I smiled at the young woman taking coats as I passed into the foyer of the house, which was dimly lit with candelabra and the soft glow of fairy lights that had been twined along the doorways and staircase. The place had been done up in white pumpkins, orange and yellow pip berry garland, and autumnal flower arrangements. The scent of cinnamon hung heavily in the air and peppy music from upstairs floated downward.
It was cozy and elegant all at once. I expected nothing less from Patricia, who’d planned the party, top to bottom. There was a reason Patricia Davis Jackson was consistently named the top party planner in Hitching Post.
I was mildly surprised to see that she wasn’t the Harpie assigned to greet guests at the door—instead, Idella Deboe Kirby and Dr. Gabriel Kirby stood near the elaborately carved banister at the foot of a grand curved staircase. Idella looked look every bit the lady of the manor, while Gabriel, Hitching Post’s best veterinarian, who was fondly known around town as Doc or Doc Gabriel, just looked uncomfortable.
A bit socially awkward, he was more at ease with animals than people. It was a wonder he could tolerate functions like tonight’s ball at all, though I supposed he has had years of practice, being married to Idella. Some said they were a perfect match because he loved animals and she was a social butterfly, but my mama—bless her heart—said it was because Doc Gabriel knew how to handle a bitc—
“The place looks wonderful, Miz Idella,” Dylan said, cutting off my thoughts.
I offered my hellos and looked around, trying to take in all the small details. My own house had been under renovation since the day I moved in, and I was beginning to think it’d never be done.
“It’s magnificent, isn’t it?” she said with a smack of her lips that sounded like a tsk and a proud smile.
Wearing a slim-fitting gown of black silk and lace, Idella looked as tall, lithe, graceful, and confident as ever. In her mid-fifties, she came from old money and it showed from her razor-sharp sleek bob, a shiny chestnut color with blond highlights, to the emeralds on her ears and wrists to the body-skimming designer column dress she wore, which had a high neck, long sleeves, and was embroidered with what had to be thousands of tiny glass beads. Though she’d never held a full-time job, she was the secretary of the Harpies and a member of just about every committee in town. There was a deeply ingrained high-society air about her, as though she lived in Beverly Hills and not Hitching Post.
The only time I’d seen the slightest crack in her self-assured veneer was when Gabriel was diagnosed with lung cancer a couple of years ago. He’d only recently announced his remission and looked as well as I’d seen him in quite some time as he took my hand. His brown hair was full and thick and matched his grizzled trimmed beard. He’d regained lost weight and his skin glowed with health and vitality.
I could tell from a good foot away, however, that he’d yet to stop smoking his beloved pipe. The sweet scent of pipe tobacco permeated his whole being, and I wanted to chastise him for risking his health in such a way.
“How are Roly and Poly doing, Carly?” he asked, then raised bushy eyebrows above bright blue eyes. “Is Poly adhering to his diet?”
I wrinkled my nose. “If you mean his diet of eating anything he can get his paws on, then yes. Strictly adhering.”
He frowned. “You must get his weight under control. It’s almost time for their checkup,” he added, his tone softer and less chastising.
“Don’t remind me.” I already dreaded trying to wrangle the pair into their carriers.
“This mansion is a feather in the Harpies’ cap, Idella,” Carter said, coming up beside us.
I couldn’t blame Carter for sucking up. Idella and Dr. Gabriel were probably some of the biggest tithers at his church.
“Is it booked solid yet for the coming year?” Ainsley asked her.
“Not quite,” Idella said with another tsking lip smack.
She had the worst habit of finishing almost every sentence with the annoying mannerism, which was so uncharacteristic of her prim and proper bearing that it stood out like a black mark on a diamond.
Tucking her dark hair behind her ear, she said, “We must wait a little longer before we start taking reservations.” Her gaze dropped to Ainsley’s cleavage, and the corner of her lip turned down in disdain.
Idella was a bit of a buttoned-up prude.
“Oh, that’s right,” Ainsley said, not noticing the look. “I’d forgotten about that bit of business. Any news on the mysterious heir?”
Idella beamed at that. “None whatsoever.” Tsk.
When Rupert Ezekiel, the one-hundred-and-three-year-old previous owner of the property, had died nearly five years ago his will stated that the house be held in a trust under Mayor Ramelle’s control until his unnamed next of kin was located . . . or for a period of five years, at which time the house would be given to the Harpies to do with as they saw fit.