Aster laced her fingers with his. “Here’s a picture of him,” she said, pointing to an old photo of Alfred and his friend Harold in front of the Saybrook’s flagship store in New York City, wearing matching derbies and wire-rimmed glasses.
“He looks just like he did in the indoctrination video,” Mitch joked. Then he gazed through the crowd. “So where’s the woman of honor?”
Aster frowned. “I don’t know.” She hadn’t seen Corinne since that afternoon. Edith stood in the corner, chatting with the Morgans, a family who lived down the street and had made a fortune in natural gas. Dixon was schmoozing with some people from his investment firm; his father stood next to him, looking eerily like Dixon’s older, slightly grayer double. Mason and Penelope clutched hands tightly, deep in conversation with Natasha’s parents in the corner.
Aster’s gaze remained on her father for an extra beat. He may have had an alibi for Poppy’s murder, but he still had a lot of secrets.
“Aster!” someone exclaimed from across the room. A figure shot through the crowd, and Clarissa tackled her in an embrace. “How have you been, you crazy bitch?” She stood back and gave Aster a once-over. “You look so hot tonight. I hate you a little. And I especially hate you for bailing on me at SoHo House last week. Plus you missed a great night at Boom Boom.”
Clarissa looked skinnier and tanner than ever. Her dark hair hung down her back in long tendrils, and she wore a beaded dress that barely skimmed the top of her thighs. For a second, Aster thought Clarissa had crashed, but then she remembered she’d invited her.
“Sorry,” Aster said weakly, realizing that she’d never answered the text Clarissa sent her at dinner that night. That was the same day she’d broken into her dad’s e-mail and gone to the FBI with Corinne and Rowan. “Something came up.”
Clarissa put her hands on her hips and gazed around the huge room. “So this is where you spent your summers?” She wrinkled her nose.
“Yes. Why?” Aster asked, feeling defensive.
“Oh, no reason.” Clarissa smiled sweetly. “It just seems . . . I don’t know. Sort of like the Addams Family house.” She looped an arm around Aster’s shoulders. “Do you think there’s any way we can snag your family’s private jet and bust out of this thing early? There’s an amazing party tonight at this record exec’s loft in TriBeCa. And guess who’s going to be there? Nigel! And he’s single again!” She bumped Aster’s hip and winked.
Mitch cleared his throat. “Uh, who’s Nigel?”
Aster nervously grabbed his hand. “Mitch, this is my friend, Clarissa.”
“Best friend,” Clarissa corrected.
“We’ve known each other for a long time,” Aster conceded. “Clarissa, Mitch.”
Clarissa looked Mitch up and down. The slightest smirk appeared on her face. “What’s your last name?”
“Erikson,” Mitch answered.
“Of the Darien Eriksons?” Clarissa asked.
Mitch peered at Aster for help. “I have a great-aunt who lives in Stamford?” he volunteered.
Clarissa turned back to Aster, giving her an are-you-serious? expression. Aster bit down hard on her lip. So Mitch didn’t exactly fit the mold of guys Aster normally went out with. But maybe that was a good thing.
Then Clarissa widened her eyes at someone across the room. “Holy shit, it’s Ryan!” She pointed to one of Dixon’s friends, then leaned toward Aster. “Remember when I made out with him at Lot 61?”
And with that, she was gone.
The jazz band launched into a rousing, up-tempo number. Aster glanced at Mitch, who was coolly sipping his Moscow Mule. “Sorry,” she said. “Clarissa is kind of . . . intense.”
Mitch raised an eyebrow. “She’s your best friend?”
Before she could answer, Edith stepped forward into her field of vision. “Well, look who’s here!” her grandmother crowed.
Aster turned, expecting Corinne to appear at the top of the stairs. But Edith—wearing her usual mink stole—had pushed forward to the front door. She laid her hands on a blonde’s shoulders and ushered her inside. It took Aster a moment to realize that the newly arrived guest was Katherine Foley, clad in not her usual black skirt suit but a champagne-colored, tea-length party dress and tan kitten heels.
Aster rushed over to the agent. “Did something happen with Poppy’s case?” she asked. “Did you find the killer?”
Edith frowned. “Good Lord, Aster. Miss Foley is here because I invited her.”
Aster tried her best to smile at Foley, mumbling an apology. “Hello, Aster,” Foley said. Her tone of voice was just as patronizing as it had been the other day at the station.