Other people on the terrace sensed Duchaine’s arrival and turned to see her.

  “‘Walk into my parlor,’ said the spider to the fly,” Luster said and laughed a little bitterly to himself.

  “What do you mean by that?” Bree asked and sipped from her champagne.

  “Frances is too energetic and charismatic for her own good. Always has been. But when she wants money, she can sure turn on the femininity and the charm. What do you do, Evelyn?”

  “Whatever I want, whenever I want,” Bree said.

  “Cheers to that,” Luster said, raising his glass. “Live local?”

  “Newport Beach, California, but I’m considering a move east. Long Island.”

  “Are you in desperate need of Lyme disease or something?”

  Bree laughed. “No. Just a change.”

  “Recently divorced?”

  “Recently widowed,” Bree said, sticking to her cover story.

  “I’m sorry,” Luster said.

  “So am I.”

  He ate one of his shrimp before saying, “How was business at Frances’s Fifth Avenue store?”

  “You know, that’s funny—”

  “Oh God, here she comes already,” Luster muttered, setting down his plate on a table as the fashion designer approached.

  “Phil-lip,” Duchaine said in a throaty, ironic voice. “Nice sneaks. Anything creative coming out of that pencil these days?”

  “Every moment of every day, darling,” Luster said. “Have you met Evelyn?”

  The famous designer looked to Bree with all the force of her nature, blue-green eyes wide, beckoning, her face so…interesting. Bree found herself dazzled when the designer held out her hand and said, “Hello, Evelyn. I’m Frances Duchaine.”

  “Evelyn Carlisle,” Bree said, feeling flustered as she briefly took Duchaine’s hand. “From Newport Beach.”

  “You have great taste in dresses, Evelyn. It’s one of my favorites.”

  “Thank you, I love it,” Bree said, then blurted out something she didn’t know if she believed. “And it’s a real honor to meet you.”

  Duchaine put her hand over her heart. “Bless you for that, and I hope you help us with your paddle this evening.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” Bree said.

  “Excellent. Where did you get the dress? In our Santa Monica store?”

  “Fifth Avenue.”

  “Oh, that worked well, then,” Duchaine said, smiling and putting her hand gently on Bree’s forearm. “Nice to meet you, Evelyn, and please spend freely.”

  With that she was gone, swirling off into the crowd of well-wishers, and Bree felt like a spell had been broken.

  “Is she always like that?” she asked Luster. “Overwhelming?”

  “Always,” Luster said, seeming amused by her reaction. “It is why ordinary people can’t see the cracks in the empress’s armor. So, you were saying something about business at the store on Fifth? Something funny?”

  Bree studied him a moment. “I don’t know. There just weren’t as many customers as I’d thought there would be in her flagship store.”

  Luster smiled. “Because all the customers are over at Tess’s new flagship store on Lexington, putting on dresses of our design.”

  All right, she thought. Mr. Luster is a constant surprise. Keep the man talking. She said, “The flower arrangements were a little wilted too.”

  Luster sniffed. “Not surprising, given Frances’s ballooning debt.”

  Someone rang a bell, calling the crowd to dinner.

  “She’s in trouble financially?” Bree said.

  Now Luster studied her. “That’s the rumor.”

  “Do you have plans to sit with anyone for dinner, Phillip?” Bree asked.

  He paused and then smiled. “You are more than you seem, I think, Evelyn Carlisle. I would love to break bread with you. And I just might know where some of the skeletons are alleged to hang in dear Frances’s closet.”

  Chapter

  28

  Washington, DC

  Early Saturday evening, Nana Mama, Ali, John Sampson, Willow, and I were watching Jannie fidget as she stared at her laptop; on the big screen across the room, the weekend anchors of ESPN’s SportsCenter were engaged in witty banter about the unfolding baseball season.

  Lucille Jones, one of the anchors, shifted in her chair, looked to another camera, and said, “But enough about baseball. Let’s talk a little track-and-field, shall we?”

