"Harper, darling." Dorothy said as she approached us, resplendent in black linen, already pressing an air kiss to my cheek. “Who is your friend?”
“This is Maggie. She is the host and creator of the podcast I’m on. Maggie, this is Dorothy Perrault.”
“How fascinating.” Dorothy eyed Maggie. “Did you know Evelyn?”
“No, but I’ve heard such great things about her.”
“This isn’t a spectacle,” Dorothy warned. “In spite of the unfortunate circumstances surrounding Evelyn’s death this is meant to be a celebration of all of Evelyn’s accomplishments. Not some attempt at gaining clicks on the internet.”
“That never crossed my mind,” Maggie assured her. “I’m just trying to be a supportive friend to Harper. What she and the rest of you witnessed at the gala was traumatizing, I’m sure.”
Dorothy just stared at Maggie, briefly, before waving her hand. “No one really knows what happened. I don’t believe any of the speculation. I’m sure she just had a stroke. But no more of that. This is supposed to be pleasant.”
It felt like an order.
“Yes, ma’am,” Maggie said.
I nodded my own agreement.
“Try the shrimp. It’s divine.” Then Dorothy was off to greet more attendees.
It was a big house, but even with that much square footage, the rooms felt a little stifling. We pressed our way forward to taste the divine shrimp.
I spotted Reginald near the fireplace watching the TV rotation of Evelyn in various photos with the same forensic attention I suspect he gave a renovation permit.
Three of my Midnight House guests had chosen to attend the evening. I could see Taylor had installed himself near the bar, which felt about as surprising as the sun rising in the east. Vivienne was clutching a cup of coffee with two hands. It appeared she’d left her camera at home, which was probably wise.
Allison had elected to stay at the house. When Reginald had floated the idea of her accompanying him she’d balked and refused. She had curled up in the parlor with her laptop and a cup of chamomile tea before I'd even finished getting dressed.
Maggie and I drifted near them, but none of us had much to say.
“Some celebration,” Taylor muttered. “Feels more like a funeral.”
Vivienne gave him side-eye. “Because it is!”
According to Dorothy this was supposed to be pleasant. I felt very strongly that none of us were enjoying ourselves.
“You know what I mean.”
Maggie and I got glasses of wine from the bartender and drifted away with unhurried aimlessness that was absolutely not aimless. We were putting distance between ourselves and the Midnight House crew.
We found a spot in the corner of the living room where we could hide just a little and observe the room as a whole. That’s when I spotted Hyacinth.
She sat alone on a settee with her hands folded in her lap like she was waiting to be called on, wearing a black pencil skirt and a black blazer, an ivory blouse underneath it.
“That’s Hyacinth,” I murmured to Maggie. “In the black suit, hands in her lap.”
“Is she wearing pantyhose?” Maggie asked, sounding astonished. “I’ve never seen anyone under fifty wearing them in real life. Pantyhose is like a fashion myth.”
“She’s good at the game,” I said in a low voice. “Maybe she’s looking for her next benefactress.”
An older man sat next to Hyacinth and put his hand on her knee. She leaned into him and looked up with a helpless trembling expression.
“Or benefactor,” Maggie remarked.
“She is single. Or maybe that’s her dad.”
The hand shifted up higher until it was resting on Hyacinth’s thigh.
