Page 29 of The Body in the Backyard
Ingram was staring at her, but judging from the tilt of his head, it wasn’t her face that had caught his attention.
“I’m fine,” she said brightly. “I just caught my heel on the carpet.”
Ingram scoffed in the general direction of her chest. “The cleaning staff probably separated the carpet seams by vacuuming the wrong way. I swear these uneducated buffoons should be payingusfor putting up with their ineptitude.”
“What aninterestingopinion,” she said and covertly elbowed Nick.
“I must say. That’s a lovely dress, my dear,” Ingram said, openly leering at Riley now. “You’re a lucky man, Poindexter.”
“Don’t I know it,” Nick agreed. “Achoo!”
This time, Nick’s comical fake sneeze registered on the Richter scale. His entire body spasmed outward, sending his plate of shrimp tails and cocktail sauce flying directly into Ingram’s masked face.
Silence reigned as every mask within twenty feet turned in their direction.
“Oh, dear. I told you to see a doctor about those allergies,” Riley chided, patting Nick on the arm.
He produced the dinner napkin again and dramatically blew his nose as sauce dripped from Ingram’s face onto the pristine white shirt. His mouth hung open, and he had a shrimp tail in his hair.
“Terribly sorry, old chap,” Nick said, handing the immobile Ingram his used napkin. “Come on, Gilligan. I think it’s time to get off this island.”
Garvey the waiter flashed them a covert thumbs-up as they hurried away from the snarling Ingram.
“That was…” Riley searched for the right word.
“Awesome?” Nick filled in.
“I was going to sayridiculous, butawesomeworks too. Nice accent, by the way. Do you think it’ll help when security hauls us out of here?”
“Are you kidding me, Thorn?” He took her hand and twirled her in a circle as they crossed the dance floor. “We’re Poindexter and Gilligan, filthy rich assholes. We do what we want.”
She yelped as he dipped her low. “I’m concerned that fifteen minutes of hobnobbing with the upper class is rubbing off on you.”
“You should be more concerned that we’re rubbing off on them.” He returned her to her feet and led them to a quiet table on the opposite side of the ballroom. “Now spill it. What did that twitchy little nose of yours tell you?”
Riley glanced over her shoulder to where Griffin was now slow dancing a little too close to a tall woman in a feathered mask. “Ingram attacked Griffin on the pickleball court all right. But it wasn’t over a match. I can’t be sure, but I think it was because Griffin slept with his wife or daughter. It’s hard to tell with these kinds of age gaps.”
“Nice work, Thorn. I’ll text Brian and tell him Ingram gets bumped to the top of the fake motive list,” Nick said. “Is there anyone else we should dump cocktail sauce on, or can I go get another tiny plate of tiny food?”
8
10:01 p.m. Thursday, October 31
“You know, before I met you, I used to think PI work was glamorous,” Riley said on a yawn. The cash bar hadn’t deterred the gala’s attendees from overindulging. Many of Harrisburg’s wealthiest couldn’t seem to hold the liquor they’d paid for. There had already been a slap fight at the chocolate fountain, and Griffin was currently dirty dancing with a state senator and the daughter of a district magistrate.
“You say that sitting here in a gown made for Jessica Rabbit after eating two plates of fancy-ass finger food and eavesdropping on the thoughts of Harrisburg’s one percent,” Nick pointed out, forking up a bite of cake as the string quartet switched to a classical version of Taylor Swift’s “Anti-Hero.”
“Yeah, but I’m boooored. It’s been an hour since you assaulted anyone with a condiment,” Riley teased. “Hey. Where did you get cake? The only dessert I saw was the fourteen-carat-gold trifle.”
“Garvey’s boyfriend,” Nick said with his mouth full. “Said it’s for a wedding this weekend.”
“You’re eating someone’swedding cake?”
He held out a bite to her. “Hey, it’s not likeIcut it.”
She was about to explain to him that it wasn’t in his best karmic interests to eat someone else’s wedding cake before the actual wedding when she spotted a familiar-looking woman in a silver mask and a chic bohemian gown hovering near the bar. It was hard to tell with the mask, but it looked as if she were staring straight at Griffin as he sucked up all the attention on the dance floor.
“Hey, I think that’s Claudia Mendoza,” she whispered, craning her neck when two large men in white jackets and matching masquerade masks lumbered by and headed for the stairs.
