by Geneva Lee
“Yes, it is,” Josie confirms.
“So, where is she?”
“I’m sorry, but if you would like to make a purchase—”
“I came all the way from Nebraska…”
Nebraska. Kansas. What’s the difference? I lose interest as the woman continues her tirade. After a few minutes a weary looking man retrieves her with an apologetic look to Josie.
“The internet said she works here,” the woman reminds him angrily.
“I know.”
“She needs to repent for her sins. I came here…”
I’m saved from hearing exactly why she came here as the couple exit the shop without their prize.
“Didn’t want to give them an autograph?” Josie whispers conspiratorially. She tugs at the hem of her green tank top self-consciously and I do my best not to look. “That was conspicuous.”
“What?” I hold up my hands.
“The baby bump check you just did. I’m not showing. Mom just shrunk this shirt,” Josie explains.
“I wasn’t looking.” But I guess I can’t lie to her.
“I have an appointment.” Josie keeps her voice low so that no one can overhear. “It can’t get here fast enough.”
On the outside with her stylish, dark curls, and fuchsia lipstick, Josie plays the part of a grown woman, but I can see the fear she’d trying to hide. I can’t blame her. If it were me in her shoes, I’d be freaking out. I hesitate, uncertain how she’ll feel about my next question. “Can I go with you?”
“If you want.” She shrugs but I don’t miss how her lower lip trembles. That’s a definite yes.
“So, are you coming to my party?” I decide a change of topic is in order. I haven’t had the chance to give her the lowdown on my plan to catch Nathaniel West’s murderer at my birthday bash, so I distract her with the info now.
“Yes, but explain to me why we’re having a party there? Isn’t that the last place you would want to celebrate your birthday?”
“Can’t a girl throw a rager for her eighteenth birthday? I can legally vote. It’s time to celebrate.” I slide along the glass case, looking for what I came in for. When I spot the mask, I tap the spot. “I’m going to need that.”
Josie takes it from the case and raises an eyebrow. “What are you up to?”
It’s a fair point, but not one I can explain without a lot more time and possibly some visual aids. “If you promise to come, I promise you’ll find out.”
“You’re being very mysterious.” She wraps it in some paper and hands me the bag.
“Aren’t I?” I tease. “Oh, you’re going to need one of these, too.”
“Like a costume?”
Before I can tell her anymore, a customer butts in. I’m relieved when he asks to see an autographed baseball card in the case instead of wanting to take a photo with me. The longer I stick around the shop, the more chance there is that I’ll be recognized.
“I’ll text you,” I promise, waving goodbye.
Pushing open the glass security door, I escape from that life and return to the one I’ve chosen. To outsiders my decision to host a masquerade ball in honor of my eighteenth birthday signals that I’ve just becoming another showy Houser. I think it’s one of my more brilliant ideas, though. What better safety net could you offer a murderer if you were hoping they’d come to call?
By the weekend, Monroe has acquired every bottle of good champagne in Las Vegas. I stare at the lines of bottles displayed on the bar. The previous shindig I’d crashed had utilized the West’s private stock of liquor.
“Why do we need this much champagne again?” I ask.
“For the theme,” she says as if this makes perfect sense. “I’m going for nouveau riche. Think The Great Gatsby meets trailer park.” She sweeps her hand in the air as if to share her vision.
“Have I told you you’re a bitch today?” I ask, crossing my arms.
“Not today.” She bats her eyelashes like I’ve paid her a compliment. Knowing Monroe, I have.
“You’re a bitch.”
She ignores me and begins to point out various details I couldn’t care less about. I nod when appropriate, but she isn’t buying it. “This party was your idea.”
I shrug. I could care less if she’s taken it over. I had expected her to when I pitched the idea. I need Monroe to play hostess because she was the one who invited the guests earlier this summer. All of that is important to me. I just don’t give a damn about the drinks or the decorations.
“Your outfit is in Jameson’s room,” she says, clearly washing her hands of me. “Go get dressed.”
