Kilpatrick could add “kleptomaniac” to her curriculum vitae.
I wondered if Mother knew about her Big Steer Ball cochair’s little idiosyncrasy?
Who was I kidding?
Cissy knew practically everything about everybody. She had ESP (extra-socialite perception).
Besides, it’s not as though Tincy was the only member of the beau monde with sticky fingers.
I squinted at the monitor as the feed flipped to the kitchen setup, where Marilee was holding court with her blond boy-toy at her side. I could just make out Kendall standing with her arms crossed at the edge of the frame, glaring at the happy couple.
It was oddly addictive.
Like a soap opera with characters I actually knew.
Which made me feel a little too much like a voyeur for my taste.
So I left the computer and the lights on—for future quick checks of the stream—and tucked my purse into a bottom desk drawer before heading out into the madding crowd in search of champagne. I normally didn’t drink beyond an occasional margarita, but I felt a sudden urgency to imbibe . . . heavily.
Fasten your seatbelt , I warned myself, as I tugged my dress over my thighs. It’s going to be a bumpy night .
Chapter 8
I tracked down Janet Graham at the beautifully laid-out hors d’oeuvres buffet.
Perched between floral arrangements overflowing with green bamboo and lilies were platters, plates, and bowls filled with puff pastry and tarts, minicrepes and caviar canapés, crab-stuffed artichoke hearts and portobello mushrooms as big as my fist. There was enough bruschetta to feed the Italian army, and cheese of every stripe. Nearby, another table laden with desserts tempted party guests with a sweet tooth.
Janet happened to be spreading a healthy dose of foie gras on a toast point, when I put a hand on her arm.
“Just say no,” I advised in low tones.
She peered at me from beneath a fringe of flaming red bangs; looking for all the world like I’d gone nuts. “What on earth are you up to, Andrea Kendricks? Are you on another of your save-the-geese kicks?”
Leave it to her to remind me of that.
Okay, yes, I had a brief flirtation with an animal rights organization called FOG (Free Overfed Geese). The four of us—if four can really be called “an organization”—had chained ourselves to a goose pen on the property of a billionaire-about-town who owned one of the city’s sports franchises (the one with a ball made of pigskin, which also irked the other FOG members who were, not surprisingly, all vegans). The fellow recognized me and called my mother, who persuaded him not to summon the cops. Within the hour, Cissy showed up in her Lexus with Janet Graham in tow, supplying us with the press coverage we were demanding, which is how I’d ended up with my photo on the society pages—rather than the Metro section—with a headline that read, HIGHLAND PARK HEIRESS CRIES FOWL . After my mother convinced us to unchain ourselves—something about goose poop and bacteria—we’d decamped for the nearest Subway for vegetarian foot-longs.
I winced at the memory, wishing I could blame it on youthful idealism, but it had only happened a year ago.
“No, I’m not protesting anything political at the moment,” I assured her. “I’m doing you a favor, believe me.”
Despite my warning, Janet didn’t seem any too eager to step away from the pâté. “This stuff supposedly comes from Marilee’s own flock,” she said. “So, as a journalist who plans to write about this party and its hostess in great detail, it behooves me to taste it.”
“Well, unbehoove yourself.” I hooked a thumb at the gray mess in the silver bowl lined with sprigs of watercress, deciding to impart the truth to my erstwhile journalist friend or risk her swallowing tainted goods. “Because not all the ingredients in there belong to a goose.”
“What ingredients, Andy?” Her forehead wrinkled, causing her dyed-to-match red eyebrows to narrow. “What the devil are you talkin’ about? You
I wondered if Mother knew about her Big Steer Ball cochair’s little idiosyncrasy?
Who was I kidding?
Cissy knew practically everything about everybody. She had ESP (extra-socialite perception).
Besides, it’s not as though Tincy was the only member of the beau monde with sticky fingers.
I squinted at the monitor as the feed flipped to the kitchen setup, where Marilee was holding court with her blond boy-toy at her side. I could just make out Kendall standing with her arms crossed at the edge of the frame, glaring at the happy couple.
It was oddly addictive.
Like a soap opera with characters I actually knew.
Which made me feel a little too much like a voyeur for my taste.
So I left the computer and the lights on—for future quick checks of the stream—and tucked my purse into a bottom desk drawer before heading out into the madding crowd in search of champagne. I normally didn’t drink beyond an occasional margarita, but I felt a sudden urgency to imbibe . . . heavily.
Fasten your seatbelt , I warned myself, as I tugged my dress over my thighs. It’s going to be a bumpy night .
Chapter 8
I tracked down Janet Graham at the beautifully laid-out hors d’oeuvres buffet.
Perched between floral arrangements overflowing with green bamboo and lilies were platters, plates, and bowls filled with puff pastry and tarts, minicrepes and caviar canapés, crab-stuffed artichoke hearts and portobello mushrooms as big as my fist. There was enough bruschetta to feed the Italian army, and cheese of every stripe. Nearby, another table laden with desserts tempted party guests with a sweet tooth.
Janet happened to be spreading a healthy dose of foie gras on a toast point, when I put a hand on her arm.
“Just say no,” I advised in low tones.
She peered at me from beneath a fringe of flaming red bangs; looking for all the world like I’d gone nuts. “What on earth are you up to, Andrea Kendricks? Are you on another of your save-the-geese kicks?”
Leave it to her to remind me of that.
Okay, yes, I had a brief flirtation with an animal rights organization called FOG (Free Overfed Geese). The four of us—if four can really be called “an organization”—had chained ourselves to a goose pen on the property of a billionaire-about-town who owned one of the city’s sports franchises (the one with a ball made of pigskin, which also irked the other FOG members who were, not surprisingly, all vegans). The fellow recognized me and called my mother, who persuaded him not to summon the cops. Within the hour, Cissy showed up in her Lexus with Janet Graham in tow, supplying us with the press coverage we were demanding, which is how I’d ended up with my photo on the society pages—rather than the Metro section—with a headline that read, HIGHLAND PARK HEIRESS CRIES FOWL . After my mother convinced us to unchain ourselves—something about goose poop and bacteria—we’d decamped for the nearest Subway for vegetarian foot-longs.
I winced at the memory, wishing I could blame it on youthful idealism, but it had only happened a year ago.
“No, I’m not protesting anything political at the moment,” I assured her. “I’m doing you a favor, believe me.”
Despite my warning, Janet didn’t seem any too eager to step away from the pâté. “This stuff supposedly comes from Marilee’s own flock,” she said. “So, as a journalist who plans to write about this party and its hostess in great detail, it behooves me to taste it.”
“Well, unbehoove yourself.” I hooked a thumb at the gray mess in the silver bowl lined with sprigs of watercress, deciding to impart the truth to my erstwhile journalist friend or risk her swallowing tainted goods. “Because not all the ingredients in there belong to a goose.”
“What ingredients, Andy?” Her forehead wrinkled, causing her dyed-to-match red eyebrows to narrow. “What the devil are you talkin’ about? You
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