“What are they saying about us?” Madison asked, taking another long gulp.
“The same crap. Scandal, too much partying. You’d think these reporters would remember that we caught a killer not so very long ago.”
“That’s good news about us. The media doesn’t want to report the good stuff.”
“And Concetta? They’re already calling her the Mozart Murderer.” Park sighed. She walked over to a flat-screen built into the counter and flicked it on.
A picture filled the screen: a male reporter standing in front of Cleopatra while sirens flashed behind him and yellow tape sealed off the front entrance of the club. “…where the body of Damien Kittle was discovered,” the man was saying. And a moment later: “…the Hamilton triplets—Madison, Park, and Lexington Hamilton—were inside the club but have not given any statements to the media regarding…”
Park shook her head. “See? Same crap. What the hell are we supposed to say? It’s obvious that we’re upset.”
“Has Jeremy called you yet?” Madison asked.
“Yeah, he left me two messages, and we finally spoke about an hour ago.” Park yawned. “I had to convince him not to come over. He thinks we’re in danger with a killer on the loose.”
Madison rolled her eyes. “Like we haven’t been in that predicament before. But…you know…” Her voice trailed off.
“What?” Park said.
Madison opened her mouth to speak, but no words emerged. Instead, a gargantuan, earsplitting burp shot out of her and rocked the air around them. She stared at the floor.
Park closed her eyes and shook her head. “Put down that glass, Madison. Now.”
Madison set the glass on the counter and shoved it away.
“What were you going to say?” Park asked.
“I was going to say that, technically speaking, Jeremy does have a point. I mean, a killer might still be out there.”
“So then you don’t believe Concetta’s guilty.”
“I don’t know what I believe,” Madison answered quietly. “Was this really a crime of passion, or does the whole secret club Concetta runs have something to do with it? And what about all that stuff that was found in Mother Margaret’s office? If it is all tied together somehow, then we have a lot to worry about.”
“I have a bad feeling about the Black Cry Affair,” Park said. She took a bottle of Pellegrino from the fridge and poured herself a glass.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that I don’t think it’s just an innocent role-playing club. I think there’s a lot more that goes on in that Chamber thing than anyone might imagine. Let’s say the group does have something to do with the break-in back in March and the traces of explosives—what are the members of the group planning? Why play around with deadly stuff like that?”
Madison frowned. “The glittery stuff we saw on Damien’s head and the glitter that was found on Mother Margaret’s cabinet pretty much link both crimes.”
“Yeah—but why would Concetta break into the office?”
“Maybe she didn’t,” Madison offered. “Maybe another member of the group did. We don’t know why yet, but it could’ve been someone else. And every member of the Black Cry Affair was at Cleopatra tonight.”
“We have to consider the obvious facts first.” Park held up a hand, as if to keep speculation away. “First off, Concetta was wearing the murder weapon—it belongs to her. Second of all, we all saw her going toward the cages with Damien. Third, she was obsessed with him. Fourth—”
“She has an intense shoe fetish.” Madison nodded sadly. “Talk about a clear picture. But, you know, stranger things have happened.”
Park narrowed her eyes and stared across the kitchen, rapt in thought. “Talking about strange—did you notice anything strange about our little meeting in Mother Margaret’s office tonight?”
“Duh,” Madison said. “I think you’re referring to Sister Brittany—I don’t buy her explanation of how she knew Jessica Paderman is a member of the club.”
“Totally right.”
Madison patted her chin and cheeks with a napkin. “So what are we saying now? That Sister Brittany is up to no good? We can’t keep digging holes here. And no matter what—she is a nun. An annoying and nosy nun, but still a nun.”
“If we’re going to link the break-in and Damien’s murder, we have to believe he was killed for some very specific reason, and not that this was a crime of passion,” Park deduced.
“We don’t know enough yet,” Madison said quietly. “It’s all just a big blur.”
Park sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “There are too many freaking questions to consider! I hate this!”
A silence descended over the kitchen as they both leaned against the counter. The television was still on, and now the reporter’s voice circled them.
