“I’m fine. I want to make sure my guests are well. Please attend to Father. I’d be so grateful.”
“Of course.” He leaned down to kiss her cheek, and she stiffened so as not to cringe. Unconsciously, she squeezed Birdie’s hand, and Birdie squeezed back. They were a united front against . . . what, exactly? She wasn’t sure.
By now, the servants had turned Florence onto her back, laying her flat on the polished floor. Lucy stepped smartly forward. She wore her usual uniform of black with apron tied crisply around her narrow waist, with thick cream stockings that, bless her, only a maid or old lady would wear, though she was only thirtysomething years old. Her capable hands carried a blanket, which she draped over Florence from neck to ankles. Allene stifled an urge to laugh. Florence hadn’t shown so little ankle since her debut two years ago.
Florence’s eyes were half open, with a telltale gaze that stared at oblivion. Allene’s father stepped into the circle that surrounded Florence. He was full of beard and belly and ensconced in his too-tight tuxedo and white spats.
“For God’s sake!” Mr. Cutter exclaimed. “What sort of person dies from tripping on steps?” As if Florence’s family lineage were at fault for the mess of an evening.
“But it wasn’t a simple trip. She fell. She didn’t look right,” Lucy remarked.
Allene paled. “What do you mean, Lucy?”
“Excuse me, Miss Allene,” Lucy said. The excitement of the evening was wearing on Lucy; her Italian accent, usually well buttoned down, was evident. “But I saw her coming up the stairs, and I asked if she needed anything. All the guests were in the parlor. I thought it was odd she wanted to come to the chambers on the second floor.”
Here, Birdie stared at her feet. Jasper exchanged guilty glances with Allene. They knew why Florence had gone upstairs. She wanted to find out why the three of them had quietly escaped the party. They’d disappeared about an hour before the accident—when Allene should have been entertaining her guests with Andrew, enjoying the unpatriotic, decadent food that wasn’t wheatless, meatless, and sweetless, like the posters said it should be. When Jasper should not have been shamefully lounging on Allene’s bed. When Birdie had been naked behind Allene’s silk dressing screen. When they all had been doing something rather wrong. Rather scandalously wrong.
“What then?” Mr. Cutter asked, and Birdie’s, Jasper’s, and Allene’s eyes snapped up to attention. They all wore their guilt like wet raincoats.
Lucy continued. “She paused on the top step. She couldn’t speak! Oh, she had a terrible color to her face! I thought she was going to be sick. I said, ‘Miss! Miss!’ but she didn’t seem to hear me. And then she fell back, back, back. Twisted around on those heels of hers.”
“An accident,” Mr. Cutter announced, businesslike. “Terrible. She must have had too many glasses of champagne.” He wrung his hands. “I . . . need to take care of my guests.” He stepped into the throng of questioning friends, who covered their mouths as if death could be caught by inhaling the air surrounding the corpse.
Andrew stood by, wanting to be helpful. “Someone needs to find her family and notify the police.” He went to speak to Lucy and the other servants, who began ushering the guests away from Florence’s body.
Allene’s hand grew limp in Birdie’s. She must have seen Allene’s little color drain away. Jasper noticed it too and grasped her other hand.
“Allene!” he whispered. “Are you going to faint?”
She closed her eyes and clasped their hands tightly with a strength that surprised her. Ah, this was what she’d missed: Jasper and Birdie at her side, always at her side, stealing jam from the cook, leaning sleepy heads on each other as they drowsed beneath the summer sun on the shore, their parents drinking cold champagne elsewhere while they were all sticky hands and mischievous smiles.
“No. I’m fine,” Allene said. She opened her eyes and met theirs. “Please don’t leave. I beg you. Both of you.”
Florence’s death was the perfect excuse to keep Birdie and Jasper in her life now that they were back. She would do whatever it took to keep them there. Anything. This time, she would fight. This time, she would lie.
Four years ago, Father had the power to say that Jasper wasn’t good enough to set foot in the house anymore after his family’s scandal. Father had the power to say that the Dreyers were no longer welcomed, and Allene was forbidden from contacting both friends. Letters were torn up before they left the Cutter household; incoming ones were seized before Allene could lay eyes upon them.
But she was on the cusp of being the mistress of her own estate now. Father had relented when she had said Jasper and Birdie would come to the party. It was her particular wish. Perhaps enough time had passed that he believed Allene was far beyond their influence. He’d no idea that she worried it was the other way around.
“Please,” Allene begged.
Neither of them answered. They didn’t need to. Someone approached their group, and Jasper withdrew his hand just in time. Allene’s hand felt far too empty.
Jasper backed away as guests said their good-byes. Motorcars rumbled to the curb, their Klaxons adding noise to the hive of nervous, bustling activity in the foyer. The chaos of it all would have made anyone dizzy. Allene wasn’t dizzy, and she wasn’t faint. She felt more alive than she had in ages.
Within the hour, police were everywhere. Andrew was bringing Allene a glass of water she didn’t care for. Darkly uniformed officers swarmed like ants over the house, over Florence’s body. Allene was half fascinated, half horrified by the spindly, three-legged camera stand they set up. Like a crippled metal spider, it towered almost eight feet above the body. A young man propped up a ladder to capture photographs of the scene, yawning afterward. Death in Manhattan must be a rather boring affair, even when it happened to the rich and beautiful.
Two other officers quarreled with Mr. Cutter, and Jasper was clearly leaning in to listen. Allene touched his elbow.
“What are they saying?” she whispered.
“They’re wondering if they should call Norris’s office.”
“Who?”
“Dr. Norris, the chief medical examiner. To see if it’s a suspicious death.”
“Why? Is it?” Birdie looked shocked. “I thought she simply fell!”
“So did I. But—”