Emma was thrilled. She dashed into the kitchen before the first guest arrived, looking spectacularly pretty in a lacy Geoffrey Beene slip dress. The lingerie look was big for evening wear this year, and some of the events Faith had catered recently looked more like slumber than dinner parties. But Emma didn’t look ready for bed—or rather, not ready for sleep.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you! I told Michael about the catastrophe but that I was able to get a great replacement, and he says he remembers a party you did and you’ll be even better than Henri, whose food was getting too predictable. I wonder why he was shut down? I never thought to ask, but it doesn’t matter.
Michael thinks I’ve done a terrific job, and now I have to fly. There’s the door!”
Emma’s speech was delivered at the speed of light and she was in and out of the kitchen before Faith had time to ask if they should start serving the hot hors d’oeuvres right away. She made the decision herself and popped a tray of coconut shrimp in the oven.
Emma’s kitchen contained state-of-the-art equipment—Viking range, Sub-Zero refrigerator, Calphalon pots and pans—but showed absolutely no signs of use.
Faith was accustomed to this, but she noted that the 112
Stansteads did stock some food—DoveBars, of course, milk, English marmalade, and orange juice. Somewhere, there were probably English muffins, too.
Faith walked from the kitchen down the hall, past the front door and foyer, and into the living room, which was already buzzing with conversation. The holiday season was adding glitter to what would be a sparkling group at any time of the year. Well dressed, well coiffed, they did indeed look like beautiful people. A subtle smell of expensive perfume filled the air.
The women were wearing more jewelry than usual.
Just as their sisters under the skin pinned a rhinestone Christmas tree to a coat collar or hung tiny Christmas ball earrings from their earlobes, these ladies had un-earthed their Judith Leiber minaudières and Tiffany di-amonds by the yard. They formed a seamless whole with their surroundings, and Faith felt as if she were watching an exceptionally well-staged and -costumed play.
She started passing the tray and dispensing napkins.
Michael’s study was off the main room. Setting up the bar there seemed to be working, freeing up space in the larger room for mixing and mingling.
Looking about, she was reminded that her role as employee made her virtually invisible. All her senses were heightened—particularly sight and sound. She was acutely aware of everything going on in the room.
Her first thought was that there were no surprises—
yet.
It was no surprise to see Poppy holding court, back to the fireplace, bathed in what was the kindest light of the room. It was no surprise to see Jason Morris, either, who was sitting in a large wing chair off to her side, watching his wife with an expression of tolerant 113
amusement. Faith remembered him now. A large, florid man in bespoke suits, with patrician good looks that had once been much, much better. He looked all of his years tonight, especially compared with his wife.
Faith remembered Emma’s recent description of her mother’s current attitude toward Jason, “But now she is fifty and he is seventy.” It was no surprise to see Lucy, dressed in those dreary lawyerlike clothes from Brooks—navy blue suits, skirt not too short, white blouse, maybe a fabric rosette at the neck. No jewelry except a very expensive watch. In deference to the hour and occasion, Lucy had chosen a black evening suit and the rosette was black satin. She’d inherited little in the way of appearance from her mother, certainly not her glorious red hair.
She was a wheat-colored blond, thanks to Daddy, tall and large-boned, but with the athletic body of a would-be partner who regularly hits the squash court, letting the boss win, but not by much.
And there were no surprises in her greeting to Faith.
“You must all be so proud of Hope. I hear she’s taking the city by storm. And what are you doing with yourself these days? Waitressing?”
Resisting the temptation to tell the bitch to take a flying leap, Faith smiled and moved the shrimp just out of Lucy’s reach. “I own the company that’s catering the party tonight.” She took a step away.
“How, well, how very unusual,” Lucy said, smiling nastily. “And here I thought you were merely one of the help, but then again . . .” She let her words hang in the air like industrial waste. She didn’t need to finish.
She didn’t need to say, “But then again, you are.” Letting it hang there was so much more fun.
Faith moved sister Lucy to the top of the list of peo-114
ple who might be blackmailing Emma, as well as to the top of the list of those who might have murdered Nathan Fox. She’d happily move Lucy to the top of more, but two was all she had at the moment.
She went back for another tray, and when she returned, studiously ignored Lucy on her rounds. It was impossible to escape the voice, though. “I’m sorry,” Faith heard her say without a note of regret, “I really can’t get worked up about where to put the homeless. Long Island, wherever—so long as they’re not in my face.” No surprises. But yes, surprises.
First, Hope walked in and sister bumped into sister.
She was looking particularly gorgeous in an ivory satin blouse and short black velvet skirt, her dark hair loose.
The hose on her shapely long legs had little rhinestones at each ankle. Hope must be in a whimsical mood tonight, Faith noted.
“What are you doing here?” Hope asked.
“I was about to ask you the same thing. You haven’t started moonlighting, working for Stanstead Associates, have you? Where would you get the time? And I’m catering this thing. Just ask Lucy.”
“Of course I’m not working for them, but it might be fun someday. They’re an exciting bunch. No, Phelps invited me. He’s a good friend of Adrian Sutherland.
They were at school together. You do know who Adrian is, don’t you?”
Faith had heard the name but couldn’t place it. “Remind me,” she said, looping her arm through her sister’s and pulling her in the direction of the kitchen. “I have to get some more food. They’re eating like lo-custs.”
“Adrian is Michael’s campaign manager and has also been with Stanstead Associates since it started.
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He’s Michael’s right-hand man. He was born here, but his father is British, so he has that cool accent. I’ve never actually met him, but I heard him on the news once. Everything he said sounded so terribly believ-able, so terribly important. He wants Phelps to work on the campaign, which is why he got invited.” A bell went off, and it wasn’t the oven timer. “Did you tell your new beau that you went to school with Emma?” Faith asked her sister.
“I might have. Why?”
“No reason, I just wondered. Now we’d better get out there before this gets cold. Plus, I want to meet your charming friend.”
A friend who might be looking to use Hope to in-gratiate himself with the party powers that be. Why else would he invite her to come along, especially when he was already a step removed himself from being asked by the host and hostess?
The crowd in the living room had increased substantially and, unlike many parties Faith had attended, nobody seemed in a rush to go on to the next—and at this time of year, there were plenty of nexts. But this tended to happen at the parties she catered. Josie was sure it was the food. “They want to scarf down the good stuff and then they won’t be stuck with greasy buffalo chicken wings and limp crudités wherever they’re going. They can just get loaded.” It was a possibility. They were even eating the fruit now.