“It’s quite something, isn’t it?” Vienna said, her voice strained.
Back to my fake smile, which by now was threatening to split my face in two. “It’s very… meaningful.”
“It’s a commentary on murder,” Isaiah said, raising his eyebrows, as if it should be obvious. “I wanted to nod to what you’ve been through, while delving even further into human and bird psychology. Peacocks will eat almost anything, gulping down a mouse or lizard even as it screams.” Vivid. “It made me connect murder to the peacock to the human experience. Perhaps the ultimate form of art is murder.”
Gabe laughed, his real laugh this time, which was as bright as a new floral spring collection and warm as a new line of faux-fur muffs. But the artists, who were all nodding approvingly, looked at him as if he’d dared to mix mustard and cyan. He sobered immediately with a quick glance at me that felt like an apology. “Oh. Sorry. I thought you were joking.”
“Joking?” Isaiah echoed, eyes wide. “Joking?Murder opens up the innermost chambers of the body that are meant to remainclosed and chaste and unbroken, and spills all of its secrets to the world, who says it doesn’t want to look but in reality cannot turn away. How is that anything but art?”
I don’t know, maybe a monstrous crime that destroyed entire families and shattered hearts? I mean, my grandmother’s murder had nearly destroyed my entire life. Not emotionally, of course, just logistically. I managed not to say that—for Vienna’s sake, considering she was looking even more pained now—but couldn’t resist asking, “Does that make the murderer an artist?”
Isaiah wrinkled his nose, offended that I’d even asked. “The ultimate artist, some might say.”
Only somebody who’d never been around murder for real would say that. “Well, it was great to meet you all, and Isaiah, I appreciate you lending us your work for the night.”
All the artists cooed in response, with Isaiah’s coming last. “Pomona, it’s not on loan, it’s a gift. For your good work.” He smiled toothily at me, and, for once, I couldn’t force my fake smile in response. A shiver ran down my spine as I nodded quickly and beat it. Did he mean my good work with the nonprofit, or my good work with murder?
Either way, it felt like a bad omen.
CHAPTER
Four
The next hour passed in a dizzying blur of faces and names and compliments, mostly for me. I parked Gabe with Nicholas and Jessica for a bit to give him a break from all the schmoozing. Though the worried look he gave me when I did it told me he knew the real reason. “I’m not embarrassing you, am I?”
“Of course not,” I said vehemently, which was only a little bit of a lie. The rental tux situation had been largely forgotten by everyone who wasn’t a petty little bitch, but Gabe hadn’t helped himself this evening by blurting out to Denise Ryan, the billionaire divorcée, that he was a huge fan of the ex-husband who’d cheated on her. “I’m just looking out for you.”
Without Gabe sweating through his tux beside me, I talked to a bunch of people I knew. Millicent’s parents. Some of my parents’ friends. Fred, the Afton CFO, who I’d thought might retire and move to Florida after he blew up at me last year (to be fair, it was after I’d accused him of murder), but who’d come trotting back after everything was solved and resumed his job like nothing had ever happened. A couple of people I swore I knew but couldn’t pinpoint.
“Did we meet at Vienna’s last show? Vienna Soo, Artists in the World? It was at the Whitney?” I asked one, a woman maybe ten years older than me who I definitely knew somehow. I squinted ather heart-shaped face, dark hair, catlike green eyes, though not hard enough to look creepy (hopefully). She lookedsofamiliar. “Or the Met Gala? I finally got the invite last year. I was the one in the birdcage? It might have been hard to see my face under all the feathers.”
The woman—her older husband had introduced her as Cora Jean-Pierre—shook her head, wincing a little bit. “Um, I saw pictures of it? But no, you wouldn’t have met me there. Sorry. Uh, I’m going to get one of those delicious-looking waffles.” And she fled. Maybe I’d squinted too hard? Or maybe she’d just been really into the waffles. Understandably, since I personally had told Ellie and Sage to make sure that they used a little barley flour to add an earthy depth that would contrast really well with the rich mascarpone topping.
Before I could think too much about it, I spotted a group I hadn’t expected to see here, not even with the elegantly scrawled RSVPs (they only employed assistants with calligraphy on their résumés, I assumed). The blue bloods. I sucked in a deep breath. I hated to admit it to myself, but tonight wasn’t entirely about the kids I was trying to help.
