“Doesn’t she?” Hunter slipped an arm around my waist.
Mother positively beamed at him. “And you look dashing.”
“Thank you, Frances. I am in awe of what you’ve created.”
A satisfied smile touched Mother’s lips. “Just wait until you see the ballroom.” She scanned the lobby until her gaze landed on a man weighed down with camera equipment. “I thought we’d get a picture since we’re all together. Hunter, you must join us.” She resumed her scanning. “Now, where has your sister got to?”
Mother wanted Hunter in a family picture? That was about as subtle as clubbing him over the head and dragging him to the nearest preacher.
“Perhaps Hunter doesn’t want to be photographed,” I suggested.
“Don’t be silly, Ellison. Of course, he does. If he didn’t, why would he bring you early?” She reached out and patted his arm. “Isn’t that right, Hunter?”
Hunter is too smart a man to argue with Mother. “Is that Marjorie coming out of the ballroom?”
It wasn’t. It was Cassie LeCoeur. But I could see how he might be confused. Her dress was also blue…also revealing.
I pointed to Marjorie. She stood among a cluster of committee members who’d arrived early to carry out Mother’s final orders. If my sister noticed their sideways glances at her exposed flesh, she didn’t respond. Instead, she smiled sweetly, as if she was delighted to be making small talk with women whose husbands she’d been flirting with—outrageously—just last night.
“Go fetch her, Ellison. We need to get that picture.”
Hunter’s grip on my waist loosened. “I’ll go.”
Mother and I watched him cross the lobby, then she turned to me, her indulgent expression a thing of the past. “No bodies tonight, Ellison. I mean it. Stay out of the coat room, don’t go to the ladies’ room alone, and don’t you dare venture inside that igloo.”
Find a few corpses and all of a sudden you get painted with a very unpleasant brush. “It’s not as if I killed anyone.”
“But you find them when they’re dead.” Icebergs are warmer than the expression in Mother’s eyes. “Don’t find anyone tonight.”
It wasn’t worth pointing out that someone seemed to want me dead, that the rest of her guests were probably safe. “I’ll do my best.”
“See that you do.” She swanned off toward the photographer, paused and looked over her shoulder. “Come along.”
Hunter sent Marjorie but took himself to the bar.
Mother arranged me, Marjorie, Daddy, and Aunt Sis to her satisfaction (she did not ask Anarchy to join our family picture) then inserted herself into the center. We all donned smiles for the camera, froze while the photographer snapped shot after shot, then separated.
I accepted a drink from Hunter, who magically arrived as soon as the pictures were done. Together we crossed the lobby to the tables where the silent auction items were displayed.
Mother and Daddy greeted guests.
Aunt Sis and Anarchy stood on the edge of the room and watched expensively clad people fill the lobby.
Where Marjorie went, I didn’t know. Nor did I care.
L’Air du Temps, Johnny Walker and cigarette smoke swirled together and mixed with the clink of ice in glasses, the rustle of silk and satin and velvet and the genteel conversations of people who had seen each other just that afternoon on the golf course.
We stopped by the painting I’d donated just long enough for Hunter to place the opening bid.
“Thank you.” No matter how well my paintings sell, I always worry that mine will be the sole auction item without a bid.
“I intend to win.” He smiled at me and for a moment I didn’t know if he was talking about the painting or something else entirely.
It was an unexpected waft of air on my bare back that made me shiver. I’m sure of it.
We moved on.
“This could be interesting.” Hunter tapped a bid sheet for philharmonic tickets and dinner for two at the American Restaurant. “Would you care to join me?”
My friend Libba saved me from answering. “There you are!” She made it sound as if I’d been hiding.
I hadn’t been.
She offered Hunter a half-smile. “May I steal Ellison for a moment?”
He flashed his teeth. “Of course.”
Libba grabbed my elbow with an icy cold hand. “I have a problem.”
“Oh?”
She nodded vigorously. “My date is dead—”
My heart stopped.
“—drunk.”
Lub-dub. Lub-dub. My poor heart resumed its beating and I relocated the ability to breathe. “The bar has been open for less than twenty minutes.”
“He picked me up three sheets.”
“And you drove with him?”
She shook her head and scowled as if I was missing the point. “Limousine.”
“Where is he?”
“Apparently, he threw up in the men’s room then passed out.”
I refrained from comment. Libba has epically bad taste in men. This is something she knows, something she bemoans regularly. “Let’s find the manager.”
We located a manager, arranged to have Yancy Arnot moved to a hotel room immediately and slipped the helpful man a fifty.
Libba groaned.
“What?”
“Your mother’s seating charts. She’ll kill me if there’s an empty spot at the table.”
Mother—because what’s a party for seven hundred people without adding a bit of a challenge?—had decided to offer a choice of meals. Guests could select beef tenderloin, grilled salmon or a vegetarian option. “You know people lie,” she had explained.
I was all too aware of that. “What do you mean?”
“They order salmon, see the beef, and change their minds. It causes no end of trouble for the chef.”
A lesser woman might have given up, allowed a free-for-all of guests claiming beef when they’d ordered fish. Not Mother. Place cards were the answer. Place cards for seven hundred guests. A “B,” “S,” or “V” written in the corner under the names would alert the server to the proper meal.