“…another development that has just been released by NYPD officials,” the man was saying. “According to one source close to the investigation, detectives are ruling out as suspects the two DJs who were working the opening night at Cleopatra. Apparently, those two DJs—Christopher Mellin and Frank Kellerman—were found unconscious in their music booth above the dance floor at Cleopatra. Both of them were rushed to Saint Luke’s–Roosevelt Hospital, where they’re apparently undergoing treatment for what appears to be…uh…some kind of respiratory distress. Now, this distress looks like it might have been the result of inhaling some sort of toxic chemical….”
“What?” Madison screamed. “Holy shit!”
Park’s jaw dropped as she stared at the television.
The screen flashed from the live shot of a male reporter standing in front of Cleopatra to a bright news studio where Diane Sawyer was sitting at the anchor desk. “Now, John, have the police given any word as to why Concetta Canoli might have committed this truly horrendous crime?”
The screen jumped back to the male reporter. He frowned and shook his head. “The police have not made an official statement yet, Diane,” he said. “All we know is that teen heiress and celebutante Concetta Canoli is the main suspect in the murder of Damien Kittle, and that she’s being interrogated right now and will very likely be arraigned in court in just a few hours.”
Back to Diane. She shook her head gravely. “A tragic story creating shock waves on both sides of the Atlantic…and made all the more shocking by the horrendous piece of footwear that is apparently the murder weapon. We turn now to our top fashion expert…”
Park flicked off the television. “The DJs were unconscious,” she whispered. “So that’s how the Mozart Requiem was played. Concetta actually went into the tech booth where the DJs were working and…”
“And what?” Madison threw up her arms in frustration. “Sprayed them with anesthesia? Suffocated them with her other shoe? What the hell led to ‘respiratory distress’?”
“Some sort of…chemical, I guess?” Park said, insinuating the obvious.
Nitroglycerin. Diatomaceous earth. Sodium carbonate. The chemistry terms rang through Madison’s brain. Was that it? Had Concetta actually plotted this whole crime? Was she some sort of chemical-mixing psycho? The very thought of it sent a chill up her spine. She thought of all the times they had hung out together in school, and how Concetta had seemed so…normal. Had it all been fake? “So now we know the DJs couldn’t have seen much,” she said evenly. “I guess Concetta—or, I mean, the killer?—obviously knew what she was doing.”
Park started pacing the floor. “But it still doesn’t make sense. If she went through all this to kill Damien in such a public way, why would she allow herself to get caught so easily? She left her damn shoe in the cage!”
Madison folded her arms over her chest and gritted her teeth. “I don’t like this at all. I’m getting totally annoyed here, Park. All the evidence points to Concetta but the crime itself doesn’t make sense. There’s something we’re not seeing.”
“Like what?”
“If I could tell you that, I’d be able to see it!” Madison snappe
d.
Park stared at her. “You don’t have to get so testy. Answers will become more available if we stay calm and investigate things without rushing.”
“How can we not rush? Commencement is Monday morning. Prime Minister Gordon is supposed to be there, and how will this whole mess look for everyone involved—including us—if it isn’t solved?”
Park took a deep breath. “Let’s start with an obvious question: is there anyone at school who hated Damien enough to kill him?”
“No one I can think of. His life was pretty normal.”
“Except for being a member of the Black Cry Affair.”
“True.”
“Okay. So then we agree that the secret club is somehow linked to all this. But we can’t really go any further with that thought because we don’t know what the club really does behind closed doors. So I guess we have to find that out first.”
Madison looked down. She hadn’t really wanted to consider that possibility.
“Well, I, for one, am pissed off.”
Madison jumped at the sound of the voice.
Park whirled around.
Lex was standing just outside the kitchen, her shorts and tank top wrinkled, her fluffy slippers planted firmly on the floor.
“Jesus, Lex. Did you have to scare us like that?” Madison snapped.
Lex marched toward them. She threw her head back as she opened up the fridge and grabbed a carton of orange juice. “I don’t appreciate the two of you having an investigative meeting without me,” she said coldly. “You don’t really think you’ll be able to solve this case sans my fashion expertise, do you?”
