The Marsh Madness

“Thank you. I’ll let you know what happens.”


“I think those artsy-fartsy things are known not to serve much food. Couple of Oreos for the road? Make your old uncle happy?”

Who could turn down an offer like that?


*

LANCE DROVE THE Beamer. It was the least I could do. He was at his most elegant, with that hipster vibe, but without having to resort to a beard. He wore a charcoal double-breasted blazer over a light knit black turtleneck, tailored straight-leg pants and Chelsea boots. I was proud to be at his side and grateful that he would be the focus of attention.

The gallery was in a renovated nineteenth-century bank on the main street of Grandville. The exposed brick and industrial lighting was now fashionable, as was the expanse of pale pine flooring. The white gallery walls were hung with vast aluminum creations. I wasn’t entirely sure how the artist had managed to attach feathers and bits of wood to each one.

Six-foot cast iron candelabras with flickering tapers provided a nice contrast to the stark modern atmosphere.

We’d been served Grey Goose martinis, instead of the usual white wine or generic “champagne.” The appetizers were entirely unfamiliar except for the little black clumps of caviar with something leafy. “Foraged greens,” Lance whispered. “This caterer is the hottest thing north of Brooklyn.” This reinforced Lance’s view that Poppy’s family had more money than the Federal Reserve. I would not mention them to my uncles. They might consider it open season.

Poppy’s dark hair was cut no more than a half inch long. Luckily, she had a beautifully shaped head and she was stunning in a simple white silk slip dress and a pair of incredible Christian Louboutins. The trademark red soles flashed every time she shimmered her way through the guests. They echoed her brilliant red gloss lipstick. Girl had style.

I might have looked pretty good back in Uncle Mick’s antique shop mirror, but here I was definitely not worth a second glance. Not in a league with the moneyed princessy types and wealthy matrons, but not so down-market I’d rate a curled lip. I was counting on simply blending, and there were plenty of people who must have been old school friends of the artist. I noticed some nervous and uncomfortable glances from people who would have done anything to be home watching The Real Housewives of New Jersey.

We were waiting to pounce on the first person who might know Shelby Church. Lance has no trouble pouncing. He’s so often on the receiving end of pounces at work that he has developed techniques from the pros.

We found ourselves talking to GiGi and Henry, another couple, our age, looking like they’d rather be anywhere but here. After a few vague comments about the artworks of the “so interesting” and “isn’t it?” variety, Lance quickly got to the point. “I thought I’d see Shelby here tonight.”

They both shrugged in unison. It seemed obvious that Lance was waiting for an answer.

“No worries,” he said. “I know she and Poppy are tight. I was hoping to get her alone to talk about a charity thing I’m planning.”

“She has the new guy,” I interjected. “Maybe she’s off somewhere with him. Not sure if he’s the gallery type.” I would have suggested somewhere they might be, but I had no idea how people like Shelby Church spent their time.

“What do you think about him, anyway?” Lance said, glancing around. “I wouldn’t have thought he was her type.”

“I don’t think anyone’s actually met him. That’s kind of weird in itself,” GiGi said, “but I haven’t seen her anywhere. She’s supposed to have been in a film in Europe.”