“I’m wearing this.” I gesture to the flowing, yellow maxi I put on this morning. It’s simple but comfortable, and tonight I’ll have enough attention directed at me no matter what I wear.
“Don’t argue with me,” she snaps. “If you’re going to be a West, you need to dress like one.”
“But won’t I look more nouveau riche in this?” I ask flatly.
“I’m making Jameson wear a tuxedo, you’ll be under-dressed,” she informs me. The change in tactics works. It’s hard enough to hold a candle next to him. If the right clothes can help ease the feeling of inferiority I’m apt to fall victim to I should take her up on the offer.
“How did your mom feel about the party?” I ask Monroe as she signs a delivery sheet.
“She’s not thrilled,” Monroe admits, “but she’ll get over it.”
“I want her to like me.” Immediately, I wish I hadn’t shared that snippet with Monroe. In her world, information is power.
“She does,” Monroe says to my surprise. “I told her the party was my idea.”
“Why would you do that?” I’ve watched how critical Evelyn West can be of her daughter’s choices this summer. Letting her mom believe it’s her idea to host a party in the same space where her dad was murdered didn’t seem like the best plan.
“Strategy. Mom wants us to get along, so I told her I was dying to throw you a birthday party.”
“In other words, you lied?” I ask.
“Yes. My mother is a sucker for lies if it paints the picture she wants to see. She’s too eager to watch us bond to cause trouble.”
“So she actually likes me?” Despite the kindness Jameson’s mother has shown me, I had to wonder if her opinion of me had reversed in light of our “engagement.”
“Yes, Pollyanna,” Monroe confirms dryly. “She thinks you hung the moon.”
Armed with this good news, I surrender to Monroe’s request and dismiss myself to dress, which has the added benefit of getting me away from the party planning. The outfit, or lack of it, that she’s picked out for me is laid out on Jameson’s bed.
Band-aids have more surface area than this thing, and don’t get me started on the lacy scraps of string that accompany it. The tiny dress is covered in gold sequins that sparkle luminously in the light. When I lift it from the bed, I discover a gorgeous mask hiding underneath. I had planned on wearing the one I picked up at Pawnography, but I can’t help but admire the one Monroe has selected. The mask itself is made of a creamy porcelain with subtle facial features painted on in gold. The gilt effect around the eyes looks like long feathers. I hold it up to my face and peer through the openings.
The heat of my breath collects inside it, but there’s something comforting about having the mask on. Behind this, I can be Emma Southerly again instead of Jameson’s girlfriend or murder suspect or gold digger. With this on, none of those labels seem to stick. There’s liberation in deception.
I place the mask gently onto the nightstand and begin to strip. I’ll have to do something with my hair, but make-up won’t be as important if I stay hidden all night. I hadn’t considered that perk of a masquerade party. Squirming into the dress, I realize that it’s not compatible with my current underwear. My gaze strays to the thong I’ve left on the bed.
“Seriously?” I say to myself.
A soft laugh startles me and I pivot to find Jameson standing the door
way.
“Do you knock?” I ask, trying to tug up the stuck zipper.
“It’s my room,” he reminds me. He pushes the door closed behind him.
“I’ll knock next time.” I give up on the zipper and cross my arms over my chest.
“You’re in a mood,” he notes as he comes closer. When he reaches me, he runs the back of his hand down my arm. The effect of his touch is both soothing and exciting.
“This party is a terrible idea,” I admit. “Is it too late to cancel?”
“And disappoint all those people who want to be your friends now?”
Jameson has no idea the real reason that I’ve planned this gathering tonight. The more people who know, the worse are chances are of catching the murderer. But as the party gets closer, I’m beginning to wonder if it’s a good idea at all. What if I’m wrong? I’ll be exposing myself and Jonas to even more scrutiny from the police.
A pit opens in my stomach as I consider an even worse possibility: what if I don’t want to know who killed Nathaniel West?