“Of course not.” Park reached for a glass and handed it to her.
Madison rolled her eyes. “Have you heard the newest bit of information? We’re way beyond fashion here.”
“I’ve been watching the news in my bedroom,” Lex said. “I haven’t been able to sleep at all. And to tell you the truth, I’m not surprised the DJs were knocked out. How else would Concetta have played the Mozart Requiem?”
“So then you definitely think Concetta’s the killer,” Park stated firmly.
“Yes,” Lex said without a moment’s hesitation. “I do.”
Madison grimaced. She clenched her hands into fists and shot a quick glance at Park. “Well…I don’t! I think there are other possibilities. And I’m not giving in that easily. There’s more to this than meets the eye.”
“Fine,” Lex replied offhandedly, happy to play devil’s advocate. “I totally hope you prove me wrong. But we won’t know unless we get to work.” She poured three glasses of orange juice, spiked them with the remaining champagne, and then handed one each to Madison and Park.
There was definitely time for mimosas before heading off to their laptops.
10
The Queen’s Court
Just after dawn on Saturday morning, Emmett McQueen threw on jeans and a plain blue T-shirt and slipped his feet into his favorite pair of pink leopard-print slippers. It was an uncommonly sloppy outfit. He usually never left his bedroom without coordinating his clothes to make sure the color scheme he was wearing accentuated his eyes and hair. Although he and his mother lived in a secure doorman building in midtown Manhattan, paparazzi and smart reporters had been known to sneak their way into the stately corridors. One pic of him dressed so garishly would wreak havoc on his social life.
Not that he had much of a social life to speak of anymore. Ever since the scandal that had ruined his family and kicked his father into prison, Emmett’s partying days had dwindled considerably. He still had a lot to be thankful for—neither he nor his mother would ever be poor—but the media storm was what Emmett thought about every morning when he woke up. Those ugly gray courthouse hallways were engraved in his memory, as was the sound of his father’s weeping and that ugly image of his mother nearly overdosing on sleeping pills. They had collapsed under the weight of the trial, and Emmett had found himself playing the role of parent to both of them. It hadn’t been fun. No seventeen-year-old dreamed of coming home to see his mother passed out in front of Maury Povich reruns or watching his father smuggle Valium out of the bathroom.
Bypassing his mirror, Emmett opened his bedroom door and walked down the long corridor into the kitchen. He grabbed his sunglasses from the counter and slipped them on. A pot of coffee was already brewing. His mother, Tammy Lynn, was awake and probably showering. Great, Emmett thought, annoyed. Just when I need her to be drugged up and sleeping, she’s operating on cruise control. He stepped out of the apartment and hurried into the elevator. A minute later he was strolling through the main lobby, throwing glances over his shoulder to make sure no one was milling around. Only the doorman, Ken Smith, spotted him. Ken waved and smiled, and Emmett nodded a curt hello. Then he saw the stack of newspapers beside the front desk and lunged for them. He picked up copies of the New York Times, the Post, and the Daily News. They belonged to other residents, but this was a total emergency. Before Ken Smith could say anything, Emmett dashed into the elevator and rode it back up to his apartment.
Please, don’t let the news be that bad, he prayed. I can’t stand it.
Rushing to the kitchen, he threw the papers down onto the table and flipped them open.
They all had similar, scathing headlines: MURDER AT CLEOPATRA—BRIT ROYAL KILLED, one read. Another: HIGH-SOCIETY SLAYING. The last one: CANOLI KILLER—YOUNG CELEBUTANTE CHARGED WITH MURDER.
Emmett took off his sunglasses and dropped them onto the table. The shock of the headlines made him dizzy. On the cover of the last newspaper was a picture of Concetta being led out of the nightclub clad in her gown and handcuffs, her left foot bare, her right one encased in the pink stiletto.
She had never photographed well.
And now, with his eyes locked on the newspapers, he remembered the words Concetta had uttered yesterday as she’d stood in front of her closet.
