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“The only mistake we made was trusting you with our money,” Pinkie said, swishing her feather boa over her shoulder, the grand moment lost when she had to inelegantly spit one out.
And then it hit Birdie.
Oh, my, this was a ruse. They were inserting themselves in her craptastic dilemma of a life to…to help her.
Oh, God, no.
Errol took a step forward. “Why don’t we all retire to my office so that we may discuss this in private? No need alerting the guests to yet another of my wife’s indiscretions.”
Errol and Ariana led the way. With their backs to the four women, Erma winked at Birdie while Pinkie gave her a conspiratorial nod.
Just as she turned to follow, she noticed Lucas had made his way to the front entrance as well, staring at the circus before him, his mouth gaping open and about to spill his tray of champagne flutes.
She righted the tray and gave him a what-the-hell-is-going-on look and followed the unlikely guests.
* * *
Lucas was tryingto make sense out of the scene he’d just witnessed as Errol and Ariana exited the room with Pinkie, Erma, Willa Mae, and Cora Leigh following behind.
An incredulous Birdie bringing up the rear.
What in holy hell was the Pinkie Posse doing in Cambridge? At Birdie’s house?
What used to be her house.
That was her house again.
To add to his confusion, his pants began to vibrate.
Quickly, he set down the tray he was barely keeping steady on yet another white lacquered side table. He used his thumb and forefinger to firmly cajole and wheedle his phone from his front pocket.
Moving to an alcove and giving a concerned Flynn from across the room a thumbs-up, he answered, “Yes?”
“It’s Grant.”
“Of course it is. Do you have it?”
“Negative. However, and this might be stretch, I think the Pinkie Posse has it.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Mia read some excerpts from the diary to them, those that apparently shed light on Birdie when she was younger, absolving her from a multitude of sins.” Lucas heard Grant sigh. “Thing is, the Posse’s gone. Left Wayward, and as far as I can tell, no one is sure where they went.”
Lucas rubbed his forehead as gouging his finger through the synthetic strands of his wig was not an option. “I know where they are.”
“You do?”
“They’re no more than, I’d say, fifty to sixty feet from me.”
“The Pinkie Posse? Is there? In Boston?”
“In Cambridge. Just waltzed through the front doors.”
“Of your hotel?”
“No, Birdie’s house. I may or may not be disguised as a waiter at an old Hollywood costume party at Birdie’s Cambridge estate. Or Errol’s. I’m so fucking confused.”
“What the fuck are four old ladies doing canoodling with the enemy?”