“None of the people coming tonight matter,” he continues, mistaking my silence as hesitance. “If you want to cancel, then we will. Although might I request you wear this dress tonight regardless.”
“I don’t think I can wear this dress period,” I say absently, picking up the collection of strings I’m pretty certain are supposed to be underwear. “I mean, look at this! Why bother?”
Jameson adjusts his collar with one hand. “You should give them a fair chance.”
“Oh yeah?”
He takes them from me and dangles them off his index finger. “You should definitely give these a chance.”
“Aren’t you worried about me bending over?” I ask.
“I’ll just have to stay behind you all night and keep the view to myself.”
It’s too late to call tonight off, and I can’t freak myself out a second longer, so when Jameson backs me toward his bedroom wall, I don’t resist. His breath is hot on my neck as he trails his lips down to the curve of my shoulder.
“When is this party?” he whispers.
“Who cares?” I breathe.
Jameson’s hands bunch my flimsy skirt around my waist as he presses his body against mine. “That’s the right answer, Duchess.”
* * *
When Josie arrives an hour later, I’m in a much better mood. The party doesn’t start for another hour but she’s already dressed in a slinky, red wrap dress. The mask she’s chosen is the same brilliant crimson.
“Va va voom!” I exclaim when she parks herself in the kitchen. Monroe’s made it clear that I’m not to touch anything. I’ve been cut out of the party planning entirely. Instead, I’m stealing nibbles from the food trays.
Josie holds up her mask so I can see the two tiny horns protruding from the top. “I’m going for she-devil.”
“And winning,” I assure her, offering her a tiny sandwich from a fancy, silver platter.
She takes one and pops the whole thing in her mouth. Then she gives a thumbs up. “You didn’t tell me this party was going to be so…”
“Over-the-top?” I suggest.
“Actually I was thinking serious. Passed hors d’oeuvres and champagne. It’s a little different from…” she trails away as horror slackens her face.
“We thought we’d try something a little different.” I shrug my shoulders to show she hasn’t wrecked the evening by mentioning that the only other party she had been to here was on the night of the murder. I, on the other hand, had crashed another a few weeks later, but only by accident. Those parties had been the equivalent of a rich kid’s kegger not the dressed-up event we’d concocted this evening. Maybe the subterfuge aspect had appealed to Monroe on some personal wavelength. Either way she’d gone out of her way to make this a memorable evening, and if I had my way, it would be even more so. “Or Monroe did at least.”
At the mention of her name the blonde flies through the kitchen like a demonic fireball. “Have you seen the menu cards?”
Josie and I help her search until we’ve tracked them down. She hardly notices that Josie is here, even after my best friend discovers where the cards have been put.
“She’s crankier than usual.” Josie purses her lips thoughtfully, and I can’t help but realize that she has a point. Monroe is acting strangely.
“In all fairness, I used blackmail to get her to throw this party,” I admit.
Josie links her arm through mine. “Do tell.”
It isn’t my secret, but the gossip is too good not to share. I’ve kept Monroe’s hidden life quiet from her family and friends. But Josie isn’t her family or her friend. She’s mine, and I trust her.
“Promise not to tell,” I ask.
“Cross my heart and hope to die.” Josie slashes her fingers over her chest for emphasis.
I dish the dirt in whispers. Josie’s eyes widen until I think they’re going to bulge out. When I finish, she shakes her head. “You must have been pretty scary?”
“Why would you say that?” I’m a bit offended by the idea.
“Because she’s acting like her whole life is riding on this. She must be worried that you’re going to rat her out.”
There’s no reason Monroe should believe that. I’d used the information I’d had as leverage, but if I’d wanted to tattle, I would have done so. I make up my mind to keep a closer eye on my adoptive sister this evening. After all, she’s not the only one with a lot riding on tonight.
