String of Lies (19 page)
“Let’s head for the food table first,” Rafe said. “I’m starving.”
“Fine with me. But could you slow down a little, please? I’m a bit too constricted tonight for jogging.”
“Oh, sorry.” Rafe slowed and let another couple sweep past. “It’s just that all the better stuff disappears first at these things.”
“I understand. By the way, did I mention you look very nice tonight? You wear a tux very well.” Jo meant it. Rafe had surprised her with his look of casual elegance, the “casual” coming from his perpetual day’s growth of beard and the “elegance” from the actor in him having risen to carry his evening attire with aplomb.
“Thanks.” Rafe brushed a few flakes of snow from his shoulder as he tossed off, “And you’re not looking so bad yourself.” They followed others into the Bradford and left their coats at the cloakroom, Rafe looking about and fairly sniffing the air for food aromas. “This way,” he declared as he led Jo accurately to the room that held bountiful tables of every kind of food Jo could imagine, from fruits and cheeses to platters of meats, salads, and delicate sweets.
“Dig in,” Rafe suggested, and immediately did so himself, grabbing a plate and proceeding to pile it high. Jo picked up a succulent-looking strawberry and took a bite out of it. The food was presented so beautifully that it was enough pleasure for her at this point to simply soak it up visually. She sauntered along beside Rafe as he moved from station to station.
“Wine, miss?” A ponytailed waitress in dark vest and slacks came up to her with a filled tray.
“Thank you,” Jo said, and plucked off a glass of red wine. She sipped it, then reached for a square of cheese from a nearby tray of hors d’oeuvres.
Jo looked about at the slowly gathering crowd, not recognizing a soul so far. Many couples greeted each other, but the names she overheard didn’t ring any bells. She heard music begin to play in another room.
Rafe rejoined her, holding a brimming plate and munching on a roast beef-crammed roll. “Is that all you’ve got?” he asked.
“I like to graze. By the way, Rafe, what play are you working on lately?”
Rafe took a moment to swallow, then said, “
Barefoot in the Park
. Sorry I couldn’t ask you to do any jewelry for it. The playhouse put this on once, before I came, and everything we needed was in stock.” Rafe was referring to the fact that Jo had put together the costume jewelry for the playhouse’s last production—a tongue-in-cheek fairy tale that eventually ran into major problems.
Barefoot in the Park
. Sorry I couldn’t ask you to do any jewelry for it. The playhouse put this on once, before I came, and everything we needed was in stock.” Rafe was referring to the fact that Jo had put together the costume jewelry for the playhouse’s last production—a tongue-in-cheek fairy tale that eventually ran into major problems.
“That’s all right,” she said. “I don’t envision your present characters needing much jewelry. And I’ve got my hands pretty full for the moment.”
“Mr. Rulenski! How nice to see you here.” A dowager-type in black lace swept up to Rafe, towing a boy of about seventeen with a severe case of acne along with her.
Rafe set his plate onto the table behind him and smiled charmingly. “Mrs. Sinclair. Always a pleasure.” He introduced Jo, and Mrs. Sinclair in turn introduced the young man who turned out to be her grandson, and who was “so talented! He’s written a play which is simply wonderful. It’s all about . . .” She paused. “What is it about again, Zachary? You can explain it much better than I.”
Zachary launched into a description, as best Jo could understand it, of a group of teens, washed up on a desert island, who battle prehistoric monsters, are visited by outer-space aliens, and develop a new civilization infinitely better than what they had left behind. Jo watched Rafe’s charming smile freeze in place as he nodded. “Well,” he said, “that’s quite imaginative!”
Mrs. Sinclair burbled happily, “I thought you might like to consider putting it on this summer. Wouldn’t it be a wonderful way to draw in more of our young people?”
Jo listened with amusement as Rafe wriggled his way out, suggesting Zachary’s play would be much better served on the screen and how he should really think in terms of a Hollywood submission. “You don’t want to waste a story like that on our kind of small-budget production. Speaking of which, have you considered, Mrs. Sinclair, becoming involved in our upcoming playhouse fund-raising event . . . ?”
