Page 35 of Witness 8

She was here to give out canapés and top up wineglasses.

‘Are you okay?’ asked the server.

Forcing a smile, Ruby nodded, put on the black apron over her new clothes, tied it at the back and picked up the silver tray.

‘You’ve got smoked-salmon blinis and venison-sausage profiteroles,’ said Chef Antonio, a big man with thick hairy arms.

Ruby nodded.

‘Speak,’ said the chef. ‘Say, “Yes, Chef,” ’ he said.

As Ruby’s eyes filled with tears, she said, ‘Yes, Chef.’

‘Good, now get the fuck out of here and give these people some food and then come straight back for another tray. Go, go, go . . .’

She reversed out of the kitchen door, balancing the tray in one hand as she dabbed at her eyes with the other.

Once in the hallway, Ruby took deep breaths. She could feel her face flushing. The combination of heartbreak and embarrassment was burning her cheeks. She could not allow herself to cry. It would ruin her eyeliner. People would point at her. People would stare. They would see her and know that she wasn’t like them. Taking two deep breaths, Ruby calmed herself. Then she willed her features into a smile and checked her reflection in the large, oval mirror in the hallway. It looked as if she’d been given electric shock treatment; her expression looked contorted, even painful. She relaxed her shoulders, closed her eyes and let out her breath. When she looked at her reflection again, she appeared more natural. The smile no longer appeared mechanical.

She stepped into the living room and was enveloped in sound. Music, voices, laughter too – the rich make jokes even when discussing a murder.

The first person Ruby approached was Todd Ellis. He stood with his back to the wall, champagne in hand, nodding as he pretended to take in the conversation of the little group that had formed around him. He had a striking appearance – his head shaven to the skin, eyebrows sculpted to thin rows of dark black hair. Dyed, obviously. Small, bald and thin. His head turned red whenever he got angry, making him look like a matchstick in a suit. Ellis made it big on Wall Street in the nineties. He now served on the board of a bank and was the most regimented person Ruby had ever met. She had sat for his kids a few times. Two horrible brats who broke their toys for fun.

Just like their father.

Ellis had his PA send him his schedule for the next day at ten p.m. the night before for review. If something upset his schedule, Ellis would fly into a rage. She’d seen it once before.The car was late to take him and his wife to the ballet. He’d punched a mirror in the hallway, smashing it and cutting his knuckles. Ruby remembered staring at him as he pulled a shard of glass from the webbing between his index finger and thumb, and then sucked on the blood.

He was an empty man. His billions couldn’t fill him up. And only work, money and pleasure kept the anger in check. A year ago, Ruby had caught Mrs. Ellis in the kitchen, crying. It took some gentle coaxing, but Ruby found out that Todd was having an affair with Maggs. Maggs had ended it, but Todd wouldn’t take no for an answer. So Maggs had called Mrs. Ellis to tell her to keep her husband on a leash and spilled all of the dirty truth of the affair. Somehow, Mrs. Ellis had stayed with her husband. They’d patched it up. It was around the same time that Todd bought her a mansion in Hawaii, which Ruby supposed would have helped ease the situation.

But there was no easing the resentment in Ellis. It lived within him.

And he had continued to pursue Maggs. Ruby had seen Maggs sneaking him into her house, about a week before the murder. If Ellis’s wife had found out he was back with her, there would have been a divorce. The price of that, according to the gossip the last time his wife threatened to separate – was close to three billion dollars.

That’s an expensive affair.

He didn’t even look at Ruby as he snatched an hors d’oeuvre off the tray.

She moved on. Saw Petra in the corner, making the rounds. She moved toward her, gestured for her to come over.

‘Is there a problem with the canapés?’ asked Petra.

‘No, nothing like that. I just overheard some conversation. People are scared,’ said Ruby. ‘It would be good if someone could reassure them.’

‘The DA isn’t going to make it tonight, I’m afraid. I don’t blame him after that press conference today. Did you see it?’

Ruby nodded, said, ‘I think the neighborhood is angry and frightened. Somebody needs to do something. People can’t be expected to live in the same neighborhood as a killer.’

‘And yet you continue to work for them,’ said Petra, and quickly followed her jab at Ruby with a solid right hand, ‘Oh, I’m not judging you, darling Ruby. I’m sure you need the money . . .’

Petra waved her fingers at Ruby to continue passing around the appetizers. Ruby smiled with the full breadth of her mouth, forcibly, and moved on. Her little suggestion had been enough. She had planted a seed.

Petra would grow that into an oak tree. She moved to the front of the room, stood on a chair and tapped her champagne flute with a spoon.

‘Thank you all so much for coming . . .’

Ruby had been making her way around the room. She stopped and looked around for somewhere to put down the platter. No dice. She held it in front of her.

Just as Petra began speaking, Brett Bale brushed past her, taking an appetizer from her tray as he moved. He was rake thin – tanned and athletic – with a flop of thick brown hair, which gave him a preppy appearance. He’d been a tennis prodigy in his teenage years, but an ACL tear that led to a total knee replacement two years later ended any high hopes he may have had of turning pro. Instead of switching careers, Brett, with the backing of his parents, opened a tennis camp upstate. It proved popular. Really popular. Another four camps followed – two in Florida, one in Miami and the last in Texas, of all places.