She completed a seating chart for seven hundred faster than most people can complete a round of golf.
And now my best friend was going to throw it off.
“Someone has to be in the ballroom,” I said. “We’ll have them pull Yancy’s place.”
Women on a mission, we wove through the crowd, smiling politely, avoiding being drawn into conversations, our eyes fixed on the closed doors.
The locked doors.
Mother wanted a “reveal” and the doors had been locked to keep the curious in suspense.
“I know another way in,” said Libba.
She led me around a corner, down a corridor and through a door clearly marked “Staff Only.” Another turn or two and we were in.
The ballroom stood empty.
Libba gaped at the decor. “Your mother works miracles.”
I didn’t argue. “What’s your table number?”
“Sixty-two.”
There’s a science to placing tables. Obviously, the largest donors get the best tables, the ones closest to the dance floor and stage. But what about donors who give the same amount when there’s only one first-row table left? Is a second-row center table better than a table adjacent to the dance floor but just to the right of the stage? These are the questions that give ball chairmen sleepless nights.
We found table sixty-two on the second row, not exactly center, but close.
“Now what? There’s no one to help us,” said Libba.
I scanned the ballroom and saw a door that led back to the cocktail hour closing behind someone. A door that should have been locked.
“Let’s find the kitchen,” I suggested. “There’s boun
d to be someone there.”
We didn’t have to. An official looking man in a black bow tie and matching vest entered the ballroom and glowered at us. “The ballroom is closed.”
“Yes, of course. I’m Mrs. Walford’s daughter, Mrs. Russell. My friend’s escort is unable to attend this evening. We’d like his place removed from this table.”
The man approached and I read his nametag.
“We’d be most appreciative, Hector.” I reached into my clutch, withdrew a twenty and handed it to him. “His name is Yancy Arnot.”
Hector took the bill and nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”
Libba and I returned to a lobby that had filled to bursting in our absence. Hunter stood near the silent auction table with Mother’s hand on his sleeve. He smiled when he saw me.
“There you are, Ellison.” Mother looked mildly put out. “Wherever have you been?”
“Small problem. Taken care of now.”
“No one dead?” Mother does have a sense of humor. She just keeps it well hidden.
“Not yet.”
She actually smiled at me. “I was just telling Hunter that no one seems to be bidding on the ski trip to Vail.”
Hunter patted Mother’s hand where it rested on his sleeve but looked at me. “I’ll bid if you agree to go with me if I win.”
“How could she refuse?” Mother gave me a looked that said clearly I’d best not refuse. “There are two bedrooms, Ellison. It’s not as if Hunter is asking you to—”
“I’ll go.” The words flew out of my mouth faster than Franz Klammer could ski down a beginner’s slope. There was no way on God’s green earth I was going on a ski trip with Hunter Tafft. But asking Libba to outbid him was easier than arguing—or letting Mother finish her sentence.
The three of us walked over to the empty bid sheet and read, “One week in a two-bedroom luxury condo in Vail. Week of December 12. Valued at $400.”
No one had ventured the opening bid of $200.
Hunter’s eyes twinkled and I felt a twinge of unease just south of my stomach. He tapped a gold pen against the bid sheet. “Now, if I win, you promise you’ll go with me?”
There was no chance he’d win. Libba owed me. “I promise.”
He wrote.
Mother peered over his shoulder. “Oh!” Then she giggled. Giggled like a sixteen-year-old girl. “Ellison, you need to have your skis waxed.”
I bent and looked at Hunter’s bid.
Two thousand dollars.
Seven
A trumpet blared a fanfare and servers opened the doors to the ballroom. A cold mist blew out at the guests, circling their ankles, peeking beneath their skirts. Delighted shivers abounded.
Mother can do wonders with dry ice.
Libba charged through the mist. Hopefully, Hector had removed Yancy’s place. I didn’t blame her for checking.
The rest of the guests entered at a more relaxed pace.
The ballroom looked like an Inuit’s vision of luxury. Northern lights played across the ceiling, pristine white tablecloths draped to a carpet sprinkled with sparkling glitter, silver Chiavari chairs surrounded the tables, and snowdrops and crocuses bloomed in the center of the tables.
Hunter and I wove our way through the crowd toward the dance floor. “We’re at table sixty-seven,” I said.
Except, we weren’t.
Marjorie was. Aunt Sis and Anarchy were. Kinky and Cassie LeCoeur were. Tibby and Martin Davis were. Jinx and Preston George were.
Not us.
Someone had moved us.
Someone who wanted to flirt with Anarchy without my glare burning through her poor excuse for a dress?
I scowled at my sister.
Was Marjorie deliberately ignoring me? She seemed entirely too enthralled by whatever Kinky was saying to her.
He seemed enthralled by the not-thereness of her dress.
Poor Cassie seemed pale and miserable. Her hand on the top rung of her chair shook. Maybe she was struggling not to slap the come-hither look off Marjorie’s face. I know I was. “This isn’t our table,” she said.
Kinky spared her half a glance. “Our place cards are here.” He yanked Cassie’s chair away from the table. “Sit.”