Chapter 18
No one is late to the party. When the doors ceremonially open at 8:30, every student at Belle Mere Prep is waiting. Security does a decent job weeding undercover reporters from the crowd, but my heartbeat speeds up as I survey the group of strangers before me. Behind their masks, I can’t recognize any of them, and I realize without their masks, I wouldn’t know most of them anyway. The uppermost floor of West Casino has been transformed into a golden playground. Ropes of sparking lights drip from the ceiling, casting a warm glow that feels out of place in the modern setting. Dozens of white roses dipped in gold-leaf are staged strategically throughout the space.
“It’s gorgeous,” Josie says as she comes up beside.
“It’s gaudy,” I correct her. “Actually, it’s nouveau riche.”
The whole scene screams wealth and debauchery. Monroe has made her point. In the future, if I’m going to fit in I might try to do so with a bit less theatricality.
“What?” Josie asks.
“Inside joke,” I say dryly. I haven’t had the heart to tell Josie how much money Hans put in my trust fund before he went upriver. Between my relationship with Jameson and everything going on in her private life, I don’t want the gulf between us to widen any further.
“When did that happen?” she shrieks. I follow her finger to find Hugo and Leighton entering, hand in hand.
Leave it to him to be the only person late to the party of the century. Behind my mask I study the way Hugo hovers near Leighton. I can’t imagine what it took to convince him to let her come back here. Not after she’d nearly died. Glancing over I realize I can’t even tell which window we went through. It’s been repaired—erased as if it never happened.
“I didn’t tell you? They were together when I went to the hospital. He’s been there since she woke up.”
“I did not call that,” Josie admits, waving her hand under her mask. “Screw this.”
She pulls off her mask and smiles tightly.
“Too hot?” I ask.
“Yeah. Besides no one here knows who I am anyway. My face is as good as a mask,” she says with a laugh.
I don’t miss the pain that lingers in her eyes. Josie has never felt like she belongs here. I can’t imagine how she feels at the moment.
“Let’s find you some water,” I suggest, but before I can abscond with her to the kitchen, a man steps into our path. “Excuse me.”
He catches me around the waist when I try to push past him. Tipping his masked face lower, he whispers, “
You don’t recognize me, Duchess?”
“Of course, I do.” My fingers trace the broad shoulders accentuated by the dark cashmere of his tuxedo jacket. “You’re supposed to be watching my back.”
Literally and figuratively.
“A West is always fashionably late,” he advises me, pushing his mask up. He points to the corridor that leads to the private family rooms. “Case in point.”
Monroe is the last to arrive, despite the obsessive care she took planning it. She sweeps into the room in a long black gown that dips low, exposing the valley between her breasts. Unlike the mask she chose for me, hers is a simple lace strip tied around her eyes. Monroe West is on display for all of us to see, but how many people see past the image she projects?
Josie clears her throat to remind us that she’s still here. “I’ll give you two some space.”
Before I can tear myself away from Jameson to join her, Monroe marches up to us.
“How did they get past security?” she hisses, pointing to Sabine, her former best friend, and Levi, Jameson’s former roommate. She’s not the only one late to the party.
“Were they on the list?” Jameson asks indifferently. He’s much more calm than the last time he was in the same room as Levi. He’s had time to cope with his fair-weather friend’s betrayal.
“How can you just stand there?” Monroe demands, and I can’t help but agree with her.
“That movie will never get made. Levi will continue to be a B-list star whose destiny depends on his looks. Karma has done its part as far as I’m concerned.”
“You’re a bigger person than I am.” Monroe sweeps across the room after them.
I tug Jameson’s arm, forcing him to follow.
“My sister can fight her own battles,” he reassures me, but I ignore him.
“You broke it, you bought it.”
I have no idea how Sabine and Levi got up here,” he says gruffly. “Security has been notified that they can’t so much as step foot on the sidewalk.”
“And yet, they’re here.” Judging from Monroe’s reaction, they wouldn’t be for much longer. A chilling thought occurs to me as we approach them. If it was that easy for two people to crash this party after all the security upgrades that had been made since Nathaniel’s death, how many other people can get past the surveillance and guards—tonight and the night of the murder?