Page 7 of 4th Silence (Schock Sisters Mystery #4)
Charlie
T he noise in the marble-floored foyer swallows our footsteps. Christmas joy is in the air, fueled by flowing liquor and vulture-like gossip.
My sister’s plain black boots look blasphemous among the designer heels on every woman in sight. Her tailored slacks are an act of war among three-thousand-dollar gowns.
A woman in ice-blue satin recoils as Meg adjusts her favorite tote that’s slung over her shoulder—the one carrying her sketchpad and latex gloves like her version of Santa’s sack.
I straighten my Burberry trench, the lining too thin for the winter night. At least I’m wearing a Stella McCartney dress. Sure, it’s so last season , as Haley pointed out, but gala events aren’t generally high on my priority list. All I need to do is blend in.
I’ve made up for it by choosing some killer heels—no one can fault me there. They make me feel more confident. “I maxed out my last credit card on these tickets.” The heels make me taller than her. “We better make this count.”
“We should have brought Matt,” she says.
“The two tickets for us were my limit.”
Checking our coats, I stop long enough to reapply lipstick. Meg fusses with her white shirt. “You look great,” I tell her.
She’s left her hair down to frame her face and worn makeup that highlights her cheekbones. “Thanks. Now that I’m in here, maybe I should have worn a dress. My act of rebellion backfired. I look like one of the wait staff.”
I wink. “The perfect undercover costume.”
The ballroom is packed. Crystal chandeliers with teardrop pendants fracture light into dozens of rainbow shards that dance across the faces of the crowd.
A string quartet plays Vivaldi while socialites dissect each other with diamond-studded smiles.
I clock twelve security earpieces before we reach the ice sculpture centerpiece—swan wings melting into puddles at its base.
As a waiter with a tray waltzes past, Meg helps herself to canapes. The next tray-toting server brings champagne. I arch a brow as she downs the food and drink.
“I’m hungry,” she says around a pastry tart.
At least she’s eating.
“Remember our plan.” I scan the nearest couple, but I need higher ground to locate our target. “No harassing. We get her alone and plead our case.”
Meg grips my elbow. “Ten o’clock. Balcony.”
Mary Hartman’s presence at the top of the double staircase invokes images of a queen holding court. Her smile is pasted on as she converses with a group of admirers. Her jewelry screams old money, while her generous frame is stuffed artfully into a rich emerald green gown.
She makes some excuse and disappears from her entourage.
“Let’s split up.” I palm my phone, its screen lit with my list of questions for the woman. “You take the far staircase. I’ll take this one. That way, we’re sure to catch her. If anyone speaks to her, just keep an eye on her until she’s free.”
“Good luck.” Meg vanishes into the sea of tuxedos and sequins. I weave my way past a drunk socialite doing a live video on her social media feed.
A silver-haired dowager steps into my path, her brooch glittering with enough carats to fund our office for a decade. “Darling,” she quips, “Who let you in?” Her smile could fillet salmon.
I can’t help it—I lie. “FBI, ma’am. Undercover. I’m on the hunt for a serial killer. Now, if you’ll get out of my way…?”
Her veneer slips, and her lips flap before she asks, “Are we in danger?”
I lean in and lower my voice. “Only if I hit the fire alarm. Act normal otherwise.”
On my way up the carpeted steps, I pass hedge fund wives clutching pearls and heir apparents comparing Rolexes. Camera flashes erupt near a towering spruce strung with hand-blown ornaments.
A man downing Manhattans tries to grab my ass. I step on one of his Gucci loafers, and he backs away.
Then I see her—platinum updo, razor-cut cheekbones, vermilion nails. Mary Hartman, backlit by the Christmas tree like a Bond villain.
She’s holding court next to the second-floor Christmas tree, her gown reflecting light.
Six paces. Four.
Three women hover around her—a Prada-Dior-Versace human shield. One snaps her fingers at a server. “More Krug. Vintage.”
The teenage server in an ill-fitting tux rushes off to retrieve the champagne.
Wait for Meg , I remind myself. Stick to the plan .
I loiter in the tree’s shadow, admiring the icicle ornaments. Dagger-shaped. Decorative. Potentially deadly.
Down below, the quartet switches songs. Prada, Dior, and Versace continue to hang on Mary’s every word. I text Meg. Where are you ?
