The car keys were handed off to a valet, and Ferris approached the lodge, resplendent in a new suit of red velvet, his nose held high. He was drunk with anticipation as he stood before the doorman, a large thug in a tuxedo, and handed over his personal invitation from Isabelle Winston- a true princess. The thug stood to one side, and Ferris was allowed to enter. Crossing the crowded foyer, he was accosted by a waiter bearing a tray of champagne flutes. Glass in hand, Ferris sauntered into the massive front room and the babble of conversations riding below the music of an orchestra. The bandstand was next to a gigantic window with the view of a second ballroom under the stars. Beyond that outdoor dance floor was a parking lot of luxury cars and ancient wrecks. Ferris wondered how many trees Ad Winston had killed to accommodate the vehicles of more than a thousand guests.
A tourist in fantasyland, he saw the most amazing sights looming over him, a flock of birds, gigantic and fanciful, carved in ice and presiding over platters piled high with lobster tails and giant shrimp. The cold air rising from these sculptures warred with the heat of a chandelier lit with hundreds of electric candles. It was like staring into the sun.
The walls were lined with real candles in sconces, with tables for two, and others had chairs for six. The orchestra changed its tempo to a livelier beat and the floor quickly filled with people. All around him, designer finery danced with secondhand clothes. Outlaw movie folk and grafting politicians commingled with store clerks and construction workers. A pedophile rock star danced past him. Oh, and there, bald as a cue ball, was a famous model-a killer drunk driver-in the arms of the postmaster.
When the newspaper syndicate tired of the story about a lost boy's bones, here, swirling round him, was enough material to provide months of columns and television interviews. And somewhere in this gathering was an ending for his book.
His pen vibrated in his pocket.
Oren pulled out a chair to seat Hannah at the table reserved for the judge's party.
"Odd," she said, looking up at the ice statues. "They're less scary when they're monster size."
"I don't think our hostess agrees with you." The judge nodded toward the solitary figure only a few yards distant, a woman with pale upswept hair, glittering combs to hold it, and a long gown of that same champagne shade.
Sarah Winston stood frozen at attention before one of the giant birds, like one piece of art regarding another. The ice sculptures were all recognizable from her private journals, and now she stared at each of them in turn, astonished and clearly viewing them for the first time.
"This is Addison 's work," said Hannah.
Apparently the lawyer had also read the lady's journals and selected these images from the darker pages. All of the giant birds had fangs. Shaken, Mrs. Winston reached for a drink from the tray of a passing maid, who defied her employer, lifting the wineglasses high and carrying them out of reach.
Oren realized that, more than anything on earth, Mrs. Winston wanted that drink, but all the gold bangles on her wrists would not buy it. And this was also Addison 's work.
Alice Friday stopped by the judge's table and leaned down to Oren. "Look over there!" She pointed to the far side of the room, calling his attention to Mrs. Winston's daughter. "That's the woman who tried to kill you."
Oren turned to catch Isabelle staring at him, and she quickly looked the other way.
"No need to dive under the table." Evelyn Straub, an imperious figure in a long blue gown, sailed stately past him on her way to the caterer's bar. "The girl doesn't have a pocket to hide a gun-not in that slinky dress."
Ferris Monty had surmised that the woman in the maid's uniform was not one of the caterer's people. She was Sarah Winston's warden, a snatcher of drinks, a spoiler of fun. The maid's head turned in all directions, and there was panic in her eyes. Her employer's wife had vanished.
He smiled with the secret knowledge of Mrs. Winston's hiding place, for he had witnessed the lady's disappearing act. Ferris rounded a screen of potted foliage and saw two women standing on a small, secluded terrace, their heads close together in conversation.
Friends? Well, this was the mismatch of the century.
Mavis Hardy was so altered, he hardly knew her. She was a bare-armed amazon in sequins. And she was barefoot-the only outward sign of a mind gone awry. The madwoman had forgotten her shoes. Ferris was oddly touched by this, and he regarded her dirty bare feet as wounds.
As a gossip columnist extraordinaire, he had only to glance at that gown to recognize the designer, and that particular fashionista had died years before the close of the last century. However, even secondhand, this dress was well beyond the purse of a librarian-but not Sarah Winston, her companion and, no doubt about it, her benefactor.
One problem-the gift of a used dress would hardly fit the style of a multimillionaire.
And now he realized that the ballgown had been given to Mavis Hardy long ago when it was new, for here were all the signs of a reunion. The women embraced, drank wine and wept.
William Swahn returned Isabelle's wave. The black strapless gown was out of character for a woman who seldom wore lipstick. And the thigh-high slit was daring. So grown-up.
He missed the little girl, the shy redheaded wanderer always looking for love and a safe place to catch her breath. As a child and a teenager adrift among strangers-and only one old friend-she had always come to his table, demanding asylum. Tonight she resumed this old custom and sat down with him again. She stared at the giant ice sculptures. They worked an unnerving effect on her.
William lifted one hand to flag down a waiter bearing wineglasses. "I saw Oren Hobbs come in with the judge and Miss Rice."
Isabelle pretended not to hear this as she lifted two champagne flutes from the waiter's tray.
"There's a law against what you did, Belle." He had intended this as a tease, a friendly rebuke for her recent streak of violence against a certain young man. When she turned to him with guilty surprise, he decided upon a different tack, an older offense. "You lied to the sheriff-that alibi for Josh's brother. I know you had a crush on Oren Hobbs when you were a child, but that was-"
"I never did."
"Of course you did. But I can't believe it lasted five years. You were sixteen years old when you gave him that fake alibi."
So why the lie to save Oren Hobbs? Had she known the boy was innocent? Did Isabelle have a suspect of her own in those days? If so, it must have been someone close to her, someone she would never give up to the sheriff.
William Swahn sat well back in his chair, pushed there, as if revelation had punching power.
Later, at the keyboard of his computer, Ferris Monty would describe his companion as a vitriolic hamster who drank a lot. The town council-woman accepted his invitation to sit down at his table.
"I don't gossip," she said.
But they all said that.
In answer to his question on the out-of-town guests, the hamster replied, "Those are Addison 's clients. Don't you read Rolling Stone or Forbes? Criminals, every last one of them." When queried on the history of the ball, she told him that this very table had once been reserved for the late Millard Straub. "Mean little prick. He sat here with his oxygen tank, and no one said a word to him all night. But his wife danced every dance and had a high old time. There she is now."
Ferris turned to see Evelyn Straub standing at the caterer's bar, a grande dame in midnight blue and pearls.
"Back in the day," said the hamster, "Evelyn was a showstopper."
He nodded in agreement, for he had known her then, but having been barred from every ball, he had never seen Evelyn dance. "Her husband died suddenly, didn't he?"
"Not sudden enough. It's no wonder his wife took up with that boy, Oren Hobbs."