The Marsh Madness

“It is weird,” I said. “Usually you’d want to show off the new guy.” I batted my eyelash extensions at Lance. He looked horrified. I batted a bit more. Lance’s horrified glance shifted from my eyes to my martini. Was that black spidery thing what I thought it was?

Lance managed to quickly extricate us from GiGi and Henry once we discovered they had little to contribute. We weren’t the greatest company either, so I didn’t think they were heartbroken. They might have been relieved not to be grilled. Or possibly scared of the eyelash in my drink.

We circulated around the room. Lance was using his librarian organizing mode to ensure that we didn’t miss anyone. I was along for the ride. So many air-kisses. I’d gotten quite good at it by the end. My main worry was that the wig—quite a good quality synthetic—would catch fire from one of the candles on the floor candelabras. The eyelash had shaken my confidence a bit.

A few other people seemed surprised that Shelby hadn’t shown up, or else they were willing to fake it when Lance asked. Others didn’t know her or didn’t care much. Eventually, we were able to get close to the artist, Poppy.

“Wonderful series,” Lance gushed when we finally got our turn. He managed not to introduce me or refer to me by any name. Poppy didn’t seem to notice as everything had to be about her and I wasn’t. Lance kept it up. “You’ve really come into your own. The juxtaposition of light and form? Well, I’m at a loss for words.”

There was nothing I could say to top that. “Absolutely,” I added.

“I feel I’m growing into it,” she said.

I still would have liked to know exactly how she attached the feathers and wood, but it seemed gauche to ask.

“So organic,” Lance said. “Really.” Not for the first time, I wondered if his degree was a BS and not an MLS.

I was tuning out of this vacuous chat when he said, “Shelby’s not here?”

“Shelby?” She raised an eyebrow.

“Church?”

“Oh. I guess not yet. She’s supposed to come.”

“I wanted to approach her about a fund-raiser that I’m starting to think about.”

I could tell that when the conversation wasn’t about the artist or the party, her interest died quickly. “Oh look, here’s someone I need to talk to. Excuse me.” She turned her back.

Lance whispered, “Puts me in my place.”

“Learn to grovel better,” I said.

Lance was saying, “Never mind, I think that girl in the corner was in the photo from the Country Club. We should try our luck with her.”

As I turned my gaze toward a young woman who’d backed herself into a far spot where she stood looking wretched, a little buzz swept the crowd as a cluster of glamorous people arrived chattering. They handed their wraps to the coatroom attendants.

“Gotcha,” I said, as Shelby appeared right after the group swept into the room.

“Let’s head her off at the pass,” Lance said.

The gallery was jammed with people by this point. So very many high-end skinny jeans and ankle boots. So many five-inch stilettos. So much designer scent: Juicy Couture, Yves Saint Laurent and Calvin Klein. We wove our way in between people balancing martini glasses and canapés and headed toward the door where Shelby stood. From the way she glanced behind her, she was waiting for someone to follow her in. Was it the mysterious man in her life? The one who’d enticed her into this very bad situation? As we got closer, I could see she was even paler than she’d been at Summerlea. She’d done a haphazard job of using concealer to cover the dark circles under her eyes and what looked like a minor breakout. But her underlying skin color was gray, and there wasn’t a makeup in the world that could hide that. She could have done with a shampoo too. Shelby Church was clearly a woman under stress. And that was about to get worse, if I had my way. Because let’s face it, if you’re implicated in a murder and you’re willing to let other people take the rap for it, whatever bad stuff happens to you, you’ve got it coming.

Shelby caught Poppy’s eye. Poppy lit up and held out her arms. Her face clouded as Shelby worked her unsteady way toward the center of attention.