Jo tuned out about that time and let her gaze wander the crowd once more. It stopped abruptly at a certain man, turned partially away—dark haired, tall—and she puzzled for a moment until recognition flashed. Lieutenant Morgan! Out of uniform and looking very nice in a dark suit. Was he with someone? Jo searched through the crush of people surrounding him, but she didn’t see any woman who resembled his lunch date of last fall. Morgan suddenly turned in her direction and caught her watching him. He looked as surprised as she felt, perhaps more so, but he nodded courteously. Then his gaze moved toward Rafe, standing beside her. Morgan stood too far away for Jo to say for sure, but she thought she saw him frown. Finding herself growing a tad flustered, Jo refocused on the people she was with.
Mrs. Sinclair was saying something to her. “So nice to meet you, Miss Malachey.” Jo smiled and considered butchering Mrs. Sinclair’s name in turn, but minded her manners and wished her and her grandson a pleasant evening.
“Now you see why I hate these things,” Rafe muttered once the pair had moved off. He retrieved his plate.
“You handled it like a pro,” Jo said. “Which, of course, you are. Do you see Mallory Holt anywhere yet?”
“Mallory?” Rafe took another bite out of his roast beef sandwich and checked around the room. “There she is, in the purple.”
Jo looked in the direction Rafe indicated with a wave of his sandwich, and saw a woman of perhaps forty, slim, brown haired, and attractive in a gracefully draping purple satin and velvet gown. She looked appropriately subdued, considering her recent widowhood, as well as thoroughly involved in the evening’s event, moving from person to person like a hostess, which in a way, as president of the women’s club and the ball’s chief organizer, she was.
“You want to meet her?” Rafe asked. “C’mon.” And before Jo could respond he took her arm and led her over.
“Mallory, sweet, you look amazing tonight.”
Mallory Holt turned from a distinguished-looking couple she had been speaking to with a graceful apology. “Rafe! You made it after all. After leaving me in suspense all these weeks.”
“You know I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Mallory. Too much gold to be mined—for the arts, of course. May I introduce Jo McAllister?”
Mallory ran a rapid and speculative eye over Jo and her outfit, looking completely capable of identifying its designer and cost in milliseconds. Since the only thing Jo had paid for herself was her underwear and shoes, and assuming the woman didn’t have X-ray vision, Jo withstood the scrutiny with confidence.
“How do you do?” Mallory held out her hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met before, have we? Are you from Abbotsville?”
Rafe jumped in before Jo could answer. “Jo runs a little arts and crafts shop on Main Street. Isn’t that where it is, Jo?” Jo had to agree, though she wasn’t totally pleased with the dismissive “little” used to describe her shop. “She’s also,” Rafe went on, “done some costume-jewelry design for the playhouse, which is how we happen to know each other.”
“Oh, really?” Mallory’s smile dimmed a few watts.
“Yes. I’m fairly new to Abbotsville, but I love it here. And I’m very impressed with this Founders Ball. I understand you’re responsible for it?”
Mallory laughed lightly. “I and about a hundred other very hardworking people. Have you seen the decorations in the Jefferson Room yet? That’s the room where our orchestra is set up. You, especially, would appreciate it, I’m sure. Our flower committee really outdid themselves this year.”
“I’ll have to take a look,” Jo said. “I don’t suppose that my former neighbor, Frannie, of Fantastic Florals had a hand in it, did she? I mean, since she had to close her shop after your late husband bought the building.”
Mallory stared a moment, then shook her head. “No, I believe the committee worked with a flower wholesaler. That was unfortunate about Frannie’s closing, wasn’t it? But I’ve heard she’s quite happy to be out of the retailing rat race now and delighted to have more time to spend with her family.” Mallory smiled brightly at this.
“I’ve been trying,” Jo said, smiling less brightly than Mallory, “to find out what’s happening with my own building. I don’t have a family to spend more time with and need to keep my shop running. Did the Holt Corporation buy it from my landlord, Max McGee?”
“Well . . .” Mallory seemed to be carefully forming an answer, but then a plump woman in pink satin hurried up and plucked at her sleeve.
“Mallory, there’s a major problem with the bar manager. Can you come talk to him?”