I mean, it was mostly about them. But it was also for me: an audition, almost, for the new life I wanted. And this new life involved impressing this particular group of people who I very much wanted to be my new friends. Some of them had partied with me back in the day before embarking on their new, grown-up life paths of looking down on everybody else. Sure enough, they were standing in a tight circle, glancing around them, little smirks on their faces. What was it? Was my string quartet playing too loud? My caviar pulled from the wrong sea?
I fixed a bright but hopefully demure smile on my face (I was not used to demure) as I sashayed in their direction. “Libby, hi! Kitty, so glad you could come. John, delightful to see you.” I moved around the rest of the circle, air-kissing cheeks and ignoring the eye flicks of judgment my dress was getting. I didn’tget it—it covered up all the important bits and it wasn’tthatloud. Right? Now I was second-guessing myself. Libby’s and Kitty’s dresses were both muted in color and conservative in cut, though the diamonds on their earlobes and fingers were big and sparkly enough to make up for it. My voice climbed a half octave. “I think everything has been going very well so far!”
I regretted it immediately. Desperate. Sure enough, Libby’s and Kitty’s eyes met with a judgmental eyebrow raise. “Very well.”
If I was remembering correctly, Libby’s full name was Elizabeth Katherine Montserrat-Rand, and she was the descendant of a nineteenth-century railroad baron. Kitty’s was Katherine Elizabeth Hart, and her ancestors had owned half the city back in the day (and a whole bunch of people, but they kind of glossed over that). Their friend John’s great-great-great-grandfather had competed with Libby’s on the rails, but they’d gotten over that sometime in the past hundred and fifty or so years. Their parents would never have flicked an eyelash in the direction of my parents—newmoney—but times were changing. I mean, they were friends with Vienna, and her mom had been a pop star, for heaven’s sake.
I let that bolster me, lifted my chin. “I’m so glad I had Vienna’s help.” Couldn’t hurt to remind them that they were tight with my very best friend. “I hope my debut goes as well as hers did.”
“It would be hard for it to go better,” Libby murmured. What did that even mean? I bristled but didn’t let it show. Only smiled brighter.
Besides, it was kind of true. Back when Vienna had decided to transform from party girl into serious person, she’d started her foundation practically overnight, making a splash immediately with family money. She didn’t even have to suck up to any assholes like Conrad Phlume. TheNew York Timesdid a massive, glowing write-up on her, everywhere else followed, and suddenly everyone was taking her seriously. It had been incredible.
“Anyway,” Kitty said, taking a sip of her drink. She wasn’t holding a The Pomona Afton, I was a bit aggrieved to see. None of them were, actually. They were all drinking wine. I was suddenly seized with doubt. Was it tacky to have a drink themed after yourself at your gala? I smoothed down my skirt, hopefully not leaving streaks of sweat on the fabric. “So good seeing you, Pomona.” Ugh, my full name. She raised one elegantly shaped eyebrow. She’d probably never had someone accidentally wax an entire one off, then panic about what to do with the other one (did they have to match?). “Looking forward to seeing how this all turns out.”
The others nodded, and I went to say—oh, wait. They were dismissing me. I wasnotused to being dismissed. But I wasn’t going to bulldoze past their disdain. I just nodded and scuttled off and tried not to worry too much about how this would all turn out.
When the time came to usher everyone to their seats for dinner and speeches, it was a relief to get to sit down for a moment, even though, with the exception of Kitty and Libby and them, the feedback had all been glowing. Sometimes being universally beloved and admired could be exhausting. I sank down into my seat at the head table to guzzle a glass or five of ice-cold spring water, only to be immediately accosted by Conrad Phlume.
“Pomona, I have some edits to my speech,” he said, chest puffed out again. His wife, Bibi, trailed behind him, elegant in a simple but well-cut black gown and confident in her undyed silver hair. I went to acknowledge her with at least a nod, but she was intently focused on the ceiling. I glanced up just in case I’d missed another horrible murder-knife bird hanging from it, but thank God, there was nothing up there but marble arches. Honestly, I couldn’t blame her for not wanting to catch my eye. Imagine going to an event where everybody knew you were married to Conrad Phlume. How embarrassing.
“Edits to your speech?” I formed my fake smile into afake-regretful frown. “I’m sorry, Mr. Phlume. Library policy forbids changes to any public speeches once they’ve been approved by its representatives.” That was a lie, but it was always easier to blame someone other than yourself. “What you already have is so great, though.”