  Evan Kincaid, her partner, adjusted his glasses and said, “She’s so fast.”

  “So fast,” Jones said, admiring.

  “How fast is seventeen-year-old Jannie Cross of Washington, DC?” Kincaid said to the camera.

  Jones said, “We thought we had a sense when we featured this film three years ago, when Jannie was fourteen and a freshman in high school.”

  The screen cut to a much thinner and smaller version of my daughter in the blocks against much older girls. She rocketed out of them at the crack of the gun but stumbled and fell while her competition roared off into the first curve.

  Instead of giving up, Jannie jumped back to her feet and took off. She didn’t win, but she caught up to and passed every competitor but one.

  “I don’t care who you are, that was fast,” Kincaid said when the camera returned to him. “But you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

  The screen jumped to today’s race. Jannie exploded from the blocks while the anchors kept talking.

  Jones said, “For ten years, the record stood. A decade passed after a San Diego runner shattered the women’s U.S. national high-school record in the four-hundred-meter track event by two seconds, breaking the tape at fifty point seventy-four seconds.”

  Kincaid picked up the narrative as the racers ran the first curve and into the backstretch, saying, “For ten years, that record was considered unassailable. For a decade, no U.S. female high-school athlete came close to that blistering time. Until Jannie Cross ran today in an invitational meet on the track at Howard University.”

  On-screen, Jannie and the other athletes were close to the far turn.

  Jones said, “The rest of the field is looking competitive at this point in the race. But watch what happens when Jannie Cross enters that turn.”

  The screen showed Jannie hitting fourth gear and going into her bounding gait, then hitting fifth gear and running down the straightaway and through the tape.

  Kincaid said, “How fast was Jannie Cross today?”

  The camera showed the timing box flashing: 50.74.

  Jones returned to the screen. “Fast enough to tie the national record. She tied the national record and she looked like she still had a lot left in the tank at the finish!”

  “Fast, fast, fast,” Kincaid said, “and we’ve got Jannie Cross live here tonight from her home in DC. Hi there, speedster.”

  The big screen across the room showed Jannie smiling nervously into the camera. “Hi.”

  “Hi back,” Jones said. “Young lady, you are something.”

  “Thank you,” Jannie said.

  “How does it feel to be co-holder of a national record?”

  Jannie’s mouth hung open a second, then she said, “At first, I could not believe it. I mean, I did not go out there today trying to do that. I just ran like I know I can. I was as shocked as everyone else was.”

  “Tell us how you did it while we show the race in split screen.”

  “Okay,” Jannie said, watching the screen and seeing the race again. “I felt solid about my start, which gave me confidence through the first curve and down the back straight. I felt like I was flowing, easy, and I was ready to attack coming into the final turn. Then I just let it go when Coach said to let it go.”

  “You did indeed,” Kincaid said. “I heard you picked Howard University over six or seven top track programs. Why was that?”

  Jannie looked at Nana Mama and then back at the camera. “My great-grandmother lives here with us. She used to be a teacher and told me education should come first even if I am fast. And Howard has such a great reputation academically and in track. And Coach Oliver is an inspiration to me.”

  Jones said, “Smart great-grandmother, and good for Howard and Coach Oliver.”

  Kincaid said, “And good on you, Jannie Cross, and thank you for coming on SportsCenter. I don’t think it will be the last time. I expect we’ll be able to play our little shtick about your achievements in the future.”

  “Thanks for having me,” Jannie said.

  Her face disappeared from the big screen, leaving the anchors shaking their heads and arranging papers on their desk.

  “Jannie’s so fast,” Kincaid said.

  “So, so fast,” Jones said.

  The show went to commercial and we all started cheering.

  “How does it feel to be one of the fastest young runners of all time?” I asked, giving Jannie a hug.

  “Honestly, Dad?” Jannie said, snuggling into my chest. “It’s like a dream I never want to end.”

