The Marsh Madness

Back upstairs, still in my pajamas, I whisked out the photo from the hiding place in the mattress. I felt a little bit disappointed that there was nothing else hidden in the cavity.

The photo was, if you can imagine it, the Spring Soirée from the previous May, according to the small plaque at the bottom of the frame. Against the backdrop of the sweeping green lawns of the Country Club and Spa, the young women were stunning in their long, swirly gowns. Shiny hair gleamed, and there were enough white teeth to blind a person. The men were in formal wear too, all looking dapper and Ivy-Leaguish. I have never been to a soirée, but I loved the look of it. Of course, it was only a photo, but still, I could almost smell the money in the air. If I remembered my research, the Spring Soirée was a benefit for a local women’s shelter, a cause that was supposed to be dear to the late Chadwick’s charitable heart.

In the front row, Lisa Hatton leaned slightly toward Chadwick, her arm actually touching his. Her voluptuous figure strained at her plum satin dress. Her red lips were curved in a satisfied smile. Chadwick’s own smile looked perfunctory and formal. But he didn’t lean away from Lisa. Not at all.

So that was interesting.

But more than interesting was the blond beauty in the second-to-last row, third from the left. There was no sign of the light brown hair she’d had when I met her. In this shot, bare shouldered and elegant, Lisa Troy smiled off to the side, seeming to ignore the camera, her face tilted just so, to flatter her. Her asymmetrical updo looked natural, yet I figured it had cost a small fortune. Whoever Lisa was in real life, she had some cash to dispose of. The guy at her side was not the man who had presented himself as Chadwick Kauffman. He was a conventionally handsome fellow, tall, dark and well put together, but not all that interesting. Who was she smiling at off camera? Not the real Kauffman, who was at the end of the first row.

My heart was beating fast. I had found Lisa. And if I had found her picture, I should be able to find the woman herself. Sure, there had been a scam at work at Summerlea, but among the beautiful people at this glittering event, the chances were very good that someone would recognize her.

I was so caught up that I hadn’t noticed loud pounding at the door. But I couldn’t miss the thundering of feet on the stairs. I stood up as Tyler Dekker called out my name. There was no time to return the pilfered photo with its distinctive sage-and-gold frame to the mattress hiding place. I whipped it behind my back, as Tyler loomed in my bedroom door. My face was flaming, more from anxiety than embarrassment. Visions of police cells flashed in my brain. Orange is not really my best color. I plunked down on the photo to hide it.

“What are you doing here?” I said, hoping as I snapped out the words that the glass in the photo wouldn’t crack under my weight. It was not designed for someone who’d enjoyed so many of the signora’s meals.

“Just checking,” he said, averting his eyes.

“Checking what? Do you think I have a dead body over there?” I pointed to the far end of the room, where my Smurf collection had a place of pride on top of the white bookcase.

I suppose it was instinctive, and as Tyler turned to look, I stood up and flipped the blanket over the photo. Luckily, no shards of glass were stuck in the seat of my pajamas.

I folded my arms and glared at him. The effect might have been more intimidating if it hadn’t been for all those daisies on the faded pink flannel.

“I wanted to make sure you were still here.”

“Where else would I be?” I’ve been taught by the best. Believe the lie. Look them in the eye.

He wavered. He wanted to believe me. For some reason, I was sure of that. “Investigating.”

I snorted.

“You know what you’re like, Jordan. You have to go and find things out. Sometimes you play fast and loose with—”

I said, “I don’t—” at the same moment he shouted, “You know you—”

A second thundering on the stairs caused us both to whirl, stuck mid-sentence.