Some guy spilled champagne on me. Did you find her?
Yes. Hurry .
A man joins the group—likely Ms. Prada’s husband. They argue quietly. Mary cuts them off. “Take it somewhere else.”
Dior and Versace make a quick exit. My chance. I can’t wait for Meg. I step out from the shadows. “Mrs. Hartman?”
Her neck shifts, a predatory calculation behind the movement. Not enough to acknowledge, just enough to inspect.
“Charlize Schock.” I offer my card. “Schock Investigations. I wanted to apologize?—”
Her fingers tighten on her flute. A single diamond teardrop earring sways. “Why are you here?”
“Supporting a wonderful cause,” I say smoothly. “I saw you and wanted to express my regret at the spectacle my mother has made, but if you’d consider discussing the case with us, we’d be happy to offer our services pro bono. Your family deserves peace.”
Champagne flutes clink in the background. The hum of so many conversations nearly drowns out the quartet’s music. Mary pivots but barely raises her voice. “You mistake me for someone who tolerates scavengers at my events.”
I stash my card since she’s not interested in remaining professional. I consider different tactics I learned from my Quantico interrogations. “Meg and I are good at our jobs. We unearth the truth instead of bodies. Isn’t that what we all want?”
Her laugh could frost the windows. “Do you bill by the cliché or the hour?”
A server edges closer. I consider grabbing a flute, but Mary gives him a scowl that sends him scurrying off. I hold onto my patience. “I assure you, I’m only interested in putting a killer behind bars.”
“You’re a vulture who confuses her hero complex with entertainment.”
Ouch.
Someone gasps. I glance around to find we have an audience. Phones emerge like weapons drawn.
JJ is going to kill me. Bury me where no one can find my body.
“Leave.” Mary’s voice rises, as does her chin. She’s playing for the cameras now. “Before I have you arrested for harassment.”
“Arrest me.” I let the words ride the room.
“I’m only trying to uncover the truth. It seems to me that if you were interested in that, you’d be more than happy for the Schock Sisters to take on this case.
” Mary isn’t the only one who can play to the cameras, although I’m partial to my mother’s more straightforward, less drama-queen style.
“As I said, we’re good at our job, and I’m offering to do it free of charge. What do you have to lose?”
Murmurs. Nods.
Her mask slips. “Filthy little climber. You’re here to spotlight my grief and leverage my standing in this community.
Your mother’s obsession is tragic. Don’t be like her.
” Her voice rises. “Helen Schock couldn’t distinguish real journalism from hysterical fanfiction if a serial killer walked up and confessed every secret he had. ”
“My mother has brought closure to multiple families. Her heart is in the right place.”
A champagne flute shatters.
Alex Hartman barrels through the crowd, tuxedo perfect, fury barely contained. He plants himself between Mary and the cameras. “What are you doing, Charlie?”
Mary grips his sleeve and turns pleading eyes on him. “This gutter snipe is harassing me. I told the mayor I wanted protection from the Schocks, and she shows up anyway, trying to ruin everything.” Her bottom lip wobbles, and her voice cracks.
Oh, she’s good.
Alex’s gaze locks on mine. “I said I’d help you, but you had to leave my mother out of it. JJ told you she was off limits. Congratulations, you’ve just made me your enemy.”
The ballroom tilts. I steady my breathing.
My voice drops to glacial. “I’m not afraid of you or your mother.
But if anyone in your family is hiding something, you should be afraid of me.
Because if I find anything, I will take it to the world.
I will find Tiffany’s murderer and bring him”—I glance at Mary—“or her, to justice.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Leave. Or I call security.”
I count three heartbeats. Five. Let the silence stretch until the guests begin murmuring. Then I smile—wide and bright for the audience. “Enjoy your night, Mrs. Hartman.”
I walk away. Slowly. Deliberately. A hundred cameras on me.
By the coat check, I finally unclench my fists and text Meg to tell her to meet me there. Four half-moon wounds glisten on my left palm.
Already ? she replies. Did you get the dirt ?
I start to type something, delete it. JJ is going to hate me. My mother will be disappointed. Crashed and burned . Wait ’til she sees the footage on social media. It was spectacular .
Good for you. Hitting the bathroom. Meet you in the lobby.
Grabbing our coats, I start composing my apology to JJ in my head. I’m going to need it. And wine.
Lots of wine.