  Chapter

  29

  Greenwich, Connecticut

  Bree and Phillip Henry Luster found seats at a table for eight some distance from the small stage where musicians were playing softly for the patrons gathering to dine in Frances Duchaine’s ballroom.

  Bree settled into her chair and immediately felt constricted.

  Luster noticed and said, “Spanx?”

  “How did you guess?”

  “The Heimlich maneuver expression on your face.”

  Bree laughed and rubbed her stomach. “Funny but true. I feel like I’m wearing a medieval corset with whalebones.”

  Luster chuckled. “Can I give you advice so you can actually enjoy the meal?”

  “I’m not taking this dress or the Spanx off,” she said. “I’ll never get back in it.”

  “No, no,” Luster said, and he chuckled again. “Just do the broadcaster-on-a-couch sit.”

  Bree knit her brows until the fashion designer scooted forward to the edge of his chair and spread his legs. “There. My belly is free to hang now. My diaphragm becomes less restricted. The breath comes easier. Try.”

  Bree scooted forward, hesitated, then spread her thighs wide. With the snugness of the dress, it put a strain on her neck and back, but she found it was much easier to breathe.

  “Okay,” she said, smiling. “Thank you. That does help.”

  “I’m here to serve.” Tess Jackson’s chief fashion designer looked away for a moment. “Well, it’s a boy toy this evening.”

  Bree followed Luster’s amused gaze and spotted Frances Duchaine being escorted to her table by a tall strapping blond man twenty years her junior.

  “He’s right out of central casting, isn’t he?” Luster said. “It’s a shame he’s straighter than an arrow.”

  “Who is he?”

  Luster shrugged. “This one is a Burt or something like that. But it could be a Greg or a Tony or even a Karen if Frances is feeling a little exotic and…oh, the black widow makes an early appearance. Imagine that.”

  Bree looked over and saw a pretty, petite brunette in her forties wearing a simple black dress talking intently to Frances Duchaine.

  “Who’s that?” Bree asked.

  “Paula Watkins,” Luster said. “Frances’s dark shadow.”

  “Her dark shadow?” Bree asked.

  “It’s an accurate description,” Luster said. “Oh God, here she comes. Decide for yourself. It’s like I’m a magnet or something.”

  Indeed, Watkins had left Duchaine’s table and was now making a beeline straight for their table.

  “Hello, Phillip,” Watkins said, her smile a little forced. “I hope you brought your checkbook.”

  “A black card,” Luster said. “Paula Watkins, have you met Evelyn Carlisle?”

  “I haven’t had the pleasure,” Watkins said, locking eyes with Bree as she moved around Luster with her hand extended. “But in fact, I came over more to talk with you, Evelyn, than Phillip. That dress looks stunning on you, by the way.”

  “Well, thank you,” Bree said, standing to shake her hand. “And talk to me?”

  Watkins smiled, said, “Yes, I wondered if I might have a quick moment in private to chat with you about the particulars of tonight’s charity in hopes that you might be overly generous during the auction. You don’t mind, do you, Phillip?”

  “As long as it’s quick,” Luster said. “Evelyn’s wonderful company.”

  “We won’t be long,” Watkins promised.

  Chapter

  30

  Bree set down her napkin and followed Paula Watkins, breathing almost normally by the time they got well down the hallway. Duchaine’s dark shadow stood aside and gestured Bree into the library, where she was surprised to see Frances’s escort of the moment.

  Burt, the buff, blond guy, stood with his arms crossed beside a formidable Black man in his thirties. Watkins shut the doors and turned, still smiling.

  “That dress is magnificent on you,” she said.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever owned one as beautiful.”

  “Very few women can wear that kind of dress, much less afford it.”

  Bree thought that was an odd comment. “Yes, well, let me hear about the charity and what I can do—”

  Watkins’s smile vanished as she cut Bree off. “Frances being Frances, she was interested in who sold you the dress and she discovered it was Marjorie Mayhew, her cousin’s daughter, who works at our Fifth Avenue store. Is that who you bought the dress from?”

