“You know what I mean.” He waved his hand around and sprung up from his chair. “She didn’t look alive, that’s what Vivienne said.”
"Taylor, I don't think anyone's worried about your bourbon distribution right now," Allison said.
"Easy for you to say. You're not the one who's going to be a meme by Monday morning." He scrubbed a hand down his face. "Tripping Distiller Kills Society Matron. That's the headline. I can see it already."
That was a terrible headline. I thought it would read more like Society Matron Crushed by Bourbon King. Or Last Dance at Gala for Magnolia Matron.
"She's not — " I started, and then stopped, because I genuinely did not know if Evelyn was dead, dying, or sitting up in a hospital bed right then demanding better lighting.
"Nobody's calling it a headline yet," Reginald said, though he didn't sound entirely convinced either.
Taylor picked up the glass pitcher of sweet tea and poured more into his tumbler. Then he threw a liberal dose of bourbon from his flask in it.
“If you’re that worried, maybe you should stop drinking,” Vivienne pointed out.
“Pfft.”
Allison had gone very quiet, her tea untouched on the side table, her phone facedown in her lap. I'd gotten used to her narrating her own internal monologue out loud over the past two days — the deadline panic, the WiFi crisis, the true crime tangents. The silence felt loud in a way that made the hair on my arms stand up.
"Allison?" I said. Maybe it was just seeing Evelyn collapse like that had her rattled. “Are you okay?”
She looked up, and something in her expression had shifted. Guilty, maybe. Or resigned.
"I need to tell you all something," she said. "And it's going to sound bad, given the circumstances, so I'd appreciate it if everyone could reserve judgment until I'm finished."
"That's an ominous start," Vivienne said.
"It gets worse." Allison twisted her hands together in her lap. "Evelyn sent me a cease and desist letter too, like she did Taylor. Six weeks ago. About the book."
I sat up straighter. "The Garden District family saga?"
"The very same." Allison let out a short, humorless laugh. "Turns out my 'fictionalized' family bears what her lawyer called 'an actionable resemblance' to the Carringtons. Which okay , fine, I’m guilty of that. I did base some of it on things I'd heard but nothing that could directly connect to them. That's what writers do. We have our creativity sparked by real life events but we embellish, we twist the plot, we cut out the superfluous. But she wanted the manuscript pulled from consideration entirely and wanted assurances I'd destroy my notes. She threatened to go after my publisher directly if I didn't comply."
"You told me she'd been helpful with research," I said, remembering our conversation in the kitchen, the way she'd smiled like she had a secret.
"She had been. That's what made the letter so unexpected." Allison exhaled. "She spent an entire afternoon with me back in the fall, gave me the details, the history, family scandal, all of it, off the record, very pleased with herself about how deep her knowledge went. And then two months later her lawyer's calling my publisher because apparently I got a little too close to something she didn't actually want written down after all."
"So you had motive," Reginald said, not unkindly, more like a man cataloguing a fact for later use.
"I had a grudge," Allison corrected. "There's a difference. Besides, my publisher has my back. They know it’s fiction. There is nothing factual in my account so far, but it’s given me a hell of a case of writer’s block. I keep second guessing everything I’m writing."
"Weren’t you concerned about seeing Evelyn tonight?” I asked.
I personally wouldn’t have set foot near that gala if I were Allison or Taylor. But I did tend to be a rule follower. Maggie wouldn’t have let anyone stop her from showing up at a place where she wasn’t wanted, just to spite the person who had wronged her.
Allison's jaw tightened. "There's something else."
Taylor groaned. "Of course there is."
"I wasn't invited to the gala." Allison said it fast, like ripping off a bandage. "I never got an invitation. I told Harper I had full access because I didn't want to seem, I don't know, pathetic, I suppose, showing up at a bed and breakfast for a party I hadn't actually been asked to. I've been to two of these before, on a plus-one from a friend on the committee who couldn't make it this year, and I know how the guest check works, or doesn't. Nobody's checking names off a list at a garden party. Nobody looks twice at a woman in a nice enough dress carrying a clutch like she belongs. I walked in like I belonged and nobody blinked."
I thought back to the receiving line, to Evelyn's assessing gaze sweeping over all four of my guests like she was taking inventory. I find it useful, keeping certain people close. Had she known Allison wasn't supposed to be there? Was that what the comment had really meant?
"You crashed a party thrown by a woman who was suing you," Reginald said slowly, "the same night she died."
“She didn’t die!” Allison shrieked. “We don’t know that! Why does everyone keep saying that?”
She was hysterical enough that I believed her. Even if she had done something, she didn’t want Evelyn to die.
