Page 51 of The Dearly Departed

While the room laughed, I noticed the captivating woman beside me didn’t join in. She kept her lips pressed into a thin, terse line, her gaze downcast, as if the vow of silence was intentional.

Interesting.

The mask created a hindrance for my vision. I couldn’t see much through my peripheral vision, and I silently cursed myself for not thinking that far ahead when pulling it out from beneath my bed. Dracula—the man I assumed was her other half—sat beside her, and I wanted to know what he was doing, if he was smiling or laughing like the rest of them. I couldn’t see Leonard clearly either, not without leaning forward and making my intentions obvious.

But I’d know Leonard’s laugh anywhere, and I knew for certain I couldn’t hear it now.

“My chef has a wonderful meal planned for us all tonight, and afterward, there’ll be cake.”

“What kind of birthday party would it be without cake?” the woman beside him—Virginia—said, followed by a tense, haughty laugh. Exactly the kind of laugh you’d expect from someone prim, proper, and uptight, someone snooty and raised in money—lots of it.

If that was the case, if she’d come with riches at the time of their meeting, that would explain another reason why Gerald Crowley would’ve been interested. But why she was interested in a bottom feeder like him …

I kept my questioning glare on her, and although she couldn’t see my eyes, I must’ve caught her attention somehow. She turned to face me, her gaze lingering as she took in the vision of my form, my suit. A corner of her mouth lifted subtly before she looked away again, focusing her attention on her husband.

The interaction left me uncomfortable.

Gerald was oblivious and chuckled with her, the sound forced. Then he gestured toward a closed door to his right and said, “Enjoy yourselves, everyone. Let’s make this a night to remember, shall we?”

As if they’d been waiting for his cue, that very door then flew open, and servers paraded in, each carrying a large tray of dishes. Bowls of salad were placed before every guest, and in unison, they dug in as the servers disappeared through the door they’d come through.

I fumbled with the forks beside my dish, unsure of which one to hold for this course. My uncultured upbringing was beginning to show, and I silently cursed, wishing Leonard had given me lessons in dinner etiquette at some point between teaching me how to embalm a corpse and what temperature to set the cremator to.

“It’s this one,” a whispered voice said as a hand with long, manicured nails tapped the handle of the smallest fork.

I turned enough to glance at her smiling face, looking at me through the corner of her eye.

“Thanks,” I replied, though with my fake voice, it sounded more like an incoherent grunt.

“Rich people make things complicated because they can,” she muttered, as if she wasn’t rich right along with them, even though her presence alone exuded wealth. “Makes them feel better about themselves.”

I shrugged and quietly replied, “Different forks are engineered for different uses. I understand it. I just …” Never needed to know, I wanted to add, but I’d already said too much.

“Oh, please,” she whispered back, sarcasm dripping from her tone. “Does it stab my food? Yes. Can I eat with it? Yes. Well, that’s good enough for me.”

She made me laugh. Not many people had the ability to do that.

I took the appropriate fork between my gloved fingers and poked around at the contents of the salad bowl for a minute or two before the woman beside me took notice.

She was making a habit of watching me, and I wanted to be bothered by that. But I wasn’t. Instead, I felt excited that I interested her enough to hold her attention. Excited but …

Sad.

Because it doesn’t matter.

“Not a fan of salad?”

In truth, it did look good. A fresh garden salad with grated Parmesan cheese and sliced boiled eggs and a creamy dressing of some sort, laid over a bed of greens. I wished I could smell it, taste it. I bet it would taste better than any salad I’d ever had. It was certainly the most expensive.

But still, I shook my head and muttered, “I’m not a vegetable guy.”

“It took a long time for me to like vegetables,” she replied, continuing the conversation. “I’m more of a fruit person.”

“Same here,” I said.

“What are you talking about?” the voice of the small, wiry man beside her said, and I did turn to face him this time. “You love vegetables. You have a salad almost every night.”

The woman twisted her lips with momentary distaste. The guy beside her didn’t see the reaction, but I did. But just as quickly, she let it go and plastered an easy smile on her face.