If Damien Kittle doesn’t totally fall in love with me, I might do something crazy.
“Damn,” Emmett whispered.
It almost made him laugh. Talk about all the pieces falling into place. Was there even a reason to complete an investigation? Everyone knew the cold hard facts, and the coldest fact of all was that Concetta had been insanely in love with Damien. The cops were probably digging into that juicy little nugget of info right now.
“Emmett.”
He spun around. “Mornin’, Mama.”
Once upon a time, Tammy Lynn McQueen had been a great beauty, the proverbial Southern belle. Naturally tall and lean, she had refined features, elegant posture, and a beautiful smile. But, even after multiple surgeries, very little of that was visible anymore. Her blond hair was streaked with gray. Her skin was parched. And, saddest of all, she had the droopy-eyed look of a well-medicated patient. She had aged about ten years since her husband had been sent to jail. She didn’t even have the motivation to get her roots done anymore, much less keep up her Botox appointments.
Emmett no longer felt a pang of sorrow when he saw his mother. What he felt was much more powerful—a deep, boiling rage that knew no limits. It just wasn’t fair. Why the hell had his family been singled out for ruin? God knew, there were hundreds of CEOs breaking the law when it came to how they handled money—why had his father been caught? The answer, Emmett knew, was both simple and complex. Someone had squealed on his dad, tipped off the Internal Revenue Service, and got the jail-ball rolling. And because of that, Emmett’s distrust and dislike of people was growing.
“How are you, honey bear?” Tammy Lynn asked, her voice low, her speech slurred.
“I’m fine, Mama. How’re you feelin’ today?”
“Oh, a little tired,” Tammy Lynn replied. She had one hand in the side pocket of her pink silk robe; the other was holding the countertop for support. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”
Emmett walked around to the coffeepot and poured himself a cup. He knew his mother had actually slept like a log, courtesy of a mixture of two or three pills. She di
dn’t ask about Damien’s murder or Concetta’s arrest because she probably hadn’t seen the news yet. He dropped a spoonful of sugar into his coffee and stirred it. “You shouldn’t be takin’ showers when you’re feelin’ so tired,” he said. “Want me to fix you up a nice bowl of oatmeal?”
Tammy Lynn wasn’t listening. She had pulled a prescription bottle out of her robe pocket, and now she was trying to twist the cap off.
Emmett reached out and snatched the bottle from her hands. He read the label and sighed. “Mama, how many times have I told you that you can’t go fixin’ yourself up these prescription cocktails?” He waved the bottle in the air.
“I just need one of those,” Tammy Lynn whispered. “My back is knotted worse than a pine tree.”
“No.” Emmett shook his head. “This is Percocet. Did you take Ambien last night?”
“I…I don’t remember.” Tammy Lynn ran a hand through her damp hair.
“Of course you did! You take ’em every night! And you can’t take these today!”
“But my pain…”
“Forget it, Mama. No Percocet today. My nerves are gonna go crazy with you.”
Tammy Lynn took slow, careful steps to Emmett’s side. She cradled his face in her hands as tears welled up in her eyes. “Your daddy woulda been so proud of you, sugar. Takin’ care of your crazy mama the way you do.” She tried to smile, but it seemed too great an effort. “I just…I just wish he was here. I wish he could see you grow up and go off to college.”
Emmett stared at her, swallowing his rage. He wished more than anything that time would transport him back to the days when he and his parents had lived in Dallas. He missed the mansion, with its high ceilings and big, sunny windows. He missed watching the horses being exercised early in the morning. But most of all, he missed the parties Tammy Lynn used to throw for her friends and business associates—elegant, spectacular events that had turned the mansion into a country club. White lights twinkling on the veranda, guests arriving in droves, the air thick with the scent of the dogwood trees that lined the expansive property. Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, Emmett could still see his mother standing in the great hall of the mansion, all beautiful and perfumed and dolled up, a drink in her hand. His father would entertain guests with cigars and tours of the beautifully decorated rooms.
In the Club Page 12