Page 8 of 4th Silence (Schock Sisters Mystery #4)

Meg

S ticking to the outer wall of the ballroom, I bypass the throngs of people—and the overwhelming mass of energy that comes with them—and head to the last set of double doors in search of the bathroom.

It’s not hot in here, but I feel a furnace blast inside me and sweat beads on my upper lip. It all feels…close. Stuffy.

Suffice it to say, these are not my people.

In many ways. I’m too … hippy. Too casual in appearance, which, yes, maybe my act of rebellion in wearing slacks was ill-advised. But at the time, I thought it was a grand way of letting the filthy rich know I don’t need glittering gowns and jewelry to substantiate my worth.

Now, I see how I’ve more than likely insulted the uber-rich sequestered in this ballroom and brought unwanted attention to myself.

Lesson learned for next time.

Shaking my head over my misstep, I yearn for the quiet of my office. My studio and art and the victims who need our help.

That’s what I should be focused on.

In the hallway, I glance right, see no signs for a ladies’ room, and then turn left. Barely twenty feet away, I hit pay dirt.

The champagne I downed too fast gave me a buzz despite the appetizers I inhaled. Champagne has never been my friend.

Still, I don’t mind the effect. It’s sort of how I feel about weed. It allows me to let go of … well…everything.

Including the reconstructions—so many reconstructions—of murder victims who’ve been tossed away like trash.

We can’t solve them all.

That’s what Charlie likes to say.

Maybe not, but we can try.

Champagne .

Once again, I shake my head, trying to organize my scattered thoughts as I push through the ladies’ room door and find the first empty stall.

While I’m taking care of business, a blast of voices sounds as two women enter the bathroom. They’re not right in front of the stalls, though. It sounds farther. Maybe from the sitting area just beyond the wall of sinks.

“Mother,” a woman says, “why are you walking away from me?”

“Perhaps, dear, because my lipstick needs a touch-up and I don’t want to talk about this?”

The second woman sounds older. More haughty and highbrow, and I instantly recoil.

Not my people.

“Obviously,” the daughter responds. “Which baffles me. You’re the one always prodding me for donations for the auction.”

One of the toilets flushes while I finish my own business and stand to put myself back together.

“Can you blame me?” The conversation continues. “You work for a designer. Seems to me, you would have excellent contacts.”

“Yes. And they’ve donated. Plenty. The shoes Andre gave retail for $5,000.”

“And I’m grateful.”

“You’re also dodging the question.”

“Forgive me. What was the question, again?”

“The bag!” The daughter hisses.

“Lower your voice,” the older woman says.

Outside the stall, the other occupant washes her hands, and through the crack in the door, I spot her walking by. A second later, more noise erupts from the hallway, and then the room goes quiet again.

“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.”

“Well,” I say, “Christina, Mary’s daughter, wanted her to auction hers. Mary apparently didn’t agree. From what I heard, Mary got the bag as a gift. A Christmas gift. Thirty years ago.”

An eyebrow quirk. “Huh.”

Thoughts rattle around in my brain, trying to latch on to…

something. I don’t know what it is, but my Spidey-Sense is on high alert.

“Christina said something about how, given the circumstances, Mary should want to get rid of it. I’m assuming she means because she got it the Christmas Tiffany was killed. Could the bag be connected somehow?”

Charlie narrows her eyes. “Anything is possible. Particularly if Mary wants to keep it quiet.”

“Something is weird with this bag,” I say.

“When you were reading Mom’s files, did you see anything about a Sherman? I know a lot of the items, including the gifts, were taken into evidence that night. Most, if not all, were returned.”

“I don’t remember seeing anything about a purse. But I wasn’t necessarily looking for it.”

“Huh,” Charlie says again.

“What?”

She peers at me with blank eyes. “I don’t know. But the Sherman has me wondering. What if Tiffany wasn’t the target? Could the bag have something to do with someone else being the target?”

Yikes. “Could be, I suppose.”

“Ma’am?”

The male voice draws me from my raging thoughts. We both turn to where the valet stands beside Charlie’s car, holding up the key.

“Sorry,” she calls, then comes back to me. “We’re going back to the office.”

“Why?”

She steps around me. “Because Mom’s notes are there and we need to see if there’s anything about a Sherman bag.”