“But—”
“Just sit, Cassie.”
She sat.
“You’re over here, Ellison,” Libba called.
I locked my teeth together (ground them together) and took the high road. A confrontation would mean a scene. A scene would embarrass Mother. Mother embarrassed would mean a year of hell. Besides, Mother had worked so hard to make this evening a success. I wasn’t going to be the one to spoil her party. I swallowed my annoyance. “Apparently we’re at Libba’s table.”
We found our place cards. Mine was next to Hammie Walsh’s. She looked up at me and smiled—a real smile, not the usual polite stretching of lips. “What a treat that we get to sit together.”
With a grunt of effort, her husband lifted halfway from his seat.
“Please, don’t get up.”
He sank back into his chair. “Nice to see you, Ellison.”
“You too, Mr. Walsh.”
“You make me feel old, dear. I think it’s time you called me Randolph.”
With his shock of white hair and Palm Springs tan, he looked very much like a mister but who was I to argue? “Thank you, Randolph.”
Hunter pulled out my chair and I sat. He claimed the seat next to mine.
Hammie rubbed her throat as if it pained her. “It’s so nice that your aunt and your sister could attend.”
“Isn’t it?” My voice was drier than the ice Mother had used to create mist.
Hammie looked at me sharply then coughed. Not a discreet your-sarcasm-is-showing cough but an I’ve-smoked-a-pack-a-day-for most-of-my-life cough. Finally, the hack subsided. She took a sip of water and asked, “How long has it been since Marjorie came for a visit?”
Not long enough. “I believe she brought the children in July but I missed her. Grace and I were in Europe.”
Hammie coughed again. From the sound, I could only assume her lungs were as sooty and blackened as the back of my house.
Randolph regarded her with a furrowed brow and patted her on the back.
“Can I get you anything?”
“No, no. I’m fine.” Hammie cleared her throat. “I seem to have a tickle.” She lifted her near-empty water goblet to her lips and drained what was left in the glass.
“Would you like mine?” I held out the glass that had been set at the upper right of my place.
Hammie rubbed her throat. “Thank you, dear. Don’t mind if I do.”
She took the glass from my hands and gulped as if she’d just played eighteen holes on a broiling afternoon.
Hunter touched my arm and I turned away from Hammie’s imitation of a thirsty camel.
“How long has it been since you’ve been skiing?” he asked.
That bid.
Two thousand dollars.
My mouth went dry at the thought and I wished I’d kept my water.
“Last winter we went to—”
“It burns!”
I turned back to Hammie.
She half-dropped my glass onto the table and covered her mouth with one hand, her throat with the other.
“What’s wrong, dear?” asked Randolph.
“It burns!” Hammie’s voice was raw, its pitch hysterical. She moved her hand away from her mouth. Blisters circled her lips and bubbled on her skin.
Someone at the table gasped. It might have been me.
Hammie stood, stumbled a step or two away from the table, and collapsed onto the glitter-strewn carpet.
Randolph half-rose from his seat. “We need a doctor!”
There was one at the next table.
Dr. Glen Franklin rushed toward us, took one look at Hammie and said, “She’s allergic to something. Call an ambulance. Now.”
“I’ll call.” Hunter strode toward the ballroom doors, people seemed to part for him. Probably a good thing since Hammie seemed to be convulsing.
Randolph, Glen and I knelt on the floor. Hammie clutched her throat. “I can’t breathe.”
“We need help!” Randolph yelled.
Randolph wasn’t wrong. Glen caught babies for a living. He’d probably forgotten everything he ever learned about adverse reactions years ago. Nevertheless, he did whatever it was doctors do when they had no idea what to do. Randolph held his wife’s hand.
Neither man seemed to be making much of a difference.
I climbed onto a less than steady Chiavari chair and scouted the ballroom for an emergency room doctor or an allergist. The chair wobbled and I extended my arms for balance.
Our crisis had made hardly a ripple in the noisy ballroom. Guests chatted, table hopped, and drank, undisturbed by our drama. Not even those at the tables closest to us realized there was a problem.
Mother sat at one of those tables. Anarchy sat at another. They both stared at me perched atop my unsteady chair. They both wore I-knew-something-awful-would-happen-and-Ellison-would-be-right-in-the-thick-of-it expressions. They both stood and moved toward me, thunder upon their brows.
“What are you doing?” Mother couldn’t have sounded more scandalized. I might as well have streaked naked through the ballroom.
“I’m looking for a doctor.”
She opened her mouth, noticed Hammie and the obstetrician on the floor, and snapped her lips shut.
“Bruce Collins is three tables over.” An ear, nose and throat doctor had to know more about a closing throat than Glen Franklin.
“Get down from there.” Low-pitched with all the subtlety of a buzz-saw—that was Mother’s voice.
Anarchy offered me a hand and I descended from the chair.
Poor Hammie sounded as if she was breathing through a very small, very clogged cocktail straw. Her face, the part of her face not disfigured by blisters, was tinged with blue.
“What—” Mother glared at me as if I was personally responsible for Hammie’s distress “—happened?”
CLOUDS IN MY COFFEE Page 7