“Hey,” Corinne answered stonily, staring straight ahead. After years of absence, it felt almost intrusive that Natasha was here now.
Years ago they’d all been so tight, making up dance routines on the sand at the private beach, rehearsing pretend Saybrook’s commercials in the attic, giggling over the older boys that came to the family parties. An only child, Natasha had clung to Corinne, confiding that she saw her as a big sister. And Corinne saw Natasha as the little sister she’d wished Aster had been. But all that had changed when Natasha disinherited herself. She wanted nothing to do with the family—not even Corinne. She didn’t answer Corinne’s calls and started giving negative sound bites about the family to the press. Corinne had taken it personally. What had she done to Natasha?
At the same time, Corinne could practically hear Poppy in her ear, telling her to give Natasha a chance, coaxing her to include Natasha in her wedding party, as Poppy had done. “We’re family,” Poppy had insisted. “One day you’ll reconcile, and you’ll regret that she wasn’t standing by your side.”
“It’s unbelievable.” Natasha’s voice was choked.
“Umm-hmm,” Corinne murmured.
“I can’t believe the note . . . ,” Natasha went on.
Corinne nodded faintly. It hadn’t even sounded like Poppy.
“Did she reach out to you?” Natasha hounded.
Corinne stared at her cousin over Dixon’s lap. “No, Natasha,” she said, hearing her voice rise. “Because if she had, I would have helped her, and she would still be here.”
The organ music began to play, and the clergy at the front of the church indicated that everyone should rise. Corinne did so, watching as the rest of the congregation around her did the same. And then they began the process of saying good-bye to the most flawless Saybrook of all.
TWO HOURS LATER, after a reception at the University Club, Corinne and the other cousins, including Winston, Sullivan, and even Natasha, tumbled out of town cars at Seventy-Third and Park Avenue and walked up the stairs of Edith’s Queen Anne revival mansion.
The forty-foot-wide town house was faced in brick and marble, with a regal-looking, peacock-blue front door. Today, though, Corinne barely noticed it, nor did she pause to smell her favorite peonies in the front garden, admire the sweeping staircase in the foyer, or ogle the enormous antique crystal chandelier that, secretly, she hoped one day to inherit. The room offered a floor-through view to the back of the property, which opened into a stunning garden and a glorious two-story waterfall, but Corinne saw none of that, either, as she walked through the hall and into the grand parlor, where everyone had gathered.
Megan was trying to corral Skylar and Briony near the first of the grand parlor’s two marble fireplaces. James sat next to them on a long couch, looking dazed. Corinne’s mother and Rowan’s parents were squashed in next to him, cupping mugs of coffee. Natasha’s parents sat across from them on a settee. A blond woman in a suit stood near the window, nearly swallowed in Edith’s massive silk curtains.
“Who is that?” Corinne whispered to Rowan, realizing she’d also seen her at the church. Edith had asked the Saybrooks to gather here, stressing that it was family only.
“No idea,” Rowan said, her face ashen.
Corinne, Rowan, and Aster sat on the couch opposite James and Rowan’s parents. Winston and Sullivan slumped against the wall, fiddling with their popped collars and their shaggy blond surfer-boy manes. Natasha settled on a silken slipper chair near the room’s second fireplace. She pulled out her cell phone and studied the screen while everyone got settled.
Finally Edith rose from her wing chair at the head of the room, wrapped her fur tightly around her, and dismissed one of her servants, who’d been pushing a silver drinks cart. “I know I’m not the only one who’s had questions about Poppy’s death,” she said gravely. “I’ve brought you all here to tell you that Poppy didn’t commit suicide. She was murdered.”
James quickly jumped up and signaled to Megan, who whisked the children into the back parlor. Aunt Grace glanced at Winston and Sullivan and swished them out of the room too. For a moment, everyone was silent.
“Mother,” Mason said feebly from the couch. “We’ve been through this.”
Edith set her jaw. “I’m not the only one who believes this.” She turned to the blonde by the window. “She’s going to prove it.”
The stranger stepped forward. She was a little older than Corinne, with wide blue eyes and an athletic figure. “Katherine Foley, FBI,” she said in a confident voice. Then she reached into her pocket and revealed a shield-shaped badge.
Mason winced. “Mother, you didn’t.”
Edith’s eyes flashed. “I most certainly did. And anyway, I trust Miss Foley. I know her.”
Everyone squinted. “You do?” Aster asked.
“How?” Mason piped up.