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“Y’all wanted to see me?”
Following the sound of her voice, they turned in unison and spotted her up above on the gallery. She waited until their eyes were fixed on her before starting her descent. She was barefoot and slightly disheveled, but she came down the staircase, her hand trailing along the railing, as though she were dressed in a ball gown, the princess of the evening, with humble subjects adoring her and paying homage. She had been born into a family at the epicenter of Charleston society. From both sides, she was of the noblesse oblige. She never forgot it, and she made certain no one else did, either.
“Hello, Mrs. Pettijohn.”
“We don’t have to stand on ceremony, do we, Rory?” She came to stand within touching distance and, tilting her head to one side, smiled up at him. “After all, we’re practically kinfolk.”
She extended him her hand. His was dry and warm. Hers was slightly damp and very cold, and she wondered if he guessed that came from holding a tumbler of vodka.
He released her hand and indicated the woman with him. “This is Stefanie Mundell.”
“Steffi,” the woman said, aggressively thrusting her hand at Davee.
She was petite, with short dark hair and dark eyes. Eager eyes. Hungry eyes. She wasn’t wearing stockings even though she had on high-heeled pumps. To Davee that was a breach of etiquette more offensive than her own bare feet.
“How do you do?” Davee shook Steffi Mundell’s hand but released it quickly. “Are y’all selling tickets to the Policemen’s Ball, or what?”
“Is there someplace we can talk?”
Concealing her uneasiness with a bright smile, she said, “Sure,” and led them into the formal living room. The housekeeper, who had admitted the two before notifying Davee that she had guests, was moving about the room switching on lamps. “Thank you, Sarah.” The woman, who was as large and dark as a mahogany armoire, acknowledged Davee’s thanks, then left through a side door. “Can
I fix y’all a drink?”
“No, thank you,” Smilow replied.
Steffi Mundell also declined. “What a beautiful room,” she said. “Such a wonderful color.”
“You think so?” Davee looked around as though assessing the room for the first time. “Actually, this is my least favorite room in the whole house, even though it does offer a lovely view of the Battery, and that’s nice. My husband insisted on painting the walls this color. It’s called terra-cotta and is supposed to be reminiscent of the villas on the Italian Riviera. Instead, it makes me think of football jerseys.” Looking directly at Steffi and smiling sweetly, she added, “My mama always said that orange was a color for the common and coarse.”
Steffi’s cheeks flamed with anger. “Where were you this afternoon, Mrs. Pettijohn?”
“None of your goddamn business,” Davee retorted without a blink.
“Ladies.” Smilow shot Steffi a stern look with a silent command behind it for her to shut up.
“What’s going on, Rory?” Davee demanded. “What are ya’ll doing here?”
Coolly, calmly, and deferentially, he said, “I suggest we all sit down.”
Davee held his gaze for several seconds, gave the woman a withering glance, then with a brusque gesture indicated the sofa nearest them. She sat down in an adjacent armchair.
He began by telling her that this wasn’t a casual call. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
She stared at him, waiting him out.
“Lute was found dead late this afternoon. In the penthouse suite at the Charles Towne Plaza. It appears he was murdered.”
Davee kept her features carefully schooled.
One never displayed too much emotion in public.
It simply wasn’t done.
Holding emotions intact was a skill one naturally acquired when Daddy was a womanizer, and Mama was a drunk, and everybody knew the reason she drank, but everybody also pretended that there wasn’t a problem. Not in their family.
Maxine and Clive Burton had been a perfect couple. Both descended from elite Charleston families. Both were utterly gorgeous to look at. Both attended exclusive schools. Their wedding was a standard by which all others were compared, even to this day. They were a sublime match.
Their three adorable daughters had been given boys’ names, either because Maxine was drunk when she went into labor each time, or because she was so far gone she was confused about the gender of her newborn, or because she wanted to spite the wayward Clive, who yearned for male offspring and blamed her for producing only females. Never mind the absence of Y chromosomes.
