“Yeah, well, anyways, what’s going on with Dylan? Do they really think he killed that drug dealer?”
“He wasn’t a drug dealer.” I walked over to the coffee maker and poured myself a cup. “He was a Gonzo employee. A chemist.”
Blake’s eyes widened. “So, like…he helped put together this formula?”
“Yeah, I assume so.”
“Interesting.” He moved to the refrigerator and started to take out one of the four remaining cans of Gonzo, but stopped when he caught me staring. “I mean, he kind ofwasa drug dealer, in a way. I can’t get enough of this stuff.”
“Yeah, but I suspect that’s mostly marketing, endorsements. You saw that skater drinking it, you bought in. I’m sure a lot of people felt the same way when they saw you drinking it on Instagram—and you hated it back then.”
“I’m telling you. It tastes different now.”
“Okay, I believe you.”
“I’m just saying…Maybe the guy got killed because of that formula. You know? I mean, like…maybe he was trying to sell it to some other company and Dylan found out and got pissed.”
I took a swallow of my coffee and thought about it. “That idea would make a lot of sense,” I said, “if Dylan Welch wasn’t who he is.”
“Meaning…”
“Meaning, according to his mom, he’s got no interest in the business. He just thought up the name, went to a few meetings, and checked out, and now he’s only in it for the parties and the influencers. He spends most of his time out of the office and leaves all the real work to his employees.”
Blake shrugged. He poured himself a cup of coffee and gave me a look. “His mom said that.”
“Yes. So?”
“I mean…how well does your mom know you?”
I drank my coffee. He drank his. “That’s a really good point,” I said.
“I know,” Blake said.
“I think maybe those vitamins make you smart,” I said.
“Nah,” he said. “I’ve always been like this.”
I took one of the chairs. He took the other. And there we were, Blake and me, actually using the breakroom.
Twenty-Five
In addition to their many other properties on the East Coast and around the world, Bill and Lydia Welch owned a renovated brownstone on Beacon Hill that dated back to the Colonial era. This was where they typically spent November and December. It was where they held the annual holiday party that had always made the society pages, back when there were society pages. And it was where our luncheon was to be held.
Lucky for me, the Welch brownstone had been photographed forArchitectural Digesta little over a year ago, so I had been able to look it up online and gawk at the pictures before I was scheduled to arrive. As a result, when I did show up, I was suitably blasé about my surroundings. (Or, at the very least, I wasn’t tempted to beg for a tour.) Their home was truly beautiful—a marvel of polished mahogany, creamy crownmoldings, and immaculate, multi-paned windows of antique leaded glass that made the snow-dusted street below look like a Victorian Christmas card. The thing that impressed me most, though, was how much care and effort had gone into restoring the space to its original beauty. It was as though before embarking on the renovation, Bill and Lydia had looked at their failure of a son and decided that this time, they were going to get things right.
A tuxedoed butler greeted me at the door and took my coat. His close-cropped silver hair shimmered in the soft lighting. “You must be Ms. Randall,” the butler said to me. He spoke in a refined British accent, and he carried a silver tray with a single tall glass of iced tea placed atop it. It was all so what-you-would-expect-from-old-Boston-money, it almost felt like cosplay. The butler introduced himself as Balthazar and handed me the iced tea. He was wearing white gloves. “Jasmine and mint,” he said.
“That sounds delicious,” I said. I took a sip. It was.
“May I take your phone?” he said.
“Pardon?”
“The Welches have a strict no-phone policy during their luncheons,” he said. He slipped two iPhones out of his jacket pocket. “As you can see, I have theirs as well.”
I thought it was an annoyingly presumptuous request—as though no one could be trusted to stay off their phone for an hour, and so they had to be treated like junior high school kids. But it wasn’t a hill I was willing to die on. I removed my phone from my purse and handed it to him.
I followed Balthazar through the large foyer, past an enormous Christmas tree, and up to a grand mahogany staircase, which we climbed together. Perhaps it was because of all the wine I’d consumed the night before or simply the lack of a chance to get to a gym the past several mornings, but I found myself taking the stairs a little slower than usual. At one point, I stopped and sipped some iced tea to fortify myself and almost ran into a man in a suit who was hurrying down the stairs, his head lowered. All business. He looked familiar to me, and so I turned and watched him leave before I realized the butler was waiting. “I’m sorry,” I said.