  Bree’s stomach dropped, but she said, “Marjorie was a great help. But she never mentioned she was Frances’s cousin’s daughter.”

  “And you never mentioned the name Evelyn Carlisle. Who are you working for? Why are you here, Bree Stone?”

  “I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about. Bree Stone is a name I use when I don’t want people to know who I am.”

  “We know exactly who you are,” Watkins shot back. “You are the former chief of detectives of the Washington, DC, Metro Police force and you now work for the Bluestone Group, which, ironically, has done some work for us in the past. So again, why are you here and who hired you?”

  Bree saw the jig was up. “I was sent to soak up the world of Frances Duchaine, and I honestly have no idea who hired me. You could ask my boss, Elena Martin, but I don’t think she knows either.”

  “Oh, I will ask Elena. Just before I inform her that Frances will no longer do business with her. And now, please leave, Ms. Stone, or I’ll have these men drag you out in your once-in-a-lifetime dress. Which doesn’t fit you well, by the way.”

  Bree put her hands up and opened the door to the chattering and clattering of fifty wealthy people dining. She looked over her shoulder at Burt, who was following her, and then Watkins.

  “Send my regards to Katherine and Victor, won’t you?” Bree said.

  The face of Duchaine’s second in command lost all its color.

  Chapter

  31

  Takoma Park, Maryland

  Lisa Moore loved the night, loved the cloak of anonymity it gave her as she eased down a dark alley around eight thirty in the evening, trying to see over an ivy-covered chain-link fence into the small backyard of a gray-and-white two-story house not far from Maryland’s border with the District of Columbia.

  The house itself was dark, but a small floodlight on the right rear corner allowed Thomas Tull’s chief researcher to make mental notes and take pictures of the tricycle by the back stairs and the swing set and the sandbox with two large Tonka trucks in it.

  Moore walked past another few houses before opening the recording app on her phone. “It’s a place of hopefulness,” she said. “Of young, innocent children and parents who genuinely care. And maybe the threat to their lives will fade, no match for the love they nurture and share.”

  Tull’s researcher turned off the app, thinking that sounded pretty good, poetic even. She exited the alley and turned left. Though she’d already seen the front of the house virtually, Moore wanted a real look at it, just for reference.

  A bald, forty-something man in running gear jogged down the sidewalk toward her, holding the leash to a Jack Russell terrier that yapped with excitement.

  “Happy little guy,” she said.

  “Happy little girl,” the man said, puffing and smiling as he passed.

  Tull’s researcher wore a plain ball cap that she’d kept low over her eyes, and her pants and windbreaker were intentionally dark and logo-less. The jogger with the terrier might remember the brief conversation, but he would never be able to identify her.

  Never in a million years, Moore thought as she crossed the street and took another left on the sidewalk. The house of interest was roughly halfway down the block and across the street from a two-story brick house that had a For Sale sign out front. According to the listing Moore had found on Zillow, it was newly remodeled and empty. The empty house was one of the reasons Moore had chosen the home opposite it for more detailed scrutiny. When the street was quiet on both sides, she crossed the driveway and took a hard right at the For Sale sign.

  She went up the stairs to the porch, which lay in shadows. Tull’s researcher went to the far left corner, where the shadows were darkest.

  She straddled the porch rail. To break up her silhouette, she leaned back against the house next to a tall, thick lilac bush that was blooming to her immediate right.

  As long as I stay still, quiet, and phone-free, I can be here for hours.

  It was a pleasant, balmy night, and the lilacs smelled delightful, which combined to keep Moore still for a good twenty minutes, even when a young couple with a basset hound puppy passed by on the sidewalk.

  Two minutes later, a late-model silver Toyota minivan pulled into the driveway across the street. Both rear doors slid back and a burly Asian-American man in a red tracksuit climbed out of the driver’s side. A petite blonde in charcoal-gray yoga pants and a yellow hoodie got out of the front passenger side.