He had such a dad demeanor that I felt instantly chastised. “Do you need anything?” I asked.
“Have the musicians set up in the south side yard. We’ll take Mrs. Carrington around the north. No one needs to be a spectator.” He gave me a pointed look.
That remark was clearly meant for me.
I did as I was told because the man needed to focus on Evelyn. Even though the EMTs had taken over, he was still a doctor and might be needed.
As I wandered to the open doors that led to the foyer, I processed all I’d seen and heard.
Narcan.
The word landed somewhere in my chest and just sat there, refusing to make sense.
Narcan was for overdoses. I knew that much from the podcast, from Maggie's endless research rabbit holes, from the handful of true crime cases we'd covered that had opioids tangled up somewhere in the mix. Heck, from the news. It was everywhere emergency services were rendered these days, including with firemen and police officers.
Yet it wasn't a word you expected to hear floating over a magnolia tree at a historic preservation gala, next to a woman in a designer gown who insisted on champagne flute etiquette and had silver julep straws inherited from her great-grandmother.
Evelyn Carrington. An opioid addict?
It felt on its surface, unlikely.
Not because of socio-economics. The opioid crisis was everywhere and no one was immune from its clutches. One back injury and suddenly someone could spiral out into the nightmare of substance issues.
It was more that she didn’t present as anything other than sharp-eyed. And razor-tongued.
She didn't act like someone hiding something that heavy and debilitating. But then, I supposed, that was the point of hiding something. I'd spent enough time now around people who'd buried things—bodies, secrets, decades-old grudges—to know that composure was often the best disguise there was. Some of the most put-together people I'd ever met were barely holding on by a thread.
The doctor had looked like a man just covering every possible base. Given that I couldn’t read his mind or follow Evelyn to the ER, I was just going to have to chill on the theories until more information was forthcoming.
They got Evelyn onto a stretcher with a brisk, practiced efficiency. Even as I hovered—man, I was being a pro hoverer—I watched Evelyn as they wheeled her past. Her face, what I could see of it around the oxygen mask, was completely devoid of color.
Now that she was gone, I ventured back on the terrace, gaze sweeping around for anything out of the ordinary.
A young and harried server crouched down where Evelyn had fallen and began gathering up the wreckage of the toast that never really got going.
She grabbed the cup first, then scooped up the mint into a linen napkin. Then she tossed the straw onto her tray.
"Wait," I said, before I'd fully decided to say anything. "Maybe you should…"
What? Dust it for fingerprints? For controlled substances? What difference did it make?
Besides, she was already moving, weaving back toward the house with her tray.
A man I recognized from the receiving line was grabbing the microphone off of the table where Evelyn had been attempting to give her toast. He was silver-haired and red-faced, clearing his throat.
"Friends," he said. "Please, everyone, I know this is distressing. Evelyn is in excellent hands, and I’m confident we'll have good news very soon. The Society would very much like tonight to continue in the spirit she intended. The bar remains open, the band will resume shortly, and I know Evelyn herself would want us to carry on celebrating the important work this gala supports."
There was a smattering of uncertain applause, the kind that happens when people aren't sure if clapping is appropriate but feel the social pressure to do something with their hands.
I did not clap.
Instead, I looked around for my Midnight House guests, and found them already clustered near the edge of the terrace. I was hoping I could convince them to get the heck out of there now that the ambulance was gone.
Taylor had gone pale beneath his sunburn, still sitting where I'd put him, turning an empty julep glass over and over in his hands. Reginald stood beside him with his arms crossed so tightly it looked painful, jaw working. Allison had her phone out, but for once she wasn't typing. She was just staring at the screen like she'd forgotten what she was holding it for.
Vivienne stood slightly apart from the others, her camera lowered but not put away, her expression unreadable in the flickering lantern light.
"I think I'd like to go back to the B&B," Allison said finally, very quietly. "If no one else is ready to leave I can call a cab."
