Page 18 of The Sole Suspect
“Whatever happened to Mr. Wong?” Penny asked.
Adelaide frowned. “I honestly have no idea. He left rather suddenly. Right before the big development deal of ’73.’” She straightened her glasses. “But we should start the meeting, shouldn’t we? So much to discuss.”
The exhibition hall buzzed with anxious energy as we followed Adelaide inside. Sarah poured coffee into paper cups while Emma Wilson distributed her grandmother’s pastries. The scent of Maude’s sliders mingled with Minnie’s glazed apple turnovers and Rosie’s blackberry scones.
Business owners clustered around the long mahogany table, their faces illuminated by brass reading lamps. The walls surrounding us chronicled Millcrest’s history—sepia photographs and faded newspaper clippings telling stories of prosperity and hardship, of families who’d shaped our community.
I sank into a chair near the table’s edge while Penny claimed the seat next to mine. Emma slid into the seat across from us, spreadsheets spilling from her folder. The numbers in red made my stomach clench.
Adelaide cleared her throat, commanding attention from her position at the head of the table. The emerald brooch at her collar sparkled as she straightened. “Thank you all for coming. As your Historical Society curator and council representative, I called this meeting to address our district’s mounting challenges.”
“Challenges?” Minnie’s bitter laugh cut through the polite murmurs. “My insurance premiums doubled after the vandalism. Another month like this and I’ll have to close.”
A chorus of agreement rippled through the room. Emma’s spreadsheets circulated, painting a grim picture of declining sales and rising costs. The vandalism had scared away tourists, and with property taxes climbing...
“We need to draw customers back to our neighborhood and revive business.” Adelaide’s voice carried over the growing despair.
“What about a fair?” Sarah suggested. “Like we did this summer?”
“Insurance costs would kill us,” Emma countered. “Premiums doubled after the vandalism. We can’t afford another fair-scale event right now.”
“Actually...” Adelaide adjusted her glasses, a familiar, calculating glint in her eye. “I’ve been researching past fundraising efforts. In 1962, when the district faced similar hardships, the preservation society held quite a successful bachelor auction.”
The room fell silent.
“A bachelor auction?” Penny perked up beside me, his cotton candy and citrus scent brightening with interest. “Like, actual dates with local business owners?”
“Precisely.” Adelaide’s smile held a hint of mischief. “The society pages buzzed about it for months. We raised enough to restore the clock tower and establish our first historic preservation fund.”
Sarah set down her coffee pot, brow furrowed. “But who would bid on dates with us? We’re not exactly society darlings.”
“Speak for yourself.” Penny tossed his pink hair. “Some of us are fabulous.”
A ripple of laughter broke the tension. Even Minnie cracked a smile.
“The district has charm,” Adelaide continued. “History. Romance. And with the mayoral election approaching, we’ll have media attention. The right publicity could draw bidders from Boston’s social circles.”
Emma shuffled her spreadsheets. “The numbers could work. If we factor in sponsorships, ticket sales, silent auction items...”
Penny playfully jabbed me with his elbow. “Leo should definitely participate. That auburn hair and flawless complexion? Those rich alphas and betas will eat you alive.”
“Some omegas too.” Emma said with a gentle smile.
My face grew warm. “I don’t think?—“
“Perfect!” Adelaide clapped her hands. “Leo’s family connection to the district adds historical appeal. And Penny, your fashion expertise could help style our participants.”
The meeting devolved into excited chatter. Sarah volunteered The Hideaway for planning sessions. Minnie offered to cater. Even Rosie’s eyes sparked with hope as she suggested displaying old photos of past district events.
“We’ll need a glamorous venue,” Penny mused. “Somewhere with history but elegance.”
“Fairfax Mansion.” Adelaide’s voice carried over the buzz. “My family’s ballroom hosted the ’62 auction. I’m sure I could convince Richard.”
The Fairfax name carried weight in Millcrest—old money, older roots. Fairfax Mansion loomed at the edge of the Historical District, its pristine white columns and precisely trimmed hedges promulgated “old money.” I remembered looking through those wrought-iron gates as a child, imagining what lay behind the mansion’s heavy oak doors.
What would Adelaide’s brother think of his home being invaded for this event?
“Richard’s never there anyway.” Adelaide waved her hand, her emerald ring catching the light. “The house needs some life in it. All those empty rooms collecting dust.”