Page 24 of 4th Silence
“We talked about this weeks ago,” the younger woman says. “You’re sitting on a Sherman that’s vintage. Thirty years old. Its value has skyrocketed in the last two years. One fetched $25,000 at an auction last month. Yours is a never used vintage. I don’t have to tell you, of all people, what that kind of money could do for the Hartman Foundation.”
Whoa.
These women are involved with the Hartmans. Could they be the Hartmans?
Unable to put it off any longer, I smack the toilet handle, flush, and open the stall door. The two women stand just beyond the sinks near the sitting area and…
Yep.
Mary Hartman has her back to me while talking to a tall blonde in a glittering royal blue gown. Must be Alex’s sister. What was her name?
Damned champagne. I do my trick of visualizing my mother’s research. The list of names at the holiday party.
Christina. Yes. Six years older than Alex and following in her mother’s footsteps as a social dynamo. Rumor has it that Christina’s claws and acerbic tongue are nearly as dangerous as her mother’s.
Holy, holy cow.
I wave my hand under the faucet, and a paltry flow dribbles out. Taking my time, I soap up.
“Christina, it’s my bag. It was a Christmas gift. You know that. And I would think you know…” Mary catches herself. “Suffice it to say, I’m hesitant to give it up.”
“Actually, I’d think, given the circumstances of that Christmas, you’d want nothing more than to give it up.”
“Listen to me,” Mary says, the steel in her voice cold enough to send a shiver through me despite the warm water. “I’m not having this conversation with you. I’ll write the foundation a check for $25,000 if it’ll make you happy.”
Unable to prolong washing my hands—I mean, even the biggest germaphobe eventually has to stop—I grab a paper towel from the stack on the sink. And, hello? They should really switch to automatic dryers and save a few trees.
On my way to the door, Christina eyes me over her mother’s shoulder. Her eyes lock on mine for a brief second, and Mary begins to turn. Before she can see my face, I hustle behind her, giving her my back as I slip out. The door shuts behind me, the whoosh echoing in my ears.
Did Mary see me? Even if she did, there’s no way—I don’t think—she would know me. Unless she’s researched Mom, which, considering Helen Schock’s use of social media these days, is not a stretch.
All I know for sure is I have no interest in hanging around. Moving at a clip, I hightail it down the corridor, cutting around the random guests milling about.
A minute later, I enter the lobby and find Charlie scrolling through her phone.
“Hey,” I say, the word coming out too breathy.
Apparently, I need to start exercising if I’m this winded from such a short walk.
Disregarding her phone, Charlie peers up at me and hands me my coat. “Hi. All set?”
I quickly slip it on. “Yes. But,” I swing a look over my shoulder, making sure I wasn’t followed before I grab my sister’s arm.
“Meg, what is it?”
“Outside,” I mutter.
I drag her to the exit and push through. A blast of cold wind assails me, and I hold my coat closed with one hand.
On the sidewalk, Charlie passes the ticket to the valet, and I survey the area. Given the early hour, we’re the only ones waiting for a car, but a couple dressed in layers and hunched against the cold moves by us, heading into the lobby.
After they’re out of earshot, I lower my voice. “Mary Hartman and her daughter were in the bathroom.”
Charlie angles back, meeting my gaze with that hard, touch-my-sister-and-I’ll-kill-you stare. “What happened? Did she say something to you?”
I shake my head. “Her back was to me. I overheard them talking. Something about a vintage Sherman bag. I have no idea what that is.”
“It’s a purse,” Charlie says. “Polly Sherman, the former first lady, had it designed when she couldn’t find one with enough pockets. They’re handmade and used to be leather, but now they’re vegan. The leather ones are rare. And expensive.”
