Page 33 of The Debutantes
This detective mission is going about as well as I expected.
“I just can’t possibly imagine,” I hear a woman croon to another. They’re stationed next to the spread of petit fours and mini Doberge cakes that no one seems to actually be touching. I make a mental note to pocket some once these ladies move on.
“It’s terrible, isn’t it?” the other woman whispers in the kind of scandalized tone that suggests it’s not really all that terrible. “And after what happened last year…”
“The vandalism?”
I freeze. Already, it’s like I can sense what’s coming.
“Well, of course, but also what happened to… you know.”
You know.Like she’s just an afterthought. Like Margot’s life and death are hardly noteworthy compared to some fucking floats getting destroyed.
The first woman balks. “Oh, but you don’t think…?”
“No, no, of course not. Lily’s a good girl. It’s quite a different situation.”
“Well,” says the woman. “They’ll certainly be in my prayers.”
Suddenly, even the idea of Doberge is more than I can stomach. I pull my camera strap up my shoulder and march out of the dining room, taking quick, quiet breaths to stave off the panicked heat burning all over my skin.
New Orleans is the biggest small town in the country, andnews spreads quicker than disease, especially among the present company. But I can’t stand the way they were talking about it just now, like some kind of salacious true-crime story,thoughts and prayersand a steaming pile of nothing else. And the final, obvious blow:It’s quite a different situation.As in, something like that could never happen to Lily. As in, Margot had it coming.
The bar table appears in the living room, and before I can think too hard about it, I walk over, pour a glass of champagne, and down it quickly, the bubbles burning.
Screw it. It’s time to do some detective work.
It’s not long before I catch a flash of bright-red hair moving out of the living room and into the hallway.
Milford.
I move before my anxiety can catch up with my legs, trailing him as he ambles to the back of the Johnsons’ house. Drunk, I’m pretty sure. I swallow the lump of panic in my throat. This is good. Maybe I can talk to Milford if he’s drunk, if I can tell myself he won’t remember.
“Maybe” being a generous term, but now’s not the time to overthink it.
Milford passes into the sunroom at the end of the house, and I hang back. A bunch of the dads are congregated there, trading raucous laughter and firm slaps on the back. Milford gets a few as he heads toward the back door.
“Milford Wilcox! What are you getting up to back here?” one man asks, like he hopes it’s something illegal.
“Nothing much,” Milford says. “Just want to commune with nature.”
The man gives a barking laugh. “Hey, your old man coming out tonight?”
“Nah, he has to work.”
“Industrious old bastard! Well, don’t worry, we won’t tell on you. Right, boys?”
The man holds out his hand, which Milford claps before stepping through the back door and into the yard.
God, these men are drunker than the teenagers at this party. I recognize most of them from Les Masques, I think, but none of them are close friends with my parents. They probably won’t even acknowledge me if I walk past, because that’s the nice thing about being the quiet girl: in the right circumstances, you develop the power of invisibility.
Taking a deep breath, I clutch my camera tightly, hunch forward, and walk toward the door.
“What’s up, Annie Leibovitz?” one of the men booms as I pass.
I give my best attempt at a smile, but it’s more just pressing my mouth into a flat line, not making eye contact.
“Hey, you chasing after our buddy Milford?” another asks. “Don’t take anything he does personally. He takes after his old man.”
