“Or maybe she’s bored and spies on whoever parks near her shop,” I said.
I folded the receipt and slipped it back into my folder.
Noah glanced at me, then towards the street. “So,” he said, tilting his head, “mystery buyer, no name, paid cash, likes antiques.”
“And possibly brooches,” I murmured.
A faint smile played at the corner of his mouth. “You’re thinking what I’m thinking?”
“That I should’ve charged extra for all of this detective work?”
He chuckled, that low, unhurried kind that made it sound like he was genuinely amused, but his eyes stayed sharp. “You think it’s one of them.”
I hesitated, watching the heat ripple above the bitumen. “I think the timing’s odd, that’s all. What if one of our guests did go to sell an antique right after a family heirloom vanished?”
I paused, hearing it as I said it.
“What if they were trying to swap it?”
He tilted his head. “Could be coincidence.”
“Or it could be very good cover.”
Somewhere a kookaburra started chortling like it was in on the joke.
“You know what bothers me most?” I said finally.
“What’s that?”
“She didn’t ask what we were looking for. Not once. Like she already knew.”
Noah slipped his sunglasses back on, and the corner of his mouth curved again. “And that, Sinclair, is why I’m not betting against you.”
Chapter Thirteen
The big pre-wedding welcome party began the way all wealthy over-the-top events do, with far too many moving parts pretending to look perfectly natural. The kind of “natural” that required three generators, forty staff, and at least two people quietly having stress nosebleeds somewhere out of sight.
The Langston Estate had been transformed into something between a film premiere and a royal gala. Twinkling lights threaded through the branches overhead, soft enough to feel romantic but strong enough to flatter every cheekbone within a five-metre radius. Lanterns swayed gently from the gum trees, casting pools of amber across the terrace, and the scent of jasmine drifted through the air whenever the breeze shifted.
The early-evening vineyard atmosphere worked hard to add its own charm, warm earth, crushed grapes, a sweetness riding on the air. Itshouldhave felt serene.
Instead, it thrummed.
The Kings of Nothing, a band currently sitting somewhere between sold-out international stadium tours and relentless media coverage were set up on a stage on the lawn, playing a set as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Their lead singer had only just resurfaced after a long, very public hiatus, which made their presence feel less like a booking and more like a headline.
Then again… billionaire.
Above it all, a drone hovered lazily, dipping and weaving like an oversized mechanical dragonfly, filming everything from the champagne fountain to the florals to guests who pretended not to angle their faces towards the camera. Every time the drone lights blinked, the crowd moved subtly, chin tilts,shoulder turns, posture adjustments. A mass of unconscious synchronised preening.
The table settings were ridiculous in the most beautiful way. Silk table clothes, polished cutlery catching the light, menus printed on thick cardstock that smelled faintly of bergamot. Locally sourced roses overflowed from crystal vases, their petals dusted with microscopic flecks of gold leaf for “visual storytelling”, according to the décor stylist.
And then there was the ice sculpture.
My personal nemesis. It had taken a small crane to lift it into place.
Three metres tall, slowly rotating, shaped as the intertwined initials of C and J and sparkling under dedicated spotlights as though it was the true guest of honour.
Water trickled down its sides in infuriatingly symmetrical streams, collecting in a basin filled with floating petals.
