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She takes a long, nervous pause. “I think so.”
“Be sure before you start that talk. You can’t unstart it.”
“I know, I know.”
The west wing has several rooms, and a sign marks the location of the auction itself. We walk into a ballroom, and inside, the auction is already active. It’s a silent auction, thankfully. Not as brash as a stressful verbal auction with gavel banging and rapid fire bidders. Instead, the walls are lined with tables, featuring their items up for bids. Some have people standing nearby—local celebrities and a politician or two.
“Ballsy to offer yourself up for an auction.”
She titters, “Quiet. They’ll hear you.”
“I’m just saying, Callie. I mean, I know it’s for a good cause, but who wants to bid for a lunch with a local news anchor?”
“Look at his bid sheet.”
I casually glanced over, trying not to be obvious about it. There was a stack of filled bid sheets in front of him. “I’ll be damned.”
“You never know what rich people want.”
“Speaking of what rich people want, are you bidding on anything?”
“No. I’m saving up for a summer share in the Hamptons for next year.”
“Tired of Nantucket?”
She shrugs. “More like, I’m tired of summering with my family every year. I love them to pieces, but if I have to spend another summer listening to my sister whine about everything, I’ll tear her to pieces.”
“A murder in Nantucket?” I feign a gasp. “What would the neighbors say?”
“As if it’d be the first murder there?”
“Of course not, but I imagined you people brush that sort of thing under the Persian rug. Murder being so impolite, and all that.”
She snickers. “I promise not to get her blood on the Persian rugs.”
“Pretty sure we passed by a bar on our way in here.”
“Shall we?”
“We shall.”
So we make our way to the bar two rooms down from the auction ballroom. It is darker than the other rooms—the wainscotting travels up forest green walls instead of ivory and the chandeliers are turned down low. Small high-top tables litter the space, and each of the spindly things is better quality than anything in my home. The bar itself is a long, dark wood thing with a thickly glossed top. After we order, it’s time for people watching.
A woman in her mid-thirties comes next to us, ignoring the men ogling her. She orders some kind of whiskey I’ve never heard of, then turns to face the crowd like we have. Her dress is a floor length nude-toned number that is impossible to ignore.
Callie gives her a quick glance. “Your dress is Matiradonna?”
“You have an eye for fashion. I just returned from Paris last week.”
Her lips pinch in curiosity. “She’s out of New York.”
“Not for her private clients.”
It takes a lot to impress Callie, and this woman has done it. “It is all but impossible to get on her list.”
“The Maestra has become a good friend over the years. Admittedly, it took some persistence. But I’m no quitter.”
“I’m Callie Brown.” She thrusts her hand out to the beautiful stranger. “This is June Devlin.”