“Yes, of course.” Mallory excused herself with a gentle sigh over the never-ending demands on a Founders Ball organizer. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’ll have to get back to you on that. Or perhaps you could call the office on Monday.”
Right, Jo thought. I’ll want to do that and set myself up for the same runaround I got before. As Mallory turned away, Jo puffed her cheeks in frustration, feeling she had come so close to finally getting an answer. Or maybe not. Possibly Mallory was simply on the verge of giving a nonanswer, a nothing’s-been-settled-yet kind of answer. Or she might not have known at all. Jo watched her hurry off, thinking how very poised and in control Mallory seemed.
She couldn’t imagine a woman like that being happily married to Parker Holt. At least, not for long.
“I’ve got to talk to that man with the horrendous overbite over there,” Rafe said, breaking into her thoughts. “He promised to look into getting us a discount on our program-printing costs. Want to come along?”
Jo looked where Rafe indicated and, spotting Sebastian Zarnik standing nearby, shook her head. “I think I’ll go check out the decorations in the Jefferson Room, if you don’t mind. I can meet you back here later.”
“Right. See you then.” Rafe took off, and Jo turned in the direction of the music.
As she rounded a corner, she saw two white-haired ladies, one tall, the other petite with their backs to her. The tall one was dressed in powder blue, and the short one was all in peach, both covered from chin to toe. Jo recognized them immediately.
“Ina Mae and Loralee, how nice to see you!”
The women turned, Loralee lighting up with particular pleasure. “Why, Jo! I had no idea you were coming tonight!”
“It was pretty much a last-minute thing.”
“Wonderful to see you, Jo,” Ina Mae said. “Javonne told me you were coming, but I hadn’t mentioned it yet to Loralee. Javonne also told me about your visit with the former Pheasant Run manager.”
“Oh! The woman who left after a blowup with Parker Holt?” Loralee asked. “Tell me about it.”
Jo did, as well as clarifying a few details for Ina Mae.
“You know the woman’s here tonight,” Ina Mae said. “I ran into Celia when Loralee was powdering her nose, and she mentioned it.”
“She’s here?” Loralee glanced around, as did Jo.
“Yes, with her husband. But Celia wasn’t able to point her out.”
“I see her,” Jo said. “She’s the blonde over there near the window, dressed in burgundy. The man next to her must be her husband.” A good-looking man of about thirty stood close to Heather Bannister as both sipped from champagne flutes.
“Why, that’s Kevin Bannister,” Loralee said.
“You know him?” Ina Mae and Jo asked in unison.
“Yes, I met him years ago when he was helping his father with his tree-removal service. He was in college at the time, but it was summer break. What was he majoring in? Oh, yes, he was studying to be an engineer. An
electrical
engineer.”
electrical
engineer.”
Ina Mae and Jo exchanged looks.
“Hors d’oeuvres, ladies?” The ponytailed waitress held a tray out to them, this one filled with luscious-looking bacon-wrapped shrimp. Jo took one, as did both Ina Mae and Loralee, thanking her politely.
“By the way,” Loralee said before trying hers, “Xavier is here, in the kitchen. They apparently were short of help, and the poor man probably needs any work he can get right now.”
“Did you speak with him?” Jo asked.
“No, he looked too busy. I caught his eye when the kitchen door swung open, and I waved. I think he’s doing cleanup.”
“Maybe I can talk to him later on,” Jo said.
“Talk to who later on?” A male voice said at her shoulder, startling Jo.
“Why, Lieutenant Morgan, I hardly recognized you,” Loralee said. “Are you having a nice time?”
“Yes, ma’am, I am, thank you,” Morgan said. “And tonight I’m simply Russ Morgan, not lieutenant, since I’m off duty and therefore not doing any detecting.” He threw Jo a significant look, and she suddenly found absorbing interest in her wineglass.
“Russ, such a nice name,” Loralee burbled. “I have a nephew named Russ. He was a darling child. Unfortunately, when he grew up, well, never mind. Doesn’t our Jo look nice tonight, Lieu—I mean, Russ?”
“Yes, she does.” Morgan gave Jo a look of a different type this time, and she felt her cheeks warm. “And I’m sure her escort feels the same way. Rafe Rulenski seemed to be looking about for you when I left the buffet area.”
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