“That’s her,” I whispered under my breath.
She straightened, and her mouth went flat. Then she uttered a really dirty word that made my eyes pop. But I loved it. Loved that she came to my defense. Loved having someone else know about Stephanie. Somehow it made my burden less.
“Yeah, she is, isn’t she?” I said, somehow feeling emboldened in my dress.
My mother arrived, along with my father and his wife, so the next thirty minutes were spent trying to defuse the barbs my mother tossed Crystalle’s way while helping everyone find their tables, which were not close to each other, thanks be to God. My mother settled into talking with her friend Roberta, and my father and his wife—who I might add did not resemble a blueberry, as my mother had suggested in a very passive-aggressive, backhanded-compliment kind of way—were sipping gin and tonics and catching up with their former neighbors. I noted that Ruby was being attended to by her date, so I slipped out of the main room to check if all was ready for the live auction that would occur in two hours’ time. We had placed all the auction donations in a holding area off the foyer and had been awaiting a few last-minute items. If they didn’t arrive, I would have to ensure that an announcement was made and they were stricken from the booklet I had designed.
We had several pieces of art, a handful of collector’s guns, and a baseball signed by Babe Ruth; otherwise, the live auction consisted mostly of trips and experiences. Scott and I had once bid on a hunting trip to Argentina, which he promptly sold for more money to one of his friends. Yes, my husband profited off charity. I hadn’t thought that much about it at the time, but now it seemed pretty shoddy and exactly the kind of thing a cheaterpants would do.
My sojourn to the holding room proved useless since my friends Shelley and Donna had everything perfectly placed, a gaggle of pretty high school girls waiting to showcase the items, and cute little paddles with funny pictures of celebrities on them as the bidding tools. I could just hear the auctioneer say Sold to Lady Gaga! and how confused some of the older people would be. Already a gentleman had exclaimed within my hearing, “Is that Ingrid Bergman?” when he’d received his paddle upon entry to the gala. I wasn’t even going to try to explain Gaga to him.
Still, not my problem. I was the cataloger and creator of the auction booklet. My cochairs would have to worry about explaining who the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air was. And since all the items had arrived, I had no announcements to make later.
I waved farewell to my two friends and slipped out, nearly mowing over a waiter. The foyer had thinned out, with only a cluster of people here and there, including Stephanie, who was laughing as if the world belonged to her.
Or maybe as if my husband did.
I stepped back into the shadows tucked around the corner of the foyer and closed my eyes, pressing myself to the wall. Beside me, a gate had been erected to prevent people from sneaking into areas they shouldn’t. But as I stood clinging to the wall like a nervous bungee jumper, I heard someone talking from beyond the gate in the gathered darkness, which was faintly lit by the glowing exit sign.
More specifically, it sounded like Scott saying something about “being worried.”
I inched a little closer, trying to peer into the darkness but stay hidden, which was not easy to do with a flared dress and clacky heels.
“I’m telling you, he was watching me,” Scott insisted.
My heart started racing.
Another unrecognizable male voice asked something like, “How do you know?”
“He was sitting outside of Steph’s house. I watched him out the window for a while. He didn’t take any pictures or anything, but I could tell he was watching. I just had a feeling.”
I heard a muffled question I didn’t quite catch, and Scott said, “My wife? Maybe. The guy wouldn’t say. He just told me to pay him five hundred and he’d disappear. Refused to give his name or who he worked for.”
Another muffled response.
“I gave it to him. What else could I do?” Scott said, his voice in a whisper yell. “Cricket might suspect something, but I think she won’t bother snooping. She’s content with her life. She never rocks the boat. So this has to be about the deal. You said it was foolproof. I’m telling you, I’m not going down, not for what I’m getting. I’m out.”
The words grew heated, but my mind was too busy hanging up on the words “deal” and “going down.” And then it leaped back to my mother’s words in the store last week, about how Scott had some kind of opportunity for an investment. A prickling of suspicion rose on my neck.