Page 84 of Laced With Secrets
“Stop fidgeting,” Dominic murmured in my ear, his hand settling possessively on my lower back. “You look incredible.”
Dominic himself looked devastating in dark fitted slacks and a black shirt with subtle metallic threading that caught the disco ball’s light. The shirt was open at the collar, showing just enoughskin to make my mouth go dry. I’d watched multiple omegas—and a few betas—openly stare when we’d attended previous events throughout the week.
The centennial celebration had been building momentum since the opening gala—a roaring twenties extravaganza where Victor and Sebastian’s fashion exhibition had debuted to rave reviews. The gallery had remained open all week, drawing fashion journalists from New York and Paris, collectors making substantial purchases, and whispers about the exhibit inspiring a new collection for New York Fashion Week. Penny had been featured in several of the professional photographs—editorial-quality black and white images of him modeling clothing from each decade. The pieces he wore for the 60s through the 90s looked like they’d come out of a fashion magazine.
Each subsequent night of the centennial celebration had offered its own nostalgic magic. On the second night, the Historical Society hosted a 1940s victory ball with big band music and swing dancing. The third night, a 1950s sock hop was held at Millcrest High, complete with poodle skirts and pompadours. Last night, the Community Center hosted a 1960s mod party with go-go dancers and psychedelic decorations. Tonight, the fifth and penultimate night—was the grand finale before tomorrow’s closing ceremony.
Mrs. Henderson materialized from the crowd, resplendent in an elaborate caftan that would have been at home at Studio 54. She swept toward us with obvious delight, her arms opening wide.
“You both look wonderful!” She pulled me into a careful embrace, mindful of my belly. Several community members had noticed my changing scent and figured out I was pregnant, leading to an uptick in protective fussing that was simultaneously touching and occasionally overwhelming. “Howare you feeling, dear? Do you need to sit down? I have chairs set up by the refreshment tables, and there’s sparkling cider specifically for expectant omegas?—”
“I’m fine, really,” I assured her, warmth flooding through me at her concern. “Thank you for organizing all of this. The entire week has been incredible.”
“Oh, I had extensive help. Adelaide did most of the historical research for period authenticity—she was very particular about getting every detail right for each decade.” Mrs. Henderson beamed with pride. “She’s here somewhere, probably making sure everything is shipshape for tonight’s scavenger hunt.”
Someone called her name from across the room—something about the catering schedule—and she excused herself with an apologetic smile, disappearing into the swirling crowd.
The ballroom was packed with familiar faces in various states of disco glory. I spotted Blake near the bar in a white suit that would have made Tony Manero jealous. Paula Winslow danced with her husband, both of them in matching leisure suits that should have looked ridiculous but somehow worked perfectly. Philippe Beaumont was deep in conversation with Sebastian near the fashion exhibition entrance.
My gaze fell on Richard near the historical photograph displays that lined one wall. He looked better than he had four days ago in his study—cleaned up, dressed appropriately in a subdued brown and charcoal striped suit, functioning in public. But I could see the weight of grief still pressing down on him, the way his shoulders curved inward, the distance in his eyes even as he smiled and nodded at people.
“I should talk to him,” I said, surprising myself.
Dominic studied Richard for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll come with you.”
We made our way through the crowd of dancing bodies and clinking glasses. Richard saw us approaching and something shifted in his expression, his gaze flicking down to my midsection before meeting my eyes.
“Leo. Dominic.” Richard’s greeting was subdued but genuine. “Thank you for coming.”
“Of course,” I said. “How are you holding up?”
“As well as can be expected.” Richard’s gaze drifted to the photographs, all from the 1970s, including several of Thomas at various preservative events, his smile bright and hopeful in the grainy images. “The sheriff called me in for more questioning yesterday. The handwriting analysis confirmed the letter was forged. He believes…”
Richard’s voice caught, his gaze falling to the bubbles rising in his champagne glass. “He believes my father orchestrated everything. The murder, the forgery, the cover-up. All of it.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, meaning it. Whatever Henry Fairfax had done, Richard was still grieving the man who’d been his father—in addition to Thomas and their unborn child.
I felt sorry for him.
“Don’t be.” Richard’s voice hardened. “If my father killed Thomas and our baby to protect his business interests, then his legacy—mylegacy—deserves to be tarnished.”
He paused, gaze drifting toward the crowd. “I only feel sorry for Victor and Adelaide. They don’t deserve the gossip and backlash.”
“Have you told them yet?” Dominic asked carefully.
“Not yet.” Richard said, shaking his head. “I wanted to wait until after the centennial. I didn’t want to sully all the hard work they’ve done. Hawkins was kind enough to agree to the delay.”
Richard’s face grew ashen, the light seeming to drain from his eyes as he spoke again.
“One of Father’s hunting knives was missing from its case,” he said. He released a chuckle, but it sounded hollow. “I never paid attention to his hunting collection—never shared his interest in killing wild game. But Sheriff Hawkins inventoried everything in Father’s gun room yesterday. The medical examiner’s report described the weapon likely used on Thomas—length, blade type, specific characteristics. Could’ve been one of Father’s custom hunting knives. The set is incomplete.”
He downed the rest of his champagne in one gulp. “Has been for fifty years, apparently.”
He stared into the glass, fingers clenching the crystal as his eyes lingered on the barren bottom. “I had an alibi for that night—June fourteenth. I went to our cottage in the Berkshires, hoping Thomas would cool down, that we’d make up when I returned. Stayed there for three days. Multiple witnesses—the property manager, neighbors, the general store owner. I couldn’t have been in Millcrest when Thomas was killed.” His voice turned bitter. “No,Iwas running away like a coward while my father murdered the man I loved.”
“You couldn’t have known,” I said softly.
“Couldn’t I?” Richard’s ice-blue eyes met mine, haunted. “I thought knew what Father was capable of. I knew how ruthlessly he protected family interests. I should have warned Thomas,should have anticipated—” He stopped, shaking his head again. “But I was too busy feeling sorry for myself.”