saying any of it or had indeed ever said any of it to me before, but it made me all teary-eyed anyway.
Same with my mom—as my dad went on, her face got more and more pinched and sour. When she clearly couldn’t take another second of someone else being praised instead of her, she interjected, “Richard, we’d best head out soon. Don’t forget you have that call with Jack about the purchase of that bed-and-breakfast.”
Right, Jack Wohl. He’d been at the gala, too, also unpictured in the alibi photos. I didn’t know him well, only that my parents and the Afton company as a whole were pretty heavily invested in his hedge fund. “How’s Jack doing?” I said casually.
“Oh, fine,” Mom said. “All business talk, as always. Though I did hear a rumor…”
“It’s not a rumor,” said Dad. “Fred saw them out together.”
“Fred could be lying for attention,” said Mom.
My mom was the only one in this circle who lied for attention, but okay. “What’s this rumor?”
“It’s not a rumor,” Dad repeated, a little annoyed, as if I hadn’t heard him the first time. “Fred saw Jack Wohl out with Denise Ryan.”
